Thursday Thirteen: Smells like Teen Spirit

13 Things I Love to Smell.

Yeah, I think I have done this before, but who knows; maybe they've changed.

I love the smell of books, and I fervently hope someone comes out with a chemical air freshener that would release that aroma from an electronic reader before all the literature goes paper-free, or I might not be able to be happy on this planet anymore.

I love the smell of freshly cut grass. Ironically, I am somewhat allergic to the clouds of discarded grass that get tossed into the air upon mowing the lawn. But the undeniable smell of cut grass conjures up images of Slip-n-Slides and long tree-climbing sessions as a child. Ain't nostalgia grand?

I am a grown woman, or so that freaking AARP notice I got in the mail tells me, but the smell of crayons still equals the smell of potential pictures of EVERYTHING to me. I actually pity small children who have been given digital cameras.

The aroma of grilling meat, preferably beef, is probably the main reason I could never be a vegetarian. Even if they come out with a soy substitute that has the right flavor and texture, I doubt they're going to be able to duplicate that smell.

I still like the smell of cigarettes, even though I have been quit longer than some of the self-righteous twits who tell smokers they can't stand that smell anymore (and some of those same twits start smoking again, so I guess the smell doesn't bother them all that much after all). I also like the smell of a pipe, and some cigars. Not all cigars. Some cigars, they look like poop sticking out of the smoker's mouth, and we should consider that a warning.

It pisses me off that I can't find a grown-up shampoo that does what I need for my own hair that has that same smell as Johnson's Baby Shampoo. I think back to when the punks were little and had that sweet baby smell and not the puky, nasty, dirty, little boy smell.

I found a huge industrial strength bottle of Pinesol for extremely cheap, and it smells like pine. It is the only incentive I have for mopping, which I hate to do, but it's worth it to walk into the house and inhale that fragrance.

The Red Velvet Bakery smells like cupcakes. I walk in there and the vanilla-y buttercreamosity automatically makes me feel like I'm six and it's my birthday. I also think about a study I read about men loving the smell of baked goods. Do you think if I smeared cake batter all over me, just before a date, I could find a decent man? Scratch that, he'd probably end up looking like jabba the hut.

My Dead Sea moisturizer smells like passion fruit. I know that passion fruit refers to the Passion of the Christ and not sexual passion, but I still giggle when I hear the word "passion fruit," because I'm immature. As if you couldn't tell from the cupcake thing. Anyway, I do like that scent an awful lot, even though it usually gets covered up by whatever perfume I choose that day.

Speaking of perfume, my signature scent, assuming I can afford to have one, is Chanel No. 5. Very Irresistible, which kind of sucks, because a) it's expensive and b) I can't usually justify buying it. But I pretend I'm Trisha Yearwood when I'm wearing it, which is a lot of fun because I don't sing out loud often. Probably more fun than actually being Trisha Yearwood . I know it's crazy but has something to do with that visible spark between her and her husband Garth Brooks.

Coming home from the barn and smelling like horses, hay, and feed is one of my favorites. It is probably in the top 3, if I had to designate a numeral rating to any of them...but I won't do that. We'll just ballpark it here, folks. Anyway. Specifically, I love the smell of horses when they're outside and you lean up against them and love on them, patting them and watching dust fly. There is something about the way a horse smells that makes this world a better place.

I love the smell of my salon. Hair color, perms, nail polish, and shampoo, in no particular order. It reminds me that I have a job that I am good at and that I love. I also think about the fact that what I do makes people feel good about themselves and lets them feel attractive and take pride in their appearance.

Fresh popcorn smells like a movie you haven't seen yet, and the possibilities are endless. Unfortunately, the popcorn scent is fleeting, so the movie better live up to its potential or I'm going to feel so hosed. Rather like life, I'm starting to notice.

I think that's thirteen. I guess, under the circumstances, it's time for me to crack open a Dr. Pepper and drink some elixir of life ( I also love that smell!), get in the shower (my body wash smells delicious!), and cook the punks breakfast (doesn't bacon frying smell great?).

I would love to know what are some of your favorite smells......

It's Something That We Do........

Yesterday, I was overcome with a writing attack while driving down the road. For those of you who don't know the mental signs & symptoms of such an attack, let me explain. It starts like a boulder sitting atop the Mountain of the Mind. Something triggers a rolling descent and the next thing a soul knows, that boulder is rolling down my thoughts at a pace that is damn near a critical emotional pace.

It makes the person (or maybe this is just my own little affliction) hold their breath, their eye's go dazed....... panicked. Their hand may wave blindly around seeking a writing utensil and if this person is driving, well, you may notice only one eyeball is actually watching the road, one hand could be on the steering wheel, or knee driving may be employed. If they couldn't find a pen, they could be writing in the dust on the dashboard and they may even sit through a green light oblivious to the world around them. Don't honk, they could be writing a masterpiece, you just don't know.

The only medication for relief, is a pen and paper (laptop if one is lucky enough to have one with them.) Now, since I already have this mental condition, I know the only safe course of action is to pull over at the first cafe, coffee shop or parking lot and write until the urgency has passed.

My attack brought my tires screeching into a little grease cafe yesterday. It was that, or the Pizza Hut across the street, no contest.... This was the sort of cafe that hasn't been updated, nor painted in a zillion years. It had the complimentary orange vinyl seat covers and an overbearing smell of bacon. It was perfect for my moment of need. I read the "seat yourself" sign, glanced around, saw not another soul eating and dived into the nearest booth next to the window in a coordinated gesture that had pen and paper on the table the moment my bottom squeaked across the vinyl.

When my sweet, little, itty, bitty, teenie, tiny white haired waitress came up I admit, I barely gave her a glance when I ordered my pathetic little ticket worth of barely justifiable items to take up vinyl real estate. Dr. Pepper and a muffin. I was writing! I was in a panic! I needed to be left alone!

An hour later, three Dr. Pepper refills and half a muffin nibbled off, I finally felt at ease. That's when I finally paid attention to my sweet teenie little white haired waitress. She came over and asked if I'd like a fourth refill, pausing, looking at my carnage of papers scattered on the table and asked, "Are you writing a novel there sweetie?" I told her I honestly had no idea what the purpose of my writing was for, it's just something I must do. Lord knows, I would love to gift the world a novel of my thoughts but I have always felt that my style is better suited to essays of multiple, random topics.

And we talked, and talked some more. I asked questions and she asked me questions. She reminded me of my Meme Aleta that passed away last year and she told me I reminded her of a granddaughter she hasn't seen in a very long time. She told me that she worked as a waitress because, "It feeds me twice a day and the money helps pay for things a person just needs in life."


That sentence WAS and IS a humanity gut punch. It makes me nauseous that someone so far along in their years has to work at a grease pit to earn money. Life should not be that way. She was too sweet, too old, and too precious for such a station in life.

So, this is what I did. I got my $2.39 cent ticket. I took a hundred dollar bill out of my purse and wrapped it with 3 one dollar bills. I wrote her a note and folded it all together with the ticket wrapped around the outside. I left it on the table and walked out. I got in my truck and watched through the window as she came over and unraveled my surprise. The smile that lit up her face made a tear roll down my cheek.

All I will say was that was the best Dr. Pepper and muffin, I've had my entire life….it was well worth it.!

Please take care of our elderly. Anyone can do what I did, and have done in the past. If not me, and if not you, then who? Even better then money is the gift of Time......Please do something kind for them now, today, tomorrow. Think of it as a "pay it forward" act of kindness. After all, one day that little lady could be someone that is special to you…….

Waitin on a woman.....

I wasn't planning to post today but I had sometime before the anti-christ(see below) gets here to get her nail fixed (read: one nail which she had done yesterday mornin and broke about noon!). This is one woman, I hate waitin on......

I have a mornin routine that I like to follow religiously. I get up, I yawn, I get a shower and enhance what the good Lord gave me, I get a can of personality (some people refer to this as Dr.Pepper, I like to think of it as a life-saving elixir) and I sit outside on my deck to breathe in the fresh air and center myself for the chaos that will inevitably follow with a teenager and a six year old (trying to peacefully coexsist, which since they are 8 years apart isn't easy) in the house.

There are mornin's I can't do this. Two mornin's a week. Two whole mornin's my routine is shattered because I let my ambition overload my butt....just leave it, as it is not worth analyzing. I have been indulging the whim of a client I have nicknamed the Anti-Christ for short. Marge (my ex-business partner) thinks this is hysterical! Honestly, I have nicknames for everyone who is a permanent fixture in my life......

This anti-christ insists on scheduling mornin appointments at 6 freakin a.m. Which means I have to drag my butt out of my bed at an ungodly hour, before even the sun rises to squire my punks off to the shop as they bounce around in the back seat and chatter as only a fresh faced youngsters can and bite my tongue until it bleeds to ensure I don't rip their faces off from my crankiness. All before I can have the first sips of my morning elixir. It shames me to admit this! I would give my life for those 2 little punks but I am nothing if not honest, especially where my faults are concerned. And I need Dr. Pepper......

To say I dread these mornin's would be a wee understatement. I'd rather have my private parts chewed off by a rabid wild animal than get behind the wheel of my truck before I'm fully awake and centered. Damn. Today was definately one of those days. I was tired, cranky and not fully awake. How safe is that? A grouchy, sleepy redneck princess(who is totally a typical woman driver....I admit it!) behind the wheel of a speeding vehicle. Good times.

This mornin the cappuccino/expresso machine broke, spewing all kinds of nasty crap all over my freshly mopped shop floor. And of course, my youngest punk got to hear his redneck princess of a mother use words that burnt his ears! I take pains to not cuss around the punks as my mouth is a virtual filth pit when I am mad.....It has made grown men blush on occasion!

As for the stupid cappuccino/expresso machine, it's last stop was the dumpster. Marge and I had decided to buy this for our early mornin clients. A little secret, I've never had even a sip of anything in the Starbucks world, except regular coffee and I only drink that in the fall/winter. I know to most folks that is crazy but I can't justify having a $5 cup of gussied up coffee. I have other addictions that I succumb to on a daily basis.....Dr. Pepper and peppermint gum! Needless to say, there will not be another cappuccino/expresso machine bought by me after the mess I cleaned up at 5:45 this mornin.

Back to my 6 a.m. anti-christ, there are two reasons I have to schedule her that early: (1) On Tuesdays, the only appointment time that I don't have booked by a regular client is 2:00 which interferes with her weekly lunch at the club (read Oak Tree). Who eats lunch at 2:00? and (2) On Saturdays, she insists on coming in that early because her husband seems to think her nails are real and so she gets up early to get her hair and nails did. I don't work every Saturday and the ones I don't almost cause her to have a nervous breakdown and we won't even talk about when I take a vacation! The anti-christ honestly thinks I should be on standby, in case she breaks a nail!! Talk about a women who has more time and money on her hands (which are fabulous! Thanks, to yours truly) than anyone person should have! I don't have the heart to tell her I charge her double because she is such a freakin pain in my backside!

I can't imagine havin that much time on my hands. I stay busy from the moment my feet hit the floor til I finally give out at night. I am surviving on about 3-4 hours of sleep a night (because I need a little princess time to unwind and do my thing) and I need about 10 hours! When my clients ask about why I smile so much I tell them its because I am delirious from lack of sleep and am truly blessed!

And I am, blessed that is! I have two wonderful punks that keep my life busy (being mom-mom is the most important thing I do all day!); I am my own boss which beats the hell out of workin for the man; I love what I do and I rock at it!!!!(this is work?????); and thankfully, I only have one client that I think is the anti-christ!

Just Another Manic Monday.....

The otherwise prophetic Bangles had this one all wrong. Mondays aren't harried. They're about hitting snooze at least once if not twice, about finally dragging your sorry self out of bed when the dog puts his tail into your nostril. They're about procrastination and not having an ironed work outfit and most certainly about leaving the house lunchless. None of this happens quickly, however. It's a slow, agonizing process that reminds you with each failure that you aren't the Sex in the City character you thought you were. Carrie would never have left the house without earrings. Wearing a tutu with a tank top an electric blue boa, yes, but never without earrings.

I remember watching Mr. Mom as a young girl, Teri Garr dressed in blouses with large flowing bows at the neck, thinking just how cool it would be to get up every morning with a big city job waiting, even if it was at Schooner Tuna. I thought it would be fun to pick out a skirt and matching handbag the night before, to line up makeup on the dresser for perky morning application, to listen first thing to one of those cool FM radios that hung from the showerhead. Either that or participate in the testosterone jokefest that is every televised carpool. You know, the ones for which everyone is ready the minute their ride pulls into the driveway. Also? These people have driveways.

I'm clearly not cut from this cloth, and require 44 ounces of caffeine and radio that understands that Uncle Kracker ballads do not an inspirational morning drive make. I'm building up a tolerance to my usual efforts to revive, however, and am in search of some new ideas. Nothing illegal, of course, as A&E's Intervention has me worried I might be addicted to Ibuprofen. Something more mainstream, more doable, something that moves me to take the time to iron the cuter skirt, to try a new gloss, to straighten the hair the entire way around my head. Something, maybe, like another day off.

I'm so glad my life involves mornings started with Dr. Pepper out on my deck, sunrises, knowing I don't work in Corporate America, living out of the mainstream, and simply, having Mondays off!