Bad Bang

In a fit of pique, I hacked my bangs like a 15 yr old in a love triangle. In fact, I haven’t butchered my hair like this since I was a 15 yr old in a love triangle.

 

While I am prone to both the hair brush throwing hissy fit and the occasional boogered up bang job, rarely do I break anything or cause (semi) irreparable damage. But this is bad, y’all. It’s a real bad sign.

The other day, after picking the shells off the umpteenth hardboiled egg, I went postal on a particularly stubborn one and just crushed the whole damn thing in my fist and threw it in the sink. The crunch of the shell combined with the warm squoosh of the innards was so satisfying that I did it again on a perfectly innocent one. There is no comin back from a smooshed-ass egg, y’all. Major irreparable.

Out of two dozen eggs, four of them felt the wrath of my pre-menopausal impatience.

Cheaper than therapy; easier on the liver than Merlot.

When my brand new Stick Vac quit after sweeps, I held it over my head and aimed it out the window. The image of having to clean up all that shattered glass without said Stick Vac stopped me before I let her fly. So I walked outside and tossed it, with great indignation, into the yard.

Then, of course, I picked all the grass out of the handle, found the receipt and took it back to Meijer.

See? I’m not a hysterical 47 year old, hormonal lunatic.

My sweet Stud Muffin totally agreed with me when I asked them that very question just this morning while I was using his super-sharp filet knife to carve up a chicken. He gently took the knife from my hand, agreed wholeheartedly that I was not psycho and graciously offered to finish all that nasty cutting. He’s a pip, that one.

So the whole hair whack job has me in a dither.

I’m going to have to go to my hair chick and admit to cutting my own bangs. Then I’ll have to admit to the Hissy Fit. Then she’ll sweetly ask what on earth was wrong? And then I’ll have to admit that it was nothing more than me being tired of tucking that little patch we were trying to grow out behind my ear every five freakin’ seconds.

“Well, we don’t have to worry about tucking it behind your ear now, do we, honey?”

Witch.

Then she’ll talk me into layers so my bangs will blend. Which will look great after she puts three brands of goop in it, blows it, curls it, fluffs it and lacquers it down but will look like living hell after two seconds on the boat or in the Jeep or in the morning FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!!!

Oh my. Oh my my…

This is when Brittany got the scissors out. This is when Carrie Underwood carved her name in the leather seats. This is when Charlie popped open the Tiger Juice.

But not me, y’all. Southern women are bred for civility and gracious forbearance.

This is when I uncork the bottle.

My name ain’t Anita Merlot for nothin’….

The Cojones Brothers

I’m probably the only person to come home from a cruise less tan than when I left.

I was religious about schmearing self-tanner on my previously chronicled lily-whiteness. My embarkation photo is sun-basked and glowing. An excellent start.

But, as the week progressed, the nights got longer, the mornings got earlier, the shower got smaller and, frankly, I quit giving a flip.

To tell you the truth, I was feeling pretty superior. (never believe anyone who starts a sentence with “to tell you the truth”.)


By enduring three weeks of no-booze & no-carbs, I successfully lost enough of the winter lard to fit into my swimsuit without scaring small children. I got on the boat, had a couple of drinks with umbrellas and some crackers.

Poof! The next day, I looked in the mirror and saw the Michelin Man with orange streaks. Mrs. Puff Goes on Vacay.





My Shower Experience was a cross between a porn movie and the shower scene from Psycho. There was some part of my nekked body pressed up against that glass the entire time.
Evidently, it was not that sexy because when I stumbled out, I ran into my husband coming at me with a steak knife.





I got to shake my Groove Thang on 70’s night, throw down a little Benatar on 80’s night and embarrass the young people by singing Ke$sha. I’m a multi-generational exhibitionist.

I did not fall off my sky-high hooker heels or have any wardrobe malfunctions. Oh, there was bouncin’. And I had to stop and pull my Spanx outta my crack a couple of times.




But enough about me, (and you have no idea how it pains me to say that…) the absolute highlight of the trip was watching my Studmuffin, and his equally studly brother, AKA The Cojones Brothers, prance around on the karaoke stage.

Having been raised good little Lutherans; the boys can carry a tune. That being said, having been raised good little Lutherans, they’d just as soon raise a little hell.

While singing The Kink’s Lola, a poor, unsuspecting, military-looking gentleman was recruited from the audience and wooed onstage. We’re talkin’ “wooed” with a capital “Woo!”  I’m not sure he knew what that song was about at first, but he certainly did by the end! Woo!
Shooting Star seems like a nice little ditty on the surface. But until you’ve seen one dude stomping and strutting the lead like Billy Idol meets Bruce Springsteen and Mr. Harmony grinning ear-to-ear, bouncing between an arm-waving Tigger dance and a few well-placed pelvic-thrusts, you ain’t seen it done right.


The crowd was enthralled or appalled, depending on how you interpreted the bug-eyed, slack-jawed stares (shock or awe?). I do know that at one point, Tigger threw down a few Stephen Tyler screams that had the Red Hat Club squealing like it was Beatlemania.

For the rest of the cruise - on the elevator, at dinner, at the pool – all of a sudden we’d hear, “Hey! It’s the Cojones Brothers!”

Billy/Bruce accidentally walked in on the You’re Never Too Old To Line Dance class. Backing away slowly….

A screech: “Look! It’s one of them Karaoke Boys!!”

I’m not sure exactly what happened but he came outta that room a little mussed, a little flattered, a little scared. There were nine Maw Maws and the dude from Lola. I’m not sure who got a hold of him. Woo!

They loved it! Oh, they hemmed & hawed and look all “Aw Shucks-y” about it, but let me tell you, forty-something year old married men will take whatever adulation they can get. Or get away with.

Unfortunately, I have been threatened with a fate worse than death if I posted any pictures or video that I may or may not have of The Cojones Brothers. Actually, that’s not true. One Cojone begged me to post them and the other Cojone did the threatening. Which adds up to: I just don’t have the balls.