Farm Fresh Blog

     I took the day off of work.  I was reaching mental breakdown status and so it was in the best interest of everyone around me if Princess took a day off.

Last night I informed my co-workers that:

A) My dog died.
B) Friday I came home from court. Put my dog to sleep. Buried my dog. Took a shower. And then went back to work.
C) My dog died.
D) I had to spend 7 hours of my day off IN COURT!
E) There was a hurricane in the gulf. 
F) If the hurricane doesn't hit us, Other Half will be deployed to take care of the poor souls that did get hit.
G) My dog died.
H) If I don't get some time to myself, someone else is gonna die.

The sergeant signed my request for time off. (You see!  If you just explain things to people . . .)

So I last night I informed Other Half that today I would be going to get a 1 hour massage. He grunted. It is definitely in HIS best interest if Princess gets a massage and goes to her Happy Place.  (Worse case scenario has him in the direct line of fire, and at best case scenario, he could still become collateral damage.)

So with the rain coming down harder than a cow pissin' on a flat rock, I threw my hair under a Stetson, slipped on my brightest pink raincoat, climbed in my Big Ass Monster Truck, and headed for The Spa! It was a trek, and by the time I arrived, water was lapping out of the ditches beside the roadway.  (I didn't care. I had a Monster Truck! Princess was GETTING a massage today!  Damn it!)  I was surprised to see the parking lot full.  Could it be that other women were having the same crappy week as MOI?  My heart went out to them, until I realized that I might not find a place to park.  Suddenly The Evil Queen Behind The Mirror advised me in her sickly sweet voice that I could just roll on top of that BMW with my Monster Truck.  Hey!  She was right!  I could! 

Fortunately, God was with me and provided me with a parking space big enough for my Monster Truck and the blond lady's BMW. All was well with my world. I got soaked getting out of the truck, but Princess had a 1 hour massage coming and come hell or high water, she was getting it!

This spa is an old wooden house on the edge of a creek.  It's been converted to a spa for Yuppies and Homicidal Forensic Farm Girls.  I opened the door and just stood there for a moment.  The incense welcomed me in.  Incense, not dog puke, not dog poop, not dog pee, not even a hairball the cat choked up, but the smell of actual insense greeted my nose.  I was almost giddy.

A young man, who was barely 12 years old, greeted me. Yes, I had an appointment.  Yes, I've been here before. Yes, I'd be happy to wait.  While I waited I poked around their gift shop.  Girly things that I rarely indulge myself in called to me from every corner!  Pink things! Purple things! Leopard-printed things! SPARKLY things!  Bling! Bling!  I glanced at a few price tags and noted that there was plenty of "Cha Ching! Cha Ching!" associated with the "Bling! Bling!"   I have animals to feed.  I couldn't afford to buy frivolous girl toys.  So I sat down and read a magazine.  Without the hat, my hair fell into my eyes.  I needed a haircut.  (Just one more chore that keeps getting shoved behind all the other things vying for my attention.)  My eyes darted to the hair salon in the front room. It smelled expensive.

I did the math. Then I worked out the logistics. I could wait and see my Beautician back home (who only charges half of what this salon charges), OR, I could go ahead and pay more to get the hair cut because I don't know WHEN I'll actually get around to going to the other guy.  I looked like a sheep dog. I peeked through my bangs and decided to bite the bullet and get my hair cut. 

Rain was coming down in sheets outside.  Patrons and staff wondered aloud if they would be able to drive home through the high water.  (I didn't worry.  I had my Monster Truck. I wouldn't even mind driving them home . . . after my massage.) I was already going to my Happy Place. I flipped through a magazine.  Yoga, whole foods, esential oils, organic gardening! Oh yeah!  Princess was headed to the Happy Place.  (For a moment the Evil Queen in the Mirror popped her head out to ask why the people in the organic gardening articles always look so happy and clean.  They're never smeared with goat poop and sheep shit in organic gardening articles. Why is that?)

I pondered it for a minute. Happily, before I could write the magazine and ask them, my Blond Woman With Magic Fingers showed up and escorted me to her room.  I love these rooms - dim lights and New Age music just melts me. An hour later I oozed out of that room.  She stuffed a cup of water in my hand and with a lazy grin on my face, I shuffled toward the hair salon.  Yeeesssss . . . Princess was happy.

With my hair still fluffed from Blond Woman With Magic Fingers, I asked the receptionist if I could get a haircut.  I could. So I oozed on into the hair salon - where I was met by a pixie with purple strands in her hair. Hmmmm . . .  good thing I didn't meet the Purple Pixie before my massage.  As it was, I positively oozed happiness and good will.  I was willing to trust my sheep dog mop to Purple Pixie or anyone else with a pair of scissors.  So I slid into the chair and waited for her to work her Pixie Magic.

The problem was, Pixies aren't mind readers.  My Old Beautician, a delightful gay man in his 60s doesn't really care what I want.  He cuts my hair the same way he has for last 20 years.  There is very little discussion about it.  I sit down.  He cuts.  Sometimes he colors. Same cut. Same color.  IF . . . I actually inform him that I want something different, something DRAMATIC, he will inform me that he will NOT do that because I will hate it in two days.  He is temperamental, but he's always right. 

So I sat in the chair and observed the confused Pixie in the mirror.  What did I want?  Neither of us was sure.  I looked past her purple hair and saw a child.  I have scissors older than this child.  For a fleeting moment I wondered if the Purple Pixie really knew much about cutting hair. She was certainly a contrast to my 60 something year old gay guy. We chatted while she tentatively snipped away.  I watched in the mirror, confident that if she botched it too badly, my beautician would fix it after he got over his snit.  I looked at all the gray in the mirror.  It was probably time to color my hair again.  That was NOT something I was willing to trust with the pixie.  But then again, there was a LOT of gray.  Perhaps, perhaps, just maybe there was enough gray . . .   so I said,

"You know, I may just quit coloring it and let it go gray."

And she said, "Oh yeah, with this much gray, there's really no use in even trying to cover it."

Yes, she is still alive. You see . . .  I'd already had my massage.

So now I'm color-coordinating with my horse!