The Accidental Olympian

ROUND TWO

As this month progresses so far there has been a lot of washing of bed linens, swapping out of guest towels, refilling of bathroom soap dispensers, dusting, vacuuming, and scrubbing of toilets. All of which prove two things. One, I am an excellent hostess, and two, that I might have a career as a house cleaner.

Today another wonderful bunch of visitors shall arrive for a weekend that I hope leaves them absolutely in love with my little corner of the Northwest. I have to give this extraordinary mother and daughter team some serious credit though. They not only knew me when I looked like this,

 

but the daughter portion of this fabulous duo actually considered me her friend! And not only because her mother told her to like me either! She liked me even without bribes! Now THAT is a good person. I'm not sure I would have been friends with me looking back on this picture. Braces are social suicide. Thanks Mom. 

I suddenly feel so bad for all the children returning to middle school this week. I think it's the most scarring time in any child's life. The evil names and put-downs, (man arms, horse face, rat girl ALL mine to keep with me forever and ever) you receive in this section of your childhood will probably stay will you forever. And if your lucky, the people who stuck up for you during this horrible and awkward time will also stay with you forever.

AND I ENDED UP WITH A....

MULLET.

 

You wish.

I know. I look totally deranged. But it's REALLY REALLY WEIRD taking pictures of yourself to show people your new haircut. I asked Adam to take the pictures for me, but then two seconds after the words were out of my mouth I envisioned the two of us in the backyard, me jumping and swirling around and then I threw up a little bit in my mouth. I tried the whole holding the camera and trying to take pictures of myself in the bathroom mirror, but damn that shit was hard. I was always looking the wrong way, or the flash went off messing up the image and basically I felt really, really weird. So... in the end Photo Booth was the best I could muster.

Take what you can get people.

HERE GOES NOTHING!

The WORST thing about moving to a new city isn't the fact that you have no idea where anything is, it's not the lack of friends, it's not even the fact that it takes a full year before you feel comfortable in your new location. Nope. I'm hear to tell you the WORST thing about relocating is finding a new hairdresser.

OK, maybe the rules can be bent if you're a guy. Most guys could get their hair cut at Super Cuts and a fancy salon and come out looking exactly the same. But us ladies, we develop a relationship with our hairdresser. We begin to trust them, rely on them, love them. A good hairdresser can lift a bad mood, help you look your best for special events, and always keeps your ego highly inflated. A bad hairdresser though can maim you in a half hour and leave you sobbing in your car with a female mullet. No joke, it's happened before.

I've got an appointment today and I'm terrified. I did my research. Picked a hip salon, wanted the girl with wild child curls just like myself, and OF COURSE she's booked till next April. Which obviously means she's wicked talented. Yes I just said 'wicked.' Lets all move on and forget it ever happened. Anyway, since I've been so terrified of finding a new hairdresser I've put it off to the point of serious hair damage, so I need my hair cut before it all just falls out from stress. And of course, putting it off this long means I've officially lost the option of being picky. Which blows. 

Curly haired lady will not be cutting my hair today. Today the broad with an open schedule will be cutting my hair. I'm always wary of the person with an opening at the last minute... In my experience, if they aren't booked it's because they're either A. straight out of beauty school and have spent the last year practicing on their dog and little sister, never any real people, or B. they have been around for a while, but because of the hundreds of clients they've disfigured now they have their afternoons open to snatch up desperate clients like myself.

Pictures to come. Either of smiles, or my new 80's rocker power ballad mullet.

I'm crossing my fingers for smiles.

SHARING BAD PHOTOS WITH YOU MAKES ME SMILE

When I was born my parents said I looked exactly like my GRANDFATHER. Lovely. What little girl doesn't want to hear that she looks exactly like her grandfather? Now when I look at adorable childhood pictures like this one all I can think is, "Hello little Ellwood."

 
It's amazing that I ever learned how to tame my hair. This is the sort of unfortunate hair that is the result of a person with stick straight hair breeding with someone who has thick curls. Hair that is never totally straight, and never fully curly. A frightful land of in between that had I been lucky enough to be in my teens in the 80's would have made life so much more fortunate. Damn 90's. Always bringing me down.




And lastly, I leave you with a family photo. I'd like to think we've all come a long way since then. If anything, Emmaly and I stopped matching which is a huge relief to all parties involved. And even more beneficial, I got rid of the Beatles haircut. Seriously mom, this was your first born daughter. What were you thinking?

MEMORY LANE

The minute Adam and I bought a house our parents walked into their respective garages, piled boxes and boxes of our childhoods into their cars, and sent them to our house. In the span of a few weeks Adam and I had been delivered our pasts in neatly packaged boxes. "Do with it what you will," they told us driving away a little lighter. Now I think that those congratulations they wished us when the house closed were really only declarations of happiness as they realized they would soon be rid of our childhood memories gathering dust in their garages.

It's funny to see the difference between Adam's childhood and mine. Adam's boxes were filled with antique Ninja Turtles, and well loved young adult books about hunting, fishing, and boyhood dreams. OH, and of course every Goosebump ever written. There were little league trophies, winning boyscout pinewood derby cars, newspapers, old sports magazines, adorable wooden toys, and more baseball cards than I had ever seen in my life. True to Adam's OCD these cards were meticulously organized by year and team in binder after binder. This isn't the sort of kid to just throw cards in a box. No sir.

Next it was my turn to open each box and rifle through what I had deemed worthy of saving for another day. I found yearbooks from junior high (seriously who let me leave the house with hair like that?), both of my American Girl dolls, picture albums galore, trophies, diaries from about 1994 through college, some of the most frightening porcelain dolls ever made, and the best find, three notebooks filled with every single letter anyone wrote me from about the 4th grade through sophomore year of high school. My childhood OCD led me save each and every letter and place them each in plastic document holders in three ring binders. I think my folks thought I was nuts when I began this process as a 4th grader, but now looking through pages and pages of notes about how "Mandy loves Jeff", and how I'll die if "Pat doesn't like me back," make me so happy.

I want to hug 4th grade me for being so absolutely anal.

She totally made my weekend.

 

Dear 4th grade Ashley,
Your sense of style is atrocious, but I thank you so much for saving those letters from all your girlfriends. They seriously made my weekend complete. Now please, get a better sweater. Or at least a haircut.
Love,
Old-Hag Ashley