Pixie Regret

I've never been one to associate my identity with my hair, but a recent decision to chop off my locks into a "chic" pixie cut has left me feeling less than confident.  Any girl who has ever left the salon in tears knows all too well there's something traumatic about a bad haircut.  Don't get me wrong--I thought about it for weeks and decided I was finally ready for something different.  My short, angled bob, which I've been sporting for the better part of a decade, needed a little sprucing up.  So after scouring Pinterest for "short, sassy cuts," I booked my usual stylist and counted the days 'til my appointment and my new style.

The stylist assured me she could recreate the hairstyle in the photo I showed her, so I took a deep breath and told her to just go for it--knowing all too well that my new husband would hate it.  Just like the typical guy, he prefers long, luscious locks. However, I have learned in 33 years that you have got to work with what ya got.  I can thank my grandmother and mom for my limp, poker-straight, baby-fine hair, and I've finally come to embrace it.  After cutting my long hair post high school, I've never looked back.  I know I am better suited for short hair.  Plus, I have a short-hair personality. BUT--and this is a huge but--I am not a celebrity.  As such, those adorable, choppy pixie cuts that have been making waves in Hollywood of late are not meant for the common gal. Damn you, Jennifer Lawrence, Kaley Cuoco, Sienna Miller and Michelle Williams!  Why do you make it look so good and so easy?  You are false advertisers and I want my money back.

So needless to say, I left the salon with less hair and less dignity than when I arrived.  The trendy, sassy, chic look I was going for turned out more like a cross between an 8-year-old boy and a 40-something soccer mom, minus the kids and minivan.  While we are hoping to start a family soon, I have zero intention of ever opting for an unsexy minivan.  On my way home, I stopped for a quick bite at Whataburger, and the high school kid at the window referred to me as "ma'am," so I took that as a good sign.  He still identified me as female--score one for me (I guess).

 I recently read that a bad haircut is like a prison sentence, and you have nothing but time to think about what you've done during the growing-out process.  I couldn't agree more.  So while I've stocked up on biotin, prenatal vitamins and anything I think could possibly aid in hair growth, I still have to look at this stranger every single day in the mirror, and I have no hope for the warden to release me from this short-hair hell even in light of good behavior.  All I have is time.  Time to learn how to style this damn pixie cut while I wait for it to grow, and God knows I have purchased every spray wax, sticky goo and molding paste to make the task more manageable.

In the meantime, let me give you some advice for what not to say to me when your "Wow, you cut your hair!" comments are met with shrugged shoulders, a bowed head and a disapproving look.  Yes, I know it's only hair and it will grow back.  However, that does not ease the pain, and your pointing out the obvious only makes me want to take a pair of scissors to your gorgeous Rapunzel-like locks so that you, too, can share in my misery.  Telling me that I'm simply not used to it also doesn't make me feel any better about my little boy haircut.  Well guess what, I have at least a year to "get used to it," so perhaps there is the silver lining?  Advising me that perhaps I haven't learned how to style it also doesn't ease the tension.  What, are you offering to teach me?  Because if not, thanks for validating my fears that I do, in fact, bear a strong resemblance to Justin Bieber's little brother!
And one more thing, comments such as "Well, you said you wanted a pixie cut" and "I told you not to cut your hair" only make me want to flat-out punch you in the face.  At what point in your life did someone tell you that "I told ya so's" were EVER met with a positive outcome?

So yes, maybe I am a little bitter about my decision and perhaps I will be a tad bit bitchier over the next 11 or 12 months because I can't walk around with a paper sack over my head.  So sue me!  I'm doing time in bad-hair prison with no chance of parole.  The only hope I have of bringing even an ounce of femininity back to my look is through cute clothes and tons of fabulous shoes.  Thank God I don't have to walk around this prison in an orange jumpsuit because orange isn't my color.  Let's face it--I don't even think orange looks good on celebrities.

Deja Blue

Several weekends ago, I hit up a local secondhand clothing boutique in Rockwall called Second Evolution, which was not surprisingly voted Dallas's best vintage resaler on the Dallas A List.  They are jam packed with all kinds of high-dollar designer jeans listed for a fraction of the cost of brand new ones.  As I scoured the overloaded racks in search of my beloved Miss Me's and Rock Revivals in my size, I was hit by a sudden feeling of "deja BLUE."  It seemed like I had done this before.  Um, that's because I had...and quite often I might add!

Apparently every single I time I go shopping for new summer tops (which I REALLY need) and strappy sundresses (which I don't), I unknowingly wind up in the denim department, trying on yet another pair of blue jeans--which I really, really don't need!  I guess I've just become one of those people who can't refuse designer jeans if I happen to be able to score them at a major discount; thus, my closet is embarrassingly well stocked.

I have lost count when it comes to the number of pairs of jeans I currently own, unlike shoes, which I pride myself on the actual (obscene) number.  We all have our vices, right?  But when it comes to jeans, I justify my borderline obsession by the fact that jeans are (and thankfully, always will be) a fashion STAPLE.  They go with absolutely anything and everything.  Plus, I get to wear them to work every day if I want to.  That simple equation adds up to the fact that I can never have too many pairs, right?  A rhetorical question--please don't answer.  Well, I guess it also depends on who you ask.  I'm fairly certain my mother would have a mild heart attack if she knew just how much money I had invested in my jeans collection even though they were (mostly) purchased at less than full price.  There are just so many styles, cuts and washes--and the pocket embellishments?  Don't even get me started.

When it comes to shopping for jeans, I always recommend that you purchase your jeans just a tad bit snug.  They will loosen and stretch with every wear, eventually conforming to your body like a second skin.  Notice I said snug--not so skintight that getting dressed in the morning requires throwing yourself back on the bed while squirming and making groaning sounds like a cat in heat just to get those jeans over your hips and butt.  * Please note, however, that the universal "jeans stretch" is 100% okay.  I know you know exactly what I'm referring to--those crazy, lunge-like motions and contorted yoga poses that help expedite the stretching of your just-removed-from-the-dryer, temporarily tight jeans.  Every morning, I fear Jeremy will walk into the closet and witness this ridiculous-looking act, but it's a necessary evil for all denim-sporting individuals.  I digress.

If you are like me and can't seem to shake the urge to splurge on denim, at least take my advice and satisfy your cravings at discount retailers.  Forgo Dillards, the Buckle and pricey western stores, and instead, shop at discount retailers, "resalers" and the like.  I also recommend Poshmark, a free downloadable clothing app on your phone that allows fellow fashionistas to buy and sell gently used (and sometimes new) clothing and accessories at unbelievable low prices.  I got one of my fave pairs of Rock Revivals there for only $60--and if you think that's a lot, you better sit down when I tell you they typically retail for at least $150 and above.  It's crazy, I know.  I could never drop that kind of cash on a single pair of jeans.  Same goes for True Religion.  I picked up a pair of those trendy jeans on Poshmark for about only $70.

Also, if you happen to find yourself in Rockwall or McKinney with time to kill, hit up Second Evolution--you won't be disappointed!  Other places to check out are Platos Closet and other secondhand retailers in the more upscale (read: rich) cities.  You're more likely to find better-quality clothing in the ritzy parts of town.

The moral?  Repeat after me, "Paying full price for designer jeans is ridiculous."  Plus, savings wads of cash on jeans comes with certain merited bragging rights.  You know there's nothing better than responding to a friend's sincere compliments with a smug, "Thanks, I got them at (insert retailer here) for half price!"

So yes, I may have an addiction to jeans shopping, but at least I hunt for bargains.  And jeans really do hold up for quite a long time if you take good care of them.  God forbid I should gain an ounce and not be able to fit into my designer collection--even after I have tried and failed in my attempts to loosen the stubborn fabric with jean-stretching exercises.  (I joke, but I also tremble inside at the thought--oh, the horror!)  I guess the worst case scenario is that I sell/trade them in for a multitude of "new" used jeans in my current size.  And so the cycle repeats itself--allowing for, yet again, deja blue.

Small Town USA

Just the other day, a friend of mine posted a question on Facebook for her fellow mom friends to weigh in on with their opinions and household practices relating to summertime television allowances.  She wanted to know how many hours of TV their kids were allowed to watch each day in the summer.  Now I don't have kids of the two-legged kind per se, so perhaps she wasn't seeking my advice; however, that's never stopped me from dishing out my two cents' worth.  I responded, "Make those kids play outside!  That's what we did as kids in the summertime.  We built forts, rode our bikes, got dirty and didn't come home 'til the sun went down!"  Her response? "Thanks Cassie, but when the kids are outside, I'm outside, and that's not always possible.  It's not as easy as it was when we were kids."  Well that got me to thinking--I guess times have changed and not every kid nowadays gets the privilege of experiencing small-town life out in the country as Bartonville was very much a personal "Mayberry" of sorts--only some 20+ years later.  And as I scrolled through Facebook post after Facebook post, wishing family and friends a happy Independence Day, it got me to thinking about this even more--leading me straight down memory lane.

Sure, it wasn't a totally safe and innocent world we were living in in the mid 1980s and early 90s, but for the most part, our parents didn't fear that "bad guys" would come passing through our small neighborhood in shady-looking vans to lure us away with promises of candy and ice cream.  We stuck together as a pack of kids.  Where one kid went, we all went, and I guess the idea of a mass abduction seemed pretty ridiculous--especially for a group co-led by the token bully-ish "mean kid" with a personal track record for troublemaking.

I'm pretty certain the reason I was so tan as a child is because I LIVED outside in the summertime.  When you're a kid, the sweltering Texas heat is only a minor inconvenience--it doesn't serve as a deterrent, driving you back indoors to the cool comfort of air conditioning...and us Green Oaks Estates kids played together on a daily basis.  With a kind-hearted man for a next door neighbor, we had no limits to the land we were permitted to traverse.  And the large pond atop the hill in my parents' backyard (which belonged to said neighbor) was the setting for much of our childhood play.

We fashioned old, leaning oak trees into "pirate ships," built girls-only/boys-only forts, fished for bass and went exploring, in search of adventure.  Other days, we rode bikes through the neighborhood, playing cops & robbers without ever (gasp) donning a bicycle helmet.  And I'm convinced to this day, I narrowly escaped death too many times to count on our neighbor's large backyard trampoline, which was not equipped with a safety net or protective coil coverings you'd find on equipment today.  My parents' thought was: they won't hurt themselves if we don't own a trampoline--only that didn't keep us off the neighbor kid's, which, to my way of thinking made it a moot point.  Nonetheless, nary a broken arm or leg, we jumped and tumbled without a care in the world until the evening "time-to-come-home" bell rang.  This antique bell with an old, frayed jumprope attached as a handle served as our evening summons.  Our dog just so happened to be more responsive to the bell than we were, as she often high-tailed it home while we rebelliously waited 'til the last minute possible before returning home to eat dinner together as a family around the kitchen table.  We could hear that old bell anywhere in the neighborhood, and it disappointingly served as a nightly end to playtime--at least until the following day.

Other times when we weren't traversing the banks of the pond or two-wheeling our way through the neighborhood, you could find us setting up our "businesses" on my parents' wraparound porch and peddling goods and services with sheets of hundred dollar bills my dad Xeroxed on his home office copying machine.  (If any governmental official is reading this, please take note, this was innocent "forgery" with no intent for use in real American enterprise.)  I've hidden in every imaginable nook and cranny of that old yard during endless games of hide and go seek and kick the can, and I swear I can still hear the ringing shouts of "Ollie, Ollie, oxenfree" in my memory as a fellow neighborhood kid reached the gardenhose-encircled "base," stomping on that old tin can and freeing himself from the potential danger of being tagged out.

Occasionally, we would break from our games and make the half-mile trek over the giant hill on Jeter Road to hit up the Bartonville Food Store and gas station for a couple dollars' worth of candy and Dr Peppers.  I was so sad to see that historical landmark finally close its doors for the last time several years ago when construction of a growing city forced a curvature in the road and passersby were thusly routed away from the mom and pop shop-style gas station, owned and operated by James Price and James Price Jr. since the early 70s.

I feel that symbolic event served as a reminder of what I already knew, yet wasn't readily willing to admit.  It was the end of an era, physical proof that time had passed, we had grown up and the "age of innocence" had come to conclusion.  Though my future children may not know an adventure-filled, carefree childhood in a world that is now driven by technology--what with all the lack of personal interaction and use of imagination that goes hand-in-hand with the ownership of an iphone, I will stand by the fact that such a childhood shaped their mother into the woman I am today.  Those good times and easy-going living are all I can ever wish for my children to experience someday.  So when school lets out, summer vacation commences and their whining cries of boredom begin, I'll tell them to turn off their phones, video games and TV shows--and for the love of God, go play outside!  Because it's outside in nature, on a backyard tree swing, and down by the lake amongst wooded tree forts where they'll encounter the kinds of magical experiences that will teach them about life and shape them into adults who can only wish the same experiences and memories for their children someday.

If You're Gonna Play in TEXAS...

Randy Owens of the legendary country group, Alabama, said it best..."If you're gonna play in Texas, you gotta have a fiddle in the band."  Even though these lyrics were introduced in the mid-1980s, I don't think Mr. Owens had any inkling as to the ultimate direction country music was headed and where it would inevitably end up some thirty years later.

Country music has unquestionably morphed and changed over the years from its down-home, backwoods roots--featuring "raw," heartfelt vocals and fiddle-heavy background music--to the polished, over-produced, pop-like radio "ear candy," as my dad likes to call it.  The likes of Hank Williams, Patsy Cline, and various other legends are now only a faded memory for those of us who were raised on traditional country music.  Even the superstars of yesteryear were heavily influenced by these old-time greats.  George Strait,  Randy Travis and Alan Jackson were  influenced by the likes of Lefty Frizzell, Merle Haggard and George Jones, who were themselves influenced by those older ghosts of country music past.  But with each generation comes new influence.  The stars of today, who were raised on George Strait and other singers of the 1980s, have begun to crank out albums that hardly reflect a true country music sound.  With each passing decade, country music sadly deviates further and further from its roots.

Now I'm not saying that all country music of today is bad--I'm simply stating that it has changed.  The long-lost haunting fiddle solo and soul-soothing twang of a steel guitar has been replaced by modern, computer-generated sounds.  You can catch me driving down the highway with my radio set to 99.5 or 96.3, and I'm most likely tapping my hands on the steering wheel, singing along with Luke Bryan and Blake Shelton, but that's not to say that I don't miss the "old" country music of my past.  What KLUV's "oldies" are to rock 'n roll, I fear true country music will eventually become to today's "young country"...and that makes me a little sad.  While I find today's radio music to be lacking, I'm glad to know I can always pop in an old CD and sing along with my childhood heroes, tapping my foot along to the beat of a hearty fiddle solo with a smile on my face.  It just brings back good memories.

So say what you will, but I wholeheartedly agree with the lyrics of Alabama's 1984 mega hit.   It's hard to argue with a band declared "artist of the decade," (in the 1980s) who also happens to have over 30 number one hits to their name.  And each time I hear that old song come on the radio, I'm gonna crank up the volume and declare my rights as a true southern girl...that if you're gonna play in Texas, by God, you gotta have a fiddle in the band.

Skis that (Don't) Please

With the click of the "ok" button, I was giddy at the thought of owning a brand new pair of snow skis and could hardly contain my excitement at the anticipation of their arrival within the next seven to ten business days.  You see, these weren't just any ordinary skis I had just purchased online.  They were fashion K2 Super Sweet snow skis in pink, purple and white (of course).  Now I would look like the bad-ass skier I had become over the course of the past twenty years--even though I'd only actually skied less than a dozen times in my life.

It didn't matter.  For someone as unathletically inclined as I, I skied like an Olympics gold medalist.  Okay, so maybe that's a bit of a stretch--but not much.  I reveled in my intermediate-level skiing and was anxious to prove to Jeremy, yet again, that I am not as uncoordinated as he thinks.  I impressed the hell out of him last year at Lake Tahoe, so I know he'd be equally awed as I carved those fluffly Colorado slopes like a Thanksgiving turkey with my very own equipment this time.

Mom and Dad tried to warn me not to be overzealous and order the first pair of shiny skis I saw.  "You'll hate hauling heavy skis through the airport.  Just rent for awhile until you decide what you really want."  Pish posh!  I am gonna love these skis.  How could I not enjoy skis that bear my signature color?  I don't even mind lugging them through the airport.  It will be good exercise before I hit the slopes!.......famous last words.

So the week of our ski trip arrived and it was time to check out the rental place so Jeremy could get all set up with his boots and skis for the week--the amateur.  When the rental guy looked at me and asked if I needed skis as well, I turned up my nose just a tiny bit and replied, "No thanks, I've got my own."  I think I saw a hint of surprise in his (probably stoned) baby browns.  Surely he was impressed that I was an owner...or maybe it was my imagination.  But there comes a certain satisfaction in assuring a twenty-something stoner who lived for the sport that I don't need his crappy rental Salomons for the week.

The following morning (day 1 of skiing), Jeremy and I boarded the gondola that swiftly rushed us up the mountain, and I clicked into those K2s with ease and anticipation.  I was ready to start on the nearest blue run I could find.  Why waste my time on a menial green?  Those were for "beginners."  Off I went!  I was a little surprised to find moguls on the first blue I encountered, but by God, I got this.

Then...uh oh, why aren't these skis turning with the ease and smoothness I remember?  I proceeded to make my way down the mountain with arms and legs flailing, much like that of a cat being submerged in a bathtub of tepid water against its will.  I'm not sure what took more of a beating--my out-of-shape, 32-year old body or my overinflated ego.  Either way, I realized with resentment that (sigh) Mom and Dad were right.  I rushed into this decision with reckless abandon.  Now I have to unload $700 worth of ski equipment on some other unsuspecting sap with delusions about her own skiing ability.  Well (insert colorful expletive here).

I rarely admit that my parents were right--and certainly not in a public forum such as this blog.  It's amazing what a $700 "live and learn" experience can do to break one's will.  If there hadn't been such a sizable chunk of money invested in those damn skis, I would have offered them to a random baggage handler at the airport for a measly hundred bucks just so I wouldn't have to cart those bulky SOBs home only to have them mock me while resting in the storage closet upstairs.

I honestly hope to make at least some of my money back on those wretched skis, which I can then turn into a pair or two of shiny new shoes.  I'll surely get more use out of those anyway.  Besides, I'm willing to endure physical pain for an accessory that makes me at least look good--unlike those clunky Robocop ski boots that pinch my toes in places I wasn't even aware I had nerve endings!

In the meantime, if anyone is interested in buying a pair of hardly-used, high-fashion skis, I will make you a GREAT price.  I guarantee you're gonna love 'em!

Child-Proofed Society

When I was a kid, the day following Halloween consisted of dumping the contents of my plastic orange pumpkin on the living room floor and eating mini Butterfinger after mini Snickers until every last piece was gone…or until I felt sick (whichever came first).  Of course, I would be sure to first pick out the Almond Joys and any other gross candy I could pawn off on Dad–including those orange and brown wrapped peanut butter candies that NO KID EVER ATE.  Why do they still sell those??  Anyway, I look back on my past Halloween memories with fondness and nostalgia–and also with a bit of a sweet tooth!
I was disturbed to discover recently that my mom’s friends carefully monitor the candy intake of their kids and after a few pieces, toss the remaining treats in the trash.  Oh, the horror!  All that perfectly good sugar gone to waste–not to mention the $30 or $40 each household shelled out to stock up on said treats.  Now I’m all for preventing your kids from running amok and eating everything in the house (are you aware of the ridiculousness that is childhood obesity in this country??).  However, can’t we reserve a single day of the year to let kids indulge their desires until they puke?  I started thinking about how much has changed since I was a kid in the early 80s.  (Pause for a moment as I climb up here on my soapbox.)  Hello, down there.  So as I was saying, it’s amazing how times have changed in the past 20+ years.  When I played  tee ball as a kid, we kept score.  What a concept.  There was a winning team and a losing team, and no one gave a crap about how losing the game might affect our future self esteem.  So we all got to play regardless of our skills (we were three years old, after all–so we all pretty much sucked).  My point is, though, that no one tiptoed around our feelings by preventing us from failing.  There were three strikes and then you were out.  Period.  None of this “you get as many strikes as it takes” business.  My goodness, we would still be sitting in the bleachers at that ball field, waiting on some kid to finally make contact with the ball, perched atop the rubber tee.  How do I know this?  BECAUSE I STRUCK OUT.  Looking back on it now, I laugh at how I managed to strike out in tee ball.  What does that say about my eye-to-hand coordination that I couldn’t hit a stationary ball off a tee?  Even still, striking out at age three hasn’t hindered my adulthood success in any way.  If nothing else, it taught me that I am not going to achieve pro status at everything I try in life, but the point is to simply try.



Whenever I visit my child-rearing friends’ houses, I can barely open the fridge or a cabinet for all the child-proofing devices.  God forbid I need to plug in my iphone to charge because I’d first have  to remove the protective cover to the electrical outlet.  Please don’t mistake me–I believe in protecting kids from danger.  I wouldn’t allow my unborn children to play with matches or juggle knives, but I do  think we’ve taken protective practices a tad bit too far.  You may find it interesting to know that I once stuck a metal key in an electrical outlet when I was about two or three years old.  It shocked the $#&* out of me, but you know what?  I never did it again.  Live and learn.



You’ll be happy to know that I’m a strong proponent of seat belts.  In fact, I never ride in a car without mine buckled, but I find it interesting that many cars didn’t even come equipped with seat belts back in the day.  We would climb over our siblings in the backseat, all the while yelling and fighting on long road trips.  God bless my parents!  If I was feeling particularly bratty (oh, how I reveled in aggravating my big brother), I dared cross the unseen but very real “dividing line” in the backseat that was put in place to keep us from killing each other (and of course, to keep my parents remotely sane).
I also spent the better part of my childhood riding my bicycle up and down potholed-riddled streets, and not once did I don a goofy-looking bicycle helmet.  However, I’m yet to drive through my current neighborhood and cross paths with a child riding his/her bike helmetless.  I just feel like parents are overly protective of their children these days.  A child may fall off his/her bike, but chances are, they won’t sustain life-threatening injuries as a result of scrapes and scratches.  Such experiences and minor injuries help build character.
Perhaps someday, when I have my own children, I’ll be forced to eat these very words.  It’s possible I could become an overbearing, overprotective mama hen to my kids–the exact type that currently annoys me to no end.  But for now, my biggest personal concern is not raising a future generation of whiny, sissy kids that feel a sense of entitlement and demand an easy life with everything handed to them on a silver platter.  To the contrary, it’s keeping my dog, Charlie, from falling into the swimming pool.  But please know that, in order to prevent a potential drowning, I once threw him in the pool and forced him to become familiar with the tanning ledge step, should he fall in someday when we aren’t home.  He needs to know how to swim to the edge of the pool if an accident occurs.  You can’t teach a baby bird how to fly without pushing him out of the nest and forcing him to spread his wings.  It may be harsh, but it’s true.