annoying places i find my hair.

a dramatic depiction of my hair flying around our house. i don’t know that man.

the plight of the jew isn’t just hypoglycemia (HAVE IT) and hiatal hernias (ALSO HAVE THAT), it’s huge, thick hair, which, yes, i also have.

why do we have such thick hair? i suppose to keep our heads warm in the winter and to keep us complaining in the summer when humidity forces it to swell so dramatically that we can’t fit through doors and we have to ask complete strangers to please give us a push because we’re late to our appointment with our GI doctor.

there are pluses and minuses to our thick hair. i suppose one of the more significant minuses, at least for me, is that fact that i’m constantly shedding hair wherever i go. really. our house is like a old western. puffs of my hair—i honestly don’t even know where they come from, they’ll appear 5 minutes after we vacuum—fly by like tumbleweeds. 

my hair is everywhere. here are some of the more annoying places it shows up:

the dishwasher.
so annoying i don’t even want to talk about it.

attached to my lipstick/lip gloss.
especially when we’re driving with the windows open. in fact, you know what? i’m  not even going to put anything on my lips if we’re going to have the car windows open. screw it. not even chapstick. i’ll go without. i’ll put it on when we park.

on holly.
she’ll unknowingly have one of my hairs somewhere on her body and yet she can’t find it so she think she has some kind of neurological condition until she figures out it’s actually my hair. sorry, babe.

the dryer.
OMG IT’S A SPIDER A POISONOUS SPIDER. i faint, only to wake up to discover it’s just a bunch of my hair that’s somehow been tied together by the force of the dryer. great. now i have a bruise on my head and i’m going to have to go to my primary care provider.

my purse.
HOW?

containers of spare change.
?!?

my mouth when i’m chewing my food.
where in the HELL is the MANAGER, there’s an insanely LONG HAIR in my. wait.  this hair is connected to my head. it’s my own hair.

holly’s food.
sorry, honey .

my mother-in-law’s house.
sorry, susan.

anywhere i stay overnight.
sorry everyone.

anywhere i go for 5 minutes or more.
sorry humanity.

if you have long hair—or are cohabiting with someone that has long hair—please feel free to add to this list.)

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where do all my hairbands go?

one thing holly always gets on my case about is hairbands. not that i use them, but that i’m constantly restocking them. it’s very irritating because what she doesn’t understand is that i can’t find any of them, ever.

i could seriously have like one million hairbands—yes one million—and i wouldn’t be able to find a single one. not a single one. that would happen to me. it would.

like small no-show socks that get eaten in the dryer (actually, i bet it’s the washer), it’s a complete mystery to me where in the hell my hairbands go. true, if i clean out my purse at any given moment, i may find, say…5 to 10, depending on the size of my purse. however i never ever find any of them when i need them, so i go without in the car when holly has the windows down on the highway and we arrive at our destination with me looking like bridget jones does in the first movie when she and hugh grant check in at that hotel. you know the scene.

why, no, i actually couldn’t find a hairband in the car. and yes, the windows were open. why do you ask?

i actually find it pretty annoying that holly complains when we’re walking in target and i covertly grab a pack (SHE ALWAYS SEES ME. THIS IS THE PROBLEM WITH HAVING A SPOUSE THAT IS ROUGHLY ONE-TWELFTH NATIVE AMERICAN. SHE HAS SUPERSONIC SENSES AND SEES AND HEARS *EVERYTHING*) and she sighs and says BABE MORE HAIRBANDS? and i’m like YES BABE. MORE HAIRBANDS. i don’t care if people stare because i’m shrieking in target. she has short hair. she’ll never understand the plight of people that need an excessive amount of black hairbands because they can never find any. one day they’ll find the mysterious cause of missing hairbands and then she’ll apologize because it wasn’t actually my fault.

it’s annoying how she complains about things she’ll never understand. unless she grows her hair out, which she’ll never do, despite my pleading that she’d look soooo cute with a headband. (she has a beautiful forehead! an artfully selected headband would only highlight this fact.) but no. instead she takes me to home depot and lowes, which i hate. the moment we walk in i swear i feel like falling asleep. right where i am. in the plumbing aisle while she looks at metal pipes to build things with. on the concrete floor. right there. on my feet. or curled up in a ball on the floor.

we were in home depot last week, in that damn plumbing aisle, and i was like, doesn’t this place have any CHAIRS for people like ME who HATE IT HERE? they have chairs near dressing rooms for men and other people that loathe shopping but must endure a loved one trying on clothes. i mean, it doesn’t even need to be a cushioned chair. i’ll take a FOLDING CHAIR, for crying out loud. i know you sell them here! friggin put out a folding chair! damn!

at least in ikea i can escape into one of those make-pretend living rooms and sit on a futon. or hang out in the cafe and eat swedish delicacies or at least have a cone and a cup of decaf from the snack bar. but home depot and lowes, man, there’s just no escape. so i usually act out until holly sighs and says, “ok fine. let’s go.” once we get in the car, my entire body relaxes and i suddenly feel quite rejuvenated. but my rejuvenation is typically replaced by guilt because i know she wanted to stay. so instead i suggest we get some gelato so we both can feel better. and that’s what’s called emotional eating. the end.

holly and i both have one shiny fingernail thanks to the hot israeli girl at the mall

if you were a jersey girl in the 80s/early-to-mid 90s who went to “the city” w/your street-wise mom on an even a semi-regular basis, you probably grew up with the following advice:

“listen to me. are you listening? walk fast and stare straight ahead. don’t talk to anyone, don’t look at anyone and don’t make eye contact. AND HOLD ONTO YOUR BAG.” (holding onto your bag was key.)

considering that i got those pointers hammered into my head at a fairly young age, i’ve gotten pretty darn good at avoiding anyone who appears even remotely like a threat. holly, once a western pee-ay girl who used to say hi to everyone and “stare at the crazies” (as she did on our first date almost 10 (!!??) years ago), has followed in my footsteps and now also excels at walking fast, staring straight ahead and holding onto her bag. (psych! you know she never carries a bag! i’m the bee-otch always stuck carrying everything in whatever bag/purse i’m dragging around.)

anyway, the story. so if you’ve been at any mall in the past 20 or so years, you know the hallways are full of these kiosks. jewelry kiosks. family photography kiosks. bath fitter (omg, still don’t get that one) kiosks. (i’d like to take the opportunity here to note that a disproportionate amount of kiosks sell cellphone cases. how does one make a living selling cell phone cases?!) and then there are the hair straightener kiosks. and the nail care kiosks. and for whatever the hell reason i don’t understand, the great majority of these last two are manned by israelis.

oh israelis. i love the israelis. i love israel. been there twice. gorgeous, magical place, unbelievable food. but hot damn, israelis are pushy! it’s their “way.” their “charm,” if you will. they are also disproportionately good-looking. this combination makes them extremely good kiosk employees. almost deadly.

here’s a typical exchange at an east coast mall for holly and i.

(handsome israeli man zeros in on two potential customers. they’re both female. double whammy. we make eye contact for .02 seconds. dammit! this is what my mother warned me about!)

(it’s too late. he’s walking towards us. he singles me out.)

“excuuuuse-me! MEEEESS! [“miss”],” he shouts across the hallway. “meeeess! excuuuuuuuuuuse me do you straighten your HAAAAIR?!”

(of course i straighten my hair! i’m jewish! i want to yell. instead i focus on a an invisible spot across the mall and walk faster.)

“keep walking, honey,” i tell holly w/out moving my lips. (suddenly i’m a ventriloquist, too.) “just. keep. walking.”

“MEEEEES! deees will only take a meee-nute! you have very beautiful hair! i make you even more beautiful!” (what he doesn’t realize is that his swarthy charms won’t work on us the way they do on other girls. we are immune.)

“THAT’S OK NO THANKS WE’RE NOT INTERESTED BUT THANKS ANYWAY!” i yell back, trying not to sound rude but failing. i sense holly’s defenses crumbling simply bc she is too nice. i, on the other hand, was raised in new jersey. i grab her arm and drag her. we finally make it out of the danger zone. we both breathe out.

this scenario is repeated fairly frequently. but last week [when we were prowling every hair place in white marsh looking for the perfect product for holly’s hair (don’t get me started, don’t even get me started)] there was a crack in our usual plan. it was…a woman.

we were passing a nail kiosk and a pretty olive-skinned girl spotted us.

“shit honey! she saw us.”

“excuuuuse me!” she shouted. “are you two seeesters?” [“sisters”]

seeing how i’m friggin tired of ppl asking if we’re sisters (hello, we look totally different. but we both have brown hair, are caucasian and under 5’5″ so sure, i guess we look like sisters), i was like, “no. we’re married.” i don’t usually do that, but i figured, what the hell. maybe she’d give up b/c gay girls don’t care about manicures bc we all work on motorcycles when we’re not fixing cars and building ikea furniture. (false, btw. i totally do my nails and hello, i’ve never put together ikea furniture. i get holly to do it for me!)

anyway, i don’t remember what she said, but her accent was so cute and she was so pretty (ok, gorgeous), that, yup, you guessed it. holly and i both stopped.

“let me ask you a queeeestion,” the hot israeli girl asked us both. she knew she had the married girls hooked. “are you reeeady to see something unbelievable?”

“um…yeah?” we both responded. i wanted to run but my legs were glued to the marble floor. i couldn’t move them. it was like a bad dream except not that bad.

she asked to see holly’s hand. i knew what was about to happen. yup, and out came the three-sided puffy nail file (ladies, you know the one i’m talking about). she filed and filed and was talking and talking and honestly? yeah, i don’t remember what she said, just that she was unbelievably pretty.

“try not to yell too loud when you see this, okay? you will simply not belieeeeve dees.”

she lifted the nail file and holy crap, i could practically see my reflection in holly’s nail. then she did it to me while i stood immobilized, unable to tell her to stop or no. when she removed the file, my nail (index finger) was shinier than it’s ever been in my entire life. then she took out some special bottle of oil and put it on our cuticles. and still, we could not run.

“beautiful, no?”

“wow,” i said, looking at my  nail, preparing to tell her that under no circumstances were we going to buy these nail kits. or even one nail kit for that matter.

“only $34.99!” she said, smiling her thousand-watt israeli smile.

“no…it’s ok, maybe next time,” i croaked, clearing my throat.

be strong, i told myself.

“ok! for you, i give at special price! $29.99!”

“no, seriously,” i said laughing. “we’re ok. no, thanks.”

but no. this didn’t work either. she just thought i was playing hardball.

“come here, come into my office,” she told us, moving towards the kiosk chair. and what did we do? we followed her. like little lambs.

“for you, only for you, i give very special price.” (only for me? geesh.)

she tapped some numbers into a big calculator and turned it around to face us. it read $24.99.

this was my big chance to say no. ain’t no way no how uh-uh not gonna buy it. what did i say instead?

i asked if she worked on commission, for her name and told her we’d be back next week. until then, we each have one insanely shiny fingernail. all of this could have been avoided if we’d just stuck to the plan and run like hell.

perfect ten

i may be “a gay,” but i’m still a girl. and us girls play games. whether we want to admit it or not, we all play games, esp. when it comes to our mates/spouses/partners/signficant others. 

and we all get burned once in a while with these games. and i suppose that, yes, i was playing a game with holly the other day and i got majorly burned. 

here’s the story: 

we’re driving in the car on the way back from breakfast at our favorite diner–or maybe we were coming home from home depot, oh who the hell knows, we’re at that goshforsakin place so much (i swear i get hit with a wave of exhaustion every time we walk thru those damn double doors that’s so severe i could fall asleep standing up, no lie) and it’s right across the street from the diner so it’s all become a big blur to me–and we had the radio on. it was one of those morning drive-time radio shows headed by a big-mouthed, obnoxious, mildly loveable dj whose job it is to stir the pot and egg ppl on. 

so the topic at the moment was…let’s see, how can i phrase this without it sounding as trashy a topic as it was/is. the topic was the “theory” of how women that are “less attractive” are often “better in the sack.” the dj apparently backed this theory 100%.  both women and men were calling in to share their thoughts, including women that rated themselves lower on 1-10 “scale,” announcing to the dc/baltimore metro areas that while perhaps they weren’t raving beauties that could stop traffic, they know how to have a good roll in the hay. 

i decided to rate myself. 

“i’d say i’m about…a six,” i said to holly as she drove. i could already hear her response. 

“no way, babe! you’re a total 10. an 11. off the charts.” and she would seal her declaration with a kiss. 

instead she paused and said, “you are not a six, babe! you are totally an eight.” 

silence. 

(you just stopped breathing for a second, didn’t you?) 

shock. 

anger. 

and then the sadness only women and very vain gay men are able to feel. 

and then RAGE. 

“WHAT?!” i shrieked. “I’M AN EIGHT?!! YOU THINK I’M AN EIGHT??! I…I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU JUST TOLD YOUR WIFE SHE’S AN EIGHT! DON’T YOU KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT WOMEN! GEEZUS I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU! YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO SAY I’M A TEN! A PERFECT TEN!” 

first she was stunned into silence. and then she went into all-out protection mode. 

almost no one’s a perfect ten she said. practically no one. not even celebrities. 

i had goosebumps. i was that upset. i told her this. and yet–she didn’t budge. 

on looks alone, she surmised, she could only think of two women that she’d rate as tens. the girl (latika) from “slumdog millionaire.” and drew barrymore. (even in my rage, i had to admit to myself that my partner really does have impeccable taste.) 

then she proceeded to say that her personal “rating” system takes into account not only looks but personality. oh and this was supposed to make me feel better? if you add in my sparkling personality, that alone should make up the two points and give me a ten! 

oh we had a jolly old fight about the whole thing. it was really classic. really, you should have been there. (really, you shouldn’t have. i just said that to say it.) 

in conclusion, ladies, watch the game playing. i know you’re all sitting there shaking your heads like perfect angels, oh no, i don’t blame games! i would never!

oh but you do. you do and you don’t realize it. or maybe you do and you’re just scared to admit it. regardless, do yourself a favor. don’t put a “score” over your head and expect love of your life to do what s/he is supposed to do and rate you as a ten or, you know, an 11+. while we’re at it, don’t ask if your butt looks big either. b/c if you’re asking, it just might look big and you know you don’t want to hear it.

frieda pinto (latika from "slumdog millionaire"). one of holly's two "perfect tens." yeah yeah yeah. fine. she's ok. all right she's *gorgeous*. let's change the subject.

drew barrymore: even children and small animals love her. plus she can rollerskate.

 

i never told you the shampoo story

haha. i’m laughing just thinking about it.

i told you the other day about holly’s low-maintenance-ness when it comes to girlie stuff. she is particular, however, about the shampoo she uses. i mean, she’s not as bad as me. but she does care. anyway, we went to our favorite beauty supply store (Ulta–she dreads when we go there together b/c i love to walk around and around under the bright lights and ooh and ahh at all the sparkly eyeshadows and leopard-print straightening irons and spritz about a million different perfumes on those shake-em-like-a-poloroid-picture paper test strips; it’s way better than sephora b/c there’s no annoying sales ppl wearing those annoying gloves so it feels more casual) a couple weeks ago b/c she needed more shampoo. i took the opportunity, of course, to buy more frosty lipstick (buy one-get one; girls, can you really blame me??) since it seems to be my goal to have a tube in every coat pocket and every bag that i own.

anyway, the shampoo she likes is this citrus-mint (see above). it’s a pretty green color in a clear plastic bottle. technically it’s a “guys” brand but she goes by smell (and performance but mostly smell it seems like) and this one smells best. (like i said, low-maintenance) it was $8.99 for a small bottle but something like $10.99 for a larger one.

“let’s get the larger one,” i said. “it’s way cheaper.” (i love a good deal.)

it seemed oddly cheap but whatever, you know? so we bought it (and the lipstick) and went on our way.

so a week or so goes by, and holly’s mentions a couple times that her hair feels “thick” and isn’t laying right. i don’t notice a huge different but i guess maybe a little?

another week goes by and she’s saying that maybe that last haircut she got has already grown out since she’s just not having good hair days lately.

“yeah, maybe,” i say. “it doesn’t look that bad.”

a few days later i’m in the shower absent-mindedly looking at whatever bottles are lined up in front of me.

“‘american crew. citrus mint. body wash.’ wait, body wash??!”

she’s been using body wash! as shampoo! no wonder! this strikes me as insanely funny and i start laughing.

i make a mental note to tell her but the hot water feels so good and then i get hungry and forget. a week later i remember.

“oh honey! hahaha. honey,” i say.

“what? what? what’s so funny!!!'” she says. we’re both laughing. “what!”

“you know how you’ve been saying how your hair feels thick? well that shampoo you’ve been using…is body wash!”

we both laughed like crazy. she is so cute. what would she do w/out me? (come to think of it, i’m the one that picked out the bottle to begin with. but still. she needs me.)

my hair was enormous this weekend

me, without my flat iron. (also, apparently without a top.) "it's the humidity!"

there’s no two ways about it. it was simply…gigantic. to the point where i wondered out loud how holly could love me, a girl with such enormous hair. [holly, perhaps the most non-judgemental person i’ve ever come across in my entire life when it comes to someone’s looks, only laughs and shakes her head at this. it’s truly only once in a while when she makes a Medusa comment–um, yeah, that’s the mythical greek goddess/monster (?) who had curly, scary snake hair (as in: real live snakes; see photo above. most representations of said mythical bad hair lady are scary so i found a kind of hott one). and to be fair, i actually made the first crack to her about it years ago (actually i think my brother made that crack back in the 80s??!), so she was following my lead.]

the size of my hair was due in no small part to the official-non-official start of summer: memorial day. the baltimore/dc area is renowned for its humidity. and the heat starts early here. being new homeowners, we have to get our air conditioning unit checked (i think you have to get it checked every two years? and this is our third summer in our once-crackhouse) and our good ol hvac (heating/ventilation/air-conditioning) company hasn’t called us back yet, so we’re relying on the meager breezes coming thru our rowhouse windows and ceiling fans to cool us down and um, yeah. it’s not working.

so not only did i not straighten my hair this long wkend [why bother? it was just us two and we were doing homeowner/maintenance stuff all weekend. plus that’s why *hats* were created and i do love me some hats! (i’m wearing my fave  in my “about jessica” bio pic)] but i sweated to the oldies all wkend long. meaning: i glanced at our digital thermostat numerous times (ok, every time i passed it) and it read, at its highest…. (gulp)….87 degrees. (silence) i know. so i tried covering my huge hair up with bandanas (this, holly as well as the girls in my book club will tell you, only makes me look like i’m in a “latina gang,” of which there are probably at least a couple in our neighborhood. my perpetual frosty lipstick only adds to the effect), did the tried-and-true-big-sunglasses-casually-pushing-big-hair-back move, headbands, even a discarded t-shirt sleeve (we make our own cool punkrock tshirts in our household 😉 ) but nothing worked. instead, i guess i sort of embraced its hugeness over the holiday. and i am a stronger person b/c of this. 

while our a-c may not be on at this time, there are loads of ppl in our neighborhood that don’t have a-c at all, which leads to some interesting daytime, and, unfortunately, nighttime, stoop/street activity. (the sort that makes it downright hard to sleep with the windows open at night, which we are doing out of necessity these days) goodness gracious, i don’t even know where to start. it’s all blending together….was the naked old man hanging out his second-floor window this past weekend or some recent weeknight?? (he told us he just got off a spaceship. he’s a drunk, but a nice one. and no, i’m not lying. you can’t make this sh*t up!) i couldn’t even tell you, i don’t even remember. but i’m going to think about it and get back to all of you later.