The center part in my hair is so dry I had to borrow Ed’s funky-smelling, prescription strength, and inky, dandruff shampoo. I was so stressed out that I didn’t notice that those of us with even slightly bleached hair need to let it rinse out for a full five minutes. God knows what will befall me next.
But I do:
Waking somewhere from 3am to 4am, cursing loud enough to wake my husband, “roll over you’re breathing in my general vicinity!” What nails I haven’t broken off I’ve deftly removed every cuticle from. Writing endless illegibly scrawled notes to myself in the shadows of Samantha’s teddy bear night-light. Forgetting to send my mother’s best friend, Jacci Park, a Christmas card. Reading the same issue of Better Homes and Gardens magazine over and over first for paint ideas, then back to see flooring, lighting, and finally clipping recipes that I’ll surely forget to pack and find as bookmarks six months from now.
It’s the move. It’s taken over my entire existence. And those of you that are kind enough to graciously fall into the hellhole of my columns. Thank you and…help!
It’s come down to this: I just don’t know where we’ll eat. Food, being a basic need, I feel is the only constant I could always count on. Not so in my new abode.
First I have to fill a “sub-zero” refrigerator. (Don’t be jealous dear reader, remember, I can’t cook.) For me, “out of sight out of mind”, is the mantra of my slovenly ways. What will my new kitchen smell like if I try and fill those six vegetable compartments? With vegetables? The ones I have now store holiday candy and slim fast shakes. The last time I put vegetables in them I was rewarded some six months later with an excuse to buy a new box of baking soda.
And the new vegetable compartments are frosted white! What were they thinking? I’ll never open them until the smell permeates upstairs! I try to use veggies the day I buy them now, but how? Everything I cook has to be cooked, and consumed, in a twenty-minute timeframe. Because that’s all my four-year-old, or I, can handle in our limited attention spans.
What about restaurants? We asked Pat Riner for a Pizza referral when we were finished with the walk-through and she sent us speeding back to our old neighborhood. What’s that all about? I need Pizza, Mexican and Chinese weekly. And what about take-out? The previous owners left trash compactor bags, original floor plans and cleaning solutions (For?) but no menu’s. Does no one deliver to this remote section of Newhall?
I would go to one of those Santa Clarita newcomer meetings but I KNOW they’ll toss me on my hindside like a Klajic pleading for more growth. So please, dear readers, help me with this one little parcel of stress: Instead of all of those mailers for movers and DDS welcome coupons, send me menus! I can’t loose my hair, my blond roots, my fingernails, my mother’s approval and my sleep on an empty stomach.