some moms do

I confess that I don’t allow the same butter knife to be used for buttering toast and dipping into the jam jar. At least while I’m looking. Once my daughter pointed out that a particular mom-friend of ours did allow this. I feel secure in my method, no matter how unsound.

I cannot compare myself to my own mother. When I was growing up, she came into my school, at least once, and did a talk about being from Germany for International Night. Okay, I made the last part up, but it’s the best I can recollect. Maybe it was during the day and we were studying Europe.

My mom was the only one who ever mowed the lawn. Maybe my brother did, too, once he was a teenager. I’ll have to ask him.

My father was the one who grilled the steaks. I don’t think we ate hamburgers from the grill. I am not sure why. I think because my parents were European and they didn’t know how these things were done in the US.

I was what you call a “picky eater” when I was young, but I think it’s an unfair label.

There are many things I won’t eat; I’m not adventurous like some of my friends. But I’ve come around to some degree.

Back in Kent, Ohio, I had a massage client who traveled the world for her job. She is the one who taught me that it is rude to turn down food you are offered when visiting a foreign country. This may be one reason I’m averse to traveling to certain places. She told me the 2 strangest things she ever ate were 1. pickled reindeer horn (Sweden?) and 2. monkey brain (China). Am I making this up? I don’t think so, but sometimes details are sketchy. She was a cool person, very energetic, blond, sexy. She lived in an underground house, built into the side of a hill. Someone gave her a clock made of a cast-iron frying pan and she felt obliged to put it on her wall, but she hated it. She drove a red Saab, a rare sight in Kent. A couple of years after she became a client of mine, she had a terrible car accident, was hit sideways by an 18-wheeler. Her car was slammed into the center-guard rail on the interstate. One of her MDs told her she was millimeters away from becoming completely paralyzed from the neck down. She came out okay. I could tell you more that I remember, but I’m sure this is one of those things that is not mine to tell—I’ve already revealed a lot. It’s just so interesting. I will never forget some of those details.

I feel young and hip because I recently put a little streak of reddish-pink into my hair (I believe the official name is “candy apple red”). This is from last week; the color has already faded out more. Last night, I put a faint purple tint in, but, to my surprise, I don’t like it as much.

I’m sure no one reading this would EVER click on the photo and use the close-up feature to try to look at my pores. To my horror, this is possible so I’ve begun to make sure you can’t do this. Because my pores are not my best feature.

What is my best feature you ask? My sparkling personality, of course.

♥ ♥ ♥

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Rihanna or Twinkly?

What celebrity transforms into a blond bombshell for her upcoming cover shoot and totes her new locks all over town?

What celebrity showed off her new blond hair by posing in sassy, thigh-high black leather boots and denim daisy dukes?

What celebrity debuted a new bold hair color on her Twitter account?

Have you figured it out yet?

The fashion chameleon, twinklysparkles, changes her look yet again and steps out as a blond bombshell*

*do not try this at home

In fact, I normally try this at home. I color my hair about once or twice a year and I am so conservative that no one ever even knows. I have to drop hints around the house until I finally cave and come out with it, “Look, I highlighted my hair, what do you think?” Until they say, sheepishly, “Oh, yeah, Mom, that looks great. What did you do? Is it blonder? Why don’t you really color it next time…”

So, being the brave and ever darker-haired soul that I am, I scheduled a REAL hair-coloring appointment with my hair person. An appointment for highlights, you know, subtle, somewhat blond strands that blend magically and nearly imperceptibly with my own natural color. The kind of change that might prompt a comment like, “Hey, is there something different about you twinkly? Are you over your anemia? You have such rosy cheeks today” OR “Is that a new scarf you’re wearing?”

Nothing one would call DRAMATIC or even, gasp, PLATINUM.

Now, you all know that I have not much gray hair. The anemia ordeal has certainly aged me a couple of years. I have new jowls and deep down-turning creases beside my mouth, all obtained in just a few short weeks. But I didn’t earn any new gray hairs.

The new, overly-blond “highlights” actually give me a glimpse of what I will look like once my entire head turns gray white silver.

Move over Rhianna. I don’t know who the hell you are nor would I recognize your voice if I heard one of your songs on the radio, but this over-the-hill former toe-head is ready. Ready to take down peri-menopause. Ready to face the world with my face uncovered. Ready to go out without a hat.

Hey, whoever searched for “45 ddd breast” and got to my blog? I’m not fucking getting implants just because I have blond hair. Fuck you. And you know what? There is no size 45: bra sizes are in EVEN numbers fer chrissake. And it’s usually TWO BREASTS, not one.

You know what else? I’ve been the same bra size since high school. All right, until that unfortunate incident with my second pregnancy when my little bun-in-the-oven decided to kick my ribcage wider by a couple of inches. Yeah, you try carrying an 8+ pound weight in your uterus some time Mr. “45 ddd breast.”

I’ve got nothing to lose, people. I’m not fucking around. I let my inbox reach over 500 emails. 500 EMAILS. I’m never going back folks. Don’t fuck with the twinkster.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

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