Hair-um Scare-um

 Quick—see if you can name this common object:

          If you said steel wool, you are right. If you said Joni’s hair after a total disaster at the salon, you would also be right. (And now when I hear about someone calling S.O.S. I'm going to think they're in a panic because their hair now looks like an S.O.S. pad!)

          I went in to get some lowlights put into my light blonde hair, and when the colorist washed it out, my entire head of hair was now charcoal gray with black streaks. She said, "It will lighten a bit each time you wash it." Honey, I'd have to wash it every day for a century, and it still wouldn't make it blonde.

          St. Bob said he could turn me upside down and use me to scrub pots.  I glared at him. “Just try.” 

          My curls actually did resemble this wire scrubber:

          Or the sludge you see on the roadside during winter:

          Or the beard of physicist James Clerk Maxwell:

          Crossed with Rasputin:

           And the Bride of Frankenstein:

           Forget COVID. I'll have to quarantine just to hide my hair!

           This all happened after cancer and chemo. When you lose all your hair, it grows in a different texture and color. In my case, it grew in even curlier and dark brown!  Yet my eyebrows stayed blonde.

          Did I find someone to correct the situation? Yes. In steps. Hallelujah. And, now that I’m on my way back to being myself, I have to admit that streaky charcoal hair is better than no hair at all.

          Next time you’re unhappy with your hair, just stay inside and read my books! Or watch my Youtube Mom videos!

Survey THIS

           Have you taken enough surveys, yet?  Tech support, online companies—everyone wants a piece of your time and your expert evaluation. 

          I know a guy who sells cars, and if his customers don’t rate him “Truly Outstanding” he can get fired. Let me ask you this:  Have you ever bought a car—any car—and considered the experience “truly outstanding”?  

          Do you even have five experiences in your lifetime that you would call truly outstanding?  So what does a guy have to do, to leave you with that kind of buzz, after shelling out a huge chunk of your earnings?  Should he juggle and sing?  Send you off with a parade?  Offer to put your kids through college?  Now that would be truly outstanding.

          I’ll tell you who never does surveys:  The very folks you’d like to rate.  The places where the service is so abominable that you honestly wonder if there’s a hidden camera somewhere, and this whole thing is a set-up.  Airlines who bump and overbook, then lose your luggage.  Repair shops where you swear you’re invisible, standing for ten minutes before you’re acknowledged.  Supermarkets where the only conversation you hear from the checker and the bagger is about their breaks, their next vacation, and how long they’ve been working that day.

          The place that really needs to hand out survey forms is the doctor’s office. Ironically, this is the only place where you actually have the time to fill one out.

      Was your wait reasonable?  Are you kidding me?  Next time I’m arriving with a tool box, and I’m going to say, “Oh, take your time.  I’ll just tinker while I wait.”

      Were you treated with courtesy?  What—weighed in like livestock then put into a paper smock and locked up in a cold cell?

      Was your stay pleasant?  No; it was like visiting a house of horrors—the wall “art” is a bunch of free posters from pharmaceutical companies, showing close ups of festering puss, swollen membranes, and runny eyes.  Someone needs to tell physicians that while this stuff may fascinate them, it is the very reason the rest of us did not pursue medicine as a career.  There’s a reason why skin is opaque, you know.  Surely they can afford something else for the walls, and save the gooey skin cancer pictures in an album.

          Makes you wonder how medicine might change if doctors knew they had to get a “Truly Outstanding” rating from their patients.  You want medical reform?  Start with a survey their license depends upon.  Now that’s the one survey I’d be happy to fill out.

But you can pass the time while waiting by reading one of my books!  

Can't Blame Auto-Correct This Time!

           This is quite possibly my most embarrassing admission, yet. I know, I know, a pretty high bar has been set by previous blogs, but this promises to set a new standard of blondeness, at least.

          Here’s what happened. First, we decided to put some under-the-cabinets lighting in the kitchen. I love the extra brightness when I’m cooking.  St. Bob, as St. Bob does, handled everything. He bought the lights, installed them, then tossed a little remote onto the counter, which turns them on and off. Easy peasy.

          So I decided to try turning them on myself. I should also tell you that St. Bob is the only human in this house who has also handled the multiple TV remotes. I basically have nothing to do with electronics. So I am not familiar with these cell phone lookalikes.

          But I picked up the remote anyway. And what do I see? A helpful little button that says, “No.” Yep, right there on the bottom, in green.

          Well, I don’t want to push one that could eject me through the roof and into the stratosphere, right?  Or it could detonate a bomb somewhere.  At the very least, it will short out our kitchen lights.  Certainly bad things will result. Why else would they be sure to label one with the warning, “NO”?

          Okay, then I did glance at the other buttons and realized they were upside down. It was all over in a matter of seconds, really. I turned it around, pressed “ON” and the lights sparkled into being.

          But I still think “No” when I pick it up. And now, the next time you do something embarrassing, you can compare it to this true story and feel quite brilliant. You’re welcome.

          There is no Youtube Mom video about how to realize what buttons actually mean. But there are plenty of short life hacks that will amaze you right here!

Am I Being Followed (and not just online)?

           Whenever our eldest, Richie, comes over, I try not to pester him for tech help. I even thought of posting a sign like they have at some offices: 

          Only mine would say, “47 days since Richie has been asked for tech help.”  But I can never last that long. This time I was trying to load a photo to a new location and it wouldn’t work.

          And then—Shazam! I opened the new location and there was the photo. “Hey, wait! I guess I did it after all,” I said.

          St. Bob shook his head. “Before I die I’m going to hire someone to follow her around.”

          Richie laughed and nodded. “You could probably get someone to do it for free, if you advertise to comedians who need material.”

          Ha! Little do they know I’m planning to join the CIA as a spy, and you know they get followed around all the time. I am way ahead of this.

Writers are notorious daydreamers. See for yourself by ordering my books!