Chinchillas have 32 hairs per pore. That’s why they’re so incredibly soft.
Jillions of pores, 32 hairs shoved into each follicle. Never mind that the individual hairs are thread-fine, because there’s 32 in a hole. I mean, come on…little critter will make it through the winter just fine.
Myself, I’m an anti-chinchilla. Thousands, not jillions, of pores on my cranium; 1 thread-fine hair per every-third-or-so hole.
I could bait a bass — wrap a hair around an enticing bit of bass bait, dunk it into the water, catch a fish every time. Why? Because the bass couldn’t see the fishing line.
Focus on the lure, that’s what the poor fishy would do, ’cause that’s all he’d see, and BOOM! Dinner tonight! (As soon as I found someone to de-bone, fillet, and cook the suckered fish.)
Plus, unlike rodentia, human woman hair thins over time. De-LIGHT-ful, I can tell you.
Why do I tell you this?
Interesting story. And I blame beautiful Annette Bening.
See, I spent New Year’s Eve alone. The Bubs was with his cousins having the time of his life, celebrating the year’s rollover with various video gaming systems and video gaming accessories.
Me? I thought, “Hmmm, I have a split of champagne (one of those tiny, two-glasses-in-a-bottle jobbies) and a fully lined queue on Netflix (movies I might wanna see, maybe not, but Bubs can’t be around if I do decide to press play). I decreed (to myself, because everyone else was out adulting with parties and social mingling), “I shall ring in the new January with cheap wine and side B movies!”
I feel confident I pointed at the ceiling with my declaration.
And I did.
First in the queue: something I don’t remember, but feel like it was okay.
Second: an Ed Harris/Annette Bening flick that began sad and only deepened into darkness over the duration of about twenty minutes.
Time on the clock: 11 something.
Thus, time to break out the champagne and watch these lovely actors, though their story was so very, very sad. “It can only get better,” I told myself.
Halfway through the tiny bottle — yes, I’m a lightweight — I found myself stopping the stream in order to take still photos of Ms. Bening’s gorgeous locks and text the pics to my mother.
“Mom. What do you think? Could I pull off this ‘do?” (Never mind that my hair thread count is more comparable to that of Ed Harris, bless his beautiful blue eyes.)
“Sure! You’d look great!” Mom replied, or something like that. Something equally supportive, because she’s my biggest cheerleader.
“Sure I could,” I told myself. then I hit Play, drank another swig, pulled my ottoman a tiny bit closer to the TV screen.
The plot saddened.
Mom texted back, “Are you thinking of a new cut?”
“Maybe,” I think I replied but maybe only thought, because she immediately chimed in, “It’s a new year! A new look! A fresh start!” (Again, I may paraphrase.)
The movie grew increasingly sad; the wine mysteriously disappeared.
I could pull that off, I thought.
Then my eyes slid to the right, where I keep my art supplies and favorite pair of scissors.
I could even save forty dollars, I continued, ogling the orange-handled quilting shears while slugging back the drippings of wine.
“Have you made an appointment yet?” Mom queried.
“Not yet,” I responded, thinking, “Hey! I don’t need anyone else! I can do this! How hard can it be? Scissors! Right there!
But, like a cat with a laser pointer, I was distracted by the flicker of light at the bottom of my exceedingly small bottle of sparkling vino, and then by the climax of the movie, which left me a sobbing, dripping mess.
Scissors? Forgotten, due to sudden onset of temporary depression.
Thus, I put the bottle somewhere — hmmm, truly, I wonder where that somewhere might be?? — crawled onto my bed to fire up the next cinematic adventure, and promptly fell asleep.
The next morning — or a few hours later; who knows? — I woke to violently slap myself about the temporal lobe thinking I’d chopped my hair in the night.
But all twenty-five strands remained in place.
My phone dinged, announcing a new Mom text.
“On second thought, maybe that’s a little short??”
I hid my scissors far, far away from my television.
I read too much and I tend to internalize select books.
My book club wants a Top 10 of 2017 list, and while most everything I read was written for young adults because of the incredibly time-consuming commitment I made to reading all things angst-ridden and gut-clenching — different story — I managed to read a few tomes that adulted up.
Number one on the list was the one about the magic of tidying up. (I don’t quote the title because it’s super long and I always get it wrong and I’m too focused on talking to you at this moment to Google it, but Marie K. wrote it and her Kon-Marie method has made me look at everything in my home differently, darn her.)
Basically, if something doesn’t bring you joy, why have it in your home?
It isn’t often that a non-fiction read makes the top of my list, but this year was an exception, both in the adult genre and in the young adult category. (Ask me later for the YA list; it was a terrific year.)
I think a number one ranking means the book hasn’t left you; vestiges have stuck. For instance, “Lifeboat” by Charlotte Rogan a few years ago…hated the main character, loved how unreliable she was as a narrator and absolutely loved hating her for it. Juicy. Delectable. Now that I think of it, I want to read it again. Loved it.
What does this have to do with a picture of my clothing draped from plastic hangers?
Because in tandem with my Kon-Marie-ing joyful disbanding of all things comfy and habitual, I internet-ed across a challenge in which you turn all the hangers in your closet backward, and at the end of the year, anything left in this dubious direction means, “Hey! I give you no joy! Release me into the wild where I might find an owner who would appreciate my intrinsic value and allow me sunlight and laughter!”
I paraphrase; I don’t know that that’s exactly what clothing longs for, but in my mind it does.
As January approached, I inspected my closet, and do you know, that to the item, all of my backward, no-love-given, didn’t-want-to-wear clothing was for exercise? That’s right. Pastel. Spandex-laden. Lycra-infused. Wicking materials designed to sluice the sweat from my overheated, drenched, plyo/yoga/step-aerobicizing form. All ignored for a year.
I thought, “Huh. Surely I worked out once, or twice…”
Well. If I did, I perspired in something street-level, not gym-worthy, and it must have been while I was asleep because memories aren’t rolling forward of my cardio levels rising or any “Whew!” towel-encased, sweat-dripping moments. Maybe Down Dog or two, but that may be wishful thinking.
But surely I did something to worthy of wearing a swoosh, or eating an extra twelve York peppermint patties; surely I inhaled those things like air because I earned them.
New Year. New arrangement of the closet. New Goodwill pile sitting on the table by the door.
And did I include all the items collecting shoulder dust and staring at me in pretty pastel patterns?
No. Because this year I’m going to wear them out.
Yep, that’s right. I’m going to wear them out.
To Target, maybe, or to the school with yoga pants which I also don’t have the right to wear.
But one way or another, these items will see the light of the day. It will bring them joy.
I don’t get paid to endorse products, but if Cuddle Duds offered, I would accept.
Because in December, when the first crisp tint of winter approached, I armed myself by diving into warmth. Every fleecy piece is labeled Cuddle Duds.
For the beginner, start with the fleece leggings. Arctic winds be darned, they aren’t cutting through the sheer rapture of that squooshy soft barrier. It’s like being a cow, nattily dressed and impervious to the cold. Plus, the leggings go right over your natural winter coat…so you don’t have to shave. Bonus!
Then I recommend the throw blanket. It’s a good intro piece — accommodates the need for warmth, as well as the convenient travel sizing. And, when the dog jumps into your lap — as dogs are wont to do, in my experience, especially when I’m in my Dud — the throw is easy to launder.
If anything propels me to launder anything, it’s Dog Smell. And the need for work pants.
As a convenient side, buy the pillow that matches your Dud. Because it’s super comfortable, of course, but also, you wouldn’t want to not own the set. I think that’s a Good Housekeeping rule of thumb from the 1900’s.
Third, go with the fleecy top, because…fleece.
Then there are socks, gloves, scarves, pajamas, and the mother lode, the comforter.
Now, the comforter is not for the novice, I must warn, because other humans want you to share, for one thing, but second, the cover is enormous — perhaps I didn’t strictly need the King size for my queenly bed, but hey, when given the choice, I went large.
And then there is the dog issue. I fiercely protect my Dud against dog-dom but in the middle of the night, I feel the hefty harrumph of the moose-dog landing atop my perfect coverlet and I’m far too comfy to wrangle any beast mid-morning.
So. As added protection, I suggest layering the Dud beneath another less attractive, less dear, more expendable topper. Because laundering a King-sized anything is not a simple task. And who wants to wash their Dud every single night? Not this girl. That’s far too domestic for my temperament.
Get out there and get your Dud!
Caveat: when cloaked under a semblance of protection such as three layers of fleece, I must advise you not to touch anything metal.
I could light a house on fire just by touching its corner, that’s how much static is in my aura.
If I see you out and about, it’s wise if I don’t hug you, unless you have a defibrillator handy.