2004: Beauty School Dropout

Drop it like it’s hot… Drop it like it’s hoott. When the pimp’s in the crib ma…When the pigs try to get at ya…And if a n… Even while quoting Snoop Dogg – it makes me uncomfortable. Completely irrelevant to my white-girl, suburban living self in 2004 – I loved that song and not to brag but I would pretend-to-know-the-words-mumble-rap better than the next guy. I’d turn up the bass in Prancer, my silver Mitsubishi Lancer and evaluate my surroundings – who thinks I’m a bad ass? You- in the Jeep? 

By the end of that year, I was officially a beauty school dropout. Not the proudest fact I have about my past but it does hold a level of, what-the-fuck-ever humor. Anyone who can handle the pressure of altering someone’s entire appearance, because that’s what hair does, while being forced to hold an, at least somewhat, sincere conversation while doing so – seriously, kudos to you.

The real reason I quit?

I couldn’t handle old lady feet in my face while trying to pass the nail portion of cosmetology. Did you know that students, and I’m sure salon workers who have the displeasure of feet-in-face work, put smelling oils under their noses?

Me: Why can’t I just learn hair? I’ll deal with skin – but I’d like a build-your-own curriculum where I can just skip nails altogether. 

Administration: No.

Being a habitual quitter my whole life, there were zero fucks given. I couldn’t do it, so logically I just quit. Ten plus years later, older and obviously so much wiser… the only real reason I regret the abrupt decision is strictly financial. I’m not passionate about hair and makeup or making stinky feet pretty.

Big Picture? I regret making a habit out of giving up and simply not caring enough, so I’m trying my best to give a shit more often nowadays.

Sometimes inspiration falls into my lap on the regular, sometimes it needs to be found. The single-word prompt staring at me this morning was Drop. The first thought that entered my head was a lemon drop martini – the second was when I dropped my newborn baby.

[Disclaimer: Those two ideas are in no way related and no babies were inured]

There were a few other contenders that came to mind when I forced myself to take on the prompt: mic drop, drop the beat, Drop Dead Fred; classic movie, tear drops, football fumbles, drop it like it’s hot, beauty school dropout – and there it was.

Let’s be honest, if I only write when the inspiration slaps me – I’ll post nothing but Bernie Sanders and other political rants for the next eight months. See ya tomorrow for the second attempt at PostADay.

Don’t Judge Me; I Just Love Pie.

I love you and pie

When I posted my Pi(e) Day Post I bet you thought I was just being silly.

No…I was telling the truth; I love pie & I do not discriminate.

Cherry Pie, Shepard’s Pie, Strawberry Rhubarb Pie, French Silk Pie, Boston Cream Pie, Chicken Pot Pie, Coconut Cream Pie, Pudding Pie…I actually used to forgo the traditional birthday cake growing up, instead opting for Pumpkin Pie.

The level of appreciation I have for a well-made pie…well, it is pretty high. I appreciate it so much in fact that I will shamelessly tell you that I’ve eaten an entire pie in one sitting……out of the pie tin.

I don’t have a dishwasher…I had to eat it all…I didn’t want to dirty any dishes.

I’m sorry…That was a lie.

Not the part about not having a dishwasher (I accept pity)…that’s unfortunately true.

The honest truth is that I am well aware that I did not have to eat it all; however… on a “self control” scale of 1-10 (10 being wonderful) – when it comes to pie I’m a solid 1.

Pull up a seat, It’s story time.

Strawberry Rhubarb Pie was on sale at the good ol’ Piggly Wiggly a few months back.

How can one resist?

When the Hubs & I put it in the cart, I’m fairly sure that we had good intentions of making the circular deliciousness last longer than that day.

We had some (big) pieces after dinner…& then evening happened. There was ½ of a pie calling my name. I offered to get Brandin a piece & gloat that I’m going to save a piece for the next day…

(BAAHAHAHAHAHA)

I go upstairs & open the box. I put ½ of the ½ remaining pie onto a plate for Brandin and cut the other in half (making a normal size piece of pie) and throw them in the microwave.

There I stand with that one normal size piece that I’m “saving”. It was just looking at me; taunting me..

I won’t taste as good tomorrow, Jen…I’m fresh.

Where did the rest of me go?! I’m so lonely!!

EAT ME, DAMN IT!

The microwave dings as I put the last bite in my greedy mouth.

Pie wins again.

I trot downstairs with our pie in hand.

Me: I seriously have no self-control when it comes to Pie.

Him: You ate it, didn’t you…?

Don’t judge me; I just love pie.