A Day in the Life

So it’s been a while since I’ve written. And honestly, I don’t have anything earth-shattering to say other than the fact that I’m just living the regular life – just like all of you out there. Here’s a few slices for your reading pleasure.


Slice #1: I’m going to the hair salon.


So last week, I went to the hair salon to get my natural red color restored, which I do about every five weeks. I’ve been going to this one shop for several years now – since I moved back to Bucks County after spending almost 20 years in Chicago. My colorist, Jason, is a cute little 30-something gay man, part Jewish part whatever, who not only farms in his spare time and likes to drink, but is also beloved among his clientele for facilitating estrogen-inspired age-appropriate conversation. Why, I can’t count all the times on two hands that I’ve been in his chair talking with his last clients while they sit with heads full of hair dye or foils under saucer-shaped heat lamps—learning things I never dreamed possible about removing chin hair, say, and/or managing the perils of step-parenting. It’s better than the Encyclopedia Brittanica of how to be middle-aged.


With that in mind, it seemed only natural that, in the echo of an unusually quiet Friday afternoon, I would resort to asking: “So Jason, what’s new in the world of perimenopause?” After all, this is where I collect a lot of savory information.


To which he responded: “Why are you asking me? I’m a guy.”


To which I said, “Oh, c’mon, Jason, you know you know. Don’t be coy.”


To which he says, without even a breath, “Yam root. Supposed to be good for mood swings. You outta try it.”


I think I might.


Slice #2: I’m being dragged to the Verizon store.


With my husband, of course. Who else? He’s been researching smart phones since Bush was in office and now that I’ve traded in my Blackberry for an iPhone (white, courtesy of my work), he needs to have one too. Heaven forbid, I have a smart phone and he doesn’t.


Heaven forbid.


And so, he dragged me on a perfectly fine Saturday, during which there was a Real Housewives of New York marathon on (which I had to miss), to wait in line at the Verizon store at this strip mall near our house. Never mind it was 98 degrees in June. (I know, that is random, but still.)


After 15 minutes of looking at more phones than the Pilgrims could ever dream possible, they finally call our name, “Dan” and within 15 more minutes my husband is all set and ready to go with his new iPhone (black), a hard-shell cover for protection, and everything else but a bassinet. Because you’d think he delivered this thing out of the tip of the penis, the way he tends to it constantly. He’s always on it, riveted to a rotation of novel albeit useless apps like a radar that’s supposed to detect the presence of ghosts (but instead growls out random words like “bagel” and “frame” and “shortcut”) and talking animals.


For some reason, a cartoon shark that parrots back everything he says in a voice like James Earl Jones or a cat that talks like he’s just inhaled a sweet sixteen party’s worth of helium balloons, is more interesting than me. I could run around the house in nothing but a rotating set of edible pasties, and unless I could find my way into a cartoon mouse costume and speak back to him in a voice that sounds like Daffy Duck, he’s just not interested.


Hard to believe, yes?


Slice #3: I’m baking gluten-free brownies from a single package.


Now, don’t get me wrong: I don’t need brownies. (Hello? Fat, get off me.) But Steppy (my stepdaughter, for those of you who haven’t read for a while or who have short-term memory issues) insisted we bake together. And you know me, I’ll do almost anything to get brownie points—literally.


She’s almost 14 now and things are really changing. Suddenly, she gets me. And can connect with me on the important things—like shoes, and lip gloss, and pocketbooks. She wants to talk about getting her nails done and remind me of the brown boots she wants for her birthday (in October)—you know, “the kind that come of up to your mid-calf and look like Uggs?” She also gets very upset if I try to give her and Dan daddy/daughter time – no, no, she wants me around and I like it!


It’s taken me six long years to finally be in, and so if she wants to bake brownies, show me how to the pre-heat the oven. The nice thing is that the brownies we made together were the best gluten-free pastries I’ve had to date. So good, my husband was forced to utter this incredibly creative passage, “Gosh, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear these had gluten in them.” Isn’t he something?


The bad thing is I’m on a new diet, which means no more brownies—gluten-free or otherwise—for me. But again, another story for another day.


How are things in your neck of the woods? What does your slice of life look like? Do tell.


Until next time!

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