I'm Unappreciated

My hair is getting really long, so I've taken to wearing it up in a braid or a bun (shades of my grandmother). I like to think that when I take it down, I have luxuriant waves, but one day I noticed that my unbraided hair keeps separating itself into thin, scraggly, pseuo-dreds. Ok, I thought, screw the braid; the bun won't let me down. Last night, D.D. said I had a bunch of "crinkly little hairs", and L.H. commented that my hair looked frizzy, then corrected himself: bushy.

When L.H. was little, he had a knack for pushing people's buttons, to the point that his mother feared for his life when he started in on his older, bigger brother. He hasn't outgrown this trait. Of course, my mom says I had a smart mouth, but I—Wait, scratch that. Never mind.

I was just remembering the time in junior high when the guy who sat in front of me in math started calling a blond classmate "Goldilocks" and myself "Shitty-locks." My thirty-two-year-old self hopes my thirteen-year-old self told him he was a total dick. (He grew out of it, if I remember correctly.)

I hope that something like that doesn't happen to my beautiful, brunette daughter, but I imagine anyone who tried it would get a punch in the face for his efforts.

I finally broke down and hit the "Jeans Palace." According to the Levis site, the JP carries their jeans. I know exactly what style and size of Levis fit me (having just bought a pair while in Texas), so I thought shopping would be a snap. Encouraged by the "30% off brand-name jeans" sign, I entered the den of iniquity. Where I promptly had a heart attack and fell over. !!86 euros for Levis!! (and not even in the style I was looking for). Even with the discount, there is no way I would pay half my grocery bill for jeans. Sheesh!

I like to read fantasy novels, and I'm giving writing one a shot, but I have to admit that I feel a little silly writing a bare-bones outline of the plot; I actually used the word "ensorcel." *mental note—fire that part of my brain* I think I need to jazz things up, like use mafia-esque terms: the wizard whacked a bunch of people. Now I feel less silly.

My Lovely Husband just put out a bunch of geraniums and some plumbagos—or, as we call them around here, his "precious plumbagos." That goes back to when he had a huge wall of plumbagos growing outside our front door, and he would disappear for a while each evening in order to water and prune and rearrange his darling plants. The new flowers are in flower boxes all along both balconies (over one another on the east-ish side of the house). Since we have a kind of Bavarian-looking house, L.H. insists on the flowers to go with the look. I'll give him his prop and say that I enjoy the view out the kitchen window much more after his flower-planting orgy. So there.