PMS and the Po-lice or Why Highlights are Good for my Hair

I don't know where the day went- but this is how bad my PMS has become...

When the boys left for school and/or shopping and Mertis was downtown attending a Christmas luncheon, I abandoned my To-Do list, left the kitchen a trashy mess and retreated to the relative sanctuary of my little office to write.

I was in the middle of a scene that takes place in the middle of a quiet, bucolic country setting when Mertis returned. She slams through the front door yelling, "Nancy! Where are you?! Are you here? Are you alright? Is anyone else in the house?"

Okay, let me preface this by saying I have PMS and it is not pretty. Old Mert is jarring me out of the writing "zone" to ask if I'm home and alone? Damn straight I am! Wouldn't my car in the driveway be a clue? Wouldn't the absence of other cars denote that I am finally, blissfully, alone?!

So, I look up at her like a snarling tiger to see her standing stricken in my doorway, her face pale, her eyes wide.

I do not think my PMS has the power to affect people quite that much and I am right.

"Nancy, there are at least three cop cars in front of the house and police officers everywhere! What's going on?"

I scowl at her. "Right, Mert," I say. "Not now, alright? I'm trying to write a scene and..."

Mertis stiffens, turning into her law dawg self. "I am not kidding!" she snaps. "If you don't believe me, see for yourself!"

I hit the Save button first, slowly put the laptop aside and follow her to the street.

Mertis examines the driveway, frowning. "Where's the truck?"

I tell her the Eldest Unnamed One is using it as his brother has the only other vehicle and is at school.

Then I scan the street.

Well, damned if there aren't a bazillion cops and cars clogging the road in front of my house!

The wine rep across the street is outside with her husband. "They were just getting ready to enter your house," she cries excitedly. "They've been running all over the place!"

Mertis gives me an "I told you so" look and says, "When I came down the street and saw all the cars in front of the house, I thought you'd been the victim of a home invasion and they'd made their get-away in the truck!"

I poo-poo this idea. "The dogs would've killed anybody foolish enough to try that," I say.

I leave her to talk to her buddies after they haul a kid out of his house and cart him off downtown and walk back inside to begin cleaning up the kitchen. It is a little disconcerting to realize this much activity had been happening in my front yard and I had typed on unaware that anything at all was wrong.

I do the only thing I can do when faced with this hindsight realization- I start cleaning up the trashy kitchen. After all, if I am to be unexpectedly invaded by bad guys and po-lice, the least I can do is clean up my kitchen. It's along the same lines as being caught in a car wreck with your oldest pair of underbritches on. It's an indication of poor breeding and a lack of preparedness. It would mean I wasn't raised right. I would bring shame and dishonor upon my family of origin.

Mertis wraps up her conversation with the police sergeant and finds me hard at work loading the dishwasher.

"Didn't that scare you?" she demands? "Wouldn't you have been freaked out if you were me and saw the house surrounded by police officers? I mean, they don't just leave their cars running and hop out in the middle of the street unless they're trying to get somewhere in a hurry. When I saw the sergeant's car like that, well, I knew something was really wrong."

I nod, shrug my shoulders and refuse to concede her point. I tell her I try not to get my panties in a wad until I know I have good reason. In this case, by the time I got involved, the action was pretty much over.

But I feel weird and discombobulated now. I fiddle around, starting and stopping four or five of the things on my To Do list before driving downtown to my hair appointment.

"So," the hairdresser says. "What's new?"

"Nothing," I say, momentarily forgetting. "Just another day in paradise."

She looks disappointed which is when I remember she doesn't like quiet clients, it makes her anxious and when she's anxious, the hair-do doesn't go well. I can't just sit like a lump on a log, not with my entire hair future at stake.

"Okay, actually," I say, leaning forward to stare into the mirror at her. "I was a few minutes late because the cops had surrounded my house and were about to breech my front door. You see, there was a crazy man on the loose and one of the neighbors thought he had me held hostage inside."

Her eyes widen. "You're lying!" she cries, but I know a hopeful tone when I hear one.

"I kid you not," I reply. "Good thing I didn't have any illegal substances in the house. I would've missed my hair cut!"

Really, a 52 year old soccer mom with a crack stash? I'm sure it happens, but let's get real, this is me I'm talking about...Then I look around the room.

Suddenly every tattooed, pierced, fringe hairdresser in the salon has stopped speaking as they all pretend to not be eavesdropping on our conversation. I pretend not to notice but I pitch my voice just a wee bit louder as I tell Karen all the details, even the ones I decide would have made the event more interesting had they really happened.

Karen gives me shimmering, delicate highlights and one of the best haircuts she's done since I started going to her.

Mental note to self: Try to incite a riot in my neighborhood before the next hair appointment. And they say crime doesn't pay!

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