Worst Packer Ever

Great news!

Mom made it here safely.

I was surprised that she was able to walk in the house without shaking. After all she had to drive through heavy snow and on slippery roads. I’d have been twitching all over to the point where someone would ask if I was having spasms or something. My hands would have been sore from gripping the wheel tightly. But Mom, she was a trooper.

Mom watched the kids yesterday while I got my hair done. I’m actually supposed to get it done every six weeks. I usually get it done every six months. At that point my roots are showing horribly and my hair has tons of split ends that would cause those hair experts that come on the E channel to gasp in horror. My hair is bad enough to be featured on the Don’t page of Glamour magazine. I could imagine them blocking out my face and having the words: “DON’T go out of the house with hair that resembles a mop” over my head.

I get my hair done at the Regis Hair Salons because they offer a 20% off military discount which excites me to no end. I sort of feel sorry for the hair stylist because they always suck in their breath slightly when they realize how much hair I have. I mean, I always mention that I have a lot of hair when I make my appointment but I don’t think they believe that it’s really down my back until they see it.

“I know it’s a lot of hair,” I’ve been known to say. “But at least you’ll be getting a lot of arm exercises from lifting it and such.”

No one has ever laughed at that though.

They sort of offer a half smile as they place the drape around me and run their fingers dazedly through my hair as though they can’t believe a person can have so much of it.

Then the other customers in the salon will usually say something like, “Wow! You have a lot of hair!” or the inevitable: “Are you getting all that hair cut off today?”

No way. I’m one of those people who can’t have short hair. If I cut my hair short then it puffs out. And Afros just don’t look right on white people. I mean, if I really wanted it short I would have to straighten it every day but who has time for that when you have two rambunctious children running around? Plus, if I attempted it, I could see Natalie reaching out and burning herself on the Straightener because she thought it was some weird dish thing that went with her toy kitchen. I could see Tommy grabbing it and trying to straighten Max the Cat’s fur. Then of course we’d have to take Max the Cat to the vet for the first degree burns.

So you see, short hair is just not for me.

Plus, I like having long hair. It helps me stand out in the crowd. I’m usually known as the “girl with the long hair.” (Or the girl who jumps a lot. I can’t help that I startle easily.) Tom also likes my long hair. He used to like running his hands through it when we were dating. Now he sort of pulls strands out of his mouth and gives a long sigh. I asked if that meant that he was sick of my long hair and he went, “No, I love it,” but sometimes I wonder if he’s just being polite.

Anyhow, while the stylist was putting the color into my poor ugly roots she started to Make Conversation. I wish I was better at Making Conversation. I must have a warped sense of humor because most of the things that come out of my mouth sound funny to me but not a lot of people laugh. Then if there is a lull in the conversation I feel the need to say something because I don’t want to be known as the Boring Client Who Says Nothing. But then again, sometimes I wish the stylist would stop yakking because who wants to sit around and discuss the weather for twenty minutes? Sometimes I want to cover their mouths and be all,

“Look. I don’t get out much without the kids. I’m going to try and enjoy the quiet because I don’t get a lot of it at home. I hope you understand.”

Then I worry that I’ll come across as rude and they’ll “accidentally” burn my scalp while straightening my hair.

So I usually end up prattling on, talking about nothing, saying things that sound funny to me but really aren’t to anyone else.

I always give a generous tip though. It’s sort of my way of apologizing for having all the hair and for my poor humor.

The good news is that Natalie didn’t cry while I was gone. This was a sort of test to see how she’d react with not having me around. Sometimes she throws horrible fits and I was so worried she’d scream up a lung the second I was gone. But no, this time she didn’t do that. She did ask Mom where I was once and that was it.

I’m hoping she does the same while I’m away on my trip.

My trip, for those who don’t know, is to the Mall of America with my best friend Jennifer. I leave tomorrow and I return on Thursday. It’s just the two of us. No children. No husbands.

Of course I know I deserve the trip—after all, it’s my first trip without the kids—but I can’t help but feel slightly guilty. I know the kids are in good hands with my mother. She’s quite capable and is probably even more patient than I am.

I’ve basically done with all my packing. Of course I think I’ve packed too much. I started to go through my suitcase and I decided to pull out the dress I had shoved in there. I mean, what would I need a dress for?

But then I start to think that suppose I run into Michael Phelps and he’s all, “Hey, you’re awesome, let me take you out to dinner,” and I don’t have anything fancy to wear?

I mean, there’s nothing wrong with going out on a platonic dinner is there? Plus, Michael Phelps is on My List.

(My List, for those who don’t know, is a list of celebrities that I can mess around with. Tom has one too. Although I doubt I’d ever go through with it because I have an annoying Voice of Reason.)

Anyhow, as I was saying, suppose I was invited for a dinner and I didn’t have the proper attire? Then I’d be all, “Dang it, I wish I had brought that dress!”

But then of course I realized that the odds of bumping into Michael Phelps are slim to none since he practically lives in the pool and plus, I doubt he’d show any interest in me anyhow because he tends to go for dark haired women who are a size 0. Plus he’s like seven feet tall and I’m only five foot three so I doubt he’d even HEAR me when I spoke to him.

So I ended up taking out my dress.

Then I realized I had more shirts than I needed but then I was all, “But what if I get intense BO and need to change?”

Not that I’m a stinky person, I swear it! But with all that walking around and shopping, well, sweat is bound to happen right?

And I can’t walk around smelling like I’m from Europe. Not that all Europeans smell. Some smell quite nice. But I was in Paris once and this guy walked past me and I nearly passed out from the stench. And that one time I was in England and this guy saddled up beside me on the Tube and I swear that he must’ve bathed in vomit because dear gracious, I wanted to gag. But I didn’t, because that would have been rude. I sort of tried to breathe through my mouth but then I started to TASTE him and that was even worse. Americans don’t always smell that good either. I mean, Mickey Rourke doesn’t look like he smells that great.

So I decided to leave in the one extra shirt just in case my deodorant fails me. Maybe I should have bought the Clinical Strength deodorant for the trip? Hrm. Maybe I should run to the store and grab some of that. Then I wouldn’t have to take the extra shirt because isn’t the Clinicial Strength deodorant supposed to clog up your sweat pores so nothing comes out? The commercial showed this bride dancing around and flashing her pits to her guests and the sweat glands looked pretty clogged to me. Of course, that was probably due to the magic of film.

Maybe the extra shirt should stay then.

Then I realized I had too many pairs of underwear and I started to think, well, that’s in case I have an accident.

Not that I WILL because hello, I’m 26, not 62. I shouldn’t have issues with my bladder. Granted, my bladder isn’t what it was before having children. My poor kids abused my bladder while in utero and thought of it as their own personal punching bag. This means I am no longer able to hold my pee for hours as I once was able to. This means that the second I feel the urge to go that I NEED TO BE ON THE TOILET or it won’t be pretty.

Thankfully I’ve always been able to get to the bathrooms in time.

I mean, there was this one instance where I had to push past this teenager but honestly, it was an emergency! The teen probably just wanted to text privately in the stall anyhow. She looked the type to do that sexting business that I keep hearing about.

I decided to keep the extra undies in just in case. Not that I plan on pissing all over myself but you never know.

I then realized that I had quite a few pairs of bras which didn’t make sense to me because no one is going to be seeing my bras. Well, maybe Jennifer since we’re sharing a room. But I’m not intending on flashing her or anything. But then I started to go through that scenario where I’ll run into a celebrity on my list and I wouldn’t want to go out with him while in my tattered bra.

Not that I expect the celebrity to SEE my bra because like I said, even though they may be on My List I have a Voice of Reason who sometimes starts to sound like Fran Dresher and it would be quite distracting to have Fran in my ear while the celebrity was trying to rain kisses down my neck. I just wouldn’t be able to enjoy myself.

So out went a few bras.

Then I realized I had way too many socks but I started to worry that I’d step into a gigantic puddle or something. You just never know.

Basically, if you can’t already tell, I’m the Worst Packer Ever.

But it’s okay. I’ve made peace with it.

Jennifer is calling tonight and we’re just going to go over any last minute details. I’ll probably moan about how I can’t pack.

And then, when we say goodbye, for the first time in over two years, we can say, “See you tomorrow….”