In Between

I have naturally curly hair.  This was great when it was longer, and it wasn’t really an issue when it was super short.  However, in these days of in between, there are moments which are downright scary.  Particularly disturbing is the current effect of going to bed with wet hair.  While I haven’t been able to bring myself to photographing the hideous result, I ran across a picture the other day that looked a whole lot like me with my gone-to-bed-wet hair:

Look! He’s even got my double chins!

 Having seen my gone-to-bed-wet hair, Mini Me and Hubster might even be convinced that this is indeed a picture of me, were it not for two obvious anti-Moody clues.

Clue Number 1: I hate turtle necks with a burning passion.  Hate them.  Even if they are the color of a Hershey bar.
Clue Number 2: My coat with the big, fur collar is not naugahyde.  Other than that, it is identical to the one in the picture.

In an effort to combat the boofy head, I recently got a flat iron.  In my minds eye, I could envision straight, spiky, kinda punked out hair.  However, in reality, the result was more like this:  

 

Fortunately for me, there are a few products in the world that will wrestle my hair into sumission, including, but not limited to Crisco, Plaster of Paris, Liquid Nails, Magic Shell and Fructis Power Putty.  The basic routine goes like this: Towel dry hair, resulting in that finger-in-the-light-socket look.  Place into palm a good size glop of one of the aforementioned products.  Rub hands together to distribute goop evenly, and finger comb hair into the desired shape.  Let air dry.  (WARNING!  Do not attempt to blow dry hair.  Blow drying may result in look number one, above!)  Gently finger comb hair to remove crunchiness while maintaining desired shape.

 

Results may vary.

Posted in hair. 5 Comments »

Gettin’ our Blog On

You may have noticed the little badge over there on the left sidebar. Yes, having been spurned by my very own mother, I have resorted to an artificial means of keeping my self-esteem intact. So, In The Pink is participating in it’s first ever blog party. Of course, The Foob was full of all sorts of helpful suggestions. Lounging in his smoking jacket & ascot, he he declared,“I think you zhould rename zee site ‘Zee Foob: A Journal’ or perhaps call it ‘Foobelicious: A Blog About Zee Foob’ and make zee picture of zee Foob bigger. Zee people want zee handsome Foob. Now, go make me a zimmamon latte.” Anywho, basically what that means is that we’re linking to a site and other bloggers are linking to the site, and hopefully we’ll get some new visitors and they will too. So, please join me in clicking on the badge and checking out the participating blogs. You never know, we might find one that my mom will actually subscribe to.

Blog Party

Hey there all you blog party surfers!  Welcome to In The Pink.  I’m your host, The Moody Foodie and over there on the sidebar you’ll see a picture of my persnickety prosthesis, The Foob. This blog began as a way to keep folks I know IRL up to date on this pesky breast cancer thing I’ve had going on for the past year or so, but don’t let that cause you to run the other direction.  We’re not all about The Cancer here at In The Pink.  On the contrary, The Cancer is just another circumstance that provides opportunities for some great stories.  No, not inspirational stories.  This ain’t Cup o’ Soup for the Cancerous Soul—it’s more like Deep Fried Snickers for Your Soul.  We’re talking funny stories, like the one where I got flashed by the crazy lady at the doctor’s office, or the time I got to try on my Aunt Phyllis’s hair in the wig shop.  You can even find out what I used a lint roller for during chemo, and how I feel about pink ribbon broccoli.  Does that sound like more fun than you can shake a stick at, or what?  

Talking Points

I’ve discovered just how much my sense of self-worth has become tied to my blog. Since firing up the new place, I’ve had a whopping 35 people sign up to receive an email whenever I post a new entry. That 35 out of 359 readers from my former home, or about 10%. Adding insult to injury is the fact that my OWN MOTHER hasn’t signed up! Is that sad, or what? How big of a loser does a person have to be to have their mom blowing them off? I’m crushed.

Of course, I’ve gotten no end of grief from The Foob. “Zee!” he spouts, “I told you they do not want to hear about zee hair, or zee marimbas. They want Zee Foob! Now move over and let me type zee blog!” Of course, it does no good to try to point out to him that he has no arms or hands with which to type. “Do not bother me with zee details!” he barks. I knew I shouldn’t have put his picture on the sidebar. He was bad before, but now he really thinks he owns the place.

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I want to do a little research project here, and for this I need participation from my readers who are also breast cancer survivors. Have you ever been amazed at the complete tactlessness or downright stupidity of people when it comes to talking about cancer? Well, now is your chance to a) vent a little and b) educate the masses. What I want to know is, what is the single most insensitive thing someone has ever said to you in regard to cancer? You can email me your answers HERE. I’ll be collecting your responses until March 18th. Then I’ll compile them and post the results—keeping everyone anonymous, because strangely, we would feel guilty if someone recognized that we were talking about them.

To get the ball rolling, I’ll share a question that I’ve gotten several times. It’s not the most insensitive thing I’ve heard, but it’s annoying to me nonetheless. The question is “Did they get it all?” My first inclination is to say, “No. The doctor decided to leave a piece, just for the fun of it.” Seriously, I HOPE that when Dr Schmidt does surgery, his aim is to “get it all” however, there’s really no guarantee, now is there? I’ve also thought about just answering “No” and then waiting to see what the questioner will ask next. Maybe it’ll be something comforting like, “Oh, so have you picked out your casket yet?” or “Does Hubster plan to remarry?”

Now, I realize that people sometimes don’t know what to say, so let me offer some suggestions. The next time you’re tempted to ask the cancer survivor in your life whether or not “they got it all”, ask instead, “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” And the next time you feel the urge to tell your favorite cancer survivor about how your Aunt Tillie died from exactly what they’ve got, instead say, “You look great! Have you been working out?” I know you may find it hard to believe, but this will be way more encouraging to your cancer friend than anything cancer-related you could possibly say.

Trust me.

Mini Me’s Big Weekend

When I was in orchestra in junior high and high school, each year we’d participate in music competitions with students from other schools. As in sports, you first competed on a more local level, and then moved on to the state competition. During this time, the arch nemesis of our ensembles was a certain affluent suburb of Indy. I’m sure the feeling wasn’t mutual because to these kids, we were just another tiny bump in their road to ultimate victory. But to us, they were the enemy. While we played on used & rented instruments, they played on sparkling new ones. Their parents hired instructors for private lessons. We received all of our instruction during school. They had matching fancy-butt outfits. We had our closet. We wanted to place well, but more importantly we wanted to beat THEM.

This was all a distant memory until last June when Mini Me competed in a piano competition at the State Fairgrounds. All but a handful of contestants were from the Indy area. About 80% of those were from the aforementioned affluent suburb. When I saw the list of participants, I was instantly transported back to those days of one-sided rivalry. Must. Beat. Them. She didn’t.

Fast forward to the present. Mini Me is competing in said arch nemesis affluent suburb, at their own competition. Saturday is piano division. Sunday is non-piano instrumental, in which she’s playing harp. The piano competition is pretty fierce. Many of the kids are the same ones who were at the competition last June. They have concert grands and those hoity lurcher dogs and have been playing piano since they were 2 months old. Mini Me is last on the list to play. It’s not a good day. For whatever reason, she just doesn’t play her best. She’s mad at herself and scornful of her participation trophy. Once again, we are foiled in our, for it’s now multi-generational, quest to beat THEM.

Sunday we once again trek to the hated affluent suburb. We have no idea what she’ll be competing against, as it’s open to any instrument other than piano. The first four contestants are in the 1st-4th grade bracket. They all play violin. I look at the program, which lists pieces, but not instruments and wonder how many other violins might be on the program. Mini Me is competing in the 5th-8th grade bracket. Ahead of her two boys play the marimba, and one plays electric guitar. I think, “Huh. Two marimba players. That’s kind of unusual.” Little did I know.

Mini Me does an excellent job, but there are several contestants to go, and I’m cautiously optimistic. I look at the program as the Hubster is moving the harp off stage. Next piece is Waltz in F. I think, “Oh, maybe we’re going back to violin.” They move the marimba back onstage. And there it stayed through the remainder of the 5th through 8th grade division. On to the 9th through 12th grade bracket. I look at the program and realize that two of the pieces have already been played in the earlier division—on the marimba. And so it was, the entire rest of the program consisted of marimba. I heard more marimba yesterday than I’d heard in my entire life. It was truly bizarre. Apparently, these days the folks in this affluent suburb, henceforth to be known as Marimba City, are really serious about their piano, and their percussion, but not much else. Who knew?

And so there we were, waiting for the judges to finish scoring and make their decision. Would the fact that Mini Me did not play the marimba help or hinder her? Would we be sent home with a measly participation trophy, yet again? Fourth place goes to…. Marimba Boy #1. Third place goes to…. Marimba Boy #2. Second place goes to…. Electric Guitar Boy. And first place goes to…. Mini Me! Yeeeeaaah! Put THAT in your juice box, you privileged percussionists! Beaten, on your own turf, by a girl from little podunk nowhere.

Mini Me, of course, was thrilled. She told me later than when they announced that she’d won, she heard some of the kids let out an annoyed sigh. As if they were thinking, “I can’t believe she won! She, like, doesn’t even play marimba. Sheesh!”

The first person Mini Me called was her Aunt Basketball Fingers, who had also suffered at the hands of Marimba City during her high school band career. A warm, fuzzy feeling surrounded us as we drove off into the sunset, each savoring a sweet slice of revenge pie.