Monthly Archives: April 2010

4 minutes (to save the world)

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I went to the dentist yesterday. I never like going to the dentist, because I’m always sure I have 1000 cavities and gingivitis. Needless to say, I was nervous. My dental hygienist was very nice, however, and merely told me I needed to brush my teeth more.

Now, this is coming from a good place, I know, but I brush my teeth A LOT. Or at least, you know, twice a day and after meals if I’m home and I floss. Oh, I floss. So of course, being a good dental patient, I looked up exactly how long I am supposed to brush my teeth.

And I discovered, you are supposed to brush your teeth for about 3 minutes. 3 minutes, people. For those of you who don’t know, that is the approximate length of the song 4 Minutes. (Granted, the version with Timbaland is 4 minutes long, which I guess redeems the fact that the rest of the versions are a close 3 minutes.)

So folks, if you want to save the world (or just your teeth) turn up the “4 Minutes” (by Madonna and Justin, OR if you’re so inclined, by the Glee cast) and dance around your bathroom, brushing those teeth at a 45 degree angle, and make sure to brush your tongue.

I have some grays; or alternatively: I didn't wash my hair today.

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So, I’m one of those people who tend to get caught up in a cause, works on it for a while, then lets it fade. One of those things in life was dying my gray hairs. Well, obviously my whole head, but the grays were the aim. I have them randomly throughout my head, a patch steadily growing at my part in the front of my head. Dying them works for a little while, but inevitably there is always that day when Jeff goes, “Oh. oh.” Which translates to “The grays. They are back.” I have had a gray hair (or two) (or thirty) since I was in approximately the eighth grade. I remember dying my hair in high school, plucking them out every now and then, wrestling with them this past year as they stick straight up, defiant, determined.

My friend B told me to embrace them: she embraces hers, because WHAT is a girl TO DO? And she’s right. Try as I may, they come back. With a vegence. So I’m attempting to go all Stacy London, streak it out, look hot, society be damned.

They’re all coming back now, after the recent dye that left my hair an excellent shade of chocolate cherry (dark chocolate, don’t worry.) Which leads me to my next point. Hair dying, as it turns out, is bad for your hair.

Now, some of you that know me personally know I have A LOT OF HAIR HOLY CRAP. It’s everywhere (screaming infidelities) around my house. It clumps under the couch, creating what Nikki refers to as dust elephants. It’s not pretty. Jeff can’t stand it, Andrew occasionally points one out in his food during dinner (claiming, “No, it’s not Corelyn’s. It’s yours. ” But he continues to eat my cooking anyways, which is how I can tell he loves me.) It is thick, it is voluminous, and it is dark as night.

But, mostly, it’s shiny. And I’d like to keep it that way, only sometimes it doesn’t want to cooperate. Now, I had this roommate in college (SS) who had CURLY hair. It was, and continues to be, fabulous. She didn’t wash it every day because it’d get dry. I hope she doesn’t mind my sharing that to the world. But she didn’t. And I thought to myself, and yelled (along with Katie, who is on my HOLY CRAP A LOT OF hair greasy-Italian side) “I CAN’T DO THAT MY HAIR GETS TOO GREASY.” And for years, I believe I couldn’t. Have you SEEN my bangs after I slept on them? A mess. And my hair — a pile of grease. Men for miles around would be repulsed by my unwashed hair.

Then, a few months ago (or maybe now more like a year) Corelyn had an idea: washing our hair less is good for our hair. It helps in the dry climate we live in to keep our hair moisturized. We should wash it, therefore, every other day. Brillant, I thought, but it’ll never work. For one, everyone here gets sweaty because it’s ALWAYS hot. So, for a while, I was not washing my hair on weekends. Sure, if I had to go out Saturday night I’d wash it (who do you think I am? Jen-nay from Forest Gump?) but Sundays, no dice. Who washes their hair to go to the farmer’s market? Not us.

Lately, I have been trying not to wash it every weekday either, and you know what? No men were repelled (at least not because of my hair.) We’ve been working out consistently this month, so we’re obviously in need of daily showers, but I have discovered (albeit slowly) that I can not wash my hair, wet it in the shower, DRY IT, and it is OK TO LOOK AT. I don’t look like a freak. My grays simmer and almost lie flat on my head. No one points and says, “Wow, did you not shower? Because your hair…” In fact, I am sitting here, clean-showered with unwashed hair, and my coworkers are not judging me. (Or at least, I don’t think so. Liz, are you judging me?) I showered, wet my hair, dried it, and it looks ok. Good, I’d say. Great, even.

Moral of the story is this: if you don’t use product (which I don’t except on special occasions) you can not wash your hair every day. And it’ll help calm your flyaways. And your hair will be shiny. And men will like you.

What do you all do to keep your hair pretty?

Sleep Cycle: Friday to Tuesday

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Some more sleep cycles, since Kelly asked…

Thursday – Friday

Friday – Saturday

Saturday – Sunday

Sunday – Monday

Monday – Tuesday

Overall I think this is working well for me. And, it gets me excited to go to bed, and wake up! I love waking up and seeing my sleep cycle, and I love knowing my average sleep a night, and seeing how I really did wake up at a good time in the cycle. Plus, the sounds you wake up to are SO soothing.

Anyone out there using this? Does any one like it? Thoughts??

Amish Friendship Bread.

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I went on a cruise, and the day I got back, my friend Liz handed me this:

It was a bag of mushed brown substance. “It’s a starter for bread” she insisted. I was skeptical. A bag of mush? What a welcome home. She claimed to have gotten it from a friend, who got it from her brother, who received it from a neighbor. So, not only was it a bag of mush, it was an OLD bag of mush (as Jeff pointed out.)

So I brought it home. And stared at it a little. Jeff said, “What is THAT?” and I answered, “Starter.” And he stared back, like I had brought home an alien. Poor guy.

The weirdest part about this whole situation was that the bag came with instructions. Simple ones. That said, “Mush the bag, mush the bag.” Think I’m lying?

I am not. Mush the bag. That’s it. What kind of instructions are THAT?

So I mushed. And I added on the sixth day. And on the seventh day, there was no rest. There was more mushing. But, on the tenth day, there was fermented-smelling mush to then pour into a bowl.

So I did what it said. I added flour.

And I added sugar.

And it all began to sink.

And I got bags out, to pass the Amish Friendship Bread along to four more unsuspecting friends, who would be equally confused and slightly terrified when receiving a bag of mush. With directions.

Then I finished putting the bread together — cinnamon, mainly. And when it was done, I literally didn’t even have a chance to take  a picture before half of it was gone to Andrew and Corelyn (Andrew loves Amish Friendship bread, and had a hard time waiting the ten days.)

Mainly, I had a problem taking a picture because my kitchen looked like this:

Because being who I am, I decided that making muffins at the same time was a great idea. I am sure I have photos of the blueberry muffins somewhere, although Jeff gobbled those up pretty quickly, too, but I’ll see what I can do for you. The bread is slowly being chipped at, like good banana bread, and Corelyn and I have been saved a few breakfast disasters with it. Doesn’t taste fermented at all, but more like really good cinnamon bread. Mmm mmm just the way I like it.

Most of you know that if we lived closer, I would have given you a starter bag of Amish mush. But, since we live so far apart, I will leave you with this, so you can start your own chain.