Red Hot
And now the mystery shall be revealed.... drum roll, please... Ta-dah!
I am now a redhead! And when I say red, I mean RED! Hot steaming screaming gleaming RED! Club Kid Red. Scarlet letter red. Siren red. Hydrant red! Redder than witchy Willow Rosenberg red. o...It's magical! it's marvelous! It's a complete transformation!
And just so you know, I look exactly like my little red haired girl up there. Exactly. Really. Excepting, of course, that I'm not a doodle. No doodle, me, nope. I'm fully fleshed and hot-blooded and did i mention I have screaming red hair now?
Okay, okay, so maybe I don't look exactly like my doodle girl. I mean, I've worn some short skirts in my time, but never anything so brief. or orange. And my legs are of the short and stumpy variety. And my knees are rather pedestrian. And my neck is hardly long and swan-like. And...and...well, okay, I look nothing like doodle red. Except for the oh-so perky and gravity defying breasts. Except for those. ha. And the hair and eye colour. Those are quite accurate, as is the 'do.
But I feel like Doodle Red! And that's what counts.
And it's a huge relief, I've got to tell you. Because since my diagnosis, I've been feeling unsettlingly ancient. Wholly geriatric. And creepy too. In that sinister creepy old and haggy kind of way. Like I should smell of steamed cabbage and kitty urine and have great wads of shredded kleenex and a spare tube of denture adhesive in my pocket. Wheezer geezer old. And that's just not right, people.
The icky ancientness started when I found myself in need of one of those horrific plastic pill dispenser thingimabobs with the days of the week on 'em so that you can keep track of your personal pharmacy and whether or not you've taken your medication. Then there's my calendar cluttered up with doctors' appointments and sessions and the many, many hours frittered away at the drug store pondering whether or not Metamucil would be a good thing to start taking to up my fiber intake and whether or not I require a medical alert bracelet.
And due to the whole SARS scare, everyone in the health care centers is swaddled and masked within an inch of their lives, making me feel not just hideously geriatric, but contagious and contaminated and just a wee bit paranoid too.
Such fun. But more on that another day.
For today, let's just concentrate on my fabulous, frolicksome follicles and how entirely babelicious I feel now. Vavavoom.
Just so you know, i have it on good authority that Johnny Cash has the world's softest hands. As you may or may not remember from a long ago entry, my husband has celebrity stacked dreams aplenty, something i've always been incredibly envious of. This morning as we were on the way to the train station, he told me that last night, while I was dreaming about dishwashing detergent and comic books, Jack was dreaming that he was a member of city council (WHA?!!) and was attending the opening of a new super mall where Johnny Cash was being awarded a Key to the City in addition to doing the ribbon cutting.
"And I'm standing there shaking Johnny Cash's hand and all I can think is Man, Johnny Cash has the world's softest hands and I think he might buff his fingernails too."
In further randomness, Jack also revealed to me that he likes going to a particular bank near his office because he looks particularly fine on the security monitor.
"... so I'm standing in line and I look up at the monitor and I'm all 'Whoa! I look like a bloody movie star! I look like James Fucking Bond!' And I look at the people standing behind me and look at the monitor again and they all look like their thoroughly unremarkable selves, but man! I look fantastic! I'm red carpet radiant."
Yes, life with Jack Wee is as entertaining as it sounds.
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