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If I Could Start Over Again…

If I could start over again…

I’d go to Honduras and never come back

I’d go to Jamaica and never come back

I’d go to Cuba and never come back

I’d go to Canada and never come back

I’d go to England and never come back

I’d go to Puerto Rico and RUN back (sorry)

reset

If I could start over again…

I’d play the piano instead of dabbling in photography

I’d become a Gardner

I’d stick to one career for 50 years

If I could start over again…

I’d be a Buddhist instead of a Catholic who decided later in life to be an Episcopalian who has now reverted back to a Catholic while still haphazardly trying to be a Buddhist

If I could start over again

I’d be an extrovert instead of an introvert sucking everyone’s energy instead of having my energy sucked

I’d be a selfish all consuming asshole

I’d have road rage 24/7 and then some

I’d never have empathy or compassion

I’d sprinkled my sidewalk trees with pepper to make the doggies sneeze

If I could start over again…

-I’d be a world class runner like Meb, skinny and a vegan with flawless skin and killer abs

-I’d never touch alcohol,l opting for kale/spinach/ beet smoothies instead

-I’d be a nutritionist making money off of people, telling them what to eat, then watching them fail and devise another food plan to watch the failure, then tell them what to eat etc.

If I could start all over again…

I’d live in Manhattan-Washington Heights just to say I did and I’d try the Bronx-South Bronx just to say I did

I’d leave this city once and for all, cut all ties and say “Hasta La Vista” with “Baby” included at the end

But…I can’t.

 

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This is my hair…

I went to our church’s after service Bring a Dish Dinner on Saturday. After gathering a small sample from the variety of food brought I sat down at the table with about 12 parishioners. We are a multi-cultured and multi-faceted sometimes too complacent group who regularly attend Saturday services. At times, as we eat, conversation involves  politics, the sensational headline of the week, who said what to who or whom or the rantings of verbal word hogs, who cannot or will not shut up.

I sat at the table, sampling the variety of food brought and sipped at my half filled/half empty cup of wine. The conversation was lively with advice on handymans, cats and animal behaviourist, wine, why such and such wasn’t recommend for such and such and then BAM out of nowhere…

Parishioner #1-“Hey, did you go to the salon? Your hair looks short.”

SILENCE

Me-“Yes. I went to a curly hair salon”.

SILENCE

Parishioner #1-“Oh. Well its short.”

Parishioner #2-“I thought you were wearing a wig.”

Me-“I’m not wearing a wig. I went to a curly hair salon.”

Silence, and change of subject as I extinguished the hot lava of verbal words not appropriate for church from my vocal chords.

My hair, normally tied captive into a puff had gone through its emancipation from the cotton bandana the week before during a visit to the Devachan salon in NYC. It was finally free to curl up into tight corkscrews drenched in the best moisturizer (Devachan One) that I EVER, EVER, EVER used and the most expensive condition I EVER, EVER, EVER bought.

It was worth it, and not like Loreal .

Since I did not have the emotional strength to relay the trials and tribulation of having the hair which no advertisers for commercials will show swinging in the breeze during prime time television-I use this forum to vent.

In pictures…

This was my hair on the ‘creamy crack’ when it was long.

Assisting through 013 (2)

This was my hair on the creamy crack when it was short.

Short straight

This was my hair in locks..boy how skinny I was back in the day. Maybe this is the start of another post, ‘This is my body when…’

Locks

This was my hair all gone.

Shaved off

This is my hair growing back.

Growing out

This is how I hid my hair when it was growing back.

Hiding the hair

This is my mom’s hair which in no way shape or form resembles mine.

Mom's hair

This is my hair, now…in its puff-a-souras glory.

Puffasaurous

This is my hair when it is wet…I wish it would look like this when its dry-actually it does look like this !

wet hair

This is my hair when we run.

Hair for running

I once had blonde locks before it was in vogue, as well as a Gerry Curl in all its goopy, dripping glory that left its own gelatin calling card behind on every headrest it encountered

My hair as I stated before, represents who I am and where I come from and I do not apologize for its refusal to fit into what society’s obsessiveness with European looks wants it to be.

‘nuff said.

“I want a golden goose and I want it NOW!”

I want a one-bedroom apartment with a fireplace, indoor parking garage, a pool and a backyard.

I want to live in a neighbourhood where the only sounds I hear at night are crickets.

I want a grand piano and no, not a Steinway but a Bosendorfer.

I want to win Mega Millions and not the $2 prize but the bunch of millions prize.

I want to lose allot of weight in two weeks’ time.

I want new clothes to compliment the weight loss I lost in two weeks’ time.

I want a female pit bull.

I want to name my female pit bull- Ms Piti Bee or maybe Ms Piti Me.

I want a house in the country, in a gated community, in case Jason Voorhees tries to contact me.

I want the entire Fall 2012 Mulberry bag collection.

I want a road bike.

I want to ride my road bike in the country, near my country home, in the gated community.

I want a Life Alert button so if I fall someone will eventually come to get me up.

I want someone to live with me so I won’t need the Life Alert button.

I want and I want and only get what I need and sometimes what is desperately needed but for now I will daydream of living in Veruca Salt’s world.

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