So I’m 28.
I’m adjusting to life as a part-time worker woman, and it’s harder to keep up on stuff like the house and cooking… but I’m going to adjust. It will be fine. I feel peace amidst the chaos, and that’s a good feeling.
Last year for my birthday I got up early and went shopping for food (I was pregnant, it must be remembered). I took myself for a haircut. I painted my own toes (because I still COULD!) and I made my own cake. I took the kids to the Book Fair. I ate fish tacos for dinner while the kids played at Grandma’s house.
This year, I was just TOO tired to bother with any of that.
My husband asked me what I’d like, and I told him I’d like to treat the day like any other Friday. And he was very disobedient.
Very, very.
Thursday night, he gave me $20 and sent me away with a few women to make stuff with essential oils (and order some). Friday morning, I woke up to handmade cards that Dad helped them with while I was gone Thursday evening.
And the dishes had been done. While I was at work, my husband hand-delivered a professional bouquet of flowers from my favorite florist.
I felt so spoiled.
He was DEAD SET on me HAVING a birthday!
Danny got pretty weird about dinner… I couldn’t figure out why he was so insistent that the chicken BE BAKED as soon as possible, but as a nursing mother I didn’t fight the idea of Food Sooner Than Later.
“I found this pink cake mix,” I said, “I thought the kids and I could bake it and then they could decorate it for me.”
“No,” my husband said.
“Why? Why? Because you think I’m FAT?! So I can’t have CAKE?!”
**It must here be mentioned that I’m hormonal. Still working on balancing those babies post-baby. Get it?**
He assured me that it had nothing to do with that.
And then he looked guilty and begged me to please not mention cake again.
We all gathered around the table and I asked the kids what their favorite part of the day was -just like we do every day.
“When I helped JuJu make the cake!” Trenton said.
“What cake?” Lacy asked.
“The one Dad gave her to make for Mom’s birthday.”
My husband hung his head, rising only to offer a bleak, “surrrprise!”
“Ooooooops,” said Trenton.
It was a lovely red velvet cake, and a lovely small family gathering, and a lovely day all around.
****due to the whole “adjusting to life where I spend my mornings sporting a super classy Hansen’s Auto tee and fielding phone calls like I was BORN to, I am now finally finishing this post which I started two days ago. One day ago? Three? How old am I? Where am I? What’s my mom’s maiden name? Anyone?****
My birthday bouquet:
After the kids went to bed, Danny and I rented a movie through the Playstation.
Isn’t that just the MOST amazing couch potato tool EVER?! You don’t even have to GET OFF THE COUCH to rent a movie! We rented “Something Borrowed” which I’ve sort of been wanting to see. It’s a totally predictable chick flick about a girl in love with a boy who is going to marry her best friend.
BUT it was my birthday, so I played that card. And my husband was nice about it.
We both hated it. I don’t want to spoil it for anyone, but I have somewhat to say concerning THAT MOVIE. So message me if you want my rant which is both pointless and time-wasting. But convincing.
*ahem* ANYWAY.
Saturday morning, we went to Flagstaff as a family. Danny wanted me to get my hair done. I stressed out over this for a few reasons.
#1) Hormones.
#2) Last year. (the follow up post, oh-my-SAGA!)
#3) My hair matters to me. Some women are particular about their nails or their clothes or their baseboards. With me? It’s my hair.
My husband called me on the phone while I was at work and said, “I was trying to schedule an appointment to get your hair done for your birthday. It was going to be a surprise, but I’m messing it up. I called the Aveda salon and the stylist who fixed your hair last year has quit. What do you want to do?”
What do you want to do? A simple enough question. But that day it SET OFF AN ATOMIC BRAIN BOMB.
What DO I DO?!
I took to facebook with my plight, asking suggestions from friends, and I finally settled on going back to the Aveda Salon but only seeing a MASTER stylist.
I scheduled the appointment and said to the woman on the other end of the line, “Just so you know, I might cancel this appointment. I’m terrified.”
But I didn’t. I *almost* did, but I didn’t.
I showed up on time, but the stylist was running late. When I sat down, I showed her a few pictures of what I wanted and she informed me that I’d been booked for a cut and partial color NOT a cut and full and partial.
So I said, “That’s fine. I’d rather just cancel unless I can get exactly what I want.”
She said, “let’s see what we can work out.”
She looked at my formula, she looked at my picture. I said, “I want my hair to look exactly like it does in THIS picture” which was of ME and not Kim Kardashian. I just felt like I should say that… I wasn’t expecting to look like a celebrity.
Did I spell Kardashian right? Does anyone care?
She assured me that the formula looked right and that my hair would come out looking like it did in the picture.
I ended up spending 6 hours in the salon. Okay, I LIKE salons, but I promise you now that if I have to step foot inside of one in the next 8 months, I’ll prolly barf.
I had my make-up done as well. Eets for fun. and birthdays. and I actually have no idea how to do my make-up right, so I need that kind of help.
I left the salon with dark hair. I thought maybe it would seem lighter when I went outside? When I got home?
As I looked in my own bathroom mirror, it became abundantly clear that my hair was not copper. or anything like unto it.
It doesn’t look BAD. I’m not crying this year (I’m PMSing but not PREGNANT, okay?) but I keep tugging at the purple-y ends going, “What the what?”
The left is what I have, the right is what I wanted to have.
I’m not crazy when I say they got it wrong.
It cost so much that I was up sick over it. I was just SICK that I’d paid so darn much over my hair and it was wrong… again. I didn’t want to go back for a fix because they’d have to bleach it and it would break my “no salons for at least 8 months” rule. oh, and the “never ever that particular salon again” rule.
So I called the salon and asked for a refund on just the color. I love the cut. I love the make-up. It’s the color I’m not jiving with.
And this, ladies and gents, is why I stress over my silly hair. And the Lord punishes me for my vanity. Ha ha :)
I’ll get used to my dark locks. Right now I’m still freaked out and feeling very painted on, but it’s okay. I can live with it, especially since the salon was gracious enough to refund me and understand when I politely said, “I’m not ever coming back.”
It sounded nicer when I said it. Promise.
Other than that, we’ve been up to things I can actually tell you very simply. That’s new for me. I think becoming a working woman has caused brain maturating… aka Alicia Tells One Sentence Stories Now.
Wanna play?
Alice is eight months old, and wearing the dress my mom made for me when I was a baby. (okay, that was technically TWO sentences smashed together with a comma and conjunction. Baby steps…)
We visited Connor in the hospital just before they moved him to rehab in a different city, and the kids enjoyed the play room. (again with the TWO sentences thing. Come on, Alicia!)
Trenton posed with the girl he’s planning on marrying, and her mother confided in me that she prays for him because “he’s going to marry me.”
And I’d be a bad mom if I didn’t tack on a picture of what he looked like from the back that day…
A basket fell on Alice.
(THERE. I did it.)
Those of us with teeth got them cleaned on Wednesday.
The kittens are playful and perfect and fun, and we couldn’t resist spreading a blanket on the grass last evening and basking in the aswesomeness of New Kitty, Sunset, and Childhood.
(Okay, apparently I was wrong about Brain Maturation…)
After taking at least 20 pictures, I put my phone away and just played. played, played, played. and did voice-overs for both kitten and cat alike. and made my kids pretend to be kittens and bound through the wet grass like four-legged beauties.
Now.
BEFORE I GO. I’d like to share with you the fruits of both my googling efforts and my family relations.
While forming an ulcer over my hair situation, I read up on the best salons in the Flagstaff, AZ area. I found a review that has brought me more joy than a few of the Jane Austen movies I’ve seen.
I’m copying it here for you. Also, please translate it? Because some of it I JUST don’t get. Please note that it says the first review is in English. which makes me feel like I need to take a few more classez.
1 review in English
Review from Lando
4.0 star rating
7/9/2013 First to Review
Barbie and Ashley ROCKED MY SH*T!!!…
Love this place FOOOORRR DAAAYZ!!!
OMG…. *clutching pearls* Got my Urrrbrows DID… GOT my HUUURRCUT DID….got my Lauff on.. then… these cray-cray stylist made this trifling bag of walnuts a hotter mess. AKA…. I ready for any public event.. except of my “With Stupid” tee shirt and flip-flops.
Go…. Get DID…. and I’m sure Barbie and/or Ash will rock yo’ SH*T too.
————————————-
Okay, the most pressing issue on my mind: What does “clutching pearls” mean? Should I be doing this? Is it in now?
Also: the use of the word “trifling.”
These things are really bothering me, so please. If you can help, do.
I sent the review (found HERE) to my brother who promptly responded with a review he found and loves. It makes me happier than a few Carry Grant movies I’ve seen.
And Steve took it a step farther and sent me the link to an entire SLEW of awesome reviews.
Go. get DID.
HERE.
(PS: I’ve added the phrase, “Are you serious, Wendy?” into my day-to-day lingo. Just a head’s up. Maybe it will take hold and become as cool as clutching pearls.)
And in one final attempt to write a story in ONE sentence…
I wrote on a banana this morning.
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