when sandal season just isn't reason enough

"Think about it," my friend Sadie explained over drinks last night, "Your body follows where your feet lead. So if you're smart about the colors you choose for your pedicure, if you choose them with intention, you can sort of nudge yourself in the right direction."

"Oh my GOSH," Caroline, our resident fashionista and seriously the smartest girl I know, drawled, "Totally!"

"What are you talking about?" say I, ever dubious.

"O.P.I. has these really great names for their polish colors," Sadie said. "I've decided that whatever I want my life to be like for the season of the pedicure, my polish should reflect that. In January I painted my toes Can't-a-Berry Have Some Fun and it was perfect!"

January, I should tell, you was the month Sadie was dating a completely inappropriate but smokin' hot Matthew McConaughey-type lawyer after a six month self-imposed stint of celibacy.

"This month I'm wearing Most Honorable Red," she continued with what I can only describe as a giggle.

I should now tell you that recently she's rekindled a romance with another -- only this time completely appropriate and yet still smokin' hot -- lawyer type.

"You think that really works, huh," Jess asked, celibate lately too, though like me (sadly), not so much by choice.

"I know it does," Sadie said.

"Totally," Caroline, seriously the smartest girl I know, confirmed.

"Well, then I want a color," Jess said, popping an olive in her mouth and swigging down the last sip of her Martini, "called Blushing Spring F*ck."

And that, my friends, is why one gets a pedicure.

read to me, paulie-boy

I can't explain it, but my brain speaks with an Irish brogue when reading anything about Ireland. It doesn't happen with any other country or culture. Just Ireland. But it happens every time. I'm reading along and all of a sudden I realize that my "ofs" are "oovs" and my "r's" have all been chewed, swallowed and washed down with a pint of Guiness. Lately, specifically, I hear my friend Paulie narrating. He's off-the-boat-Irish and just a lovely man with an even lovelier speaking voice. So lovely, in fact, that I'm sorry he only reads to me about Ireland.

for see-roo ba-nee-nor because she stalks so good

I really like the rule of threes, so after this no more bangs talk. Unless, you know, I'm discovered by some fame-making maven, Matt Damon suddenly finds -- mysteriously -- that he's in love with me or I win the lottery. If those things happen, I can only assume it's the bangs and I'll have to share.

Speaking of fame and money, my friend-stalker Sarah is going to be rich and famous soon and then I will stalk her! Only I'll do it for real-real. None of this cyber-stalking, full-transparency silliness. I'll dig through her trash and watch her with binoculars and wear a blonde wig so I can sleep with her boyfriend -- because that's all that it takes to fool a man, you know -- a wig. And then I'll go to her mom's house and make her mom teach me how to bake birthday cake the way Sarah always does. (No. 1 Rule of Stalking: Go to the source.) And then I'll have my name formally changed to Sarah's name -- though maybe I'll leave off the "h" so know one knows, but in the private pages of my journal I'll "h" it up all over the place as I practice her signature over and over and over again. And I'll show up on the set of her new television show -- The Lance Krall Show -- and they won't know I'm not her either, because I'll wear the blonde wig again. And I will sign autographs with my practiced signature and everyone will fawn all over me until I open my mouth because Sarah is gut-wrenchingly funny on the fly and can sing really well and can be funny at the same time while singing really well.

And I can't. (Even my mom says so. But she means it as a compliment, so don't not love her.)

I'll have to figure out how to make it so that Sarah becomes mute before I start stalking her.

(No. 2 Rule of Stalking: Prep the subject.)

So this post is for Sarah, because she asked to see the bangs and I want to make her happy so that when I start stalking her she won't realize it for a while. She'll just think we're hanging out like regular friends and stuff. But she'll be wrong. She'll be so very, very wrong. But she can't say I didn't warn her.

raison d'etre

So. I'm going to make this quick and easy. My bangs and I have decided -- at rather long last -- what we're going to do with our life.

We're going to be -- now, please. . . contain yourselves. . . -- a LIFE COACH!

Sweet knee-collapsing, bowel-releasing, run-into-the-stands to kiss your mama relief!

*Confetti raining*

It's a decision!

*Ticker tape streaming*

And we've MADE IT!

*High School Marching Band swaying and bobbing and high-stepping*

All by ourselves!

*Zoom in close on shifty eyes and shady bangs for honesty shot.*

Okay, well. . . not really. Actually. . .

Actually, it isn't even our idea. But, hey, we're embracing it as our own. And that's almost the same thing.

We were told by a somewhat young, very kind, slightly tipsy acquaintance-friend we've only met three or four times, (who's apparently never read this or this or this or this or she might have thought better), that she would pay good money to have access to our counsel.

"I don't mean to cheapen it," she said earnestly, "but I'd pay you."

She'd PAY us!

US!

To coach her. (Because between you and me, sister's already got a lot on the ball.)

In life.

Seriously. Can you believe it?

We can't either.

But my bangs and I have always been service-minded individuals and humbly believe that to answer the call of those in need -- while sometimes time-consuming, emotionally draining and often annoying -- is the greatest gift we can give humanity.

For a price, of course.

So. Consider the shingle up. The door open. The tea steeped. The couch pillows fluffed.

We've lined up a yoga consultant and an incense vendor. We're having the sweat lodge installed next week and our "Know Yourself, Love Yourself" diagnostic test will soon be available online.

We've practiced our thoughtful, "Mmm-hmms," our careful, "Mmm-hmms?," our encouraging, "Mmm-HMMS!"

And we think we're ready.

After all, how hard can it be? Those who can't do yada yada yada.

To get the ball rolling, we're offering an introductory special -- FREE advice to the first twenty-five people seeking well-thought-out and grounded guidance in their lives. Just email us at egginspoon@hotmail.com and we'll post your questions (anonymously of course) along with our sagacious answers in subsequent posts.

It's okay.

Don't be nervous.

We're here for you. My bangs and I, we're listening.

bang on

The hairdresser totally lied to me. All these years and I've been living with this untruth. Believing it. Apologizing for it and feeling vaguely "less than" due to it.

I'm not usually so gullible, but it's just one of those things.

And it seemed so plausible.

I mean, I could see it, right there, a couple inches above my nose.

A little indentation. A small imperfection in my hairline. A genetic hiccup, if you will. A cowlick. I have a cowlick.

I have my mother's cowlick. The one she acquired as a little girl the time she rebelliously pushed gum into her hair after having been told to place it on her forehead as punishment for rebelliously chewing it in the first place. Of course, I don't think the nun intended for the punishment -- and the resulting deformity -- to cross generational lines. I can't believe that the good sister's ire over something so trivial could have burned so bright as to imagine me, the innocent daughter, suffering still under the weight of her reprimand all these years later. But there you have it. The sins of the mother and all that.

I forgive dear mummy, of course. She was young, foolish, bored and probably hungry. While I'm at it, I also forgive her for not painting my childhood bedroom purple and for never taking me to Great Adventure. (These are the things that she feels badly about. Though, frankly, they've never bothered me much. I am, however, still struggling with the scars from the five years we spent in Lubbock; my almost pathologic inability to create boundaries for my dog; my abysmally poor eyesight. All her fault.)

But here's the real tragedy. Because of the cowlick, I was told, I could not have bangs. Bangs and cowlicks, I was told, just can't co-exist peacefully together. She could cut them, I was told, but there would be strife, tears and bloodshed to follow. There would be blow drying to do, the use of product to perfect. Did I want that? Did I? Did I?

No. I didn't.

It was truly too much to bear, the thought of all that maintenance. Let me be clear. I'm not good with hair. Plus, the associations are just too painful. The memories of all those hours spent under the cruel hand of my Aunt Ann's hairbrush back in Lubbock -- the pulling of those teensy, tinesy hairs at the base of my neck, the eye-watering, the brutally tight ponytails and the resulting headaches, the inadvertent ear-burns from the curling iron, the nausea-inducing heat generated by the hair dryer. (I just threw up a little in the back of my throat just thinking about it.) So now, whatever it looks like after a vigorous towel dry and a perfunctory brush, it is what it is. Ergo, I've had the same long, straightish, no-style style since I was about 16.

But I'm now 31.

And the hairstyles in the "before" pictures in the Oprah make-over shows have, of late, been looking a little too much like my own fluffy and overgrown tresses.

And my boss recently introduced me as "that hippie girl over there."

So this year, I decided on some drama. Some much-needed hair drama.

"Just a trim?" my stylist wanted to know.

"No, I want drama."

"Drama. How much drama?"

"I don't know," I said petulantly. You're the stylist, I thought. "Drama."

She pondered a moment, before turning away to pick up her scissors. When she turned back, she stood behind me, tapped the scissors to her chin and said carefully, testing the waters, "Shall we try bangs?"

I believe time actually stopped as our eyes met in the mirror. Could it really be? Could I really. . . ? But, no. . . .

"I have I cowlick," I said sadly, a regretful sinner in confession.

"That's no big deal. I'll just cut them higher. If you want them, we can do bangs."

"We can?!"

"We can."

And we did! Oh, how we did!

All those years. All those bangless years. And as it turns out, I look FABULOUS in bangs. Not to brag, but it was as if bangs were invented for the sole purpose of sitting on my head. Or perhaps my head was created for the sole purpose of displaying bangs. Toe-may-toe, Toe-mah-toe. Nee-ther, Nigh-ther.

Who really cares?!

I HAVE BANGS!

And just in time too, as the furrows in my brow have officially become etched beyond all moisturizing hope of Oil of Olay.

Bangs are the poor girl's botox, as my friend Laurie says.

Oh, the power of the bang! Apparently, I not only look younger, but I'm also funnier, more intelligent and a better conversationalist, to judge by the critiques I've gotten from the male set in the wider circle of my friends. These are men, I might add, who couldn't even remember my name the first eight times we met. But now? Now, everyone remembers my name! Even people I've never met before think they know me from the past. They're wrong of course. They just know the bangs. Bangs that once graced the head of some other girl and now belong to me. I pity the girl who lost hers, but she's not getting them back. I'll move to another state first. I'll enter the bangness protection program, if I have to. I'll create a foundation for the benefit of the bangless, but I won't surrender mine. Just try and make me.

You know, once, right after college, my friend Molly mentioned to her mother that she was going to get her hair cut. And in that cut-to-the-chase, cut-to-the-bone insight that mothers often exhibit, hers replied, "Sure, go ahead, that'll fix your life."

We were both sort of abashed at the time. Disheartened and shaken to our cores. But the irony -- minus the sarcasm -- is that she was more right than she knew. A haircut can change your life. I'm living proof.

Check back soon and you'll see. Me and my bangs? We're going places, baby.

And the cowlick? It and that lying hairdresser can schmow my lick!

des memos from des moines: the dangers of dust bunnies

My cousin Pamela who falls a lot in Iowa was vacuuming yesterday and in a fete of amazing absurdity, somehow allowed her head to get close enough to the whirling, sucking part of her vacuum that it vacuumed up her hair -- the part of her hair at the very crown of her head.

Can't you see her? Practically standing on her head, derriere in the air, arms flailing wildly in a vain attempt to grasp the elusive neck of the vacuum cleaner whereupon lives the off switch? But she can't find it blind and bent over and so it keeps sucking more and more of her hair? Can't you practically hear the whining of the vacuum's motor screaming in your ears, working, straining, struggling to suck into its gullet a full grown woman?

What's worse, Pamela's five-year-old daughter Emma was the only one there to help. But Emma, too, has struggled with this beast of a cleaning device in the past. Last year -- at just about this same time -- it was she who was caught in the sucky beast's brushey clenches. It was she who'd wrestled with it and watched in fearful confusion as it attempted to inhale the fingers right off her hand. And though she survived physically unscathed, to come upon the horrifying site of her own until-this-moment impervious mother being eaten by the very same vacuum creature -- a Shel Silverstein illustration come to life -- she could do nothing more than cradle her hand, now throbbing in memory of the original attack and scream, "BUT I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO! I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO! I DON'T. KNOW WHAT. TO DO!"

So distraught was the child in fact, that she almost threw herself into the vacuum as well, for fear of being left behind. Better to go by choice -- and in company -- than to face a world alone in which vacuum cleaners attack. And except for her mother's swinging arms, she might have done just that.

And then luckily for Emma, who was in full voice and on her fourteenth, "BUT I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO!" -- frozen in place (except for her mouth) by the site of her mother battling mightily with the carnivorous vacuum -- the phone rang.

You see, Emma loves the phone. Emma love the phone so much that she likes to sleep with it -- just in case someone calls in the wee hours to chat. She loves it so much that she's demanded phones for all her dolls, so she can converse with them telephonically, as well. So being Emma, even in the midst of a crisis, she answered the phone. And frankly, is it not completely understandable? Don't we all in times of turmoil try to go to our happy places? For Emma, that place is the telephone. Of course, the call wasn't for her, it was for her mother. So Emma explained somewhat sadly -- because she really, truly in the moment needed this outlet, this escape, you know? -- that her mother wasn't available to talk, because she was vacuuming and then she promptly hung up. Thereupon, she returned to her mother's side to resume her role. Deep breath now. Release. Annnnd. . . "BUT I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO! I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO!"

**No actual Pamelas were harmed -- in anything but pride -- during the making of this blog. The subject in question was, after some time, able to extricate herself from her cleaning device with her scalp miraculously intact. Emma, who is now under the care of a licensed therapist, has requested that she may be allowed to go live with her Aunt Jill, who reportedly never vacuums. **

dr. strange gum

I'm not sure what I expected. I'd been told that my new periodontist, the woman I was going to let slice into my gums, was also the on-call emergency dentist for the animals at the Atlanta zoo. A funny blip on her resume, to be sure, but also a tad bewildering at the same time. I'm not sure why, frankly, but it is.

Anyway, she's a spitfire, this one. A tiny, blonde woman in blue scrubs -- no comfortingly authoritative white lab coat here -- attractive in that sort of freshly scrubbed outdoorsy way and an earthiness about her that I associate with those who work among animals. You know, horsy people. Salt of the earth. Straight-forward. Unpretentious. Brook no disagreement type of brutal honesty.

She barely glanced at me as she introduced herself, took a look at my chart, a quick peek at the panoramic x-ray of my jaw, did a double-take and then gasped, "What a gorgeous picture that is! Look at those roots!"

"Thanks," I said, "I'm very photogenic." (And for the record, I actually said that. And that quickly. Right then. No creative license taken these many hours later. See, Corinne, I'm not always a stuttering, blithering idiot.)

That got her attention and she sort of laughed. Sort of, but not quite, before pointing out, "Well, it's a really good camera and a well-trained technician."

"Well. . . yeah." Back to blithering.

"I'm recommending a bite plate," she said next, madly scribbling in my chart, glancing at the films, scribbling, glancing, scribbling. I had yet to open my mouth.

"Wha. . . ? Why?"

"A lot of the people at your company have them."

"But I don't. . . I mean, Dentist Dr. A said I was fine. I don't have any jaw soreness in the morning."

"Are you married," she demanded.

"No."

"Well the next time you sleep with somebody. . . "

"What, ask him if I grind my teeth?!"

(Hey, you. . . *kiss**kiss**kiss* . . . before you doze off. . . *kiss**kiss**kiss*. . . I need you to tell me something. . . )

"Yes."

She wasn't joking.

"See here," she asked pointing to the film, "the back molars are flattening a little."

"But those are teeth. I get that a bite plate will help teeth, but they'll stop recessing gums how?"

Ignoring my question, "I used to not believe it myself. But now I do."

"But why?"

And then she talked in unintelligible terms about the flexibility and density of teeth and microscopic fractures and I still don't understand really why I need a bite plate and how it resolves the issue of gum recession.

"Okay, let's take a look. I'm going to do a full examination."

Well, I would certainly hope so! I thought and might actually have said, but the back of my chair had suddenly disappeared from behind me, pulling me back by a clump of hair that was caught under the head rest and it took the dentist, the dental assistant and me more than a moment to sufficiently resolve the issue to everyone's comfort.

And then the fasted exam I've ever undergone ensued during which she poked a sharp pointy thing around the gums of every single tooth and barked numbers to the assistant signifying levels of um. . . attachment? depth? attractiveness? Anyway, numbers.

"You have a LOT of teeth," she declared after the count around.

"Well, my wisdom teeth came in straight, so. . . "

"But they're hard to keep clean. I think this one has some decay. It looks like there's a little decay."

For the record, Dr. A gave me a complete bill of clean tooth health, so a part of me takes umbrage at her findings.

"We could fill it I suppose," she continued without taking a breath, "but it would cost the same to have it pulled. We could pull it right out of there. I mean we could fill it or seal it, but pulling it would be just as easy."

Me, screaming in my head: PULL IT?!?!?

But she just wheeled her chair around to look at my award-winning x-ray and kept talking without pause, "But those roots! And you're so small. And the root is really close to the nerve. It could break your jaw." She wheeled back to loom over me, "We have to tell everybody that for liability purposes. That an extracted tooth could potentially break a jaw. But you're so small, I think on you it actually would. So, I've changed my mind," she said and I could tell she wanted to clap her hands in jubilant decisiveness. "We won't do that. Let's just keep an eye on it for now. Sissy, write that down." And Sissy wrote it down.

After that it was a lot of blah blah blah. . .

". . . commend you on your home care. . . "

". . . really deep pits. . . "

". . . daughter works for Fox News. . . "

". . . remove the tissue from the roof of your mouth. . . "

". . . know anything about developing Web sites?"

". . . insurance company charges per tooth, but it's just as easy for me to do three at once. . . "

AND THEN:

". . . do you want valium or vicodin. . . "

Now? Right now? I want both. To go!

I won't be able to talk for 24 hours and I shouldn't "jump around" for 48. It's supposedly going to cost me more than any one of my international travels -- and that's after dental insurance kicks in.

Actually, though. . . oddly, I feel really good about it. Anyone who literally sticks their hands into the mouths of wild animals has got to know the value of the careful touch.

"If you have any questions, feel free to give me a call. I give all my patients my number so they can reach me at any time. Don't worry if I sound a little out of it, though. My boyfriend lives in Hawaii, so I visit him a lot and most of my patients end up calling me at three in the morning. I'm used to it by now. And really, what does it matter? I'm just hanging out on the boat, fishing."

And then she was out the door.

Dude. Gotta love her.

I'll let you know how it goes. I'm anticipating positive results, because I think she just may be the brand of brilliant that doesn't have to hide behind stereotype for professional legitimacy. She can be wacky because she's good. At least, I hope so. Because where else am I going to find a dentist that will take both me and my dog on as clients?! I do have my priorities, you know.

And P.S., she's right. I do grind my teeth. Or at least clench them. Regularly. All day long. I'd just never noticed before.