I love it when my friends send me pictures of their hilarious children and allow me to meme them. Also, I do this EXACT thing at least 5 times a day.
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Today, Robbie and I put our marriage on the line and brought a live tree into our house and put stuff on it.
Just like everything else, accomplishing this with three kids running and screaming and undoing everything right after you JUST DID IT was pretty freaking miserable. I know I’m not supposed to say that, and we did take cute pictures of the kids to post to social media so everyone could see how much we’re rocking Christmas … but … wow.
However, all of that stress melted away when I found my Most Favorite Ornament Ever. One of the kids ripped the lid off a plastic tub, and I was in the middle of yelling “FOR THE LOVE, STOP STEPPING ON THE LIGHTS!!!!” and there it was. My black Santa.
If you’re a long-time reader of this blog, you should recognize it. For a refresher, read the short background story.
This is the ornament no one can touch because it’s my favorite. Yes, oldest child, you can play with the plaster hand print we made when you were tiny. But don’t you dare touch Black Santa.
This thing brings me infinite, indescribable joy. I couldn’t ask for a better conversation piece of holiday decor.
I got a hot pink Chi flat iron for my birthday and I spent a very long time this morning flattening the bushy blanket of hair on my head. I then wrapped it all up in Velcro rollers to give it volume, applied my makeup, and took the rollers out. My hair was smooth and shiny and so, so soft.
I drove out to a really bad part of town where I had an appointment. I got out of my car …
And right at that moment …
A truck drove through a gigantic puddle of nasty ghetto road water and sprayed me with it.
It was just like the opening scene of the TV show Sex And The City (I have watched every single episode, where Carrie Bradshaw is walking down the sidewalk looking fabulous in a vintage tutu and sees her face on the side of a city bus and has a moment.
Right before that bus splashes her with nasty New York City street water.
Well, I guess my experience wasn’t just like that. I’m not skinny, I don’t go without a bra, and my face was not plastered on the side of the vehicle that sprayed me. Also, I do not own a tutu. Sadly.
But it did royally piss me off, and now I have to wash my carefully-flattened hair 12 hours later because there are probably prostitute germs, murder germs, dirty needle germs and drug money germs in it.
I have spent my entire day trying not to think about what actually might be crawling around on my head. This was definitely a sub-par way to start my day. However, I don’t praise the classic ponytail enough — it really can mask almost any hair issue you encounter.
Including prostitute germs.