Laughter Really Is the Best Medicine

When I was on my 4 day, child free, woman only getaway last month, we went to a very popular restaurant for a late breakfast. Imagine 13 boisterous women at a very long table in a small room. To say it was loud is an understatement. We laughed and talked and had such a great time that we ran off an older couple sitting at a table nearby. They literally asked to be moved because we were so loud. When we were finished eating, I went to the bathroom and passed a table with seven women in the main dining room. They were prim and proper and very sedate and as I walked by I thought to myself "Thank God I'm not at that table."

Yesterday, I went and got my hair done, part of the continuation of "It's all about me" phase. (More accurately it should be "more about me"  but I like the sound of "all about me" so I'm sticking to it.) It had been awhile since I'd been and I had some wicked roots going on.  The salon I go to is the one that did my makeover last year, so they know me there and know my "past," which is always a bonus.  It was a last minute appointment so I ended up with my cut first and highlights second, not the usual order of things.  The owner of the salon cuts my hair and he's an awesome guy, but I have so much more fun with the stylist who colors my hair, Allen.

Allen is a hot mess. He's gay and not afraid to let the world know it, so consequently, he's entertaining.  I sat in his chair and as he played with my hair, he asked what color we were going with that day for the highlights.  I told him the same, unless he had other ideas, which I was open to.  We agreed to go with the same but then Allen suggested I go with his color, which is completely dark and unhighlighted.  Without missing a beat, I told him I thought that was a great idea because then I could be come his stalker.  It all went down hill from there.  By the time he was done putting foil in my hair, we were laughing so much that the entire salon was trying to figure out what was going on with us and the stylist and her client next to us.  Our conversation covered many topics from my book and my second project which we determined will be a book about Allen.  The first sentence will be: "Once upon a time there was a diva stylist and he was a hot mess."  It went onto how I could stalk him at the karaoke clubs he goes to on Wednesday and Sunday nights. and his love for Lady Gaga and how he's learning the dance to Bad Romance, which I offered to learn and dance with him at my next appointment.  When I left I had some really great hair but also half my makeup smeared off from laughing so much I cried.

Today I went to Starbucks to write.  Ryan changed preschools so its more difficult to hook up with my SIL Janne' but we determined that I would go write and she would drop in and see me.    Soon after she arrived my friend Heather, who calls herself my stalker, showed up because she was driving by and recognized our vans. (See, she really is a stalker.) We spent the hour or more talking (which included a litany of the many ways multiple pets have met their tragic end in our household) and laughing so much people were straining to look at us tucked in my little writers nook. (I usually sit in a corner behind the counter where no one can see me- explanation below.)  When they  left, they apologized for staying so long and interrupting my writing and I realized how truly lucky I am.  How many people have so many friends that make them laugh on such a consistent basis?  And how is it that it took me so many years to find them?



* I hide when I write because when I first started going away to write last year, my boys would make fun of me. They told me that people only went to Starbucks with their laptops so they could look cool.  They then proceeded to show me which included them banging their fingers on a table top, turning their heads right and left, occasionaly picking up an imaginary coffee cup with one hand while "typing" with the other and saying "Look at me!  I'm working!  I'm writing!  Look at me!"  Consequently, I was forever scarred and became a hideaway writer.  Look for me in the corner of your nearest Starbucks.