Why is it the expensive stuff always runs out first?  That “no sulfate” shampoo and conditioner…the kind I use to prevent “damaged ends” and provide “deep conditioning”, while avoiding harsh chemicals.  Or the several items in my chosen skincare line that seem to cost the most.  Let’s focus on this.  Skincare.  I do my best to use products that not only prove to achieve what they claim (anti-aging qualities, hydration, etc.), but also products that use mostly natural ingredients.  About 6-8 months ago, I investigated some of these natural skincare lines at Whole Foods.  My previous skincare line (available only at Sephora) had produced less than desirable results at a much-too-expensive price, so the move to something new was a no-brainer.  Okay, so, Whole Foods.  After trying out some tester kits for a couple of weeks, I decided on the slightly-less-expensive-than-Sephora line called MyChelle.  Or so I thought it was less expensive.  It is a good product, don’t get me wrong, but the few items in the skincare routine which cost the most - namely the serum and day and night moisturizers - do not last the purported 8-10 weeks (or whatever the hell it was).  I’m no face cream hog, but this stuff lasts 4 weeks…tops.  And the day moisturizer alone (a.k.a. Supreme Polypeptide Cream) is close to $70…uh uh…no more. 

If you read my last post, you know my dwindling bank account can’t handle this kind of excess.  Odds are, yours can’t either.  So, I’m counting on you, my fabulous readers, to help a girl out.  Can I get quality skincare products without considering food stamps?  Do I have to throw out the idea of “all natural” in an effort to keep the rights to my first-born child?  Are these overpriced products mainly a marketing ploy that this marketing professional has bought into?

Please…pass on your economical beauty secrets.  And I beg that you pass them on in detail.  Skincare lines are complex and loaded with dozens of products.  Which online or drugstore brands are just as effective as the pricey concoctions?  And what are the essential products to use in a daily (and nightly) regimen?  I’m currently using a gentle cleanser (I’m sensitive ladies :)), a toner, some sort of serum, sometimes an eye cream and a moisturizer.  I’d like to stick with a similar (or easier) regimen….but I’m open to any and all suggestions.  I did pose this question on Facebook (a.k.a. “Crackbook”) as well, and got some good suggestions. Oil of Olay and Neutrogena were some…but I didn’t get details on exact products in these lines.

I could be wrong, but I’m guessing the $70 moisturizer and some of those that are much less expensive, have very similar results.  Hydration and sleep generally make the biggest difference for me, but a good skincare line is important for prevention purposes.  I just don’t want to take out a second mortgage on my (nonexistent) home to pay for it.

Okay…so offer it up, gals!  Let me know whatcha got…and let’s kick this bastard economy in its sensitive area.  And, hey…if you have other simple tips for saving money - from groceries to clothing to printer ink cartridges and coupons - pass ‘em on!  Let’s help each other out…we can’t forego keeping ourselves fabulous…but we can do it for less!

About a week-and-a-half ago, I reluctantly decided to check my bank account balance (from my boyfriend’s laptop) in the backseat of a cluttered van somewhere on the outskirts of Raleigh, NC.  Let me preface…although I have thankfully retained my clients in this ulcer-inducing economic climate…I have not escaped unscathed.  Why?  Cutbacks, my friends.  Where once I was churning out quarterly newsletters, I am now asked to produce two (i.e. half the money earned)…and another has slashed our workload from moderate to, well, miniscule.  Guilt forces us to cut back on the monthly retainer (damn those morals…damn you Mom & Dad).  Result?  When I choose to visit my hot little man - who has been on tour for far too long - I humbly and gratefully accept his brother’s greatly reduced Southwest buddy pass.  And I choose to not bring up my financial woes, because, um…he’s sleeping in roach motels in a room with four other men (when they aren’t sleeping in a van), and fine dining for the troopers?  Well that’s a little joint I lovingly refer to as Taco Hell…where they most often order off the “discount menu”. 

So, I flew into Raleigh - which is lovely, by the way - and secretly watched my discretionary spending.  Until the pitfalls of buddy pass (standby) flying set in (it was Spring Break), and I was forced to extend my planned three-day trip by three more days.  Now, mind you, I had two checks sitting patiently in my mailbox at home…waiting to be deposited.  But of course, I had no way of retrieving them.  So I carried on eating my chicken soft tacos and $4.99 diner breakfasts, until I could no longer ignore that forboding feeling in my gut that kept whispering “check your account, you foolish coward…check your account”.  I ignored the bastard voice for a bit longer as Stephen and I trudged across a four lane highway in the cold and rain…headed back to the supreme comfort of our friend, Motel 6.  But we were intercepted by two of his bandmates pulling out of the parking lot in their recently purchased Galveston Shiner Children’s Hospital van.  I, of course, wanted to go back to the motel to stew, but Stephen had other plans.  He hopped in the van.  I did the same for fear of being side-swiped by one of the 800 passing vehicles, and we were off to drop the boys at a local taco joint (go figure).  I stayed in the van…Stephen decided it might be a good idea for him to do the same.  It must’ve been the not-so-expertly-hidden look of intense stress on my face.  In hindsight, he should have joined the boys and risked a stern look.  Because after I pulled out the laptop and finally mustered up the courage to view my account, it’s possible he suffered the unfortunate afteraffects of the sad dollar amount that reared its ugly head.  Was I in the red, you might me asking?  No.  But let’s just say I wouldn’t have had much luck had I attempted to extract $20 from an ATM.  After pushing down the bile that entered my throat, and attempting to cool down my red hot face, I focused my dagger eyes on an innocent man.

“Babe, it’s okay,”  he said, voice slightly shaking.

Probably not the best response at that tender moment.  But he is a man…a man who hasn’t been in a serious relationship in quite some time…a benefit of the doubt I did not allow him at that particular time.

“I have $18 dollars in my account,” I spat.  “And I am not a college student!  I am a grown woman!  An independent grown woman!”

“I know that, babe,” he carefully replied.  “But it’ll be okay.  If it comes down to it, I can give you some cash, or maybe you can call your Dad.”

Strike two.

“I! DON’T! DO! THAT!” I hissed as he cowered in the front bucket seat.  Tears welled in my eyes as the devil himself slithered into my bloodstream.  “I HAVE TAKEN CARE OF MYSELF FOR TWENTY YEARS, AND I DON’T PLAN ON ASKING FOR HANDOUTS…NOT NOW…NOT EVER!”

He didn’t go for the strike out.  He quickly realized…it’s time to stay quiet and allow the snarling beast to extract itself from my soul. He’s a pretty quick study.  A quick study who was finally introduced to the Scorpio in me.  To his credit, he later (much later) laughed it off and made a sort of scorpion striking noise at me.  Although still slightly annoyed, I giggled as well, which also annoyed me.

The next morning I was able to hop on an early flight for an easy trip home.  I think the Lord knew I wouldn’t have easily handled a standby nightmare day. Within twenty-four hours, I had two checks deposited, a refilled bank account and a boyfriend who had his sane (sort of) girlfriend back.  The stress did diminish, but has not left completely.  It’s likely you’re all feeling the same.  It’s likely I’m in a much better position than many others…and I am grateful for that.  But I am damn ready for this “downturn” to head back north.  I hope our newly crowned President can set that collective wish in motion.  Republican…Democrat…I don’t give a crap.  Just GET. IT. DONE.

There is some good news, however.  My van-sleeping pumpkin and his posse have not paid their dues for nuthin.  It looks like the pendulum is finally swinging their way.  Not a shock to me, but still a tough feat in a sometimes brutal business.  They have been courted and signed by a well-respected manager who may or may not (i.e. - she did) have represented one of the biggest artists of all time.  And she is workin’ it for them…she believes in them as much as those of us who love and support them do…and it’s possible all of our lives are about to get very interesting.  Stay tuned…

Okay, so, we all know the definition of irony.  The classic definition (or at least dictionary.com’s 5th defintion):  “an outcome of events contrary to what was, or might have been, expected”.  But, in each of our lives, we have our own personal theories related to events we’ve experienced.

My most recent definition could not-so-concisely be represented in these words - “when a 30-something single woman decides to embark on a new writing project chronicaling the trials and tribulations of her solo life, and then, out of nowhere, meets a man.  A good man.  A sweet man.  A hot man.  A creative man.  And her life is turned upside down.”

Many of you are aware of my latest life twist.  Via Facebook photos, or word-of-mouth, a phonecall or even a face-to-face meeting with the man.  And I’m sure you’re hoping I open up a massive can and spill all the details (Bill S. - I’m talking to you).  But the thing is, single women beyond a certain age have learned a few key life lessons.  And one of those is:  shouting new, exciting experiences to the world in an untimely manner (especially related to dating) can have devastating consequences.  You know what I mean, don’t you, ladies?  Let’s take, for example, a recent re-meeting of mine…with my Navy pilot from the past.  We (he and I) cooed of our new refound love to the world.  Family members rejoiced.  Premature wedding plans were hatched.  The quintessential love storyline buzzed through phone lines and cyberspace, and, in the end, it freaked us both out to hell.  Because, the reality is, no matter how exciting the circumstances, grasping coupledom after years of independence can be a scary prospect - even in the most solitary of circumstances.

So…because I do understand the pain of waiting on juicy information, I will reveal some snippets.  This new man and I met at a sports bar (or so we thought).  That’s confusing, isn’t it…the “or so we thought” comment.  And I would try to explain it, but I’m not sure either of us fully understand the reality of what happened.  But, let me just say, this very blog was a catalyst to our meeting.  I knew it was good for sumthin’!!  Okay, okay, I’ll try to elaborate.  Here’s the deal.  Stephen (yes, that’s his real name) is in a band.  I didn’t know this when I met him, but something tells me a few of you (or more) reading this are not surprised by this reality.  I like me a creative man.  But, no offense to my fellow creatives, most can be a little, well, interesting, possibly difficult.  So, finding someone passionate about what they do who isn’t a raving jackass can be, well, damn near impossible.  But it appears the good ones do exist.  It appears you can stumble across creative, passionate, driven, responsible….and sweet.  Jackpot.  Or so it seems.  Time will have to prove that one way or the other.  Hence the need to hold back a bit.

Alright, so back to our meeting.  My belief is that I randomly met him watching football at The Tavern.  Reality - or so we’re trying to uncover - is that the lead singer in his band (along with his crafty girlfriend), found my blog, read it and decided that the two of us should meet.  And so they made it happen.  Somehow.  We don’t know how.  But it happened.  Of course they deny it all (with suspect smirks on their faces).  So, it’s possible there’s more to this story.  Regardless, it’s a good one, and whether we ever find out the real truth or not, it resulted in our meeting.  And I’m happy for that.

All is going well.  Goo, goo, gaw, gaw, and all that good stuff.  I saw Stephen’s band a couple of weeks ago, and was blown away.  Really…I’m being as completely unbiased as I can be here.  They were - UNBELIEVABLE.  And it appears they are on the precipice of something.  Which, to be honest, is a bit scary to me…but I’m up for rolling with the punches.  They deserve it.  Check out their MySpace music site when you get a chance…I think you’ll understand what I’m talking about:  http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewProfile&friendID=80721565.  If this link doesn’t work, just plug “pale band houston” into Google, and it’ll bring up the MySpace link.  The name of the band is “Pale” and my little punkin (I know, I know) plays bass.

It’s possible you might have concerns about my book project.  Will she put it aside due to recent events?  Is the whole thing now null and void?  Absolutely not.  In fact, I feel these realities and unexplained happenings are what life is all about.  For early marrieds.  Perpetual singles.  Or those inbetween.  The book will press on.  It just may have a more interesting ending :) 

Talk to me, people.

(P.S. - Still having trouble uploading photos into blog posts, so you’ll have to go to the Paparazzi link to see a pic of the boy)

Yes - I know.  I owe all of you -  my loyal readers - a sincere apology.  I have been severely lacking in the blog-writing arena.  I wish I could blame it on an incredibly busy schedule, but, well, that would be a bold-faced lie.  And I’m not a good liar.  I get all fidgety and red-faced.  It ain’t pretty.  The truth is, with the finishing up of my 2nd book, the editing process and all the other responsibilities that go along with it, I temporarily lost my fervor for the writing process.  I just didn’t want to do it.  No desire.  Like a stale relationship that needs a kick in the ass.

But today, as I hoped it finally would, I woke up with renewed vigor to get back to the one thing that I love.  So, not only will you see and hear much more from me, I’ve also decided to start a new project.  A new book.  One on my terms, aimed at fine folks like you.  No more children’s books for me.  I adore those little readers, but it’s not where my passion for writing lies.  So, what is the subject of this new endeavor, I hope you’re asking?  It’s pretty simple actually.  When you need to find what works, what interests you, where the real humor and endless stories reside, you need look no farther than inside yourself.  And, as you can imagine, the stories, trials and tribulations, romantic foibles, etc. of a thirty-eight year old single woman are limitless.

I think the title - which came to me like a marquis sign this morning - explains quite a bit of what is to be expected from this book.  Single life- the pressures, the joys, the misconceptions, and - something that is important to us all - single or not - what drives and inspires us.

I hope to complete a draft of (get ready for it) No, I’m Not Gay…But Sometimes I Think It’d Be Easier - in the next few months, and I’ll likely test some of the material out on you as I work through that process.  If you have any interesting experiences of your own, pass them on…I’m sure they’ll trigger some more of my own similar experiences as I work through the challenging, wonderful and sometimes frustrating world of book writing.

Take this, for example.  At a recent Christmas party, I was, of course, one of the few singletons in attendance.  Actually, it’s possible Susan and I were the only single gals.  Santa was also in attendance and each person (or couple, in the majority of cases) was asked to sit on his lap for pictures.  When my time came, they called both Susan and I to share Santa’s lap.  I’d never met half of these folks.  And now Susan and I are sitting on Santa’s lap, prompting more than a few sideways glances…and nods that “yes, we too can be cool with the lesbian couple”.  I certainly have no issue with lesbians, for God’s sake, I live above two of them and reside in a predominantly gay neighborhood (also not always the best way to prove your heterosexuality).  But I ain’t gay.  It just is what it is.  And eight years ago, this was not an issue.  Not even a thought.  In fact, I was more often called ‘boy crazy’.  But then I turned thirty, and was suddenly thrust in the position of defending my sexuality.  So, anyway, Susan and I are each sitting on one of Santa’s knees, working hard to make no girl-on-girl physical contact, and we actually had to say “Just friends!  Not a couple!”  Yes, we had to say that.  Well, we didn’t have to, but if we hadn’t, we would have forever been seen as ‘those lipstick lesbians at Christine’s 2008 Christmas soiree’.

Wish I had the picture folks.  If I do find it, I’ll post it.  Because in all the drama of defending ourselves, I didn’t realize that my zipper was undone.  And Susan is upset with the angle - afraid it makes her butt look twice the normal size.  And Santa’s eyes?  Well, let’s just say he looks like we’re shocking him with our larger-than-life asses.  Now, that’s a Christmas card that would get the family talking…

Glad to be back.  Let me know how your lives are going.  Merry Everything!

So, this past Sunday, after a much needed nap, I peeled myself out of bed and drove in the waning light of dusk to my favorite place in the world (if we lived in a world of opposites).  Kroger.  If you’ve been following The Anomalous Life for any length of time, you know my fairly unhealthy dislike of grocery shopping…namely grocery shopping at the Kroger on West Gray.  You probably also know about my somewhat significant change in eating habits recently (to aid my struggling thyroid and, well, you know, because it’s not good to eat peanut butter and gummy worms four times a week).  Anyway, this new, healthy, organic, very adult regimen gratefully pulled me away from the “meat market” (and I don’t mean ground beef and chicken cutlets) aisles of Kroger into the (deep, fresh breath) heart-healthy pathways of Whole Foods.  I can’t say I necessarily looked forward to grocery shopping, but I no longer compared it to pulling out an abcessed tooth…without anesthetic…with rusty pliers.  You get the picture.

Whole Foods is great…but there’s only one problem.  It ain’t cheap.  And it doesn’t carry my little ladies’ favorite brand of kitty litter.  So, as fate would have it, the grocery store hater now has to make two stops…one being the pricey prima donna palace, and the other…the packed pick-up joint. 

Since Sunday night’s trip was driven mainly by my gals’ need for more than a centimeter of kitty litter, Kroger it was.  I did mention that it was a Sunday night, right?  The night which, in the West Gray grocery world, is on par with the grand opening of Hyde in LA or Pure in Vegas.  In short, parking spaces are scarce and tempers are short.  That’s why, when I saw a space up front that didn’t have a handicapped sign in front of it, I felt like this dreaded errand may not be so bad after all.  I pulled in, powered down my newly rebuilt Honda (that’s a story for another time), and stepped out with my head held high.  Not high enough, however, to miss the large handicapped sign painted on the ground beneath my car.  Shit!  I rush back to the Honda to get back in line behind the throngs of others vying for the limited spaces.  But in my rush…as I threw open the door and swung my body toward the driver’s seat, I miscalculated my height, and, well, I rammed my head, with remarkable force into the unforgiving metal - just below the outer edge of my right eyebrow.  Crack!  Literally, it made a noise…a loud noise…and I briefly saw stars, right before the searing pain set in.  I grabbed my face and slithered into my seat.

My first thought:  “Ouch…ouch…go away, pain.  Please, go far, far away…”

My second thought:  “My God, I have to go in this grocery store full of hip-dressed suitors, flashing solid proof (in their eyes, at least) that I am a victim of domestic abuse.”  I abhor you, Kroger.

The small goose egg hid itself fairly well under strategically placed makeup, although I constantly pulled out my compact mirror - sure that my damaged noggin would soon turn an uncoverable shade of black and blue.  Of course, fellow shoppers assumed I was checking myself out to ensure a “competitive edge” amongst the hords of single sassies.  When in reality, I was working to save myself from the looks of pity or passing suggestions for nearby ‘women’s centers’.  Had the scenario presented itself, I had a prepared rebuttal:

“I DON’T HAVE A DAMN HUSBAND…HELL, I DON’T EVEN HAVE A BOYFRIEND!!”  That should shut ‘em up.  But folks want to believe the dramatic…they don’t want to hear about the unfortunate meeting of an innocent Honda door frame and a slightly accident prone lassie.  They want the dirt.  If it ain’t a husband or boyfriend, maybe it’s a jealous lesbian ex-girlfriend.  Yeah, there’s the dirt.

No matter…I picked up all the groceries before the growing bump became too noticeable and I raced out of the parking lot.  I needed Kroger in my rearview mirror - fast.  Kroger! (Newman!)  Argh!

Once home, I packed away all the groceries…all except a frozen bag of edamame which I carefully placed on my sensitive, swollen (that sounds risque) brow bone.  I’m two days out now, and still a bit painful to the touch.  But I’ve realized something.  Maybe Whole Foods is worth every penny…maybe it’s time to switch the girls to organic, unscented litter.  Maybe…