Thursday, July 17, 2008
The following post should be read while humming the tune of "Memories" by Barbara Streisand for maximum effect. If you are too young to remember this particular selection, or if you are old enough to remember, but have never suffered the devastating effects of a tragic curly permanent, you may have a hard time relating to this particular rant.
If, on the other hand, you can recall Babs at her finest. If, perchance, you did survive the deadly self-esteem crushing side effects of the dreaded curly perm. On the off chance that you suffered cosmetological abuse at the hands of a well intentioned mother, who enlisted the services of your otherwise loving grandmother, to tie you to a vinyl covered chrome kitchen chair with a dish towel, then proceed to wrap each of your virgin baby hairs individually in pink plastic thorn studded perm rods, after which, without ceremony, the evil duo doused your 50 lb. head with an ammonia infused concoction commonly known as the "Lilt Home Permanent" without benefit of the recommended allergy patch test. Then you, my friend, have come to the right place.
Today is the day, the anniversary of my birth. The number? Too high to speak of. Let us just say it would be a handsome sum if deposited in to a checking account. No ground pawing horse, or piano playing chicken could scratch out these digits for enthralled crowds at the carnival. If my age were an altitude, it could cause a nosebleed. If the ascent from a depth of this number were too swift, the result would be a horrid case of the bends and many painful hours spent in a hyperbaric oxygen chamber. We are talking OLD here people.
The only thing keeping me from microwaving my head today is a lovely dark chocolate, fudge truffle, birthday cake adorned with fresh strawberries. Thankfully, the pristine pastry was delivered sans those pesky little beacons of impending Alzheimer’s disease commonly known as birthday candles. There was also a family sized box of Kleenex tissues instead of the traditional “over the hill” cocktail napkins. This indeed was my saving grace. Thank you, BFSK S.(Best friend since kindergarten ) for thinking of everything. It would be inconsiderate of me to off myself before enjoying a good cry, and at least half of the 10,000-calorie consolation prize.
Did I forget to mention the beautiful (and honking big) jeweled necklace that accompanied the cake? This too is a reason for living. Not only because I fully intend to flaunt it in the face of Sugar Daddy (the boyfriend formerly known as doo-doo head) who will naturally assume it was a token of love from my “other” boyfriend, ( a notion I will not dispel until after he has changed tonight’s dinner reservation to a much more expensive locale, and perhaps even made an emergency call to the florist for at least a dozen pink roses) but also, because the addition of the blinding gem to my décolletage will detract attention from my double chins and bulldog jowls.
I have decided to allow myself two more hours to mourn the passing of my youth; I will forgive Big Judes (my Mom) for the Orphan Annie experience. I will also forgive her for laughing aloud at the tragic results of the Lilt fiasco and shearing my head into a “pixie cut” which caused total strangers to address me as Tiger, or Sport, and point me in the direction of the boy’s restroom when asked for assistance.
Because I am trying my best to be a “good daughter” I will call Big Judes to thank her for the check that arrived on time, as expected, as usual, because Big Judes is the “Crazy Holiday Lady” and because for reasons not entirely clear to me she chooses to count my birthday as a reason to celebrate, along with Bastille Day and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr's. birthday, in spite of my shortcomings, and I am thankful.
Then there is this:
“ Yes I am your friend!!! Remember I'm the BFSK S! It's been a long time and many miles we have traveled..good and bad but what a journey! Would not have wanted to the the journey with anyone else but YOU!”
The message I received in my inbox this morning in response to yesterdays self indulgent post entitled “That’s What Friends Are For”. I will thank S. too. I will not point out the fact that she comments privately instead of on the blog that desperately lacks comments, or that if she would ever comment publicly it would dispel the rumor that she is my “imaginary friend”. I won’t bring up the typo, because after all, who am I to criticize? I am sure her vision was clouded with emotion, besides there is no spell check necessary between friends. I know exactly what she means.
Ditto, Cabbage Head.