Archive for August, 2009

Greasy Hair December 19, 2005

With this damn boil water order still in effect, I am wondering what’s going on with my hair, the deposits from the shower, whatever CRAP may be lingering on my body.

Last night, we were brushing our teeth at 1am after getting home from J’s work at the piano bar. He suddenly shrieked and goes, “I just used TAP water to brush my teeth!” despite that we have a jug of bottled water there to use for safety sake and per order of the DEP of Massachusetts.

So far, he’s still alive.

There is no ecoli in the water, thank goodness, but an electrician working on fixing the problem at the plant says it could be a few more weeks.


At any rate, wondering what is gonna happen to my hair if this continues and I keep showering in our lovely tainted city water, I am reminded of a post I wrote in 1995 for my first ever blog “Painter Beach Girl”. I wrote the blog when I was going through my divorce, dating a chef, and living with my mother with a two and four year old in her 800 square foot condo.

What a long way we have come.

So here is a hair story.

Monday, December 19, 2005

Greasy Hair

My mom gave me some baby oil to put in the girls’ bath water, in hopes of smoothing out their skin in this dry winter weather, brought on my cold temps and wind outside and the heat in the house, drying out their baby skin. My 3 year old is constantly on her back on the seisel rug, her shirt hiked up around her neck, wiggling around, scratching her back. It was my solution to her constant whining “scratch my back, Mommy! HIGHER! MORE!” while the grilled cheese sandwiches were burning on the stove. I’ve considered making her a scratching post in the doorway.

So, I added it to their tub that night and got them bathed, nearly lost grip on them as they got out of the bath, but my, they were soft as newborn babies. I thought I might have scored on the skin conditioning thing. The lotion I had been using didnt work well and they didnt like it because it was cold when I put it on them.

As their hair dried, I couldnt figure out why it seemed to dry in wet looking clumps and touched it and realized their hair was incredibly greasy, from the baby oil bath water! Whoops!

It brought back something that happened a few years ago when I started highlighting my hair at a hair salon. The salon lady suggested I use shampoo and conditioner for color treated hair to protect my new “do”. So, the next day, with two children in tow, as they pulled bottles and potions off the shelves, wanting to smell the contents and blow “bubbles”, I pretty much grabbed what I needed and threw it into my cart.

For a few weeks, I couldnt figure out why my hair was so limp and heavy and flat and it almost felt greasy. I’d been washing my hair with my new shampoo and conditioner and one night in the shower, I decided to actually look at the bottle. Maybe I was using too much, or it’s one of those “condition once a week only” things. Maybe the lady who colored my hair, screwed something up. On the verge of blaming salon lady, I carefully read the bottle for the first time, which clearly said “Shampoo for women of color” not “Shampoo for color treated hair”.


A few days into vacation…

We’ve been up north, we’ve drunk alot of beer, J’s played a few extra gigs, including an open stage where he played with some amazing musicians and some random dude with an amazing voice. (gotta love the music world)

We went to a lobster place up north yesterday for a birthday party.

J got all annoyed by the attitude the waitstaff had, as if it was a nuisance that we were giving them business. It’s strange to see people in a profession that doesn’t seem to fit their personalities.

My lobster was SO good.

So was the wine.

The girls have been gone since last Friday and come home on Monday. I miss them. And I resent their dad for not answering the phone when I call or call me back when I try and talk to the girls. I’ll probably do it once or twice next week once they are home with me, just to spite him.

I think he’s selfish.

Sleeping naked with J every night has been great, seeing that with the girls in the house, I make sure I have a shirt and shorts on.

I don’t need them to wonder why on earth I would be stark naked in bed with J.

I hope to not have that conversation with them until they are eighteen. (I realize it will be earlier, but a mama can dream, right?)

Today I am cleaning my house since it’s been since June that I’ve actually done anything remotely close to a thorough cleaning.

I hope to vacuum out my car too, since I haven’t done that since sometime in March, I think.

We still have a boil order in our town, which sucks. The schools are prepared to open on Tuesday as planned and have drinking water and hand sanitizer and bagged lunches for the kids since the water is not going to be running in the school, in fear of dangering the kids.

Many businesses in our town have lost hundreds of thousands of dollars already in the week long ban, mostly restaurants and coffee shops. Employeees are losing wages. Not good.

I’m tired of boiling water to wash dishes and tired of eating out in other towns because cleaning up is such a pain. I’m tired of brushing my teeth with bottled water and even worse, hate it when I forget and use the tap.

For some reason, it’s safe to shower in it and I wonder what is being left behind on my body.


Breakfast in Bed

photoJ and the girls like to make me breakfast in bed on occasion and although I have a hard time not intervening and having some control over what they do at times, I find that it’s better if they do it on their own and surprise me.

Breakfast tends to come with something on the side, along with big grins from the girls, ecstatic of their choices.

As you can see, this week’s was cereal with a side of chocolate chips.

The previous week, toast with some Lifesavers.

And before that, a stick of gum.

The problem with that is the next morning, we woke up and on my 1000 count WHITE sheets, were melted chocolate chips. We’d slept on a few strays, unknowingly.

Not good.

New rule: no chocolate in bed.

The girls left last night for a ten day vacation with their dad before school starts and although I miss them already, I am glad for the time to sleep, clean out junk (again), switch up their old mattresses and box springs for new ones, and clean.

The piano bar was not so lively last night, but it was intimate and fun and nice to see local friends.

Tonight hopefully promises to be better, it being Saturday and slightly cooler from the 9o degree temps we’ve been having.

Some bad news, that has freaked out our city a bit, is a boil water order.

Something went down at the treatment plant and reservoir, so we have to boil water to drink or drink bottled water. I for one, am worried about rations, so I bought 8 gallons and three 24 pack cases of those smaller bottles you see everywhere. It’s disconcerting, seeing the entire population kind of freak out and race to the store, but what I found interesting is how little people were buying. I bought $20 worth of water for just me and J (since the girls are gone) and most folks were buying a gallon or two.

I bought it right after J went to work and when we got home late last night, he walked in and saw the huge pile of water sitting in the living room and goes, “you’re not kidding!”

Yeah. I’m not kidding.

I ain’t gonna run out of water.

I can do without canned foods and toast, but as long as we’ve got some wine and water, I’m good.

Monday Monday Monday


I got up before seven this morning to go get the girls from their dad’s house since they spent the night last night. It’s an hour drive. (two hours round trip) and a drive I make every Monday, whether it is for their Sunday overnight or their weekend (it rotates each week but I always pick them up Monday mornings).

J rolled over and stuck his mouth in my ear while the alarm rang and goes, “I’m coming with you.”

And the man got himself out of bed after gigging all weekend and drove to Boston with me at the crack of dawn.

I think he partially wanted to have time to fool with his new iPhone and rub in the fact that I have the older version and he has the newer version.

Who needs a damn compass anyway?

At any rate, he was practicing the camera and figuring out how to email photos, so I got my picture taken and then emailed into my inbox.

There it is, at the top of the page.

I think it is wacky enough to be my new Facebook profile picture.


I regret staying up on Friday night to wait for J to come home from work, just so we could get frisky.

Seeing that I have to get up with the girls at 7am-ish and then make it through the day.

I regret telling J to definitely wake me up on Saturday night when he came home from work, just so we could get frisky.

Seeing that I have to get up with the girls at 7am-ish and then make it through the day.

It’s Monday. I’m tired.

And it’s something like 90 degrees at 11pm


My dad and his lady (I adore her) are here visiting. I got a sitter for the kids for two hours on Friday night so I could take them to the piano bar and see J play. At 9:30 they got tired and went home, but loved J at the piano and loved that he played their favorite Tom Waits song. I stayed since I had the sitter until 10 and gulped down a glass of wine on the much too quicker side of time.

Other than that, it feels like my family isn’t my family and I’ve since created my own, as over time, my own has seemed to disappear and disapprove.

I totally don’t get it.

Anyway, fortunately, they are not staying with me, and not having my dad in the house 24-7 for a week is a godsend.

They met J. My mom already knows J, she lives across the island from us, and he is around alot and they’ve become friends.

My dad has nothing really to say, because he’s just kind of like that.

But at any rate, I feel disapproval from him, by not getting approval and it sucks that sometimes, although I know I don’t need it, I want it.

Even though I won’t get it.


We are in early negotiations for a property and business that we’ve come up with on our very own.

If it doesn’t work out, we will look for another location and J will likely travel for work again this winter, not as long as last winter, but he will still travel.

Likely a few weeks at a time, coming home in between.

I hate that and try not to think about it.

I try to think about how our business could work out and we’ll be in it together and he’ll stay.

Our friend Jack


At noon the other day, J, who has spent times in his life eating as a vegetarian at some points, vegan at others, and a raw food diet another, came to me, saying he was hungry.

It was a day where we were still recuperating from a night of too much Jack Daniels.

You see, the night before was a bash at the piano bar and for some reason, this one guy sitting at the piano next to J, kept buying him whiskey.  Jack Daniels is J’s choice of drink and the regulars know he drinks it on occasion and the bartenders know to send it over when someone says “I want to buy the piano player a drink!”

The drinks keep on appearing, sometimes two at a time.

Now, since knowing J, I have grown accustomed to a little Jack now and again. I sleep really well, the sex is awesome before I pass out and I don’t have a hangover in the morning unless I had a beer beforehand.

Unfortunately, where he plays, a shot of Jack is $9.50, so I don’t usually partake unless someone else hands me one.

Like this one particular night, I treated myself to two beers and then suddenly, the plethora of whisky started to come and I just couldn’t help myself.

I wasn’t thinking.

I drank a few or five.

I know. It’s totally unlike me. (this was in June and I haven’t done it since, I promise!)

On nights where he has seven lined up in front of him at the piano, he will whirl around in his seat and smuggle me one, or three.

By the end of the night, we’d each consumed about eight shots of Jack and the guy buying them for us likely left with a big credit card bill, because the piano bar charges $9.50 for a shot of Jack. (yeah, I know, crazy…the place down the road charges $5.00)

So, the following night, after a day of sleeping in, relaxing, watching movies (it was raining outside) and trying to stomach some sort of meals throughout the day, it was 9pm and J came to me, looking hungry. “You want me to make you some toast?” I asked.

He shook his head sheepishly.

I want something else.

“cheese toast?”

He shook his head.


He shook his head and said something in a muffled voice.


“Cocoa Puffs. I want Cocoa Krispies.”

Since I think that chocolate cereal is the worst thing in the world ever invented, food-wise…I definitely didn’t have it in the house.

Neither of us were about to go out to buy it at the market due to “our friend Jack”.

After opening the cupboards, I pulled out the Rice Krispies and mixing up chocolate milk made from the gourmet Ghirardelli shaved chocolate in my baking cupboard.


I did.

I made my man some homemade gourmet  Cocoa Krispies.

My period and the J boxes

Yes, that’s what I’m gonna talk about.

Two girls, one woman and a man in a house with one bathroom has turned out fairly well.

I wonder what will happen when we are all pms-ing at the same time. He still has a few years to get used to the idea, but now, whenever I get upset or ahem, have a little cry…he looks lovingly at me and says, “Babe, when does your period come around, eh?”

And usually, it’s coming up in a few days, he is dead on.

It’s nice to blame seemingly overly dramatic emotions on something we can’t control, like our period.

I mean, there is validity to all our feelings, but when that time of the month comes, it seems to not all make sense and all I can do it cry and plaster myself to him.

He doesn’t seem to mind, but it’s a little hard for him to pee when I have my arms wrapped around him from behind and I’m sobbing “I love you!”, while overlooking the toilet. (okay, it’s not that bad and still, he says it’s endearing and not annoying)

I usually get over in in about 24 hours.

J fixed the lock on the bathroom door so that it actually locks now, but I had to enforce the rule that the girls don’t lock themselves in when they are taking a shower or bath. If they slipped and  fell, I would be scrounging for a thin wire to unlock, the door from my side and wasting precious time.

J uses it, even though everyone knows that if the door is closed, someone is in there, though that doesn’t exactly pertain to me, when I am in there.

The girls just sauntered on in.

Until now, when I started locking the door.


When J returned home from the islands and Europe in the Spring, he brought gifts of foreign money to the girls. Foreign money and shells and somewhere in the mix, they ended up with a multitude of shiny rocks and guitar pics.

It wasn’t until recently that we realized the girls kept everything he ever gave them, including reindeer refridgerator magnets, in a special box in their rooms.

They refuse to mix their J shells with their New England shells.

They call them their “J Box”” and unfortunately they are starting to overflow because every so often, he has opened a box of miscellaneous items and gives them things like the felt from the inside of an old piano or a clear bottle that’s supposed to hold lotion for traveling, or, gasp, a stick from the Grand Canyon.




We’re up on a lake visiting J’s family, a nice breather from home and our town, since we rarely get away “as a family”.

It’s been so easy, we’ve been staying with J’s sister and her husband and son and the kids disappear and play beautifully.

There has been sun, swimming, boating, sleeping, eating and drinking some of the best wine.

Upon spending a week with a six year old boy, my girls want a dartboard and have now heard the word “wiener” approximately one hundred and fifteen times.