Painting Chef - Cheaper Than Therapy

I did what every infertile dreads more than anything in the world this weekend. What each one of us secretly hates but for some reason some of us repeatedly subject our selves to anyway. Something that fills us with so many emotions that there is no other possible outcome than being reduced to a crying, sniffling, angry ball of infertility and lack of motivation on the couch watching reruns of Will and Grace or Sex and the City. The first four (five?) seasons. The pre-baby seasons.

I threw a baby shower.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m very excited that my friend is having a baby. She lives across the street from me and I’ll be able to have nearly immediate access to delicious baby feet and heads and all the wonderfulness. I cannot wait. She will have to chase me out of that nursery with a baseball bat.

But this shower I threw her? Well, let me first go on the record as saying that it was FLAWLESS and BEAUTIFUL and all the other things that a shower could be and I even overheard the comment “Damn. This is nicer than my wedding” and I wanted to say BUT YOU GOT MARRIED IN GEORGIA but I refrained. However. I offered to throw this shower back in August. Anyone remember August? Yeah…I was all knocked up and shit in August. Now? Not so much. Nothing makes you feel defined by your punk ass ovaries and fucked up uterus like someone else opening up a twelve foot tall pile of baby paraphernalia in your living room.

And I’ll give her credit. As soon as I told her we’d lost the baby she IMMEDIATELY said “I’ll completely understand if you don’t want to have the shower anymore” to which I responded “NO! Of course I want to have the shower! I am INVINCIBLE and STRONG and INFERTILE! I can HANDLE a miscarriage or twelve. But YOU! You shall have a baby shower fit for a queen!” (And she did…)

But I think I may have overestimated my own abilities. So I am making this official statement on this, the 28th day of February 2006 (a day when my company’s corporate office is closed because it is Mardi Gras…Mardi Gras? Really? I know you’re in Baton Rouge and all but Mardi Gras? Shit, I’m in Augusta and we don’t close for the Masters). I will throw NO MORE BABY SHOWERS until I have my very own fruit of my loins resting in my very own arms.

Hey! Remember that time you had that dilemma that you were just CLUELESS about figuring out and so you wrote to these three really hot chicks who are oh so super smart and kind of funny sometimes but also just the right amount of mean like they would give you the right advice but maybe make you either laugh or cry while they were dishing it out and they solved all your problems and everything was gumdrops and unicorns and we all lived happily ever after forever and ever amen?

No?

Well do you want to?

The Three Bitches have solved the second wave of your problems and I am happy to say that we are now in need of some more people to fix. Not in a veterinarian kind of fixing way but just sort of a now isn’t your life better than it was yesterday kind of thing…

So send your questions in! Dammit.

We Three Bitches can be reached via email at wethreebitches[at]yahoo[dot]com.

Having assembled the appropriate paraphernalia for a hair coloring adventure, I decided that I was ready to dive right in.

The first step went alright, the only complaint I have about the all mixed up bottle of hair coloring magical concoction is that at first glance, it appears to be kind of white. So I was just kind of getting that goop all over me hair and turning that head upside down and not really noticing that I was slinging little droplets of sludge all over the place. Because I’m not really a detail kind of girl…

But it went alright. I chilled on a towel on the bed for the 30 minutes and watched Sex and the City and tried to ignore the odd tingly feeling on my scalp because I’m not a hair coloring virgin…I’ve done this shit before. Its been YEARS since I’ve done it myself but I’ve been there, done that, ruined the t-shirt.

So the little beepity-beep timer goes off and I head on into the bathroom because its time to rinse. And I notice that there are bizarre bluish-purple marks all over the floor. Oh, and the wall too, huh…look at that shit…and…oh crap. They are all over me too. Well fuck. So I now spend another ten minutes on my hands and knees scrubbing the bruise-like marks off the bathroom floor and then off the wall. Oh, and the mirror. And the outside of the shower. I ignore the ones on me because I’m about to jump in the shower. Shit. Which I should have done like 10 minutes ago.

I rinse the “almond rocha” color out of my hair and get out of the shower and Morticia Fucking Adams is looking at me in my mirror. This? Is kind of not good but at least she doesn’t have 5 inch roots anymore so that’s alright. But its OKAY! Because there are HIGHLIGHTS! And again I will be she of the streaky hair. So I mix everything up according to the directions and pull out that oversized mascara-y thing they give you and that little tool lasts all of about 2.6 seconds.

Really? A mascara wand? Really? I’m not sure if I’ve ever told you this but I have…um…a LOT of hair. Like tons and tons and more tons on top of that. So I quickly abandon the mascara wand method (which kind of hurts a little too…) and opt for the newly developed “Fill Your Gloved Hands With The Dye And Flip Over And Scrunch Randomly method.” Which surprisingly? Kind of works.

I set the timer again and pour another glass of wine. I decided to go up and check my email. I talk to my mom on the phone not mentioning to her what I’m doing because she would fuss at me and really? Who needs that when they are stressed about coloring their own hair? I forget that there is a timer on my bathroom counter set for fifteen minutes that has been beeping for an ADDITIONAL TWELVE MINUTES. So, I’m thinking that might be why I have reddish hair now. But overall, its growing on me and I think I did a pretty damn good job. See?

(Also, please ignore shiny face and chin zits in this picture…PMS she is a bitch.)

Oh, also, I will appropriately pimp her this weekend but click on Rock Bitch over there. She’s fucking hysterical…

I spent a lot of time over the past few days looking at pictures of Papa Bill, he always loved pictures. I thought I’d share a few of my favorites with you. (Also because, once again, I forgot to get the pictures of the NEW! RED! HAIR! Off of the digital camera…shocker.)

This is a picture of Neena and Papa Bill taken in Daytona Beach in 1969. They took a family trip there every single year. This is one of the few pictures I’ve ever seen of the both of them where they looked quasi-happy to be within a half mile of each other. Plus? How hot is Neena?

Papa Bill was a Marine and spent time in Korea. It was something that had SUCH a profound effect on his life. It was in Korea that he developed such a strong sense of patriotism and dedication to this country. I only saw this picture for the first time this past Christmas but I fell in love with it instantly.

Christmas has always been such an exciting time in our family. My grandparents lived in a big white house up on a hill of what has become an extremely busy street. They would spend so much time getting all the decoration just so, never tacky, just lots of wreaths and red bows. This is me and Papa Bill pitching in with the decorations when I was probably 8 or 9 years old. Are you so jealous of my socks and my highwater pants? You should be…

In the 2000 election, Papa Bill was a member of the “Gore Corps” which was a group of Democrats who volunteered to travel around the country campaigning for Al Gore. We all know how that election turned out but Papa Bill had such a wonderful time meeting so many people and talking to them about issues that were so near and dear to his heart. Here are a few pictures from what I think was one of the best times of his life.

This past Tuesday, he was laid to rest with a full military funeral complete with a 21 gun salute and Taps. It was one of the most meaningful and emotional experiences I’ve ever had. At the end of the service, the chaplain explained that Taps was played at the end of every day on military bases because it signifies to the soldiers that their days work is done and that they may now rest. So Papa Bill, you dedicated your life to this country and to things that you were passionate about, politics and family. Thank you for all you taught me about love, honor, patriotism, and the privileges that we have in this country and so often take for granted. Your work is done and you may now rest. I love you and miss you.

I do promise that tomorrow I’ll get back to cussin’ and snarkin’ and just bitchin’ in general. But for today, I thought I’d let you get to know my grandfather a little better. Because this is my joint and I want to dammit.

I am absolutely going to post pictures of the haircoloring adventure. Because guess what? It looks good! Kind of redder than expected but still? Quite good! Am proud of haircoloring abilities. Go me.

And? My mother hated it which was completely expected so again…go me.

I’ve been in Knoxville for Papa Bills funeral so that’s why it appeared to everyone that I’d driven off into a ditch somewhere and was laying there cold, bleeding, and without moisturizer or mascara to fend for myself but in fact, that just wasn’t the case!

Am ALIVE! Am in proximity to computer! (Actually…I’ve been in proximity to a computer, I have just been excessively busy and unable to talk to you.)

I was NOT, however, in proximity to a computer while we were driving back to Augusta last night and I was CUHRAVING Steak and Shake cheese fries (NO. Am not pregnant. Shut up.) and had no idea where to find said fine dining establishment. Desperately needed computer because apparently am so dependant on internet that it took me a full minute to comprehend that I could NOT just google what I needed from the co-pilot seat thus causing me GREAT distress and briefly considered phoning a friend. Decided not to and instead went to gas station to borrow phone book. Found cheese fries. Found indigestion. Found agony for next two and half hours. Cheese fries not worth it. So sad. Didn’t need cheese fries adhered to ass and thighs ANYDAMNWAY.

Okay, more to come later. I have some of the most WONDERFUL pictures of Papa Bill that I’m going to go over to Walgreens and scan and then burn onto a disc so I can post them for you because apparently my scanner at home is “incompatible” with Windows XP and requires some mystery driver that everyone at Epson seems to think is right there on their website and IT’S NOT!! Fuckwads.