La-Z-Boy

We’ve hit one snafu — the granite countertop won’t be in for Thanksgiving. I even resorted to calling and BEGGING the kitchen company (it wasn’t pretty), but we’re too far down on the schedule. (My husband had planned to bribe the man who came out to measure before the granite is cut but he saved his C-note since the guy had no influence over scheduling.)

I’m headed to IKEA in Cincinnati tomorrow to collect the finishing touches: knobs for the bar; end tables; towel bars for the bathroom; rugs; trash cans and curtains. I’ve even got pictures framed and ready to be hung!

So, what’s left? The bathroom is still unfinished (and currently filled with tools), the doors need to be hung; we’re missing a couple of pieces of trim; paint needs to be touched up; the pool table light needs to be installed — and of course, there’s the small matter of my countertops (boo kitchen company!).

But, we’re celebrating with our best friends tonight — pizza and champagne in the new basement!!

It all started two weeks ago when my son brought home a rain-soaked kitten that he’d found under my dad’s porch. As you heard in one of my last blogs, I’m kind of a pushover for strays so I didn’t stand a chance at the sight of this little (about 6-week-old) wet, forlorn looking little kitten. My son named her “Dallas.”

So we take it in and I notice pretty soon that this kitten loves my son but doesn’t necessarily like me. She squirms out of the arms when I pick her up and actually swatted her little paw at me once. It was unusual for an animal not to take to me—I am pretty much the Pet Whisperer.

But soon then there were these little signs that maybe Dallas disliked me more than I was aware. One day I was sitting at my computer and I heard this enormous commotion from behind the TV set. Finally, she emerged half dragging, half carrying a flat-head screwdriver.  What need does a kitten have for a screwdriver? It’s not like she’d been building an extension on her litter box. No, I believe that she was intending to puncture one of my major organs.

Now, as I was explaining this event to my disbelieving son, his eyes fixed behind me and when I turned, I saw Dallas sitting on the kitchen table clutching a steak knife in her mouth. I’m not sure if her plan was to slice my Achilles tendon or scale up my pants and tee shirt and poke a hole in my carotid artery, but fortunately we were able to get the knife before anything happened.

Days went by as she engineered a series of ploys in the hopes of inducing my natural death, such as running Figure 8s around my feet as I approached a set of stairs. Once she jumped out of a detergent box, scaring me so badly that I literally clutched my chest like Fred Sanford. She likes to scatter dry cat food on the floor as well, so she can see me jumping around and yowling when I step on it barefooted. I think I’ve heard her laugh.

But then came the incident that convinced me that this kitten nurtures a grudge against me like nobody’s business. It was a Saturday morning and I was trying to grab a little extra sleep. I tend to sleep on my side with half my face scrunched into the pillow, making it so I am, essentially, breathing out of one nostril.

As I lay there, I felt the dark, lurking presence of my satanic little enemy. She slowly crept near my face and very quietly took a seat near my chin. She actually began purring so I took it as a conciliatory gesture and didn’t move. Then very gently, she reached out with one little paw and pressed on my nostril until she closed off the remaining air passage.

I know at this point you’re not believing me. But the events are true. I might be exaggerating the motives a bit…

In the mid 1980s, having a modified Mohawk that was dark brown stubble on the sides with a bleached blonde mane – especially in a small, rural community – was shocking and rebellious. And yes, that was the look I was going for.

However, I suffered a common fashion casualty of the early 90s, when I decided to grow my hair out a little (but only in the back), get rid of the blonde, and de-punk a bit overall. In other words, I had a mullet. But it was a cute mullet, and I’d like to think I pulled it off.

Between that time and now – almost 20 years (gulp) – I’ve had quite a few different doos… and even a few don’ts. One thing I’ve discovered over the years is that I prefer shorter hair. Not only is it easier to manage, but I think it also fits the shape of my face better and makes me look younger (the importance of those things is not necessarily in that order).

I’ve also resorted to treating my hair regularly with a semi-permanent dye that’s very similar to my natural color, which is dark brown. Thanks to genetics, without the dye, my hair would be almost completely gray. And again, while gray can be sexy and distinguished, at this point in my life, I’d rather look 10 years younger.

Snap to 2009. I turned 40 this year, and I really wanted to do something different with my hair – snazz it up a bit. I’ve had highlights, including blonde, brown, red, and even pink, so when my hairdresser suggested a few blue streaks, I was more than ready to give it a shot. After all, if I didn’t like it, I could always cover it up with a solid, neutral color.

Fortunately, I LOVED it. In fact, I loved it so much that I’ve been maintaining the blue streaks for the past several months. I don’t know about you, but finances are tight! So, I simply bought a $10 bottle of blue dye at a local beauty supply place, and I wrap those saturated pieces of hair in aluminum foil whenever I treat my gray roots with an $8.00 box of “Clairol natural instincts, #28.” Since I have short hair, one box of Clairol lasts for two dyes (the blue dye has lasted 5x as long), and I typically have to re-dye my hair every four to six weeks.

Now, the savings alone aren’t enough to motivate me to continue this process, because separating, saturating, and foiling those strands of hair with blue dye is a pain in the butt! It was so much easier just to cover my entire head with the faithful #28, let it sit for 25 minutes, rinse it out, and go – BUT, every time I decide to get rid of the blue, cover it up completely with dark brown, inevitably someone tells me how great it looks!

So, here I am, with about a half inch of gray roots that desperately need to be treated. My decision, as always, is whether or not to put blue dye over top of the light green strands of hair (yes, blue eventually fades to green). I have to cover them up sometime, right? The question is – when? The one thing I do know is that when I grow up, I still want to be cool – my attitude, the way I dress, and even my hair.

Kids amaze me. They’re able to watch a movie or a show repeatedly; not just once or twice, but dozens of times in a row. We’ve been through all the stages, from The Wiggles to Disney movies and iCarly. Now, we’re on to Harry Potter and Pirates of the Caribbean. This week alone we’ve watched “Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets” at least five times and “Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest” at least six. I shouldn’t complain — at least it’s not The Wiggles. That darn “Fruit Salad” song still gets stuck in my head. I’ll take Johnny Depp and Orlando Bloom over four middle-aged Aussies any day!

It’s hard taking care of a six kiddo when you’re sick, too. We’ve played Webkinz online together, napped, eaten ice cream, coughed and sneezed for hours.  (For the record, Puffs Plus with the Scent of Vicks? You rock.) Unfortuntely, it’s been gorgeous outside, and we’ve all looked out the window longingly as our neighbors played ball, took walks and hung out in the cul-de-sac.

I think we’re on the mend, but we’re definitely sick of being indoors. Anyone got any tips on what to do this weekend? As long as it doesn’t involve the television, I’m game!

Why the emergency? My appointment was rescheduled twice already. The first time was my fault, I had a conflict. The second time was because he was sick, so I can’t blame him. But, it just totally threw me. I will eventually spiral into, “Just cut it all off!” thoughts if I don’t hit the sweet spot and get a cut and color just in time. I sound a little neurotic and flaky. But, I am. Matt knows. He has graciously ushered me through compulsive, sanity-challenging phases.

Like the time I wanted to cut bangs. Then I grew them right out because I hated them. Then, I cut them again two years later because I forgot how much I hated them. So, I’m growing them out now. Yeah, it’s enough to drive anyone mad.

Then, this last visit, I chopped my hair off because the texture is fine and I needed a cut badly. Of course, I was relentlessly teased at work that my hair looked like Suri Cruise. So, of course, I’m growing it out now.

Now that the grays have come in a little more forcefully, I’m going to have to get better about my coloring. I come from a long line of vain women. My grandmother used to joke that she no longer knew her natural color. My mom colors hers, and now I am. It’s almost expected of me.

I probably could have gone longer without coloring, but I made the mistake of pulling the gray hairs that started coming in. Don’t ever do that! They really do come in twice as much after you pull them. So, Saturday cannot come soon enough. This time, I’m not going to do anything crazy with my hair.

Even though I have major hair envy – why can’t I have Kardashian hair? I’ve decided I have to stop the chopping. It’s exhausting, constantly growing out my hair. I’m just going to relax, drink wine, color my hair. I’ll re-enter the world refreshed and renewed. I really wish I could do it every Saturday, that would be divine.

It all started with my favorite brand and make of jeans. I had finally gotten to that glorious Shangri-la that men reside in where I could just go into a store, pick up my side from the racks and check out without having to try them on.  These jeans were classic Levi’s that hit just below the belly button and had a straight leg.

But then came the explosion of the low-rise elephant bell jeans and my jeans were fazed out. You couldn’t find them anywhere and if you asked a salesperson he or she would look at you like you just asked where they’re corsets were located.  (Note to those responsible for this fad: I grew up in the ‘70s. I have pictures of me wearing the same type of jeans. Believe me, in about 20 years you’ll look back at photos just like that and cringe your little heart out.) Just as I was prepared to track the jeans down on the black market, they came back with no explanation, like they’d never even been gone. (My theory is that all those low-rise jeans were responsible for an epidemic of belly fat because there was no material there to hold the abdominal muscles in. Retailers are coming back with the high wastes because of this.)

This whole topic of discontinued merchandise has come up again because now my favorite bra has been discontinued. (Oh, Vera Wang, why hath thou forsaken me?!)  But, in this case, it’s not like there’s some new radical fashion style that my favorite bra has to make room for.  What could change that dramatically? The addition of a third cup? So now I’m thinking maybe it’s me. If no one is buying this bra then either I have horrendous taste or I have a freakish body type.  What’s the deal? I currently have a black version and a beige version but how long can I hold on to the dream? The beige one is already stabbing me with an errant underwire.

I even got attached to a Fajita dinner kit from Ortega that included three kinds of sauces that I loved. Then one day it was gone. Nobody had it. Like a complete nerd, I visited every Kroger and Meijer within a two-state radius. Was there a Salmonella outbreak that I wasn’t made privy to? Or, again, was it just a matter of my taste buds being sadly abnormal? Were the product managers at Ortega indicted for trans fat violations? Because I don’t care, I want my fajita kit back.

I’ve also had a shade of lipstick discontinued. How can a shade of lipstick be discontinued? It’s not like it was neon orange or something that was last hot in 1968. It was a normal, everyday shade. So, my bad taste again or did the FDA have something to do with it? I’m really starting to get paranoid here.

Now, I do actually have a discontinued merchandise story with a happy ending. About two years ago, I bought a counter-top pizza oven made by Presto.  This thing is great. It doesn’t heat up your house like an oven would, and you can cook the pizza’s top, bottom, or both at the same time. I was going to get my dad one, and guess what? Gone from shelves everywhere. No explanation for this, just an ominous “This item is no longer available” on the manufacturer’s website. But then last week, after a year, I started seeing them again. I’m not sure if there an exploding product lawsuit somewhere that caused it to be pulled temporarily but it’s back, baby, and I’m a happy camper.  Here it is by the way, available at Walmart again.

How about you? Have you ever been inordinately attached to something that has been discontinued?

I couldn’t have been more wrong. (Shhh… don’t tell my husband.)

We arrived at the granite distributor and trudged our way through the showroom to wait for the salesperson to walk us to inspect our exact slab.

“Hey, look, hon!” I said. “Here’s our color. Mojave cream.” I pointed to a small slab. Uh oh. Beneath it was a sample Home Depot didn’t offer. Blanc Noir. It was EXACTLY what I wanted. My head started to pound in panic. Mojave cream wasn’t working for me anymore — as the name suggested, it was more cream where we wanted white.  But maybe our slab would be more along the lines of what I had in mind, right?

Not exactly. I hated it even more outside in the yard. Sure, it was pretty, but it just wasn’t right compared to Blanc Noir. Luckily, the latter was still in our price category. The salesperson walked us down to view and choose from two Blanc Noir pieces. We selected one, and it is PERFECT. Cut it and stick it on there, now.

My point? When it comes to making big purchases, make the time to choose exactly what you want. If I hadn’t, I’d be stuck with a big ol’ slab of Mojave cream and I’d regret not speaking up at the time. Shop around. After all, you’re going to have to live with it for years to come!

And sometimes people are unfortunate enough to have a phone number that closely resembles a popular business, such as a pizza place. However, an experience by Sarah, a close friend of mine, tops all of the wrong number horror stories that I’ve ever heard before.

Let me start by saying that Sarah has had her phone number for almost three years now. People usually begin receiving wrong numbers when a line is first acquired – because it’s either very similar to the other number (like a pizza place) or the individual the caller is seeking actually had that exact number in the past.

About a year and a half ago, Sarah started receiving calls for Jeffrey Nutter. Okay, that’s not actually his name, but it’s close enough. What Sarah was able to piece together after numerous calls for Jeffrey was that he had been hospitalized, and the callers were trying to collect the debt from his medical bills.

Since the very first call for Jeffrey, Sarah has been plagued with these calls almost daily – and sometimes up to 10 or 15 calls in a single day. It’s always the same thing:

Caller: “May I speak to Jeffrey Nutter, please?”

Sarah: “There is no Jeffrey Nutter at this number. Please remove my phone number from your system, because I keep getting these calls, and I have no idea who Jeffrey is.”

Most of the time, the calls show up as 800 or 888 numbers, and so she knows to just ignore them and not even answer her phone. Other times the calls come from the area code of the state where the debt collection companies reside, including Idaho, Illinois, Indiana, and Kentucky.

Usually, when Sarah doesn’t answer these calls, they leave a nice voice message. Thanks to modern technology, she was able to forward one of these priceless gems to my phone. Here’s the message, verbatim:

“Hi, this is for Jeffrey Nutter. If this is not Jeffrey Nutter, please discontinue listening now. If you remained on this call, I’m calling from xxxx (name of company). This is an attempt to collect a debt. Any information obtained will be used for that purpose. Please call back today (xxx) xxx-xxxx. And mention reference number xxxxxx. Thanks.”

Sarah has called those numbers many times, given the reference number, and begged them to PLEASE stop calling her phone because it does not belong to Jeffrey Nutter! And of course, they always apologize and assure her that they will make a note of it, remove it, and it won’t happen again – that is, for an hour or two, until the next call comes in.

Since Sarah forwarded me one of the voice messages, I decided to make a call myself, and when a representative for the debt collection agency answered, I immediately asked to speak to a manager. I explained the situation to the manager, telling him that a year and half of phone calls to the same WRONG number was beyond ridiculous. He agreed and said that he’d take care of it, but Sarah has heard that many times before.

That was last week. Did it work? Guess we’ll just have to wait and see. Has anyone else had a similar experience? If so, how did you resolve it?

When my husband Steve and I first started dating years ago, and I walked into his house for the first time it was like touching down on some alien planet. I’m not a snob but I’m one of those people who cares pretty deeply what my living environment looks like and a ceramic Uncle Sam head (yes, he had one) is not entirely my idea of a tasteful home interior.

Steve is not a patriotic zealot. Sadly, he just liked the way the Uncle Sam head looked.

And then there was the black velvet painting. I tried to bargain with myself by telling myself that at least it wasn’t a black velvet painting of Elvis, but really, is that even a relevant argument? I’d like to say the painting was some kind of kitschy so-uncool-it’s-cool attempt at decorating, but I would be lying.

One room was painted gray except for a 3-foot by 3-foot area on one wall where he’d run out of paint. Apparently he wasn’t bothered by seeing that blank space day after day. I, on the other hand, a woman with obsessive/compulsive tendencies that would alarm Monk, took two trips through that room and was ready to confess to the Lindbergh kidnapping. I repainted the whole room.

He’d at some point attempted to wallpaper his bathroom. Not being the most patient man in the world, he was frustrated by the task and ended up just rounding off the corners. That’s right; it was a room without right angles.

Of course, eventually I viewed the house as a project, a place that needed me to sweep in and save it from the spirits that had so far made it look like a back roads flea market.

So when we moved in together I started infiltrating his Man Palace with my furniture, my linens, my wall stuff. To his credit, he didn’t object. Actually, he didn’t care one way or another, which made it much easier. I don’t know what I would have done if he’d had any kind of discernible design taste to speak of.  The truth is I cared deeply about what my surroundings looked like. He did not. So basically, “strong preference” trumped “complete apathy” and I had carte blanche.

Now, fast-forward with me, if you will, 20 years. We live in a different house, one that we bought together. From the day we bought this house, it has been my domain to decorate. We hadn’t lived here long, however, before Steve decided to build a garage. Little did I know this was going to be more than just a place where he could cavort with his car parts, bond with his power tools, and generally pray to the Craftsman gods.

No, it has become much more than that. It is his Man Cave or, as I call it, the Kitsch Kavern. It is a place in which he can release all that “self-expression” that he has heretofore had to stifle. Who knew that it was still there bubbling under the surface?

So slowly but surely he has started to fill the space up with the same kind of stuff (I’m sorry, make that “personal art”) that he used to have in his house. Only now, like an infection that wasn’t completely wiped out by an antibiotic, it has come back stronger. His most notable acquisitions:

• An enormous set of Samurai swords he bought at a yard sale
• A motion-activated deer head that sings Christmas songs
• A long strand of pumpkin lights because, apparently, in the Man Cave, there are no seasons
• A Vikings helmet. And not the football team helmet, either– the one with actual horns. 
• A punching bag that is actually a rubberized torso and head of a man. He dresses it up when the spirit moves him. It has been everything from Santa Claus to Frankenstein.

I could go on but I won’t, because, frankly, the list is starting to scare me a little. The man is one knick–knack away from the loony bin.

But this arrangement actually works. He doesn’t say anything about the carefully coordinated tones that grace the walls in the house, and I don’t say anything about the giant Alf doll sitting on his work bench.

“I don’t even know where I can get it,” I told my dad when he called to recite the long list of reasons why I should get vaccinated.

“But you have asthma,” he said, “And you’re under 24. That’s two of the risk groups! Look on the Internet and find a doctor!”

True, I own a blue inhaler (though I have no idea where it is) and I will not be able to rent a car until January, but I would hardly say I am at “high-risk” for the Swine. Knock on wood!

Lately I’ve been hearing and seeing some ridiculously scary things about flu shots, from a cheerleader contracting dystonia (a nerve disease) after receiving a shot and can now only walk backwards, to some letter leaked by the Health Protection Agency in the UK. I’m not saying I believe all this hoaxy-sounding stuff, but there was one reported line I’ve heard that has stuck with me. It refers to the use of a similar swine flu vaccine in the US in 1976:

“More people died from the vaccination than from the swine flu.” Ahhh!

On the other hand, I keep getting swayed to the other side. On a special H1N1 segment on 60 minutes last Sunday, Dr. Bruce Gellin, director of the National Vaccine Program Office of the Department of Health and Human Services, compared getting the H1N1 shot as a precautionary measure similar to that of wearing a seat belt. The chance of an accident occurring is less than 1/100 — but if it happens, you better be safe than sorry.

For the record, I’ve not received any vaccinations since grade school, and I think I’m doing OK. I do recall contracting a 24-hour bug a couple years ago, but it didn’t bother me — I felt like my body was doing what it’s supposed to do — fight germs and viruses.

I am not for or against this vaccination — I am just confused. I am doing my part and educating myself as much as I can. But it seems that the more I research, the more confused I get.

Did you get the shot? are you going to? Is this one of those “just do what you think is right” situations? Or should we wait until more research comes out?

Photo courtesy of http://www.islandcrisis.net