Facial, schmacial

Ok, so visit número dos to the salon was for facial time.  I was pretty excited.  I scheduled it for Saturday morning when I’m usually cleaning the house.  Instead of all that scrubbing, I left a ‘to do’ list for the kiddos and high tailed it put the door to be pampered.

When I got there, my esthetician, Sherri, took me back to a dimly lit room where soft music was playing and told me to take my clothes off.  WHOA Sherri, we just met and I don’t play that way!  (Not that there’s anything wrong with that. 😉  I still  love Seinfeld!)  Now, I’ve had a few massages before and I know most people swear by them, but I can not do the whole get naked with a stranger while they rub on you thing.  It ain’t happening.  I think she read my panic and explained it was really only necessary from the shoulders down for the oils and lotions and such.  Ok, Sherri, but nothing in the swimsuit area, ok?

As the facial started, it was going fine.  I really liked the soft music and someone else pampering me for awhile.  I was beginning to think that I might make this a regular experience, clothes off and all…when it happened.  Sherri popped a zit on my face.  Hi, my name is Kerry, I’m 36, and my skin still breaks out occasionally.  I was hoping, like most of us, that zits would end with the rest of the awkward adolescent phases, but hell no, they have decided to stick around through adulthood just to mess with us.  It was a bad stress week at work and Nebraska humidity has hit full force, so those little pours are in full production mode.  Now, I get that Sherri probably does this daily, hell, hourly.  She works with the face, she knows better than anyone that zit happens, but I was mortified.

She finished the facial, and I got dressed.  As I exited the room to leave, she, politely, explained to me some products I could use for breakouts and thanked me for coming it. It was hard to look her in the eyes.  It was my own walk of shame.

Facial, schmacial….. I think I’ll just stick to the pedicures.  Has it been four weeks yet?

Why did I wait so long?

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Hi, My name is Kerry and I have never had a pedicure…until today!   I know, I know, my friends, my co workers, my neighbors (particularly the one who owns a salon) all cannot believe that I have never had a pedicure.  Well I hadn’t.  My mom was not a salon woman.  She had a cosmology license, although she never worked with it once we were born, so she always gave us our haircuts, and still did up until about a year ago.  I finally went to a salon for my own hair last year.  Yes, I said last year.  I was 35 at the time, it was time.  Plus, my mom refuses to cut my hair short, so since I wanted to try a different style, I had to step outside of the family.

Since I broke the seal on this girly, salon thing, I decided to go full speed ahead.  When my husband was looking for mother’s day gift ideas, I told him I had decided I wanted to get a pedicure.  Now, again, I’m 36 now and I’ve never had anyone touch my feet…..for a reason.  My feet are Fred Flinstone nasty.  No really, they are.  (You’ll notice that there is no before picture.  That was intentional.)  I come from ugly feet people.  Both my parents are members.  They are short and wide.  The are always cracked and dry.  Plus, I run, so my toe nails kind of, well, fall off sometimes.  I usually slap some dark color on them and I hope no one pays much attention.

When I told Peter I wanted to get a pedicure, he was thrilled.  He believes he has beautiful feet.  He makes comments on their superior qualities while he rubs lotion in them daily.  So, when he went to the salon to get the gift certificate, he went a little crazy.  He bought not only a pedicure, but a manicure, a facial and a massage.  I get to join the super girly ranks at full force!

After my last day of work for the school year, I scheduled my very first pedicure.  As I was getting started, I felt the need to explain my feet to the pedicurist, Breanna,…and apologize.  She said I was over reacting and that my feet were fine.  I think she was just being polite.  I mentioned to her that my loving husband had promised return trips in my future if she could make my stumpy clubs look human.  That put a little extra pep in her step and extra elbow grease behind her pumice actions.

Soak, scrub, rinse, scrape, scrub, rinse, pumice, scrub, rinse, soak, lotion, file, cut, trim, polish, paint and voila!  I have pretty, soft, girly feet!   Breanna was a miracle worker, truly a genius.  I was so loving every minute of the pampering and relaxing that I was sad when she said I could slip on my sandals and leave.  What???  I have to go!!!  On my way out, I asked how long between pedicures and was told most people get them redone every four to five weeks.  FOUR TO FIVE WEEKS!!!  I can’t possibly wait that long!  Momma has a new obsession!

It’s happened already

My daughter turned 12 just a few weeks ago and the unthinkable happened… I got dumber.  I knew it would happen.  I had hoped that maybe my sweet, innocent baby would skip the “my parents are so stupid” phase, but I was only kidding myself, for I too was once in her shoes.  My parents used to have a sign on the fridge that said …. GET OUT NOW WHILE YOU STILL KNOW EVERYTHING!   My brother and I mocked them and their lame sign.  Stupid parents think they are sooooo funny!  Then I moved out and darn it if they didn’t get instantly smarter!

I saw the warning signs about a year ago.  The dramatic “and then she said, and then I said” conversations started occurring.  The long drawn out stories about who wronged who and who wasn’t friends with who this week.  And the huffing and stomping… OH that huffing and stomping.  When that itty-bitty little word that starts with an N and ends with an O is muttered, all around had better take cover.  Overly dramatic sighing and huffing, followed by stomping away and pouting.

Why???  Why so early???  I knew I would have teenage girl dramatics.  I had hoped they would hold off for a while longer.  I worked to hard with her all those early years to be this stupid already!  Please, someone wake me up in about 10 years when I’ll be smart again!

This is what I do for fun

Call me crazy, but I run half marathons.  I actually really enjoy them.  I know, throw insults now.

I started running 20 years ago when I was a senior in high school.  (Crap, 20 years old…damn, I’m getting old.)  My dad ran.  It was something to do with him.  As I ran more, I found that I enjoy it.  It’s relaxing.  It clears the mind.  It frees your body of stress.

For years, I ran for exercise, to de-stress, nothing else.  Back in 2006, I had a friend who dropped a bunch of weight by working out and had gotten into running races.  She told me I should sign up for a half marathon with her.  I said, sure, why not.  I ran my first one in 2007 and have been hooked.  To date, I have ran 8.

Now I know what I’m going to say will should crazy, but running a half marathon is not about the running.  Bare with me while I explain this. Of course, you have to run and make sure your body can make it 13.1 miles, but the reality is, most bodies can do it.  I have seen and been passed by all body types, young, old, very old, thin, average, and heavy.  All people can run and do run.

Once you get the breathing and endurance thing down, it all becomes a mental game.  Can you push your mind to keep going?  I am living proof.  I trained well for the first one and did good.  I trained intensely for the next because I wanted a certain time.  The last six, I’ve just gone out and done.  I didn’t train the way some might have, but none of that mattered.  Some were ok, some sucked royally.  Some I ran, some I walked/ran.  I got up that morning, put on my shoes, started the race, and I finished.  And in the end, finishing is finishing.

I think that is why everyone gets medals at races, because it’s a personal battle with yourself.  It’s a mental game.  If it was just physical, only the winner would win.  In a foot race, everyone wins.  Because you made a commitment, because you pushed yourself, because you did it….. you win.

Let them eat cake?

My daughter turned 12 on April 18th.  We, of course, had cake and parties and festivities.  It was all lovely.  As with most birthdays, there was cake left over.  There was a small wedge piece left over from one of her birthday cakes.  (Yes, I said one of her cakes.  She ended up with two this year.  One on her actually birthday, because it’s not really your birthday if you don’t have cake.  And one on the day of her party the following weekend.  I love baking and who doesn’t love cake!)  Anyhoo…. I shoved the leftover wedge piece of cake and the box into the garage fridge.  We had the party, life got crazy busy, and the cake was forgotten.

Three days ago, I was cleaning up in the garage and opened that fridge to see what could be pitched.  Hello old cake!  Goodbye old cake!  In it went, box and all, into the trash can for curbside pick up later this week.

Cut to last night.  After doing a little weeding and watering the flowers and garden, I pulled out the trash cans to haul to the curb in the morning.  I went around to the back of house to grab something, and, as I come around the corner, I found my darling son with lips and fingers smeared with frosting.

“Trystan!  That cake is a month old AND I pulled it out of the fridge three days ago!” 

“I was just trying it.”

Sure, just trying it.  Just trying month old, rotten cake to see what food poisoning is like.  My guess… it will be like a belated birthday present you don’t want and can’t return!

Who are you talking to???

Ok, I’ll admit it.  I talk to myself.  I talk to myself ALOT.  I don’t see anything wrong with it.  I find it rather cathartic.  I talk out the steps to things I’m doing or planning on doing.  I talk to myself while I’m doing things, kind of like I’m my own motivational speaker.  This works especially well when I’m working out. 

I talk to myself when I have to have an uncomfortable conversation with someone.  I found this particularly helpful when I was a teenager and I was preparing my ‘defense’ or my version of the story for my parents.  Wait… What??  Scratch that, I was a perfect child.  I never had to bend the truth to get out of trouble.

I find where I truly excel at talking to myself is in the area of “I am so freakin’ teed off and I wish I’d have thought of this to say to you when I was talking to you!”  I’m really, really good at this one.  I can hash and re-hash a conversation or situation.  After the fact, I always come up with EXTREMELY witty things I could have said or more cleaver ways to say the things I did manage to get out of my mouth. 

In my head, I’m a conversational genius!  Unfortunately, I have to keep interacting with actual people…..

If they made it, I would buy it!

As I’m doing a quick pick up and turning off the lights in the Rec Room, my eyes scan across the couch and spot a pile of puke. 

Awesomesauce!  This is exactly how I want to start a Monday.  I hope it’s not an omen for the week to come. 

I grab and cleaner, a towel and begin the removal process. 

My husband walks in the room and asks,

“What happened?”

“Someone puked on the couch, so I’m cleaning it up.”

“Well it wasn’t me!”

“I hope not, because I used pet cleaner instead of husband cleaner.”

I have yet to find this in any box store or mom ‘n pop shop, but if you see any, let me know!