31 January 2009

Pink foam curlers and G.I. Joes

I had foam curlers that you had to clasp on one end after rolling wet hair onto it. (You, as in the general you, not the boy 'you' because boys don't curl their hair, so I guess I mean the general GIRL 'you', in which case I should have just wrote 'girls', instead of 'you', but I am not wanting to offend boys who DO curl their hair, because maybe, I don't know, there are a few of those out there, and there is such a high likelihood that they would read this.)

Back to the foam, here. They were pink. The cylindrical foam that you wrapped the hair around and the plastic clasp that framed the foam and connected at the one end were pink. I put a ton (okay, well maybe not a TON) of them in my hair one afternoon in the hopes that I could put a luscious and luxurious body of curls into my otherwise normally straight (bland, blah, brown) hair. I had entire afternoon to waste. I had time to let my hair dry.

In the meantime and without a hair dryer (without? or absent-minded enough to not think of using one? hmmm...) I started to lip sync with the radio. Joan Jett came on and I poured my ever-lovin', rockin' heart out into her lyrics. "I hate myself for lovin' youuuuu!...." On the bed, crouching down, hopping off, microphone (brush) in hand. Performing to a huge, sold-out crowd (ten or fifteen stuffed animals) on a well-lit stage (pastel-colored bed.) I caught a glimpse of myself in the tiny vanity on my desk coming down on a beat, mid-angst-cringe. I was absolutely horrified to see the pink curlers flopping against my angry face, sickly pale and splattered with freckles and brown eyes that I couldn't get away from.

I stopped. Party over. Total rocker kill.

But it passed. I rocked it out to the end, I took my curlers out, and looked something more like this.

30 January 2009

Batman Returns: my first date

Once upon a time, there lived a girl...

So once when I was 13, I had a real date. My first, out-of-the house, to-the-movies date. It was Batman Returns. Not real romantic by all wooing standards, but I didn't care. I could tell someone I "went on a date."

There was a catch, though. His mom had to go with us.

It was not MY idea of a good date, even though I sympathized with both mothers, but I guess neither my date or I had a lot of say in the matter since we needed her to get us to the movie. In the end, there was no win-win because she had to watch all the penguin blood come out of Danny Devito's mouth in the final scenes of the graphic novel-come-animation.

We never went on another date, but I'd look for every reason to call him on the phone or meet up with him when our parents met for boy scout meetings. I didn't really like him ALL that much. He was a year older, kind of dorky but kind of cute, and went to a different school. I was just, well, boy crazy. He ended up losing interest and I ended up getting sick of his "would you rather die being hanged or sliding down a razor and into a bucket of iodine" level of conversations. They were topics better left to all his dorky friends.

Let me back up a bit by explaining that I met this kid getting ready for the annual Boy Scout Day Camp that involved cartloads of projects: handyman, craftyman, applied sciences, and the like. Three days worth of activities that would keep every age and every level of boys' hands and mind busy, but that also need prepping. This is where CG comes in. CG had a Dremel with which he was carving notches out of wood pieces that would become tie slides. I, as the daughter of two active Cub Scout leader parents, did the dutiful thing by coming into all the pre-planning meetings and helped. So I picked up a Dremel, started carving notches, and struck up a conversation. This has always been my style.

Except I missed after about the hundredth piece of wood and ended up Dremeling off some skin. I washed it off, pressed a towel to the wound, and retired from notch-making. A few weeks later, my proactive ways produced what is now infamously known (only in my mind) as the Batman date.

28 January 2009

These people just don't get it.

These people are just too nice!! What the hell? WHY... am I not allowed to be grumpy or pissy or feisty or WHATEVER without being BUGGED about it? Why I am even bugged about being "bugged"? Especially when they are, after all, JUST trying to be nice and concerned...?

Tired perhaps. I just "got word" (i.e. looked at the schedule) that I'll be doing the closing shift for a majority of the month of February and I'm suprised to find how NOT happy I am about this. I really thought I was more flexible. It surprises me that I cannot just be okay with this. I will just have to get over it, wrap my little head around it, but not without kicking my feet and pitching just a teeny, TINY little fit about it.

I mean, I knew when I applied (signed on, agree to employment, etc.) that I wanted to be flexible. I am fortunate in my life that, even though I have kids, I also have a husband who maintains the same hours as my kids and can be with them when I have to work something other than a day shift.

But I DID say I preferred days; that I would be willing to do the odd weekend or evening shift, but that I preferred days. I've been working mostly days, my kids need me to be a part of their lives, and now I'm stuck working the closing shift with all the school-aged kids.

Which I don't like. They like me, and I don't know why, and for the most part, I get along with them, but they're just not old enough/matured enough to appreciate/identify/apply the kind of work ethic that comes from needing the job, as opposed to wanting extra cash.

But now, for the month of February, the majority of my shifts are evening and closing shifts and I just can't get over how unhappy I am about this; and even though it is only, for all intense purposes only one month, and the month the owners need and deserve the vacation they are going on, AND the shortest month of the year, I still miss all this time with my girls. I stagnate somewhat in their lives. I lose touch (a bit) with what's going on. I just feel like that's unacceptable.

Plus, I don't get home until late, which I also hate, because there's no time with girls, no time with Kyle, and I already have trouble with mornings as it is. I hate starting the day late, and working late is the super-epitome of that. I just hate it. Hate it, hate it, hate it. It's a change. And I have this whole thing with change, being totally aware of it, wanting to be accepting of it and generally taking change up the tail pipe wherever it creeps in; but where I'm starting to find that my hellbent desire to protect the good of my family meets change with an ugly scowl.

And especially with this??? Why do I-I-I have to be the one that gets the shaft? The short end of the stick? The one stiffed with the lower-end shift? Why is it that I am always getting the shit end of the stick because "you can handle it, Amy"? Just because I can and am capable doesn't mean I want to. It doesn't even make it "all better" any more. It's a horseshit excuse to relegate the small girl, the easy-going girl, the will-do-anything girl to the gallows. And it's horseshit.

I'm just getting so angry. Maybe it's best to wrap this up right here.