My father was a truck driver. He learned how to drive a commercial vehicle from one of our neighbors and then hit the road.

I don't know much about his history of driving a truck because he didn't talk much and our relationship was carried on through my mother, but I know he worked hard. He was usually on the road from Sunday afternoon to Friday morning. When he came home, he put on cut off shorts and took care of the yard and other household projects. He was usually sweating and sunburned and he found little time to do the things that he wanted to do and wound up in his recliner most Saturday afternoons, totally exhausted, trying to catch his breath. 

We didn't develop our relationship until our medium was gone. Our medium, my mother, went away when they divorced. I was 22. Suddenly, we had to get to know each other and it was incredible.

We drank a lot of beer, we had deep conversations about life and love. He grieved his relationship with me and Bud Light at his side. And he drove.

He continued to hit the road, come home, mow the grass, and be exhausted.

My Friday nights with him were my favorite night of the week. I couldn't wait to climb up on that barstool next to him and get my first sip of foamy, crappy beer. He stunned me with his brilliant advice and made me laugh like crazy.

But during the week, I held my breath. I talked to him once or twice, but not knowing where he was and what he was facing out there on the road with a tanker filled with chemicals behind him scared me to death.

Each morning I drove to work with a cigarette in one hand and a Diet Coke in the other, with my spare fingers guiding the steering wheel as I careened down the interstate at 80 miles per hour. I listened to crappy morning radio shows with half an ear, but when the traffic reports came on, I turned up the volume and focused on their words, praying that they wouldn't say "truck accident". Many times he wasn't anywhere near Atlanta, but I still feared he had caught a load headed home that I didn't know about.

If I did hear something about an accident involving a tractor-trailer, I panicked and called him as soon as I could.

Each time, he answered, "Yelllo."
Each time, my heart soared when I knew he was safe and sound.
Each time, I counted the days until Friday when I would be able to sit next to him again.

He retired about 4 years ago. The only dangerous thing he does now is drive to the golf course each Tuesday to play "pasture pool" with his buddies.

And yet, I still listen intently to those traffic reports, and I think of my silly dad.

...fingertips, that is.

If you know me, you know that I'm a class-A klutz. 

That's why this post is being typed with 9 fingers instead of 10.

In an effort to make sure that my husband has hearty, healthy meals, I bought a shit-ton (yes, that is a unit of measurement) of summer squash and zucchini. The best way to quickly get perfect slices is to use a mandolin slicer.

If you've never seen one, they look like a guillotine that fits on your countertop (see above).

Oh, the irony.

I decide that I don't need the guard because it usually just gets in the way and what I was slicing was easier to just hold.

WRONG.

The more I slice, the more speed I gain. I got into a rhythm.

BIG MISTAKE.

I got cocky.

BAD IDEA.

Suddenly, it happens. 

Before I feel anything, before the blood begins to flow from my finger, I realize what I've done and my brain says, "Whooooaaa, Lady, we can't handle this--we're out."

I keep my bloody hand in the sink while hanging my head down toward my knees.

"I cut myself..." I push from between my lips. "I'm going dowwwnnn..."

DH jumps up and wraps a paper towel around my fingers so I can get horizontal and get my feet up.

You can tell how much your spouse loves you by how they react in a situation like this and mine was PERFECT.

He was a little scared--he called urgent care offices even though I told him I wasn't going to one.

He bandaged up my bloody finger even though he was scared he was doing it wrong.
(A piece of advice: Enough tape will stop any amount of bleeding. No experience required.)

He dealt with the mess I made in the kitchen and called the Chinese man to make a late night delivery of dumplings and chicken fried rice.

He made me laugh about the situation...kinda.
As I was laying in the floor trying to un-wooz my head, he called from the kitchen--"Hey! I found the chunk of your finger! Wanna see it?"
Umm, yeah, no. I think I'm gonna die.

Anytime I stirred in the night, he said, "How's your finger?" from the fog of a dead sleep.

It's healing nicely, but one side of my finger comes to a point now...

I've said it many times before and I'll say it many times again--I should have orange cones that perpetually circle my body. I am an accident waiting to happen at any moment.

Thankfully, I have darling people around me who take care of me and love me when my awkwardness leads to an injury. 

No one else wants to talk about it, so it's high time that I did.
After a decade of doing this shit day after day, I'm pissed off.

There are tons of blogs and even whole websites dedicated to NOT washing or drying your hair. Women hate doing it so much that businesses have opened just TO.DRY.HAIR. They all have naughty names too, like "BLOW BAR". I'm not kidding. Some of them even come to your home.

If someone with a penis is reading this, they're probably saying, "I don't get it. Don't do it then."

Yeah... As a woman whose hair is confused (I mean, seriously, look at this rats' nest...),

that's just not possible.

When I don't blow dry it, sometimes it curls properly, keeps it's shine, and I manage to keep my goddamn hands out of it so it doesn't frizz up like some kind of fuzzy nightmare. But that's rare, really. 

When I do blow dry it, I have a maximum of 24 hours to enjoy it's silkiness--unless it's raining, which means that my hair will take on the look it had when I was about 7 and my mom chased me around with a brush screaming, "Come here, you stringy-headed, ragamuffin!"

Wait--she didn't exactly do that, but she did chase me with a brush and call me a ragamuffin... 

Anyway.....

So that you can feel my pain, here is the RIDICULOUS process that I go through for straight hair....which is stupid because I only get compliments on it when it's an insane mess.

1. Comb hair with wide tooth comb. Must be wide tooth--not like the one your dad used to carry in his back pocket and then run over with the lawnmower. Or was that just my dad?

2. Wash hair.
     Important notes:
     - Only apply shampoo to top of head--shampooing ends leads to (ack!) dry hair.
     - Rinse shampoo thoroughly to avoid scratching your scalp like a mental patient.
   - Apply approximately 3 cups of conditioner only to ends of hair--too much conditioner leads to greasy homeless person hair.
     - Clip hair full of greasy conditioner to top of head for duration of shower--don't let hot water touch it.
     - Once shower is complete, turn water to cold and hold on to your nipples as they might pop off.
     - Rinse hair in cold water to avoid split ends. Try not to squeal or cry while freezing to death.
     - Exit shower and dry hair with a very old Aquis towel or even older t-shirt. The rumor is that this prevents frizz, and all of us frizzy headed bitches prefer to stay on the safe side.

3. Release hair from t-shirt, but do not touch. Attempt to apply lotion to upper body without dragging hair across greasy skin creating homeless person hair instantly.

((((This is the time to take an intermission if I have the luxury in which to do so. I cool off, have a drink, kiss my hubs, and check Facebook while my hair gets halfway dry, therein cutting my drying and sweating time in half.))))

4. Apply thermal styling gunk. This protects the hair from the eleventy-billion degree heat of the hair dryer.

5. Comb hair with wide tooth comb to evenly distribute gunk.

6. If I'm feeling awake and sassy, here's where I would apply Root Pump. I always feel sassy, but I rarely feel awake when I'm doing my hair, so I tend to skip the Pump.

7. Like finding a needle in a 40 ton haystack, separate bangs from rest of hair so you can dry them separately.

8. Kick self and swear a lot for choosing to have bangs--even though you think they make you look sexy--and no one even noticed them.

((((If this is a weekday and hubs is still asleep, now is when I transfer this operation to a bathroom on the other side of the house, carrying half the bathroom, my cell phone, and some water.))))

9. Turn on curling iron to eleventy-billion degrees to preheat. 

10. Hate self for having hair.

11. Use round brush to dry bangs, but be careful not to curl them--curled bangs are not cute.

12. File away round brush with million other hair goodies and find paddle brush in drawer filled with 8 pairs of sunglasses, toothpaste, headbands that I don't wear, and chopsticks that I don't eat with.

13. Begin to patiently dry hair with paddle brush and commence sweating.

14. When sweating becomes totally overwhelming, dry hair quickly and angrily, hoping to pull out hair so you don't have to dry it.

15. When hair is dry, apply Magic Spray. I can't remember the name, so don't ask.

16. Hit hair with the dryer one more time to smooth everything out and attempt to look semi-normal.

17. Admire ridiculously long hair in mirror and lean head back until hair tickles butt crack. Giggle.

18. Allow hair to "cool" for approximately 10 minutes. This is usually when I apply my makeup, utilizing the fine layer of sweat that has accumulated on my brow as moisturizer.

19. Apply teensy bit of thermal styling gunk for fear that your hair will turn into dust if you don't.

20. Use insanely hot curling iron to straighten hair. Yes, I know that sounds counterproductive, but it works, Dammit.

21. Because my ends look like a nightmare, gather all hair into a single bundle and curl for 20 seconds, 40 if you forget what you're doing and try to multi-task while curling.

22. Look in mirror, swear a bit, and tell yourself that this is the best it's going to get.

23. Lie down and take a nap--you've earned it.

I crave the sound of snow falling. 

There is an eerie quiet that seems to fall over my world when the snow is falling and it generally means good things.

Years ago, I was about to leave to have dinner with my father and step-mother. The snow began to fall and with it our dinner plans were cancelled. I wanted to see them, but I was filled with glee from the cancelling of plans and the promise of a day in my sweatpants to come.

Even longer ago, the sound of snow falling at night meant no school, a day of frozen toes, wet feet, and desperately attempting to build a snowman out of 3/4 of an inch of wet, slushy sleet.

Four years ago, almost to the day, a date that had lasted nearly 24 hours was coming to an end...even though neither of us wanted it to. I told him that he had to bring me home. With a few pouts and extra snuggles, he finally relented and we got in the truck. As we went down the road, he held my hand tightly and assured me that this would not be our last date and in my heart, I knew he was right. I fought back a flood of emotions as I looked through the gray windshield and watched the tiny bits of white dust begin to fall. I heard it pelting the truck as we sped down the road, like being in a sand storm. I was disoriented, I could barely breathe, and I was elated. Snow was falling and so was I.

When the snow falls, I ache to be home. I crave the warmth of my handmade quilts and the comforting rub of pily sweatpants. Four years ago, my heart found its home in a snowstorm. Each winter, I crave the smell of the snow and the sound it makes when it snaps against the window, but I'm lucky that my home is now with me every day, sleet, snow, rain, or shine.

So, everything that could go wrong--went wrong. 

It rained.

I cried...a lot.

I wanted to cry more.

I was angry.

I was laughed at.

I did a kick ass job doing double winged eyeliner and there is no evidence of it. 

I washed it off my face with disgust and watched the black, swirly water wash down the drain with the rest of the day. When I lifted my face from the towel and looked back at myself in the mirror, I felt relieved. It was over. The Facebook posts, comments, and messages finally stopped and I could breathe again. 

He played "Happy Birthday" on the dobro, slow and broken, and it was the best I felt all day.

They can't all be happy birthdays.

And I'm okay with that too.

In just a few hours, I will be 35 years old.

I won’t sprout a new wrinkle overnight…although my “elevens” might require some Botox.

I won’t suddenly need a walker with little tennis balls on the “feet”.

I won’t start shopping for an urn or make funeral arrangements.

I won’t purchase a velour caftan from Soft Surroundings. (Even though I secretly want to.)

I won’t magically become a different person who works out, wears clothes that aren’t ill-fitting and wrinkled, and start saying things like: 

“Ermahgerd, glurten ruined my life.”

But…

I will have sore cheeks from smiling so hard it hurts at a concert that my soul NEEDS.

I will probably shed a few tears. A few are good.

I will obsess over my outfit and wear impractical shoes….and possibly a bubblegum pink tutu.

I will be thankful…so thankful.

I will still be the same goof who loves passionately, bumps into things, smiles often, obsesses over cute critters, and procrastinates out of fear that everything won’t be absolutely perfect.

And I’m okay with that.