Gravity Sucks

I talk to myself, a lot. Sometimes I direct my conversations to my dogs, but I’m really just trying not to look crazy if any other human is listening. Lately I have uttered “Gravity sucks!” when I drop stuff. I think I am mad at Isaac Newton. He didn’t invent gravity, but was the one who identified it. If he hadn’t been a lazy butt and fallen asleep under an apple tree, I wouldn’t be having a gravity problem. Maybe I should be mad at the apple that beaned him on the noggin. So I was looking in the mirror the other day, focusing on my neck. My skin was all wrinkly and crepey. The term “turkey wattle” popped into my head. Ugh. I pulled on the back of my neck and the wattle disappeared like magic. It was then that I remembered watching my mother doing the same thing. At the time, she had been a lifelong smoker. I just assumed that was what created all the wrinkles. Plus, she was OLD. I figured wrinkles came with the territory. I would like to smack the young me on the back of the head (like Isaac Newton’s rogue apple) for being stupid and insensitive. What a jerk. The older me now realizes that my mom’s wrinkles weren’t due to smoking. It was GRAVITY’s fault. I am not upset enough with the aging process to try a surgical fix. I have seen enough actors on TV with weird plastic, immovable faces to keep my wrinkles firmly in place. Still, I am starting to understand the motivation. Butts sag, boobs sag (mine are still perky), bags appear under eyes. Gravity, gravity, gravity. I know we need to be anchored to the ground, but less might be more fun. I would enjoy leaping high like the astronauts did on the Moon. If a person could actually live on the Moon, would they have no wrinkles? Maybe just tiny laugh lines, and no saggy body parts. Hmmm. Where do I sign up for Space Force? Can I go NOW? And just how big will my butt look in the silly uniform? So much to ponder. Maybe I should just stay put, embrace my neck, and stay mad at Isaac Newton’s apple. Sigh.

Bombs Away

So what’s the deal with Mother Nature? She seems to be extremely ticked off. We’ve had epic hurricanes and large earthquakes. Then the worldwide Pandemic struck. Now the animals are acting hinky. The other day Boley and I headed out on our early morning walk. We weren’t even to the sidewalk when we got dive-bombed by a crow. It came just above Boley and I could feel and hear a WHOOSH as it flew by. As we continued, we got swooped on seven times. On the last pass, the crow actually touched Boley’s head. I stopped and checked to make sure no blood had been drawn but found that Boley was okay. More and more crows landed on trees around us, cawing loudly. The whole thing reminded me of the movie “The Birds”. It was terrifying. I expected to see Alfred Hitchcock walking across the sidewalk off in the distance. We continued around the block and cut back to the house through the alley. I didn’t want to have another bird encounter. Shortly after, on my drive back from the neighborhood bakery, I spied a lady walking towards my street. I thought about rolling down my window and warning her about the crows. Then, I selfishly reconsidered. If the crows were busy attacking her, I would be safe getting out of my car with my lattes and pastries. Yes, I was a jerk, but in thought only. The lady ended up walking in a different direction. People tell me that crows are awesome and mate for life. Whatever. I find them creepy, menacing, and for sure are smarter than I am. I resent that. Years ago when we would walk our two Scotties, crow scouts would yell to their buddies to tell them we were on our way home. Then they would be waiting in the backyard when we arrived to throw peanuts out for the squirrels. They knew our routine and were way ahead of us. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see them impatiently tapping their claws and checking little crow watches. No more attacks have happened. I hold my head high as we walk, daring the crows to mess with me again. It’s an act though. Is there such a thing as Crow PTSD? If there is, I’ve got it.

Pandemic Hair

I snagged the last available appointment the day my barbershop closed its doors. Little did I know it would be a very long while before my next haircut. As I write this, we are more than two months out. I have (er… had) very short hair, fashionably sticky-up on top. Currently my hairdo is careening from Kramer (“Seinfeld”) into Marge Simpson territory. I have kept my sideburns trimmed using little nail scissors. I can do that much without doing too much harm. I had my husband shave my neck with our electric clippers. He did a mostly efficient job, except for being a bit too vigorous. But hey, the red marks on my neck have finally healed! I clipped his hair, and did an adequate job. I’m not sure if he isn’t that picky or if I just had beginner’s luck. Needless to say, I’m not going to get cocky and think I know what I’m doing the next time. Bad things can happen that way. Case in point - Stella, my little Yorkie. She was in serious need of grooming. I knew the clippers would terrify her, so I trimmed her with some small scissors. I tried to emulate how my stylist cuts my hair. After a while, I got tired and figured I might be trying too hard. She was just a dog, right? Wrong. The best I can say is that I didn’t stab her or draw blood. Her overall haircut looks very choppy. I have no idea when the groomer will be open for business. Hopefully, there’s a little more time for my handiwork to fill in a bit. During this time, I’ve noticed something weird about the men on TV (reporters, commentators & government officials). Their hair is longer than usual, but they have also grown beards. Why can’t they shave their own faces? Is shaving such a pain that they are enjoying the freedom to be scruffy? I haven’t had eyebrow/lip service in a couple months. Unlike men with beards, if I appear with a mustache, it won’t be on purpose. Times are tough for EVERYBODY right now. Hairstyling is not a big deal. Still, I would totally stalk my hairdresser if I knew where she lived. Umm… is stalking still a crime???