1. The ever phallic Tigi BedHead After Party gave me what can only be described as my best dry twist-out to date. The ingredients, I can’t. Might as well have been written in French. The worst I’ve seen. Terrible. Deplorable. Damn bad. But still, out of curiosity, I used a teeny bit per twist (the same 7 I always have) and sealed with an even smaller smidget of grease. Shiny, bouncy, smooth, rich looking hair. And nope. No pics, no evidence. You’ll just have to take my word for it. I plan to try the exact same routine again this weekend and promise to report back 🙂 In the meantime, take your product junky arse to the store and get a bottle… of the product that looks like it’s working double duty. Thank me later.
2. Creeky ass floor boards. The bane of my existence. Every night, after Gia has ran her last lap, and her groove thang is all out of shakes , I lay her down in my bed to coerce her to sleep. About thirty minutes later, booty in the air, I can tell she’s good and knocked. I then ease out of bed and swiftly and gently scoop her up, scooting fast as hell (think hot potato), across the creaky floorboards to her nursery. It’s seriously like mission impossible. Like I’m sent a message every night that says “Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to put Subject Lil Mama in the bed undetected and exit without incident. This baby will self destruct (in what I’m positive is her version of ‘awww hell naw’) in 30 seconds.“
On top of that, she hates to see hubby and I show each other any signs of affection. The minute I reach in for a hug or kiss, Boog, on cue, screams, kicks and demands to be picked up so she can get in the middle, or worse, hug on hubby while coyly looking at me over his shoulder. She does, however, appreciate, enjoy and even initiate group hugs… just no hugs when she’s not around. Let’s hear it for breathing birth control! Boo Boo is on the job.
She dictates sleep schedules, when we eat, what we eat–she likes potato products and chicken strips, that’s it– where we eat, cause we can’t go to restaurants cause she acts the fool (throwing food, attracting unwanted attention from strangers by smiling and dancing, etc.). I sneak off during naps and episodes of Yo Gaba Gaba to do my hair, to clean, to watch a show… but I must rush through everything cause she’s like a ticking time bomb. It’s as if I left my mother’s house only to turn around and have a different woman determine my diet, curfew, and bedtime, not to mention I have to sneak around with my ‘boyfriend’. This ish cray. Love her more than these pork rinds I’ve been going in on, but got damn… What’s funny is that even after all that, all it takes is one of those temple to temple grins, a hip wiggle and a hug where she softly pats me on the back, to remind me that it’s all worth it.