Amtrak: Portal to the Underworld

I took a train ride up to Chicago yesterday. The last time I took the train up, it was quite pleasant. Sure the train ran a little late, but 45 minutes wasn't really any bother. Yesterday's train however, ran much much later than that.

I was supposed to be on my merry way at 11:43 in the AM. We didn't push off from the station until close to 3. Once we got moving, things seemed to be fine. Sure, I was three hours later than I had planned but I spoke to my friend up north and we made arrangements for me to get out to her place by Metra. No big.

About an hour into the ride, we stopped. And stay stopped for what felt like an eternity. The natives began their slow descent into insanity.

There were a handful of hairdressers on board who were headed to a big beauty show at McCormick Place. Having been in the business I knew things were going to get rowdy in a hurry.

Next to them was a group of older women celebrating one of their birthdays. They too partook of the 4 dollar cans of Bud in the dining car.

One of the birthday party girls sounded like Britney Spears on a bender. You know how people sound when they make fun of a southern accent? Multiply that by 100 and you'd come close to how cranked up this woman sounded.

Then there was the woman who freaked out on a dude while the both of them stood right next to my seat. It seems that the man (who later revealed he was 48 years old) had made a suggestive remark to one of the woman's preteen daughters.

"If you even look at my daughter I'll cut you up, motherfucker" is one of the more delightful zingers she screamed at him not two feet from my head.

The dude most definitely deserved it. I just wasn't in the mood to be party to any bloodshed at the moment.

Later that same man was "detained" on the lower level for smoking in between cars (during one of our many standstills of the trip) and getting belligerent with a conductor. He was really drunk, and this did not help his case. Nor did him shouting, "I am not some ni***r! Don't treat me like some ni***r!". EEP.

At some point the birthday girls and the hairdressers started calling the Amtrak 800 number to complain about the delay. Nothing is more entertaining than listening to a bunch of drunk yahoos trying to sound sufficiently angry without slurring on the line with some operator who couldn't possibly care less that there was a bunch of drunkards stuck on the track in bumfuck Illinois.

One passenger lamented that she really needed to smoke. I mentally agreed with the sentiment. Redneck Birthday Girl, ever the patron saint of drunkards, had a mini lecture session.

"You shouldn't smoke! You're so young! It makes you stink! It's so EXPENSIVE!"

And the best line of the entire night:

"Think about how much more you could drink with all that money!"

Once we finally started moving the mood lightened a little.

I decided that since I wouldn't have time to get ready before the show, I would pull a cheap hooker move and put my makeup on in the train bathroom. Sometimes I astound myself with the magnitude of my class. Yeah...

After that I decided to go full force and change my clothes, but was then informed no one was allowed downstairs to the bathrooms because of the aforementioned drunk, loud guy being "detained".

I shared my quandry with the hairdressers and they kindly offered to hold up their coats so I could change right there in a seat. Again with the class.

We finally got to Union Station around 7:15. Only about FIVE hours late.

I was just glad it was over.

After some phone tag and some well deserved smoke breaks, I was on my way to meet up at the show.

I ended up having a fantastic time with some wonderful friends.

I'll probably take the train again. I'm a sucker for punishment and really...what else do I have to blog about?

I don't wanna...

Mina came home from school on Friday begging me to join Awanas.

Just fucking shoot me now.

If you've read a post of mine here and there, you would know by now I am not what one would call "religious". Pretty much the polar opposite if we're going to split hairs here.

At the beginning of the school year, the school sent home a flier about an informational meeting for Girl Scouts. When I asked Mina if she was interested, she looked at me as if I had offered a steaming pile of shit for dinner.

"No way, Mama. They make you potty in the woods!"

Um...huh?

I guess she thinks the Girl Scouts are some kind of hippie commune living off the land or perhaps some sort of militia. Who knows where she gets this stuff.

I want to tell her that Awanas is basically just Girl Scouts sprinkled liberally with jesusdust, but that would probably only make her want to go more.

Mina told me that Bethany does Awanas, and Bethany is her "very best friend" so NATURALLY Mina wants to do it too. I know you can't always pick who your kid wants to hang with, but why oh why did my kid have to pick to most jesus-y kid in her class to latch onto?

Jim and I are so torn on this. On the one hand, we don't want to keep her from making her own decisions in this arena. On the other, I don't want Mina coming home with a hundred plastic fetuses and a mailng list.

Thoughts?

Kind of makes me want to eat some pussy and have an abortion just to spite them

A friend forwarded this to me. You've probably seen it by now but just in case, here you go:


http://view.break.com/278059 - Watch more free videos



It goes without saying that the last bit breaks my heart into a million pieces. Hate breeding hate. My skin is crawling. Lovely.

I have to wonder what the upside down Canadian flag has anything to do with the song. Does God only hate Canada? I thought he hated the whole world.

And really, if we are doomed to the everlasting pits of hell anyway, why are they bothering to tell us. Isn't it too late to save our heathen souls?

Adventures in Womanhood

I was going to write about my trip to the ER on Sunday night.

I was going to tell you all about how my uterus decided to hate me and bring forth a tsunami of wrongness.

I was going to tell you about my amazingly kick ass friend, Rachel, who drove me to the ER and sat with me watching Snapped, waiting several hours for the nurses and doctor to come in and check me out.

I was even going to tell you about the twelve year old-looking "man" who walked in and scared me half to death by making me think he was my doctor (he was the insurance guy--WHEW!).

But I won't. No one wants to read about that.

Instead, I'll share the video below (stolen from Project Rungay). If you watch Project Runway, you'll appreciate it. If not...well, it's fantastic anyway.

The Shakes

My husband's laptop died so he took mine to work with him on Friday and I just got it back last night.

Oh My

I read in the paper today that the woman who owns the place that I board my dogs was arrested for animal cruelty.

Before I go any further, I want to state for the record that I do not think she did it. I just can't.

Is she a little rough around the edges? Yeah. Could I see her attempting to poison a person? Maybe. If she got pissed off enough. But an animal? No fucking way.

The article states that there are several witnesses putting her car at the scene. She does drive a huge, white SUV with gold trim and a vanity plate. It's wouldn't be hard to miss her behemoth vehicle even in the dark. But what the article doesn't say is who these witnesses saw behind the wheel. I'm holding onto the hope that it wasn't her driving--that someone else took some grudge or fight too far and borrowed her car to settle the score, unbeknownst to a woman I've trusted my dogs to more times than I can count.

The saddest part, as a friend of mine pointed out, is that no matter the outcome, her dog grooming/boarding business is going to suffer a major hit and may not recover at all.

Part of me wants to take my dogs over there right now to prove that I don't believe that she could ever be capable of hurting an animal.

I just hope I'm right.

Fuck you Barbie

It wasn't enough that you gave the little me an unrealistic expectation of what I thought my breasts would eventually look like as an adult (large, perfectly perky and nipple-less)?

Now this? You stupid cunt.



Today is my daughter's sixth birthday. Happy Birthday Mina! I got her a birdhouse kit and a Barbie doll. Not just any Barbie either--a mermaid(?)/fairy Barbie with wings that flutter and a DVD game that is supposed to be easy to use. Whatever.

People have been buying Mina Barbie dolls for a few years now, and I'm just now beginning to get over the guilt of "selling out" to Feminism's Antichrist. I allow her not only play with them, but play with the wretched little hussies with her. I expect the ghost of Betty Friedan at my doorstep at any moment.

I thought I was getting Mina the perfect gift. She wants to have a Fairy-themed birthday party this year, so getting her this particular Barbie fit the bill. She opened her gifts up this morning, and I promised her that she could play with it the second she got home from school. It may be her birthday, but I wasn't going to break the 'no television before school rule' even today.

First off, Fairy Barbie needs batteries. Thank the babyjesus I keep extra on hand at all times...for their toys...yeah...

The battery compartments are located in the doll's inner thighs. I felt like some kind of masochistic perv digging around near Barbie's no no spot. From the looks of her eyeshadow choice, I get the feeling this was not a new experience for her.

Then I was to program Barbie with the DVD remote so that she becomes the remote (so Zen, don't you think?) and can work with the game. It looks so simple, but apparently I am not, as previously thought, smarter than Barbie. I couldn't get the stupid fucker to work.

So, we forged ahead using the actual DVD remote which meant that I had to play too. What good is this toy if I can't sneak out for a smoke break while the girls are entranced by sparkly shit and an 18" waist?

The game itself involves finding jewels, eating seaweed and picking up lonely sailors on the dock.

OK, there weren't any sailors involved. I suppose no one at Mattel shares my love of the inappropriate.

Hopefully when my husband gets home, he can figure out what the hell I did wrong in trying to get that bitch to work.

I'm not touching the birdhouse kit project with a ten foot pole.

Whiny kids and poop

Am I a total asshole for not liking someone else's kids?

OK, maybe that's a little harsh.

Audrey's in a swim class on Thursday mornings with two brothers. One is 3 and one is 6 and both of them are screeching messes once their bodies hit the water.

To back up a little here...

Audrey was so excited to get signed up for "big girl" swim class (the one where I don't get in the water with her). Jim and I made the mistake of bringing her to one of Mina's classes last session and Audrey wailed and tore at her face wanting to get in the water too. At the time, she wasn't potty trained, so I told her that when she graduated to big girl underpants, she too could join in on the aquatic fun.

So, here we are, four sessions into a 13 week session and Fric and Frac have turned my once enthusiastic swimmer-to-be into a puddle of tears.

What happens is that as soon as the teacher tries to hold one of the brothers in the water, they claw at her shoulders SCREAMING for their mother. "MAMA! I'M SCARED! I'M GOING TO FALL! HELP ME!"

It's kind of terrifying to watch for me, so I can only imagine what's going through my 3 year old's head with her front row seat.

Today the intstructor grabbed an assistant to help her out, and Audrey did a little better being distracted from the other two.

I hate to say it, but I wish the Mom would just stop coming to class. Half of the 30 minute class is taken up by the teacher trying to calm one or the other of the brothers down.

It's totally selfish of me to think that, but I feel like I paid $100 to watch some horrible child psychology experiment.

On a sidenote: It smells like a giant shit on my back deck. I don't see any shit in the general vicinity, but it smells like there is big steaming pile of it right next to me.

One time I dated someone really dumb

In between sluttin' it up in college, I had an actual honest-to-goodness boyfriend for a good stretch.

He was sweet when I first met him. I almost didn't go out with him, he was so sweet. I just wasn't into nice guys. As it turned out, he wasn't a total anklebiter so I gave it a go.

We were together a few months when Christmas break came around. I visited him at his parent's house (a good three hours from mine) over the two week vacation, and had a nice time. His parents, little brother and sister left for church for a few hours at one point. Later, his dog brought the condom wrapper he had fished out from under the bed to the dinner table. I got a rockin' glare from Boyfriend's Mom and a wink from Dad.

A few months later, Boyfriend decided to get two pet mice for his dorm room. I questioned his judgement, but since I wasn't going to have anything to do with them, I passed it off as another of his stupid ideas. I was tiring of him by this point, but he was cute and fun and had certain talents a smart girl doesn't pass up lightly.

Then Spring Break rolled around.

When one lives in a college dorm, one is required to vacate the premises over any school break. They don't want you hanging around causing trouble (until moving off campus anyway) while no one "official" is on post.

I spoke with Boyfriend over break on the phone (as I wasn't exactly welcome to visit anymore...).

"How are your little pets doing? Did you Mom freak out when you walked in the door with a couple of rodents?"

Silence.

"You brought them home with you, didn't you?"

"Uh...no."

He left two mice in his dorm room for a week.

Having pets in the dorms was obviously strictly forbidden, but having some janitor find them wasn't really the point. We did a lot of things we weren't supposed to be doing in the dorms.

What kind of fucktard thinks leaving living things that need to eat food and drink water alone for seven days (nine if he left on the Friday before) is a good idea?

I had never held him up as a brainiac, but this took the cake.

When we got back to school I asked him what happened. Turns out these mice had a showdown that ended with them both getting out of their cage and one of them pulling an Alive worthy cannibalistic smackdown--on Boyfriend's bed. He came back to one and a fourth dead mice nestled on his pillow.

I refused to even enter his dorm room until he threw all his bedding in the dumpster and requested (and received) a new mattress. It wasn't long after that that I had to be done with him.

Some things you just can't overlook.

Lowe's owns my soul

Can I just say again how much I love my new house? Not just the house, but the whole neighborhood.

Saturday morning, as Jim and I were emptying out the storage units, a neighbor from down the street came over and introduced himself and his oldest daughter. He handed me a list of all the other neighbor's addresses and phone numbers. He welcomed us to the block and said that if we need anything, to just give a call.

Yesterday the neighbor girl next door came over and offered her babysitting services. I could have hugged her.

We met the guy across the street too. He's thinking about selling, but when he saw that we had two little girls (his daughters are close in age to mine), he said they would probably stay. Then he invited us over for a drink after we got all moved in.

I know we bought the right house.

We spent most of the weekend painting with the help of some good friends and a little pizza and beer.












Girls' rooms (I've decided these rooms need a white wood trim at the top, next the ceiling):


Painting the window and floor trim white next weekend:



Kitchen demo. Suck it, Ty Pennington:



When we took the cabinets down next to the sink, we found this on the wall. Dave Brown sounds like a man defeated:


This Saturday I'm going to tackle painting the second coat on the light stuff in the living room, painting the master bedroom and prepping the kitchen walls for its pretty new color.

In other news of the worst case scenario kind....

Our buyers might be hitting the road.

The home inspector came Friday and suggested that at some point the wiring on the second floor be rewired. They freaked out, and asked that we have it done.

After consulting with an electrician friend of mine, I promptly opened a beer and fought back tears. What they are asking us to do, in the two weeks before the planned closing mind you, is to have done what could cost over $2000. It's not going to happen.

We offered them a little cash towards fixing it, but I have the feeling they aren't going to go for it. We are screwed, big time.

My realtor is supposed to call today to tell me what they said, but I'm not going to get my hopes up. It looks like we'll be putting that motherfucking for sale sign back into the yard.

On the bright side, we'll be living at the new house in a week, so I won't have to worry about keeping the old house clean. Also, that was the only problem the home inspector found with the house. Everything else is piddly stuff that is easy to fix.

On the not-so-bright side, we very well might have two house payments in the not too distant future.

Whiny, tear-laden posts to follow shortly.

If you can't say anything nice, we're probably best friends

The girls were out of town this weekend so Jim and I decided to do the one thing we never get to do in peace while they are here...

Go out to dinner, of course. (What did you think I was talking about?)

It was a 30-40 minute wait for a table, so we settled in at the bar. It was nice to just sit and have an uninterrupted conversation. I ran into a couple of old clients and caught up with them. Then we chatted with a family of Jim's regular customers that was also waiting for a table.

Then my old boss walked in.

His name is Joe. His was the first salon I ever worked at. I apprenticed there during my last third of beauty school and worked full time there for a couple years beyond.

The salon was Joe's first forray out on his own. The salon was brand new when he took me on as an apprentice. He had just left a place where he had worked for over 10 years, and swore up and down he wouldn't make the same mistakes his former boss had. Right.

To be honest, it was never really Joe that I didn't get along with. He may have been a decent hairstylist, but he wasn't what one would consider a scholar. It was easy to ignore his pissy episodes because he just wasn't a very smart man. It's not nice to pick on slow people.

No, my problem was with the Mister of his relationship: Tom.

Tom was Joe's longtime boyfriend. Joe treated him like shit and Tom took it. It was kind of embarrassing to watch.

Tom and I butted heads almost immediately. Tom was a cunt in every faction of the word. He was 15 years older than Joe (and a good 25 years older than me), and thought because he was older, he automatically was wiser.

In the first few months of my employment Joe took us all to a class in Chicago. For reasons I'll never figure out, Tom tagged along. I'm pretty sure Tom was there only to make sure Joe didnn't get into any trouble. He may have been a doormat, but he also took on the role of smothering mother hen at every opportunity. I think he knew that if Joe had the chance to have any fun, he would leave Tom behind in the dust.

At breakfast before the class, a song I recognized was playing.

"I love Ella Fitzgerald," I shared. "I have this album at home. My Aunt bought it for me a few years ago."

"This isn't Ella Fitzgerald," Tom snorted through his disgusting white moustache.

"Yeah, I'm sure it is. I have this at home. It's a collection of Cole Porter songs."

Tom seemed to enjoy the fact that he was "putting me in my place". How could I, at 22 years old, possibly know anything about jazz legends? "It's Billie Holiday, dear."

Then I was pissed. I know it was just a stupid song, but I knew I was right. Why take it any further? But I wasn't ready to back down.

"Look, I know I'm right on this one." Everyone at the table stopped talking and waited to see the next move.

What I didn't know at the time, being so new to this circle of friends, is that Tom does NOT like to be told he is wrong (by anyone but Joe, of course). They weren't afraid of him or anything. They just wanted to see if I could stand up to him.

I could see that he wasn't going to back down, and our food came anyway. I let it go with a, "I guess we'll have to agree to disagree" and a hearty eyeroll.

Minutes later Tom got up to "use the restroom". A few moments after he got back a waiter approached out table to check on our progress. Before walking away though he addressed Tom personally and said, "Sir, I checked with the manager. It's Ella Fitzgerald Sings Cole Porter."

Tom didn't talk to anyone for the rest of the meal.

During the next couple of years we had many more disagreements and stupid spats. I honestly can't believe he never made Joe fire me.

I ran into Tom years after I quit that salon. I was grocery shopping with Mina who wasn't yet 2 years old at the time. I caught Tom in the corner of my eye and felt a tinge of rage rising up. I decided that avoiding him would be the best course of action lest I swear in front of the immpressionable little sprout in my shopping cart.

He saw me though, and it was too late.

"Hiiiiii Chaylene!"

I shot him an icy glare.

"Don't you remember me? It's TOM!"

In my best bitch-on-a-stick tone, "Yes, I remember you."

His face fell, and he slowly turned away, "Oh..."

Immature? Maybe. But it felt good not to pretend to be nice just for the sake of civility. That's how I roll.

Years later I heard through the HairBitch gossip mill that Tom had walked into the backroom of the salon afterhours to find his beloved Joe getting a blowjob....from a woman. A woman Joe had been cheating on Tom with, and later married.

I know Joe saw Jim and I at the bar, but he made a concerted effort to avoid my gaze. He looked kind of scared to be honest. Maybe he remembered that he told me I would "fail miserably in my career" after I told him I was going to another salon. Maybe he remembered the snide remarks he made about what my husband does for a living (that he thought would never get back to me). Maybe he just knows that I wouldn't hesitate to to tell him to go fuck himself in front of his wife (I still don't get that) and friends. He never did talk to us though.

I suppose if he would have ventured over I would have put aside the past and forgave his stupidity and tantrums. I would have had the chance to shake his hand and thank him for humiliating Tom like I never could have.

Then I would have checked his wife for an Adam's Apple.

Hee Haw Haircut

When I first started at the last salon I worked at, I was still rebuilding my clientele from my first maternity leave. GOD FORBID a hairstylist takes some time off to have an 8lb. 1oz. box-shaped baby drug out of her vagina with giant salad tongs.

I lost some clients during my maternity leave, then switched salons and lost a few more. It happens.

My first day, my coworkers filled me in on "The Coupon Debacle".

There was this receptionist who I'll call Sherri.

Sherri wasn't the brightest gal you'd ever meet. She was young and pretty, but mostly clueless.

One day, several months before, the Big Brothers/Big Sisters people called the shop and asked to speak to the manager. Boss Lady was busy and told Sherri to "take care of it" (not the smartest move on her part). Apparently, the BBBS people wanted to know if the salon would care to donate a haircut to their fundraiser.

I'm not sure if Sherri gave the go ahead or if Boss Lady gave the nod. Either way, BBBS got their donation. Sounds like a nice thing to do for the good of the community, right?

Yes, except that what they were actually asking for was WAY more than that.

As it turns out, it wasn't just one gift certificate they were asking for. The free haircut was part of a 'coupon book' they were printing up. They sold them around town for $25 to raise money--and there were 1,000 of them.

ONE THOUSAND.

The $25 people paid for the whole damn booklet wouldn't have covered a single haircut at the salon, and now there were 1,000 of them floating around town.

Feeling bad for Boss Lady, I told her I'd be happy to fill some of my down time (which at that point, I had plenty of) with the free haircut coupon people. I should have kept my mouth shut.

One afternoon I had a coupon cut on my book and didn't think anything of it until she walked in followed by her husband.

She was morbidly obese, dressed in grey jersey knit shorts pulled up almost level with her imposing, unrestrained breasts. The t-shirt was my favorite part: Tweety Bird in a feather boa with the words "HOT STUFF" splayed across the front.

Her husband was a lanky NASCAR aficionado who apparently ate cigarettes and gravel by the looks of his gaping, spittle-covered mouth and yellow skin.

And I was going to have to honor of cutting BOTH of their heads of greasy, nicotine-coated hair because they bought two coupon booklets. Kick ass!

"Mama" went first. She had approximately 7 hairs on her head and they all grew in a different direction. The best part was that her husband felt it necessary to stand next to me, directing the haircut.

"Make sure you git it up hurr (pointing at about ear level). She lahks it short. Don'tcha, Mama?"

I combed and combed those 7 seven hairs, but all I accomplished was a nice collection of some kind of white, pasty/flaky gunk on my comb...and this was after a shampoo. What was really intriguing was the amount of gunk she was able to keep a special secret from me in the folds in the back of her gigantic neck.

Smokey Joe was next. I'm pretty sure the years of not cracking a window to let out some of the smoke permanently changed the organic nature of this man's hair. My clippers groaned against the stiff, tar-laden strands of yuck growing from this man's head.

When they left, they didn't tip me. Not even a fucking dollar. Nothing. They paid $50 for two of those god damned coupon books, but they couldn't muster up at least something for a tip?!

My boss felt so bad about the whole situation, she paid me for the haircuts out of her own pocket.

One time I was a giant crybaby

My house still hasn't sold, and the beginnings of panic are starting to set in.

I'm starting to see more and more SOLD signs around town and I can't help buy wonder why mine hasn't. I truly think we have done everything within our power (and budget) to make this home more than marketable. Aside from picking it up and putting it on a quieter street, there is nothing more to be done.

At Saturday's open house, a couple showed up and seemed to really like it. My real estate agent said the wife was "in love with the kitchen" and that they told her they had been checking the house out on the realty website. It's a good sign, but a even better sign would say "SOLD" and be parked on my front lawn.

I keep getting positive feedback from friends and even other realtors, and that does tend to boost morale, but it still doesn't change the fact that we haven't gotten a single offer in the 8 weeks we've been on the market.

I'm trying not to let this whole process completely take over my life, but that's hard to do when you are as compulsive and controlling as I am.

I want to start shopping for window treatments and paint and the washer and dryer we'll need in the new house. I want to start planting some flowers and playing in our new back yard. I want to pull into my new driveway and use the automatic garage door opener (never had one of those before!).

Do we need to advertise more? Do we need to offer more incentives? What are we not doing that we should be?

Any and all advice, back patting and handholding will be accepted.

One time I hated my (old) job

A hairstylist thrives on referrals. No amount of advertising, coupons or "specials" can replace positive word of mouth. Back when I was behind the chair, I loved referrals from clients that I liked (which honestly, was most of them).

One of my clients was a woman I'll call Diana. She was a little on the shy side, but over time loosened up and even got a bit adventurous with her hair. After a few appointments she told me that she hated the way her fiancee's current stylist cut his hair and was trying to get him to come to me.

"Great!" I thought, "Diana is so fun and sweet, her fiancee must be a great guy!"

Wrong.

I didn't like him the moment his pompous ass walked in the door--late.

I always prided myself on running on time. I hated when clients were late because it could throw off the rest of the night. Generally though, if it was a person's first appointment I cut them some slack as they had never been there before. 99% of the time they apologized profusely and I got over it.

But this guy had been there before, to pick Diana up from an appointment. I remember he waited in the car while she checked out, instead of coming in. Not a total deal-breaker, but it really should have tipped me off to the type of person he was. And he didn't make any mention of the fact that he was ten minutes late for his appointment either.

I should mention at this point that when I did men's haircuts, I washed their hair after the haircut (unless they had 4 pounds of pomade or 63 gallons of gel on it) to get all the loose hairs rinsed away. For a while I washed it before and after, but it became a pain in the ass and all but a few of my male clients found it excessive.

After some pleasantries, I asked him what type of haircut he wanted.

"I don't know," he quipped, "Aren't you supposed to know what looks best on me?"

What I actually said: "Alrighty then. Let's get started."

What I wanted to say: "Right about now, a hatchet in your forehead sounds pretty good."

So, I put the cutting cape around him and he stops me. "Aren't you going to wash my hair? Diana said this was a nice salon."

I explained as sugary-sweetly as I could muster that I would be shampooing his hair afterwards, and he seemed to relax a little.

The rest of the time, he was pretty quiet and then it came time to pay. At the front desk, I thanked him for coming in (I did!), and handed the ticket to the receptionist. As I walked to the back, I heard it.

"Twenty eight dollars?!! And I tip on top of that?!"

Part of me felt insulted. I gave him a damn fine haircut, and he was bitching about the price? The other part of me was relieved. I hoped that this meant he wouldn't be back.

Wrong again. He came every THREE weeks for the next year. He was late for about every third appointment and I truly believe it was because he was such a control freak. He knew I would have to wait on him, and I think he liked being "the boss". He wasn't late every time or he knew I would have to say something. Sneaky prick.

One time, I was cutting his hair and my husband called to ask what he should make for dinner. Mr. Assface found it laughable that my husband would be making dinner for me, himself and the kid all by his widdle ol' self. Turns out Mr. Assface never step foot in the kitchen--ever. "That's my wife's job" (My sweet adorable client had actually gone through with the marriage to this loser). Never mind that his wife worked the same hours as he did doing the exact same job (and I'll go ahead and assume she gets paid less than him for it too!).

Lest you think him simply an old school neanderthal, he didn't mow the lawn either...or fix shit around the house...or take out the garbage...or take the cars for oil changes, etc.

When Diana mentioned that they were going on a Vegas vacation, she relayed in detail the depths of Mr. Assface's cheapness. I'm all for saving a buck, but no one's going to tell me how many drinks I will be "allowed to have" each night of my vacation. I honestly don't know how she didn't kill him in his sleep.

He would do other things to "test me". He'd see someone getting highlights and ask how the chemicals worked. He'd ask why I was using one shampoo in favor of another. I know he didn't care. He just wanted to see if he could make me stumble. I know he thought that because I was a hairstylist, I couldn't possibly be smart, and I proved him wrong every chance I got.

At Christmas time, the salon I worked at closed between Christmas Eve and New Year's. As a rule, it was a slow time and it gave us a chance to recover from the insane hours we put in around the holidays.

The last week before our "holiday break", we reminded clients that we would be gone until the first business day after January 1st. As it turned out, Mr. Assface happened to come in the last night before we were off.

When I told him that we would be closed for about a week, he gave me an incredulous look and said, "B-but, what if someone needs an emergency haircut?! Will you have someone on call?"

Someone on call?!

What I actually said: "No. We are taking a well-deserved break. If someone needs a haircut that bad, they can go somewhere else."

What I wanted to say: "Well, Mr. Assface, if your pussy hurts that bad while we're gone, I suggest you consult a doctor. I'm certain they will have "someone on call"."

It's been a little over a year since I quit working to stay home with my girls and surprisingly, I haven't run into this guy in public yet. I know it's coming. I can feel it. I hope for his sake that when I do, it's not after I've been drinking.

What I should say: Hey, how've you been?

What I will say: You are a fucktard.

Throw down

Yesterday, as I was pulling out of the driveway, I noticed that the house two doors down had a "For Sale" sign in the yard.

Let me tell you, she's itchin' for a letter bomb in a bad bad way.

It's not the fact that she's selling her house that bothers me. Hell, there's homes for sale all up and down the blocks surrounding mine. It's the fact that she's priced 20,000 dollars below my asking price. Bitch.

I looked up her house to do a "comp" and saw that she's got 4 bedrooms (I've got 3), one bathroom (I've got 2 full bathrooms), and no garage (I've got a 2 car, detached). On the outside, it appears we have similar square footage, and both our yards are fenced.

My only consolation is that I know who her realtor is, and she is straight up cu-razy. How do I know this? She used to be my realtor once upon a time.

When my husband and I were looking for our first house, we started out looking around on our own. After going to one fateful open house, I somehow managed to get hooked up with Sarah, The Craziest Realtor on the Planet.

At first, she was like any normal person who sells houses. She looked up homes in my price range and set up viewings. She even drove me around in her own car. After a month I was tiring of the process, but she was nothing if not tenacious.

Sarah would call me about a new listing and come pick me up to look at them. The most memorable house she took me to was a cave-like shack off Main Street. The people who lived there either didn't know we were coming over or didn't want to sell their house. Not only was there an unmade bed in the living room, but a sink full of dirty crusty dishes in the kitchen sink. And it smelled of cat piss. Being well past my drug-addled party days, I passed on that one.

Eventually, I decided that Sarah wasn't helping much in the home search, and decided to go it alone, but not before she took me on one last round of viewings.

I met her at her realty office to pick up the info sheets. Her husband was there and decided to join us. He was a big bear of a man with a porno moustache, a toupee-like mop on the top half of his head and a glorious mullet on the bottom half. He gave me the creeps, but since I didn't have to be married to him I figured I'd let it pass.

As soon as he got there, he asked me if I wanted to see what he got his wife for her birthday. Hoping this wasn't some kind of trick, I feigned interest. After reaching into the inside pocket of his Member's Only windbreaker he produced not a chloroform-soaked rag, but a jewelry box. It was a diamond necklace.

"Wow, that's very nice. Happy Birthday Sarah."

"Yeah, heh heh heh. Guess I'll be getting some tonight, eh?"

"Um, yeah. Good for you big guy."

It was going to be a long fucking afternoon.

First stop was a house that I actually found myself. It needed a LOT of work. Basically it would have been a rehab project for my husband and I, and it was priced accordingly. Sarah, Mr. Sarah and I took a look around and marveled at the potential.

Then Sarah decided that she and her smarmy husband should buy it themselves and flip it. So much for that.

On our way to the next house, Sarah decided that I needed to see her house. I won't lie to you, I was frightened and contemplated my escape. However, Mr. Sarah was in the back seat and I was convinced he would be able to reach his big bear arms out the window to scoop me back into the Lincoln Towncar if I attempted a dive.

Even though this was the first realtor I've ever worked with, I knew taking clients to one's home wasn't common protocol. When I asked her if she had forgotten something (like the duct tape and blindfold), she told me she just wanted me to see her house.

I should clarify that my price range was about one fourth of what her home probably cost. It wasn't like she was showing me something comparable to what I was looking for. No. She just wanted to show off.

We spent about a half hour there while she gave me the tour. I was stunned by how unprofessional (not to mention creepy as hell) this all was. I was on guard the entire time. I didn't know these people and I was in their house alone. My husband was at work and didn't know where I was. No one did.

I wasn't worried about getting killed. I was worried about getting propositioned.

After that day, I stopped returning her phone calls. A couple years later, they ended up buying a church (but still continuing their realtor business). Turns out, Mr. Sarah is a minister. You saw that one coming, didn't you?

Now Sarah is my neighbor's problem. I almost feel bad for her, but then I remember she's low balling me and I feel a certain sense of satisfaction.

So, good luck Asshole Neighbor! I'll be going to your first open house and pooping in your closet.

One time, I should have kept my mouth shut

In 1983 a murder took place in my town. I didn't live here then, but I did read the book that was written about it (twice). It's a fascinating case made even more eerie by the fact that it took place in the town I live in. If you are a true crime junkie like me, it's a must read.

I used to be a hairstylist. Before I had kids, I worked really long (12+ hour) days behind the chair and I got to meet many interesting people from many different walks of life.

One night I had a new client who was referred to me by her sister. She had a really different name. Being a "Chaylene", I can sympathize with others saddled with a fucked up moniker.

We chatted easily and had a couple of laughs before I started cutting her hair. Halfway though the haircut, I brought up her name again. I'd only heard once before, I told her.

"Remember that Hendrick's murder in the 80's?"

"Yes."

"I read that book recently. One of the models that guy used for his business pamphlets had your name. Can you imagine what that was like. I mean, those girls must feel so creeped out knowing they modeled for a murderer!"

"Uh...that was me."


She found a new stylist after that.

Maybe it's because we're potty-training

I know it's really cheesy to write about your dreams, but part of last night's was so disturbing I just had to share.

Somehow I was in the middle of a old west-themed landscape. I think that I was supposed to be on a road trip, but I don't recall being very happy about it.
My youngest was back to being a newborn and I was trying to carry her around while climbing hills and wading through small streams.

At some point there was a giant toilet-like contraption in front of us and I accidentally dropped her into it. Somehow it flushed and the force of the swirling water sucked baby down down down...until just her head was poking out of the hole.

I couldn't get a good hold on her to pull her out because she was wet and slippery and the water pressure was too strong.

The last thing I saw was her face looking up at me, panicked. There was nothing I could do.

I woke up feeling nauseous.

Oddly enough, one of the Mister Roger's Neighborhoods I DVR'ed for the girls to watch today included a timely reminder.


You Can Never Go Down The Drain

© 1969 Fred M. Rogers

You can never go down
Can never go down
Can never go down the drain.
You can never go down
Can never go down
Can never go down the drain.

You're bigger than the water.
You're bigger than the soap.
You're much bigger than all the bubbles.
And bigger than your telescope

So you see...
You can never go down
Can never go down
Can never go down the drain.
You can never go down
Can never go down
Can never go down the drain.

The rain may go down
But you can't go down.
You're bigger than any bathroom drain.
You can never go down
Can never go down
You can never go down the drain.