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Crofton, MD, 21114

A long-running personal blog shared by two authors with completely different approaches to life. And a lot of large, beautiful photographs of dogs and nature and places we've traveled to. Rich in commentary and irreverant in style. 

Blog

We started blogging a long time ago. Our work hours never aligned with recommended psychotherapists and we needed to get our thoughts out. We are great friends, total opposites and long-time housemates. This was a way to communicate. With each other. With strangers. With consumer marketers. With sub-par meteorologists. With distant friends who wanted to see pictures of stuff we were up to.

This is the place. Our bucket of thoughts to share. You are welcome. 
(We realize that most of you are here for the dog pictures.)

Saturday: A Hair Awkward

Healey

So, I am a pretty rowdy sleeper. It’s borderline acrobatic at times. In my earlier days, childhood, youth, teen years and okay - up until I was round about 32 years old, I had some issues with sleep walking. It was exciting. For my family, my dogs and even some of my neighbors. I finally figured out that if I listened to something - anything - while I slept that it kept my subconscious occupied enough to at least consider the information being given. I used to leave the TV on and listen to the news while I slept, but then I was just sleeping in the war zones of Iraq and Beruit which my vivd imagination would grab with both hands. I would wake up in a full sweat panicked to death, mid-heart attack with my golden retriever Hoover sitting on my bed anxiously staring at me. He had a look that translated to “You need therapy. There is something very wrong with you.”

So then NASA came out with a TV station and I was so excited. Nothing really happened on that channel. But of course with the content not being edited or narrated my retarded psyche would find it ridiculously captivating. It was space. I was suddenly on the edge of my seat waiting for space trash to wander by the eye of the hubble. It could happen at any moment. I needed to identify the trash and it’s originating country and then catalogue it for later blame. “That China is LITTERING our skies.” I can’t answer to why it was so interesting to me but it was. So I could no longer watch that station. I was up all night with that shit.I watched it long enough to confirm that they were looping it in parts. And that's a markedly sad confession there.

Anyone who knows me knows that the Weather Channel was out because of my intense hatred of Meteorologists. I would just get angered to the point of getting back out of bed and writing them nastygrams regarding their inability to correctly predict weather that would happen within the space of an sitcom. They were overpaid if they were receiving pay at all. Someone needed to tell them that “in no other industry would their measurably poor job performance be treated so kindly.”

So, after searching for a subject matter that was interesting, but not interesting enough to actually capture my attention (and something with no visuals please) I landed on hypnosis CD’s. The field was just breaking on to the scene (in my bookstore) and I bought a few to see if they would work. They were instantly the right choice. The man sounded like Santa and would speak soothingly about breathing and relaxing, letting go, in a non-pedophile way that had me drifting off in no time without any storyline that found me in the front yard in my night gown trying to start the car.

I was ecstatic for a while. But of course I wanted variety. I bought the whole line of Santa hypnosis. Sleep Better, Reduce Stress, Quit Drinking, Quit Smoking, Improve Confidence, Make Friends and I even threw in a little Learn Spanish for flair. Sadly the Spanish never really rooted itself, but it’s possible that my dog was fluent for the amount I played it. He was always widely regarded as the smarter of the two of us.

I still, to this day, listen to hypnosis 3 nights out out of the week. I still giggle at the part in all of the tracks that clearly states “never attempt to operate a motor vehicle while listening to this.” Wiser words were never spoken and that was my whole problem to begin with.

I don’t (to my knowledge) sleepwalk anymore. My dogs are much dumber now though and when I move about in bed Hambone just growls at me for disturbing him. But I still flounce about as if I am a running horse on it’s side.

So yesterday I woke up - normal cover and pillows everywhere - feeling a wee strange cough. My mouth was very dry. Was this a fall cold coming on? I figured brushing my teeth would help me regain normalcy and aspired saliva levels. I brushed.. felt fresher and moved on with my day. It was the rare weekend day where my son was with my ex-husband for the weekend and I had nothing much to do but walk the dogs and arrive at a prescheduled hair appointment for the whole day. At the park I started doing a weird hacking cough. Not a cough that would indicate a cold - but rather an effort to dislodge an irritant. I made very strange sounds and then started avoiding groups of people for fear of ridicule. What the hell? What was in my throat? It was tiny. Had to be tiny because it was such a slight irritant that it came and went. Two hours later I realized it was a hair. I began gagging. Not because it was irritating me more - but because the thought was so disgusting that I was repelling to myself. Was it a dog hair? Gross. No. it felt much longer than a dog hair. Shit. It was one of MY HAIRS.

yeah, that's not me. That's Kirsten Dunst. But I have the same hair.I have long hair. 6 inched would be the shortest that could have liberated itself from my scalp.12 inches was worst case scenario-ville. I stopped at a Caribou Coffee and got a coffee, a free spork and a napkin and asked to use the restroom. I appeared as if I has some form of whooping cough all driven by the combination of my bastard imagination and toddler-level gag reflex. I bought the coffee to lend credibility to my status of a devout customer incase they had to sponge me off the floor later. I went into the restroom and napkined the spork. I jabbed it into the back of my throat mid hack to try and catch the assailant which I believed had inconveniently now ascended into my sinus area at it highest point. This contemplation - with the simultaneous attack of the cloaked spork caused me to throw up. Sadly I was not at the toilet. I was at the sink. Because I needed to SEE what was going on in the mirror. As if I could ever SEE what was going on beyond the fucking paper toweled spork!. Ugh.

So there I was in the bathroom.

One hand holding my medical kit {plastic spork} and the other hand holding a somewhat moist but entirely clean napkin. And I looked in the mirror.

Fuck.

Evasion plan. I ditched the medical kit. Unravelled half the available toilet paper {GOD WHAT IS IT WITH PEOPLE AND THEIR BLOODY ONE PLY TOILET PAPER???} Scooped up what evidence I could while trying to not vomit again solely based on the incriminating facts before me. Heaved it into the toilet as it I was 5 years old.

Then of course someone knocked on the door wondering if I was dead. Thank you Murphys Law. And nervously sweated as I flushed and scurried about trying to make it all appear as if I was a normal lady in the restroom ‘just having taken a quick tinkle.’ I must have thought on that too long because 3 minutes later in the parking lot - as I considered that I forgot my coffee in my escape - I had to actually go to the bathroom.

And the giant long red hair in my throat was still there. Sigh. I drove home like a mad woman. Which I evidently was.

How do bulimics do it? I could never throw up after every meal. I am too lazy... and the mere thought of throwing up just makes me clench. I swear I clench my butt cheeks even at the thought of it. Another reason in the long list of reasons why I will never be America’s Next Top Model. Food retention.

So I went home and re-enacted the whole Caribou Coffee scenario replacing the spork with my now agreed upon “newly retired tooth brush.” (not keeping that souvenir.) Lacerating my entire esophagus with the Oral B pukilator probe. TRYING to contemplate what the HELL this hair was anchored to that it would not relent to TOOLS.

I made myself ill twice more before I was overcome with the rejection of my ENTIRE SITUATION. I slipped on the STUPID-FUCKING-BATHMAT-THAT-NO-ONE-EVER-PUTS-BACK-ON-THE-BLOODY-FLOOR-WHERE-IT-IS-SUPPOSED-TO-BE and awkwardly ended up half in the bathtub. I relented and just sat in the bathtub. As I reflected I threw the toothbrush at the trashcan. and missed. Somehow, sitting in the dry bathtub with my Northface jacket still on and change from my un-drunk coffee spilling out of the pocket onto the porcelain I felt worse about the fact that I would never play basketball well. How had I missed that shot at the trash can? It’s like 36 inches away.

My basset hound - who had been watching all of this from the open doorway gazed at me condescendingly. I was completely spent from this whole ordeal. He relented his gaze and hopped into the tub with me to sit. I explained everything that had led up to this situation to him. He listened patiently. We had a few quiet moments before he farted and the sound reverberated off the tiles. I blinked at him through the smell.

“You have nothing to be looking at me about sister” he seemed to say.

The hair is still in my throat.