My husband has been in Huntington Beach, California for exactly 198 hours and I am totally over it. I mean, in the beginning, I had big plans for myself while he was gone. I planned on an afternoon at the shooting range, an evening with Paula Fuga at Mulligan’s on the Blue, plowing through at least three novels, writing 80 pages of my own tome, catching up on Grey’s Anatomy, doing a little pole-dancing and polishing off three bottles of wine”“two red, one white. None of this has happened.
Instead, while my dear husband is off revamping an old car for an episode of Overhaulin’ with Chip Foose and a few perky female “Personal Assistants” he can’t help but talk about every damn time he phones, I’ve been dealing with a sick baby (our son spiked a temp of 105.3 degrees) and the subsequent loss of work hours that come along with it. Not to mention all the normal household duties that comes along with being a pseudo-single mom with raging PMS.
Granted, things could be worse. My son’s brain could have turned into a little pot roast, and my husband could be screwing $20 hookers in Tijuana instead of simply getting hammered at the hotel bar with said perky PA’s (What exactly do they assist him with, anyway?).
How do I know everything’s okay and he’s not dabbling in any extra-marital hanky-panky?. At this point I’m going on faith and a little known Puerto Rican spell cast by my BFF. If his penis comes home withered and black, he’s going to have some explaining to do.
But until he actually does come home and I have a chance to examine the goods, I’ve done what any reasonable woman in my situation would do: revolt against shaving my legs, devour bacon with every meal and cry during commercials. Also, I got a haircut.
Let’s talk about this “haircut thing” a moment. Like many women, I’ve found that I cut or color my hair when I am stressed out or just generally sick of my life.
I used to do it frequently. I’ve had a pixie cut, bob, shoulder-length tresses, waist-length mane. I’ve worn my hair in shades of black, purple, pink and this god-awful ehu color. But in the past three and a half years, I haven’t done a damn thing to it. But recently, I woke up one morning knowing that I was cutting my hair. Immediately.
So I scheduled an appointment at Beauty Bar in Wailuku because pretty much all the women that I work with (Judy, Wendy, Samantha) all have a great sense of style and they go there. So I went, and I like-ey.
At first, when I saw how much the lovely Dawn was snipping off of my strands, I started to hyperventilate. It took me a really long time to grow that stuff, and who cares if it’s dead and straggly? It’s my hair, for crying out loud.
It turns out that Dawn knew what she was doing and I left with “bouncin’ and behavin'” healthy curls that made me feel instantly better.
Perky PA’s, my ass.
So anyway, life as a pseudo-single mom has definitely reminded me why I appreciate my husband. Granted, I’m a little irritated at him at the moment so I can’t think of what exactly I appreciate, but I just know that I do. Really, I do.
Starr Begley is so not looking forward to taking out the trash tonight. MTW