Put that in your pipe and…sing it?

It’s come to my attention that I have a very routine morning. According to Wikipedia, the most reliable source on the Internet, a routine is “a course of normative, standardized actions or procedures that are followed regularly, often repetitiously.”

In Lara terms? It’s a way to avoid getting ready for work.

My alarm goes off, I hit the snooze. My cell phone buzzes, I respond to a text blindly – for two reasons, the main one being that I refuse to actually open them and the secondary being that without my glasses focusing is a challenge. (Shut UP.) At this point, I generally try to go back to sleep while my phone and alarm race to be the next obnoxious noise to wake me.

This goes on for at least 20-minutes. Sometimes longer.

There are few things that wake me immediately. And this morning it became very evident that one of said things is trendy-pop music that I gobble up like a fat kid + cake.

Feeling vominous, yet? No?

I love Miley Cyrus. And I HATE that I love her.

First off, she is named after either your 90-year old great aunt that you met once and were enamored by the ridiculous amount of crap that she obtained throughout her life…or your next door neighbors dog. Secondly, she was born in the early 90’s…making her ALMOST 18 (boys, keep your pants on.) Even knowing both of these things, I am still addicted to her bubbly, mainstream lyrics.

When Party in the USA first came out, the radio station I listen to religiously worshipped all that is Miley by playing it at least once an hour. Meaning that I could wake up, snooze, text, dream, snooze, check my FB newsfeed, sleep, text and if I was lucky hear it again.

What a disgusting habit. What is the possibility that the music industry laces these songs with nicotine?

I had hoped that my adoration for crappy pop was a recent development. Something that my brain developed an affliction for after three years out of college and a job that is somewhat taxing on my mental stability.

Then S wrote on my Facebook wall:
“The door bell rings cause the party’s here, I’m crankin up the stereo like it’s New Year, walkin round the house like who’s Da Man – can’t nobody do it like Aaron can! Miss you!”

If you don’t get that, congratulations. You must play the Beatles, Bob Dylan and possibly Frank Sinatra through your ear buds. (If you don’t have ear buds, I am questioning my desire to be friends with you. Headphones went out of style with your rollerblades. Believe it.)

If you continued on, mumbling “First on the floor! You know that’s me. Bustin’ out the moves like it’s MTV.” to yourself with a headbob – then your brain must be filled with endless hours of Backstreet Boys, pre-crazy Britney and probably Destiny’s Child. Welcome to my world. That, dear friends, is Aaron Carter – brother of BSB Nick.

And that is DEFINITELY no recent development. Prepare yourself for countless commercials of random hipsters shouting the side effects of catchy tunes that have limited cultural impact, because if Miley and Aaron produce an offspring I can only imagine the cheesey crap that will come out of that child’s perfectly harmonic mouth.

Until next time, find me changing stations until landing on Katy Perry’s California Gurls. Or maybe Kei$ha’s Your Love is My Drug. She spells her name with a dollar sign and people think it’s cool. WTF?

No sir, my finger does not lactate.

They say that the best birth control is babysitting. I am not sure who “they” are, but “they” are entirely accurate with that statement.

Last night, while allowing my addictive hair stylist to cut my hair in a stranger’s kitchen (given, it was a friend of hers…but somehow made me feel like I was looking for one more hair-high…regardless of location) I witnessed the inner workings of a family of three.

While holding a crying newbie, desperate for his mother’s boob, I had color slathered on my previously neglected hair. You would not believe how difficult it is to explain to a baby that you are not, in fact, able to feed him. Oddly, he was satisfied sucking on my finger for a short period of time. Until, of course, he realized that much like my boobs, my finger didn’t lactate either.

Meanwhile, two toddlers — who wouldn’t talk to me otherwise due to shyness of strangers — were running in and out of the room, waiting for a simple “boo” from me. At which point, they were scream playful, piercing child-screams of giddiness and run back out of the room, leaving me with the newbie who, if he could, would push the dislike button.

And continued to wail of unhappy hunger.

R continued with the color, in a soothing, “Momma’s doing hair. I’ll be there in a minute.” Something I realize my own mother rarely would have done then or now. If I called “MOM!” she would rush to my side. I am sure this is instilling some true form of patience into M and O. At 28 (really? You’re only 28?), R has the same tenderness of many mothers. Even when explaining to me that the male-toddler (her friend’s son) had actually bitch-slapped her daughter in the mouth.

And yes, bitch-slap was her term.

Holy crap. Child violence. I am so not ready for this responsibility. Or bigger boobs.

As the night went on, I also learned that in addition to not being ready to be a parent, I will also never buy a house with a circular running path. Providing any small human with a track lacking obstacles, like doors and walls, is simply poor architecture. When given the opportunity to run, with EVERYTHING, children will literally sprint at the opportunity. After witnessing a reenactment of Harry Potter – wand included – I am quite certain my child will be using safety scissors until the age of 16, when the state trusts them with a driver’s license.

I wasn’t even babysitting these children. I was simply a guest. A temporary implant into their life. Can you imagine what would have happened had I been left alone with them?

I can. Only because I once babysat M when she was a baby, insisting that my cousin and his wife had a date night — a term they are no longer familiar with. Though firetrucks, ambulances and CPS were not involved – I am sure that having a small baby pee on your knee then later spit-up ON YOUR FACE would be grounds for leaving her unattended…as joining a convent and life without procreation was calling my name.

So the next time you are strolling through Target (OMG I LOVE TARGET!!), passing the baby clothes and hearing yourself go “awwwwww cuuuuuteeeee!” remember that yes, floral prints in a mini-sized onesie is adorable.

Until it’s covered in poop.

Hair: Such a Tease

If you are an avid follower of my blog (which you should be), I am sure that you know I am obsessed with a lot of things (i.e. Starbucks, myself, Facebook). Clearly, the examples provided are worthy of my time and obsessive nature — however there are some things that I leave unnoticed. Namely my hair.

My locks are easily the simplest thing about me. They are a chestnutty brown. Cumulatively, my hair is equivalent to the state of Rhode Island, whereas my closest friend’s hair is more like Texas. They require little attention from me (unlike my feet, hands, skin) and can often be dried in under a minute. ONE MINUTE. Think about the last time you blow dried your hair ladies. Men, well, I am flattered you are still reading.

For as long as I can remember, I have bounced from my Dad’s stylist to my Mom’s (love ya D!) — each time saying, “I’d like a trim, and y’know, something easy.” (Chill Grandma, I’m just talking about my hair.) I love highlights, and having someone else wash my hair. They always style it, giving me a momentary vision of hope…until it quickly looses shape once stepping foot outside the salon. Such a tease you are, hair.

In the event that you have had the privilege of waking up next to me, you know that my hair is infamous for being the worst morning hair OF ALL TIME. (Note: Thank gawd my Grandmother doesn’t have the internet. I am sure that statement alone would be support for her “…whoring around” comment. See ‘Drinkin’ For Two’ if you don’t get the reference, you lazy follower.) Though it’s straighter than raw spaghetti, my hair has the ability to form itself into some type of poofy, Meduza-esque mess that can only be replicated by stage-stylists.

I once had a roommate that taught me that half a can of hairspray + backcombing + a ponytail = sexy hair. That right there? Is the extent that I go through for my hair. If I curl it, it goes flat. If I crimp it, I end up looking like a lame Kelly Kapowski replica (side pony?!) No hair product has done me good, unless it’s dry shampoo. Otherwise my tresses rebel, absorbing whatever I’ve tried so that I could pass as a Greaser. ::puke::

When I was 12, my hair waterfalled down my back. It was a long, thin mess of a pony tail that I assume was more trouble than what I can remember. I went to get a cut with my cousin, swearing I was going to have her chop it off. And chop she did. I went from being Cousin It’s little sister to a tom-boy with a shag bowl cut. Imagine my Mother’s surprise (she always has a perfect ‘do, fyi. Blonde bob, with bangs. Perfect.) when I came home, pony tail in hand, near tears to what the stylist had done to my previously lengthy quaff. Needless to say I was rarely unaccompanied for cuts after that, nor did I want to be.

Hair stylists to women are like bartenders to men. They are witty, cheerful people that make you look beautiful — or if you’re a man, your bartender not only listens but pours you enough sauce so the woman next to temporarily appears beautiful. For years my Dad would take me to Great Clips, because what did I know of foiling and feathered layers? Once I finally discovered a woman who promised me effortless, cute hair I was in awe of my willingness to spend my meagre college paychecks every 6-weeks to sit in her chair, and babble about whatever unimportant drama was happening in my life (usually with a hangover.)

Then, I moved back home, leaving my stylist behind.

It’s been more than six months since my last cut. My hair is long enough to pull back into a ponytail. My natural color has returned, and my morning beehive seems to be in full swing. I keep promising myself I’ll find someone new. Someone just as good. Rather, I live in a world of hair denial, with full on stylist withdrawals.

To you, dearest quaff, I am sorry. I promise to no longer ignore your spaghetti like nature — I’ll find someone new.

But not quite yet…R’s in town and I need her scissors one more time…

Drinkin’ for two.

Last night I returned from a five day hiatus from the following: reliable cell service, a computer, Starbucks and cable. After spending a long weekend visiting my Grandparents in Montana you would think I wouldn’t come back with much to tell — oh but how you’re wrong.

As mentioned above, my vacation lacked many of my favorites. Luckily, coffee is a staple for everyone not just the caffeine-addict that is rolling through town looking for a fix. Though she loves to cook, Grandma also likes to go to the Oasis, a cafe/bar/casino-type establishment. Why? Though their coffee is more expensive than at McDonalds, 75¢ versus 50¢, they have delicious cinnamon rolls. (Even if they are previously frozen, she pretends not to care.)

Yes – you did read that correctly. Drip coffee costs less than ONE DOLLAR. I can’t figure out how they are making money. Or, maybe now I understand more clearly why Starbucks is a multi-billion dollar coffee pushing machine.

Though I do enjoy oodles of butter and sugar oozing down golden brown, cinnamony goodness, I was in the mood for an actual meal the morning Grandma and I decided to visit the Oasis. She was as well, and without even holding a menu ordered the senior portion of your standard diner breakfast: eggs, hasbrowns, toast and your choice of various meats. After she ordered, my conversation with the waitress was as follows:

Me: That sounds good. I’ll have the same, but you know, the regular size non-senior portion. ::awkward chuckle:: two eggs…
Waitress: You got it.
She turns to walk away..
Waitress: Eatin’ for two.

I quickly looked around, hoping someone else heard her. Then immediately looked down at my (empty) stomach. Confused, my Grandmother seemed oblivious of the waitress’s comment of me having a cinnamon bun in MY oven. I didn’t even have a loose shirt on.

The same evening after cautiously loading my dinner plate, and guffawing with my extended family about the above comment, I headed up to my good friend M’s house. She happened to be in town, as was her older sister and adorable nephew — whom I had never met.

M’s dad stocks their house worthy of a Seattle bar. After a few glasses of wine, followed by a couple Greyhounds and enough hot tubbing to make me the fifth member of the Raisinets it was agreed that M and I should have a sleepover. After assuring Grandma that I would be home by 8 am for an intense bonding session, we mixed another and headed back to the hot tub.

As promised, I was home before 8…and locked out. It was reminiscent of losing your dorm keys after a walk of shame across campus, being forced to wait for someone (who was clean and showered) leaving before seeking refuge inside.

Oh the wrath that is a Grandmother. Once she opened the door, scowling, she busied herself. During this time I took the opportunity to sneak downstairs and try to catch a few extra z’s. Really I blame the hot tub. It was dehydrating, I would have felt just fine otherwise. (Yeah, right.) It didn’t take long for her to sleuth me out.

The light didn’t stun my eyes immediately, as I’d pulled a blanket over my head, but after she whipped it back I can’t say I was entirely surprised. As I turned over to meet her glare, she smacked me on the leg and snapped, “Get up. No more sleeping. You wouldn’t be so tired if you weren’t out all night whoring around.”

Speechlessness ensues.

I am not sure if she was in cahoots with the waitress, however I hope they both know one can’t get pregnant in a hot tub with another female. Otherwise someone gave them a very skewed version of the birds and the bees.