Sunday, September 22, 2013

Dilbert's Secretary's Pity Party

<Pity Party>

On Friday I had my hair cut. See that head shot over there? -->
The photo is from July 2012 and corresponds to the very last time I cut my hair. Yes. Over a year ago. It might be more accurate, then, to say that I had my rat's nest cut on Friday.

"What are we going to do with this?" my hair dresser, whom I have known for 13 years, asked.

"Cut. It."

And cut it he did. It is now well above my shoulders. And although my talented hair dresser made it "choppy" and "fun," it's still a bob. A mom bob, if you will. To match my mom clogs.

I met Rayne in the city that night for a pre-show drink in the theater district.

"Wait. What did you..." he trailed off.

"I cut it!"

"I can see that."

"I think I look like Dilbert's secretary."

"Are you referring to the woman with the yellow hair?"

"Yeah, the one with the triangle head."

At which point my husband explained how I was not only racist, but sexist as well. For the yellow-haired, triangle-headed woman was not, in fact, Dilbert's secretary, but the project manager to his software developer. Essentially his boss.

"Whatever. At least I'm more likely to wash it now."

"If that's your standard..."

Sadly, it is. Here is a visual for you. Replace the yellow hair with a mousy-brown-and-gray mix and you're there.
That night/morning, Henry decided it would be fantastic to wake up at 4:15 am. He was screaming so loudly, I sprang out of bed to comfort him from his presumed nightmare. But there was no nightmare. He was simply ready to get up for the day. I tried a few things before realizing the truth of the situation. Resigned, I put him down to wreak havoc on the apartment while I went to wash my diaper-changing hands.

It was in the bathroom that I saw I had been bitten by some kind of bug on my right eyelid. It had swelled up so much I could barely see out of it. And so it was that I found myself eating breakfast at 5 am with Henry smearing soggy cereal across our table, looking like this:
Henry entertained me by telling stories. I didn't catch all the words, but I'm pretty sure I heard "dada," "mama" and "sucker."

At 6 am I put Henry, screaming at the top of his lungs in protest, back in jail his crib with a pile of toys and books and the lights on, hoping he would amuse himself. And I went back to bed.

My sweet, sweet banchee wailed with abandon.

I kicked Rayne, hard. "It's. Your. Turn."

"What happened to your eye?"

"Bug bite."

"It looks infected."

"It's a bug bite. Go deal with your son."

I slept fitfully for a couple more hours, some of which were spent trying to ignore Henry, who was stepping all over my face and head, still managing to rip my hair out from its roots despite its short length.

"Why is he in this bed?!" I screamed at Rayne.

Needless to say, the run we were planning for in the morning did not happen.

Later that day, I noticed that the "bug bite" had "spread" to the other eye. Yay, pink eye!
This morning, Rayne and I were determined to make our weekend run happen. I tried dressing Henry, but it's not his favorite activity these days. It ranks somewhere with getting hit on the head with a mallet, judging from his reaction. At some point in his flailing routine, his noggin connected squarely with the bridge of my already considerable nose. It smarted, but I was on a mission; I ignored it.

When I returned from the (laughable) run/walk (mostly walk) and jumped in the shower, I noticed my nose was swollen and discolored. Now I look like this:
I am fairly sure this is where Steven Spielberg got the idea for Sloth from his classic 1985 film The Goonies.

</Pity Party>