Most of my friends would jump at the chance to tell people how weird I am. Da man and the girls all think I'm bizarre. Not quirky. No. Never quirky. Quirky is that oddball you know who wears long dangling earrings with pretty flowerly peasant skirts and high tops who sings kumbaya and talks in that new agey way that always makes you think they were sniffing alot of glue along with their artsy fartsy crafty projects. No that is not me. I'm the weird mom that likes to tell her kids in a very serious voice that they shouldn't panic because a bug is crawling up their pants leg and then laughs uproariously with the ensuing panic. I'm the weirdo that puts a ripe red cherry in my mouth and pretends to punch myself, then biting down on the cherry and allowing bright red juice to stream out.
So I'm weird. I embrace my weirdness.
Yesterday, I was in the bathroom and noticing the gray roots at the top of my head. Unfortunately, I have been prematurely graying since I was 16. Clairol is my best friend. But I hate to dye my hair too often so I have a neat little trick that I use. I buy myself some waterproof mascara in dark brown (sorry blondies, this trick can't help you) and touch up my roots with mascara. I find this very clever but my husband thinks it is absolutely bizarre. He walks in and watches me using mascara on my hair and just shakes his head.
"You do realize that it is for your eyes, right?" he says.
"Duh!" I reply.
"Well how do you know it is ok to use on your hair?" he asks.
I stop and just stare at him. "Because if it is safe for my eyes, the most sensitive part of my body, then it is more than safe for my hair, duh!"
"Yeah, you think you're so smart," he sneers. "I'm just saying, cause you seem to have a problem with using products in the proper manner. Like taking off your makeup with toilet paper."
"What? It's clean!"
"It's toilet paper! For your butt. You're disgusting!"
"I'm creative. You should be proud of my resourcefulness," I respond. "I am so very resourceful in ways you have no idea."
He stops short and just stares at me.
"Just how resourceful are you?" he asks suspiciously.
"Well, when you had that bad rash on your arm and chest and I gave you some of that funky smelling white creme to stop the itch. You never asked what it was," I say.
He looks alarmed.
"I'll give you a hint, it starts with an H," I say.
"You put butt creme on my arm?" He yells.
"Hey, what does it matter what I used as long as it stopped the itch?" I ask.
"That's just not right!" he says, stomping off.
Nah, I did not use preparation H on his rash, it was just hydrocortisone. But I just love freaking him out.