Let’s musse over a cuppa . . . do you take cream? Sugar? One lump or two?
Let me show you the new feather extension that I added to my hair.
Kim Pugliano (the G is silent) told me that if I got a feather extension, I’d remind her of this really annoying hairdresser at the salon she goes to, but I couldn’t resist. I hope Kim doesn’t find me too annoying because I like her, and she is hot on the trail of a Passat owner — you will have to read her blog to find out more.
Now, about my feather extension. I wanted to do something different, but I didn’t want to do anything permanent or expensive. I wanted something more than a new lipstick but less than Botox. So when I went to my neighborhood hair salon, and one of the stripper girls who frequents the salon was having many feather extensions added to her mane, I said that I wanted one of THOSE, and she smiled and said,” A feather extension would look so pretty in your hair.” I made an appointment for the next day. The two feather extensions cost less than $20 and took less than ten minutes to put in. My hair can be washed as usual, and the extensions can be taken off and moved around. They are very versatile. Yes, I felt a little silly at my more mature age adding a feather extension to my hair, but silly is fun.
Cole noticed the feathers immediately and offered his approval, but suggested I stop at two, so I don’t end up looking like a bald eagle. Did I ever tell you that Cole taught himself to French braid when he was 10 by watching YouTube. He overheard my mom (his grandmarcie) mention, in one of the many hair discussions we have on visits, that she had never learned to French braid, and that was all the motivation Cole needed. I had high hopes that he would want to pursue a career in hair, but much to my disappointment, these days he is quicker to offer an opinion about my hair than he is to offer to braid it. However, I don’t think he will let it become a tangled mess when I’m in the old age home, and that is comforting.
My mother told me before they left Albuquerque that she does not have a spleen.
Here have a jelly donut while I tell you all the fascinating details!
The doctors took a good, long look for my mom’s spleen, believing she once had one, but POOF — they have discovered, beyond reasonable doubt, that it is gone. I didn’t think that having or not having a spleen was a big deal, but not having a spleen is a very big deal and can seriously compromise your immune system, which is good to know, but I am more interested in where the heck her spleen went? And of course, I can’t help but wonder if I have one? I mean who steals a spleen? Is there a black market run on spleens, and when exactly did she lose it? Inquiring minds want to know — we will have to discuss it more over the cocktail hour when she arrives on Thursday. I will keep you updated . . .
The carpets have been cleaned, the windows have been washed, and the extra rolls of toilet paper have been purchased . . . I think we’re almost ready for the road warriors to arrive. Cole wonders what all the fuss is about — sheesh! Are all guys born with the “what is all the fuss about your mother coming to visit” gene? I put milk bones in the guest room for Trinket (my mom’s Doberman) and Catcher (my mom’s friend’s Border collie), and moved a few crates around; and now Rascal can barely contain her Jack Russell curiosity. She knows something is up and, as always, she is up for something.
Hope you have a day filled with delightfully bad choices that include jelly donuts and long chats with best friends. If you have no idea what I am talking about, you must have missed El Morno this morno, so please click here.
Leave me a comment if you are so inclined; we can talk about feather extensions, spleens, moms who visit . . . Odd Loves Company!