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Dear Diary – We celebrated Father’s Day on Sunday – with one kid in another city, and my folks in another. It sucked! But we did our best to celebrate anyway. And, as with all celebrations, that included the pre-requisite gifts of tees, snacks and undies, and more food.

Great gift, Big Guy!!

Dear Diary – Hubby and I went looking for something to watch one evening and we found a perfectly ridiculous movie:

Planet Terror (2007) A one-legged go-go dancer and her ex-lover join forces with other survivors to battle a horde of flesh-eating zombies invading their Texas town.

I may be creative but even I can’t come up with this stuff!

Dear Diary – I overbaked! In this instance, I do not mean that I consumed an extraordinary amount of maryjane, but that I baked too many sweets AND consequently, with so much sugar now at my disposal, all hope of sweating off that covid weight is flitting away faster than a gold finch! Those extra pounds will party around my middle longer and likely invite friends. I’ll be sweating, but not in a good way. I immediately chucked the donuts, jelly busters, cookies and muffins in the freezer, so at least I have to venture into the batcave basement to retrieve anything, which will cause me to sweat…

Speaking of sweat, I still wake up in the night, tossing and turning, and sweating. A few years ago, I made a commitment to my love, my bed, that I would work on our relationship. I bought new sheets. I’ve tried sleeping with my head where my feet should be, the sheets a tangled mess by morning. Conscious of the alarm clock’s jealousy, I’ve cloaked it at night to dim its light, its presence when we’re together. But alas! I’ve held on, longer than I probably should have, hoping it wasn’t over. A relationship takes two and I’m just not feeling the love. When things open up, I think (sob), I think I have to kick it to the curb. It will be so hard, but I’m ready to begin again.

Dear Diary – It’s going to be a long summer. My noisy neighbours have taught their loud, elephant of a daughter, how to play Marco Polo. It’s a game where one person keeps their eyes closed and searches for the other players by yelling “Marco”. They reply by yelling “Polo”. My Mom came up with the perfect solution – confuse them by hiding in the yard and playing Marco Polo too.

Dear Diary – This.

This has to stop.

The tears, the tangles, the tearing… Every morning. After every shower. When I walked outside on a breezy day. Thursdays.

The combs get stuck in the rats’ nests, the rats themselves nasty invisible things. I pull hairballs from my brush that would rival Garfield, and fill my garbage can with enough balls to knit a sweater. We’re finding long strings on everything. It clings to Hubby’s socks on the clothesline, and occasionally, he finds it in his dinner.

And once the knots are removed, I look like a muppet version of an 80’s rock band. Frizzy. Blue. Out of control.

No amount of hair product or appliances can tame the mane. Colouring has become an hours’ long production. It’s nice to have long hair in the summer because I can put it up, but with a shoulder that’s taking forever to make a comeback in physio torture therapy, I start to sweat. Which heats the house, the humidity from which causes the frizz to really pop. It’s a never ending cycle. I need “hair-apy” and soon!

It’s been almost 2 years since I’ve had a haircut.

I googled “how to deal with bad hair”. One solution was to wear a low-cut blouse. Geniuses everywhere. Sigh…

You can’t control everything! Your hair was put on your head to remind you of that.