Farrah Fawcett Hair

Yesterday morning George and I drove to the other side of Sacramento to go to the nice Walmart. The Walmart in my neighborhood screams unattended mental institute. The last time we went to our Walmart Kiki and a crack head lady had a twenty minute conversation. Kiki kept asking the woman about the scarf on her head, and the woman kept telling Kiki about an apple cake she found in the bakery. As they both had an animated one-sided conversation I stood on the sidelines becoming increasingly anxious they would touch, and my daughter would be exposed to a vicious strain of under-belly bacteria.
After the thirty minute drive to the good Walmart, George started nodding off. And when I pulled into the parking lot he was fast asleep. Foiled by my sleeping kid, I had to drive back home to put him in bed. The drive was not a complete waste, as I turned the car around to go home, I took a picture of my hair in front of the Walmart sign.
I watched the movie Diary of a Teenage Girl. It's a really good movie. Kristin Wigg plays the mother, and she does a fabulous job, a slight redemption. The script is so funny. The mom, while claiming to be feminist, tells her daughter she ought to dress more provocative, since her youthful figure is temporary. She also criticizes and compliments her daughter's friend's hair, by saying it's pretty, in a a White-trash Farrah Fawcett sort of way.
I'm so happy times are changing, and we're seeing the trend move back from flat ironing hair toward a more voluminous eighties lamp-shade hair style. Flat ironing hair is one of those trends that I can't get on board with because it's a beauty regimen that would take me an hour. Yes, an entire hour, which is completely fucking nuts, especially since I run so I'd have to re-do this process every day. The reason flat ironing takes me so damn long is because I have Farrah Fawcett hair. I have to move the flat iron centimeter by centimeter on high heat to make it go from wiry to smooth.

With Sacramento rain, flat ironing seems even more asinine. Put in the hour to straighten hair, and then its wasted after quickly walking to the car. The much needed rain, in addition to making my hair a more lively lampshade, is making us have to get creative with our activities. We run around in the back yard a couple hours a day, and now were spending a lot of time at fast food places with indoor gyms. Last night the kids and I met up with friends for a playdate at an indoor gym equipped fast-food restaurant. The kids ran off to the play area and the mom and I chatted like crazy, only stopping to take a kid to the toilet every fifteen minutes.
She started slowly by remarking on her husband's inadequacies, and by the end of the two hours she had railed him hard as a lazy bag of bones who makes her job harder. This morning I needed to take an ibuprofen because my neck hurt from nonstop head shaking in an oh-no-he-didn't kind of way the night before.
Feeling compelled to commiserate, I fell down the rabbit hole, and started to match her stories with my own. I thought we'd laugh through stories of man vs. woman, and we did, but when we said goodbye and parted ways for the night, she looked unsettled and sad, and I left feeling bad, like I should have been telling her stories of how things can get better rather than indulging in stories of  men being good for only two things (a paycheck not even being an applicable comfort for her.)
This morning I woke up and had resonating feelings from the shit talking bender the night before, where all the things I complained about the night before were illuminated, and I was so easily annoyed, I sat cross armed in the corner glaring with a look of disappointment and judgement.
I went running, and realized I need to cool my jets. I apologized for waking up unbearably grouchy, and fessed up to all the trash I talked the night before. I have to get a grip when it comes to complaining. There is so much to be grateful, like changing hair trends, rain and having a happy little family. I really don't have time to dwell on the "room for improvement," I don't even have time to do my hair for fucks sake. Next time I hang out with my friend, when things start to go toward dwelling on the negative, I'll have to pull a conversation switch on her. I'll ask her if she has seen Diary of a Teenage Girl. Her husband will be Dad-of-the-year compared to Monroe, and that will kick-start a gratitude talk.