I have no idea why I typed that title. Because I'm tired, I guess.
Haven't seen any lice for over a week. Nits, either. No, the super-heavy-duty 5% permethrin the doc prescribed (even after I said these seemed to be permethrin-resistant) didn't do a thing. What DOES seem to be doing the trick?
Religious combing. Lice combing, nit combing, nit picking. Plus a heavy dose of heat via my blow dryer. Every other day we shampoo, load our hair with Pureology (a very pricy conditioner to be using as nit-combing gel, but it's perfect for it), nit comb, then fry the hair with the blow dryer. Thankfully, the Pureology seems to do a pretty good job of protecting the hair from the high heat.
What a mess. I guess a trip to the hairdresser will let us know if we've really gotten rid of them.
Watched the rat-children's Dad lose his truck today (the family's only vehicle). Looks like it's just stopped running. Not a surprise--the poor thing has no front door windows (they try to use towels and blankets to keep the rain out), and it's sounded increasingly unwell for months now. My first urge?
To head over and commiserate, because I have SO been there. To recommend Brown's Hyundai because, hey, they financed us when I didn't think ANYONE would. I feel bad for the guy, I do. I think he's an ineffectual, weak parent whose kids are scary and out of control, but fact is, I think he's a nice guy. A nice guy who works hard and has it rough--and it just got a whole lot rougher.
Right before Christmas.
I wish we could afford to step in and be the good guys for him.
I remember, back in 1995, when we were moving from Fontana (Fontucky), California back to Utah. It was a miserable move--hubby driving his car, me driving the U-Haul truck (with the broken dash lights) with the Mustang on the trailer (with the broken stabilizer). I cried from Fontucky to Barstow. Not easy, driving a 26 foot truck pulling a 17 foot auto transport over Cajon Pass while sobbing.
No, I didn't want to leave SoCal. In hindsight, of course, I'm glad we did. It led us here. Eventually.
Driving that rig was very hard in the dark, and, by the time we reached Jean, Nevada (after deciding against picking up hitchhikers near the women's prison outside of town), I had a migraine that was the size of--well, at least the size of my head. We pulled into the parking lot at some Jean casino, hoping to find some way, in those over-packed vehicles, to nap. Understand we were moving a snake, a rat, five cats, and a dog. All their cages crammed in the cabs of the two vehicles. Before I could nap, however, I really needed to take something for that eye-bleeder of a headache.
To do that? I needed food. We had no food. Know what else we had almost none of?
Money. In fact, we were not sure we had enough money to keep the U-Haul truck in petrol.
I tried to beg off, told hubby I'd just take the pills sans food. He wasn't having any of that, so we headed into the casino in search of cheap casino fare. And we found some--$2.99 prime rib with baked potato and some rather disconsolate, woobly green beans. Add a Diet Coke for a buck and we were set. An eight dollar meal, basically. Well, a ten dollar meal, once you count the tip. Of course, this was back when gas was 80 cents or so a gallon. So ten dollar meal was a LOT of fuel. We were now even closer to not making it to our destination.
On our way out of the casino, we passed a rather inebriated gentleman who had just hit it on the dollar slots. He started yelling for hubby to come over. Hubby, at the time, wasn't the Mr. Respectable he is now in a suit and tie. No, he was a long hair (down to his ass) in grubby jeans with the obligatory tat on the arm. He approached the man, who scooped out handfuls of dollars from his machine and offered them to us. Hubby tried to beg off, but the man insisted--said it would screw with his luck if he didn't share with the first person he saw. Wisely, hubby didn't persist in objecting, and we walked away with thirty-eight dollars.
38 bucks.
He had no way of knowing it, but that drunk at the slots? Saved us. He got us home. We've never forgotten him. As much as I fear and loathe those kids across the street, I don't wish them a crappy Christmas where presents go back so the truck can be fixed or replaced. I don't wish their dad yet another crap job so he can keep them afloat. I wish we had the money to help. Because you know what?
I can't imagine anything cooler than being the person who puts a hand out there and pulls someone else up.
Another good diet day. I think tomorrow I'm going to start including pics of bad paneling. Because, as I pore over real estate listings, I realize there is a LOT of really offensive paneling out there. Like this (which isn't the worst I've seen, but it sure would make me sad if I had to look at it every day):
Haven't seen any lice for over a week. Nits, either. No, the super-heavy-duty 5% permethrin the doc prescribed (even after I said these seemed to be permethrin-resistant) didn't do a thing. What DOES seem to be doing the trick?
Religious combing. Lice combing, nit combing, nit picking. Plus a heavy dose of heat via my blow dryer. Every other day we shampoo, load our hair with Pureology (a very pricy conditioner to be using as nit-combing gel, but it's perfect for it), nit comb, then fry the hair with the blow dryer. Thankfully, the Pureology seems to do a pretty good job of protecting the hair from the high heat.
What a mess. I guess a trip to the hairdresser will let us know if we've really gotten rid of them.
Watched the rat-children's Dad lose his truck today (the family's only vehicle). Looks like it's just stopped running. Not a surprise--the poor thing has no front door windows (they try to use towels and blankets to keep the rain out), and it's sounded increasingly unwell for months now. My first urge?
To head over and commiserate, because I have SO been there. To recommend Brown's Hyundai because, hey, they financed us when I didn't think ANYONE would. I feel bad for the guy, I do. I think he's an ineffectual, weak parent whose kids are scary and out of control, but fact is, I think he's a nice guy. A nice guy who works hard and has it rough--and it just got a whole lot rougher.
Right before Christmas.
I wish we could afford to step in and be the good guys for him.
I remember, back in 1995, when we were moving from Fontana (Fontucky), California back to Utah. It was a miserable move--hubby driving his car, me driving the U-Haul truck (with the broken dash lights) with the Mustang on the trailer (with the broken stabilizer). I cried from Fontucky to Barstow. Not easy, driving a 26 foot truck pulling a 17 foot auto transport over Cajon Pass while sobbing.
No, I didn't want to leave SoCal. In hindsight, of course, I'm glad we did. It led us here. Eventually.
Driving that rig was very hard in the dark, and, by the time we reached Jean, Nevada (after deciding against picking up hitchhikers near the women's prison outside of town), I had a migraine that was the size of--well, at least the size of my head. We pulled into the parking lot at some Jean casino, hoping to find some way, in those over-packed vehicles, to nap. Understand we were moving a snake, a rat, five cats, and a dog. All their cages crammed in the cabs of the two vehicles. Before I could nap, however, I really needed to take something for that eye-bleeder of a headache.
To do that? I needed food. We had no food. Know what else we had almost none of?
Money. In fact, we were not sure we had enough money to keep the U-Haul truck in petrol.
I tried to beg off, told hubby I'd just take the pills sans food. He wasn't having any of that, so we headed into the casino in search of cheap casino fare. And we found some--$2.99 prime rib with baked potato and some rather disconsolate, woobly green beans. Add a Diet Coke for a buck and we were set. An eight dollar meal, basically. Well, a ten dollar meal, once you count the tip. Of course, this was back when gas was 80 cents or so a gallon. So ten dollar meal was a LOT of fuel. We were now even closer to not making it to our destination.
On our way out of the casino, we passed a rather inebriated gentleman who had just hit it on the dollar slots. He started yelling for hubby to come over. Hubby, at the time, wasn't the Mr. Respectable he is now in a suit and tie. No, he was a long hair (down to his ass) in grubby jeans with the obligatory tat on the arm. He approached the man, who scooped out handfuls of dollars from his machine and offered them to us. Hubby tried to beg off, but the man insisted--said it would screw with his luck if he didn't share with the first person he saw. Wisely, hubby didn't persist in objecting, and we walked away with thirty-eight dollars.
38 bucks.
He had no way of knowing it, but that drunk at the slots? Saved us. He got us home. We've never forgotten him. As much as I fear and loathe those kids across the street, I don't wish them a crappy Christmas where presents go back so the truck can be fixed or replaced. I don't wish their dad yet another crap job so he can keep them afloat. I wish we had the money to help. Because you know what?
I can't imagine anything cooler than being the person who puts a hand out there and pulls someone else up.
Another good diet day. I think tomorrow I'm going to start including pics of bad paneling. Because, as I pore over real estate listings, I realize there is a LOT of really offensive paneling out there. Like this (which isn't the worst I've seen, but it sure would make me sad if I had to look at it every day):
No comments:
Post a Comment