Bigfoot Comb Overs

The hair on my head is falling out in hunks.  I'm afraid to comb it, or wash it, or even look at it in the mirror, because the second I do I'm holding a fistful of dark brown in my hands. Elvis is leaving the building.

Eye lashes, eye brows, too.

My friend Evil Laura, who is terrified of loose hair, asked me kindly to not send any to her.  I've only been threatening to do that since we were in college, because I was that crazy back in the day.  I got the idea from Ozzy Osbourne, who was reported to have shaved his head and sent all of his hair to his wife in a fit of pique. I assured my friend that I had no intention of sending her a random box of my hair at any point in the near future.  I'm not sure that she believed me, but I'm just so discombobulated about losing my hair that it never occurred to me. I'm not upset about my looks, I just didn't expect it to happen so fast.  

Larry's been very helpful in pointing out the bald patches, since I can't see the back of my head.  It was an opportune moment to explain to Zane what was happening, so he would be prepared.  Zane thought the whole thing was cool, and he helpfully grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled.  I let him; this is part of the process, and I want him to have a realistic picture, while shielding him from the worst parts. 

Why don't I just shave my head, like everyone else struck with this malady?  Good question.  Part of it is just sheer stubbornness on my part, because I was secretly an optimist, thinking that maybe I'd defeat the odds and keep my hair.  The other part is...we can't remember where we put the hair clippers.  They've disappeared, poof! in a box of something probably marked "kitchen supplies".  It's been that long since we've used it.

So my hair is falling out. I'll put on a hat or a wig and deal.

The hair on my legs?  THAT hair looks just gorgeous.  I don't even want to shave it, it looks so pretty.  The hair on my arms is looking downright svelte, too.  And my nose hair?  Growing like Rapunzel's locks right out of my nostrils.  In fact, I have found myself staring into the mirror lately, contemplating some very creative comb overs.  Like Bigfoot, perhaps I could disguise myself in nose hair and skulk quietly through my day.  I could start some sort of hair trend, Bigfoot chic? 

It could be bigger than the kerfluffle over Jennifer Aniston's hairdo. 

Life is Random

We had yesterday off, and it was lovely.  Nowhere to be, we just hung out, played Fruit Ninja and Dance Central on the Xbox, and were just plain lazy.   It was good to be able to do that.  Today it is back to the grind of being so far behind in my work that I may as well just wait until August and start over.  

I've previously discussed my child's love for all things Bigfoot.  The boy loves Finding Bigfoot on Animal Planet, and he will talk to you about Bigfoot until your eyes cross.  Imagine our surprise to find out that SOME IDIOT killed Bigfoot here in San Antonio.   We have kept this news from Zane, since he would be extremely upset at such rampant cruelty.  Also because we think the guy making this claim is a big fat liar.  I base this assertion on the fact that he was involved in a Bigfoot hoax a few years ago, where he claimed to have a Bigfoot carcass, and this time, when he allegedly shot Bigfoot, he took the body to Las Vegas.  Las Vegas, folks, not a reputable university with a decent anthropology program, like say... the University of Texas?  Or Texas A&M, which has the one of the best vet schools in the country?    Anyway, everyone knows that San Antonio is stone-cold Chupacabra territory(the Chupacabra is some sort of mysterious creature that likes to suck the blood out of random goats. I have no idea why).  We can't have more than one sort of monster in an area at a time.  I'm sure there's some law that says that, otherwise the Loch Ness Monster would surely have relocated to a warmer climate by now.   My point is that part of the mystery of Bigfoot,  Nessie, and all their legendary friends is that it really doesn't matter whether they exist or not.  What matters is that the hunt for such creatures spurs the imagination, fires up the blood, and gets people out exploring their world.

My favorite 'church' mailed me a flyer again.  Yes, the above says "Desperate Sex Lives" at the Revolution church. I was intrigued. The Bible certainly does have quite a bit of wisdom to offer about sex. On the back of the flyer, it tells me that I'm invited to join "over 700" of my closest personal friends and neighbors to hear all about sex.  My mind was boggled at the thought that I might actually know over 700 people.  I have trouble remembering more than twenty.  The 'zinger'?  Those attending will get to "SEE how sex done God's way can lead to a life full of passion, purpose, and pleasure!"  What exactly will I get to SEE if I show up?  Will they be charging admission to SEE such things?  I can't help but wonder what the heck they are going to talk about; is the preacher going to discuss the Kama Sutra(a Hindi text?) and illustrate his favorite positions?  There's a picture of Pastor Zak on the back of the mailer--he looks all of twelve, much too young to be talking about the birds and the bees with any sort of authority.  I would rather not get advice about sex from someone young enough to be my kid--that's just plain weird.  I will get my sex advice from more credible sources, like Cosmo.  I'm being facetious--Cosmo makes me giggle. 

I'll bet this guy knows a few things about the birds and the bees.

Zane was invited to a birthday party for a classmate.  When Larry called to RSVP(yes, we still do that!), the lady on the other end of the line said, "Larry, don't you know who this is?"  That was a funny question, considering Larry's memory.  It turned out that one of the girls that Larry went to high school has a daughter in Zane's PK class.  Small world, he says.  I wouldn't know, being an Army brat.  I often wonder what I would be like if I hadn't moved around so much.  Larry's known some of the same people since he was five; I don't remember much about being five except that we were in El Paso. 

I am sitting here typing, and my cat Pounce is lying on top of the printer, and she is staring.  I cannot figure out what she is staring at, and it's making me paranoid.  Is there a bug crawling up the wall over my shoulder?  Did a wayward scorpion find its way up here?  I keep having to stop and look!  Darn cat.  If there's something over there, go kill it.  You're a cat.  That's your job.

 My husband and I finally got a chance to go out on a date.  We bribed Zane to go hang out with his grandparents for a few hours, and we hit the Alamo Drafthouse to see A Good Day To Die Hard.  The cool thing about the Alamo Drafthouse, besides their awesome menu of beer, is that they ferociously enforce the "No Talking" rule during the movies.  You get one warning, and if you don't stop, you get thrown out.  I like that rule.  As for the movie, I think that the critics who panned it are idiots.  You don't go to a Die Hard movie expecting a morality play or well written dialogue.  You go to a Die Hard movie to see John McClane have a bad day.  No thinkee, lots of boom boom.  In that regard, this rendition of Die Hard was pretty darn good.  At least as good as the last one, not as bad as the second one.  As I've said before, if it's a tear jerker or a meaningful movie, I don't want to see it in a theater.  If I have to pay to see a movie, I want action or comedy.  Wholesome, escapist fare.

I am hanging out at Stacy's today. Go visit her!

My Son the Actor

One of Zane's favorite television shows is Finding Bigfoot.   He and I will watch together, commenting on the evidence presented.  I like the show because I can point out different trees or animals or continents, and then Zane and I look up what we saw.  Instant learning experience, plus mother-son bonding time.  It's win-win, as far as I am concerned.   For instance, the last episode of Finding Bigfoot sent the team to Australia to research the Yowie(the Australian counterpart to our Bigfoot), so Zane and I discussed the continent of Oz and where it is located.  We even looked up Australia on a map, and Zane found out that the world is a bigger place than he thought.

During the course of watching, Zane heard one of the researchers mention that they would love to see videos or other evidence that anyone might have of Bigfoot.  Interested parties were to post this evidence to the Finding Bigfoot Facebook page.  Zane immediately decided that he wanted to make a video.  My son wanted to have the team of researchers come to his house to help him find Bigfoot, never mind that Bigfoot would have a horrible time hiding in what passes for woods in this neck of suburbia. Zane was firm.  He wanted a video. 

What is a mother to do?  We want to nourish creativity where ever it pops up, and it wasn't as if we had anything to do that day.  Larry was commandeered to be the camera man, and the two of them bundled up and hit the backyard.  The rest is history!  Enjoy. 

Random Is, As Random Does

So, if the show is called "Finding" Bigfoot, doesn't that imply that they actually do find Bigfoot?  We've been watching this show for some time, and they have yet to find the elusive creature.  Lots of running around in the woods with cameras, but no actual critter.  Isn't that false advertising?  If nothing else, throw on a costume and wave at the camera!  

Last week, I announced that I would be participating in NaNoWriMo.  I even put up my little word counter in the sidebar.  See it over there? I should have just kept my mouth shut! Yeah, well...my computer, Hal Jr., died.  I think it heard me talking about NaNo, and it just couldn't take that kind of pressure.  I was upset, of course.  Then my husband said that I could use his computer.  Hooray!  I said.  Crisis averted!  I sat down in front of my husband's computer, ready to start typing.  You know what happened?  No, his computer didn't die.  It was his monitor.  Have you ever tried typing on a computer without being able to see what you're typing, or even where?  I don't recommend it. So anyway, now I am sneaking to various unattended computers or trying to type on my phone in order to keep up with my blog. I am still determined to participate in NaNoWriMo.  I just may have to resort to less technically challenged methods.  Last I checked, all of my pens are in working order.

I took Zane to see my nephew Tristan play soccer this weekend.  Tristan plays for an Olympic Development team these days, so we don't get to see him in town often.  It was nice to see him out there, except that I remember him when he was Zane's age, and he's almost an adult now.  I feel downright elderly!  It's nice to see all that hard work and practice has paid off for my nephew, since he has been eating and breathing soccer for most of his life. While I hope that Zane develops a lifelong love of soccer, I don't intend to be one of those parents who 'pushes'.  Except for good grades.  That I will be pushing for! 

My husband, who insisted on playing adult soccer this season, has been hobbled by his Achilles.  Both of them. I was worried about this happening before he even started, but his doctor said it was okay for him to play.  He came home on Sunday, almost crawling.  It was at that moment, watching him, that I realized that it might not have been a good idea to buy a two-story house, because Larry had tremendous difficulty getting up the stairs at all.  He spent all day Monday having MRIs and X-rays, and is getting around with a cane. 

So some of my relatives aren't talking to me now, after the election.  Several of my cousins are a bit overdramatic, and of course it was the end of the world because Obama won.  The reality is that who is president is not going to make that much of a difference in most people's day to day lives, and it is ridiculous to get all worked up about it. That's my opinion, anyway.  But I am okay with the silence if it means that I don't have to listen to the whining. 

I am hoping to visit Stacy over at Stacy Uncorked today, but if I don't make it, I hope that you will visit her and say hi for me!

Ghost Story: A Memoir

It was another summer visit to my grandparent's house, and everyone in the family who was on speaking terms had arrived, children in tow.  It had been a fun day, full of food and laughter, and we were all winding down.  On this particular summer evening, my grandfather was telling ghost stories.  He probably thought that none of the kids were listening, because lots of children appeared to be running about, chasing fireflies.

As the oldest grandchild, I didn't often partake in the general running amok outside.  It was undignified for a girl of my advanced age of 14.   My cousin Connie and I were sitting nearby, reading a book. Except that I was actually listening to every word, because my brain works like that. It hears everything, whether I want it to or not.

My grandfather, beer in hand, was regaling my uncles with a tale of a tall creature that roamed the cornfields and terrified the locals.  The story was that one night Bigfoot had climbed through a window and attacked a farmer and his wife while they were sleeping. I don't remember his story after all these years, but by the time he was finished, I could not have remembered one word of the book I was holding, and even the fireflies looked ominous. I looked around;  Connie looked back, her eyes as wide as mine, her own book as forgotten.

Connie and I were to sleep in the front bedroom of the house that night, and that's where we went.  My grandparents did not have air conditioning; windows were usually left open in the summer. The bed was positioned so that a nice cross breeze blew in one open window and out the other.  As we got into bed, I looked out the window and remembered that, twenty yards away, there was a cornfield full of tall stalks, just about ready to be harvested.  Connie remembered the same thing.  I told myself that my grandfather was just telling a story; mentally chastising myself to just get over it.  We turned out the lights, and the house grew quiet, but we were not asleep. We were thinking about the creature in the cornfields.

A noise came through the open window on my side of the bed.  We jumped, looking at the window. The sheer curtains moved with the breeze. We waited; the sound came again.  It was a soft whistling moan, and it scared the everliving crap out of the two of us. Connie squealed softly, and we pulled the covers tighter.  Did the next moan seem closer? We were about to be attacked in our beds, we just knew it!  Connie leaned closer to my ear.

"Go wake up your dad," she whispered.

"No way!" I was appalled. "You go wake up YOUR dad!" 

Every kid learns that if you wake up your parents, you had better be sick or the house on fire. Our fear of whatever was out there, whatever monster was coming, was always proportionately less than whatever our parents would do if we woke them up. The two of us were terrified of being eaten by a creature climbing through our window, but even more terrified of waking up our parents for what to them was a non-emergency.  I knew that if I went to wake my dad with anything less than a missing limb, he would be very disappointed that I was unable to take care of the problem on my own.

So, what did we do?  We engaged in a fierce whispering debate over who would wake which parent, our whispering punctuated by the moaning sound outside and kept our eyes on the window on my side of the bed.  Finally, we agreed that we would wait until a monster actually came through the window before we ran screaming.  It seemed the best course of action, given the circumstances.  Silently, we waited, both of us staring at the window.

We lay there, frozen in fear, until Connie fell asleep.  And then, without regard for any potential harm to my person, I pushed her over to my side of the bed, trading places with her.  If any creature of the night happened to jump through the open window to snack on us, they would be treated to my cousin first, which would allow me time to run.  It was survival of the fittest, as far as I was concerned.

I stared at the window a little longer, just in case all that moving around had attracted attention, then fell asleep.  If the creature did show up and look through the window, he probably decided that my cousin was too skinny to be more than a snack, and moved on.  Connie never said a word about the previous night, and where she woke up in relation to the window, she just looked at me reproachfully over the cornflakes.

We never spoke of the incident after that night, but I did look around outside that window after breakfast.   I was looking for footprints or scratches, or something that might make a moaning sound. I did not find any such evidence, but to this day I cannot be near a tall cornfield without getting nervous that something is living in there, waiting for the dark.  

It's October!  Got any ghost stories?