Bumpit and Grind

"Here's what you look like - " Harry turned his Iphone to me where Google had kindly found a picture of a Conehead for him.

"I do not - it's supposed to give me a bump - it's a 'Bumpit'" I squealed and smacked away the phone.

"But your hair doesn't look like that. And you can see the 'Bumpit'..." he looked at me doubtfully while readjusting his towel and flashing me with most of his man-bits which were, unfortunately, at my eye level.

"Ack! No - I'll get it to work.... Maybe if I use the small 'Bumpit'?... Nope. It fell out. What the hell?!" I was getting frustrated. I flopped back against the cabinets in the bathroom and crossed my legs under me. Sitting in the bathroom floor I studied the directions again.

"Can I try it?" Harry asked me.

"No. I hate it. I'll try it later when you're not staring at me like this:" I let my eyes glaze over and opened my mouth and looked at him.

"No. Let me try. I can do it." My husband - he does not lack in confidence.

"So, you take this section of hair - oops - sorry! And then, no - you want it farther back, so you - sorry! Okay, whoops! And then you stick it in and - um - pull the hair over it and - ohh - bet that hurt - and then it - hmm..." he sat back and looked at me. "Maybe you aren't meant to wear a 'Bumpit' and anyway, it looks good just like it is.

I looked in the mirror. One side of my hair was poofy and teased while the other side was hanging loosely - with a small "Bumpit" comb hanging from the depths.

"Thaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaanks!" I said sarcastically.

He got down on his hands and knees in front of me. "Don't blog about this okay?" he said his big clear blue eyes gazing into my green ones.

"Shut up and bring me a Tylenol."

So, my advice, on this lovely Saturday, is to NOT buy anything that "As Seen on TV" AND if you do make that choice - don't let your husband near it. Now - what was the name of that hairspray color that covered bald patches? I seem to have a recent need for it...

:)

I Can Admit When I'm Wrong...

Last week the Shivel-clan and I went to Blackhawk Grille in Barboursville. It's a swanky little joint with that old smell to it and - hell - we had a coupon and we're just un-classy enough to use it.

And let me just put this out there - I love salads. That's right - my plushy and plentiful posterior is not from lack of nutrition. I LOVE SALADS - so when I saw a new one on the simplistic menu - I nearly swooned and I ordered it. Within a few minutes and a conversation revolving around all things automobile-ic - I was happily presented with a large mountain of veggies. I started picking at it. And eating the bits of beans in it. And the bits of sprouts. And the tiny grape tomatoes. But, even though the name of the salad I had ordered was called "Roma Tomatoes with Sweet Onions" I found nary a Roma nor onion.

"Excuse me, miss?" I asked our tiny blonde server. "I've nudged all the lettuce, beans and bits aside and still can't find a Roma Tomato or an Onion in it at all!"

She grabbed my plate - and ran.

I just sat there - stunned.

"Have you seen the new Coach bags?" Meme asked from the other side of the table, distracting me.

"Uh - yeah - Poppy is it?" I answered.

"Oh yes! I saw it on the computer. I think they're nice."

"And they seem to come in good sizes..." I said looking around to see if the waitress had decided to try to sneak out the door rather than admit there was a mistake with my food. I was still hungry!

"Yes. They have 12 inches and they have 10 inches too. I can't handle the 12 inches," she smiled and stroked her handbag which was on the table. "but I like the 10 inches just fine!"

I tried not to smile. I tried not to let my perverted thoughts get the best of me and I tried like hell not to make eye contact with Harry who was obliviously destroying a piece of dinner bread.

"I agree completely. Sometimes they're just too big," I said.

Which was a wrong thing to say. And I'm still giggling over it!

SPAMalot.

Yesterday I asked Harry to go downstairs and print off a coupon so that I may pick up the new Mary Kay Andrews book "Fixer Upper." No sooner had he descended than he called me from the depths below.

"Why are you getting emails about Singles events?" he asked.

"Why you be snoopin' in my bid-ness?" I retorted.

"No, really. Why do you have emails about dating?" his concern was touching. And annoying.

"Just print out the damn coupon, already."

"And something from medical billing? What is this?"

"I was SPAMMED okay? I put in my email address thinking it was a legit survey and I WAS SPAMMED! Trust me, I have no interest in being a 'Swinging Single' OR a 'Sultry Senior'! I - WAS- SPAMMED!"

"Okay - so just this 25% coupon then?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Love you."

"Love you, too," I said and hung up. "Ass."