Come Mr. Talisman, Talisman Banana.

Magical healing spray.

I have been self-diagnosed with OCD-lite for many years now, but only recently diagnosed with real, doctor-approved OCD. Which cracks me up because I've made of joke of having fake OCD for so long now and here it turns out I've had actual, real-live OCD all along. Maybe it's a form of denial? As if to say, "I will joke about this because if I were serious about it I would be scared. Haha."

*Sprays Windex.*

Despite the fact that it's official now, I still view my OCD as "lite." I don't need medication for it (well, aside from Xanax, but that doesn't count, right?) and it doesn't really disrupt my life to such an extent that I don't leave my house or have successful interpersonal relationships. Okay, the latter is debatable. But whatever. It's not like I'm Melvin Udall from As Good As It Gets.

*Avoids stepping on crack.*

I mean, sure, I can't just go to bed when I'm tired. I need to do the rounds. Turn on the dishwasher. Straighten the hand towels. Wipe the counters with Windex®. Straighten the pillows on the couches. Fold the throw blankets. Make sure the dollhouse furniture is placed in the right rooms, according to my own sense of feng shui, and the correct dolls are in their proper beds. Clean my ears with Q-tips every time I pass the hall closet. Line up the Buddhas. The perfume bottles. The shoes. You know, the usual.

*Arranges doll house furniture.*

That baby is not feng shui.

Every time I drink out of a can, I have to tap the top five times before I open it. I always thought this was a child of the 70s thing. My sister taught me to do this when I was a kid and I've never stopped. She said it would prevent the carbonated beverage from exploding. I say "carbonated beverage" because I don't want those of you who aren't from Michigan to make fun of me. We call it "pop." There's pop and diet pop. What do the rest of you call it? Soda pop? Soda pop sounds old-fashioned to me. And kind of backwoods. I suspect ya'll say, "Sody pop" and for that, I am mocking you in my head.

*Taps can five times*

I do a lot of weird stuff in my head. Certain phrases and words can get caught in my brain and I repeat them over and over to myself. Like the Banana Boat Song. I used to think, "Come Mr. Tally Man, tally me banana," as a kid over and over again, whenever I would get nervous. If I hear the song even now, as an adult, I will be thinking it for days afterwards. Recently, I read an article online where the author used the phrase, "The bomb.com." Remember when people used to say that? "Wow, I think that's the bomb dot com!" Well, it cracked me up.

And then I proceeded to say it over and over in my head for a couple of weeks. "The bomb dot com. The bomb dot com. The bomb dot com." It was soothing. I would relax when I thought it. I didn't say it out loud or anything, or mumble it. I'm not crazy, okay? But if I were driving in my car, or sitting at my desk, or trying to survive a boring meeting, I would just think "The bomb dot com" and I was instantly happier. Life was better.

*Thinks "The bomb dot com."*

I guess that's sort of like an ear worm. An ear worm is when you hear a song and you can't get it out of your head. Only my ear worms aren't songs. They are phrases or words that I repeat over and over in my head for days. I like to think it's sort of meditative. It calms me.

I have other little talismans that soothe me throughout the day. If anyone does anything to upset me, or if I get criticism that I don't like, I immediately go to the blog Suri's Burn Book. If I have an unpleasant thought that I can't get out of my head, I click on Suri's Burn Book and just look at a few entries and everything is all better. A fight with someone? Suri's Burn Book. Stress? Suri's Burn Book. Doubt? Suri's Burn Book. I just sort of compulsively click on that bookmarked page and just looking at an entry, even if I've read it before, it instantly calms me.

OMG. Is Suri's Burn Book my The Catcher in the Rye? For those of you who don't know the reference, Mel Gibson's character in Conspiracy Theory was obsessed with J.D. Salinger's book. He would buy a copy of it every time he was upset or something bad happened.

For me, Suri's Burn Book is simple. Straightforward. Nothing but happiness and joy happens on Suri's Burn Book. It's just a picture of a celebrity or a celebrity's child, with Suri Cruise's imaginary snarky fashion criticism.

Suri, I know, baby. She shouldn't be wearing flouncy skirts.

Oh joy. Oh bliss.

*Clicks link*

It's like the Windex® of blogs. Simple. Clean, Efficient. If I'm stressed out at home, I can just spritz Windex® all over the counters and erase any imperfections and dirtiness. I can spritz the floors in Windex® too and everything looks better. Smells better. Shines. The world is just a little bit better. A little calmer. More organized. In control. And everything is Okay.

Basically, it's the bomb dot com.

Through The Anthropologie Looking Glass

What kind of Anthro-fuckerie is this?

Wait. What?

*Presses hand to forehead*

*Sighs*

I just can't with this, Anthropologie. I mean, my god, your store is just a short walk from my house. I spend too much there when the weather is nice. But it is a love-hate relationship. Sure, I can find pieces that work for me on occasion. But on the whole, the shirts and sweaters run too short for a tall girl. You have too many flouncy and A-line skirts that really don't do anything for a tall girl with an hour-glass figure. (More pencil skirts please.) And yes, every once in a while something fits and oh yes, yes, I buy it. I admit it. I even pay full price.

*Gasp*

So in a way, I had this split-personality sweater coming to me. I feel it might be punishment for wearing a one-sleeved dress the other day. As though I crossed into some nebulous world of cockamamy clothing karma and wtfuckerie from whence I will never return. A Neverland, a Wonderland of sartorial madness.

I think I need a cookie. Or a hug. In a metaphorical hug kind-of-way. I'm from a northern clime and we don't touch each other for god's sake.

Craptastically idiotic, even from the back.

Manic Pixie Dream Girl Redux.

I got bangs this weekend. It's not the first time. I get bangs all the time. I'm just too lazy to maintain them so they keep growing out. Though this is the shortest they've been in a while. I tried to get the hairstylist to go even shorter, like a picture I saw in a copy of Allure magazine. It was très française. Par example:

But I don't think he really believed I could go that short. But I can and have. I've cut all my hair off multiple times. I've had a super short pixie cut for years on end. I'm not afraid of cutting hair. It grows back and I happen to have a lot of it. Too much, in fact. My two-year-old daughter has hair past the middle of her back. She's bordering on Crystal Gayle territory. I'm just not certain that she will sit still for a haircut, so she wears it up every day. I hope she doesn't start to look like a Duggar.

I came home from getting the haircut and put on a glittery dress for a party. When my husband came home, he said, "You look nice." Then he paused and said, "Did you change your hair?" So that's proof that men do in fact notice women's hair. What I find shocking is that he noticed my hair when I was standing in the kitchen in 4-inch heels wearing this:

By the way, I looked way better in that dress than that model. She's wearing it like she's wearing a venereal disease. I worked the shit out of that dress. We went to downtown Detroit for a birthday party at the MGM Grand. As soon as I got out of the car, there was an old man standing there. He'd just gotten out of his Caddy. He was wearing an overcoat and a hat, dressed up for the night. He gazed up at me, probably 6'2" in my heels, and said through a pair of glaucoma-glazed eyes:

"Damn girl, you look gooooood!"

I laughed and thanked him. Then I walked over to my husband who was standing by the curb.

"That old man was staring at your ass," he said.

"Give the old guy a break. Good for him for still having it in him!" I said. My husband didn't look too convinced by my new-found laissez-faire joie de vivre.

This is apropos of nothing.

I guess a pair of bangs and a glittery dress can do that for you. Change your attitude. Maybe it was the bangs that got me into that dress? I never wear anything above the knee. My entire life I thought I didn't look good in short skirts. Hell, maybe I don't. But I'm too damn old to care anymore and my bangs are too damn fierce to be in a knee-length dress. I need glitter. I need short skirts. Life in bangs just seems to shine, you know?

I left a trail of glitter everywhere I went that night. I leaned up against my husband and I saw the entire left side of his suit sparkling when he went to get me a drink. I left sparkles all over my car. They're still there now. I'm like a magical fairy with a bitchin' pair of pixie bangs instead of wings.

I feel much younger with the bangs. I read that having them can take years off your face. It's like free Botox®. How can I say "Non" to that? I can't. That's what.

My son Max saw my new hair the next morning.

"Can you put your hair back the way it used to be?" he said.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

He reached up and pantomimed pulling his bangs back from his head in a long, luxurious sweep.

"No," I said and glared at him. My husband snickered in the corner.

Later, I drove my son to the pet store to buy the stray cat we adopted more toys so it will love us. I caught him looking at me in the rear view mirror. He was smiling.

"What are you smiling about?" I asked.

"I'm just imagining your hair the way it used to be," he said.

I laughed out loud. I guess the eight-year-old boy isn't as excited about my transformation as I am. But he does know I like to be younger. I tried to explain the Bang Theory of Looking Younger to him but he was unmoved. Later when we were out to dinner, he advised my husband on my age.

"There's one rule about my mom," he said. "You never say her true age."

I may be failing to educate him on how to speak to a woman about her hair, but I hit the nail on the head with this one. He still tells everyone I'm 39.

Which is just about the perfect age for a girl like me. You heard the old man.

Reptillian Bird of Prey Amazonian Sex Symbol.

My eyelids are scaly and red. The area under my eyes is swollen and puffy. My ring finger is ablaze. My skin is a seething cauldron of contact dermatitis. I have eczema and I'm also occasionally and unpredictably allergic to my eye makeup and/or my wedding ring. I've recently discovered that some people are allergic to white gold because it has nickel in it. Thanks, jeweler. Thanks for talking me out of the platinum.

*Sighs*

Today I wore glasses in order to try and disguise the fact that my eyes are all rough and scaly like an Iguana's protruding eyeballs. I'm not one to leave the house without makeup. I'm not sure why that is. My sister taught me how to put on makeup in the seventh grade. And she taught me how to do it right, so I wouldn't look trashy. She was a good role model.

Here is what she told me. It's not too late for you to get a dose of her big sistering. Just a little bit of blush. A little powder. Lip gloss. Mascara. That's it. I've stuck to that routine almost my entire life. If I feel like getting fancy, I'll add some brown eyeshadow and some eyeliner on the top lid. Though my beauty routine is pretty simple, I never leave the house without makeup. For me, it's like walking out the door in sweatpants.

In other words, I feel it signals to the world that you've completely given up. You just don't care any more. You're not making your bed. You're not using the occasional yet discrete breath mint. You may even pick your nose at red lights. You can disagree with me if you like, that's fine. But if you do, I'll suspect you're wearing tennis shoes with jeans as you read this.

*Shudders*

I'm sitting here with my eyelids on fire and my ring finger itching like I've got a case of the chiggers. No, I have no idea what chiggers are, but they sound downright hellish. I tried to take a picture of my inflamed ring finger for you, but all I can see is my enormous man hand.

My god. My hand is bigger than my head. I know I'm somewhat Amazonian in stature, but this is ridiculous. I'm surprised my husband hasn't pointed out this physical oddity. I mean, that's a lot of hand to let near your junk.

Wait, I'll try to make my hands look more feminine. I mean, I can't have all of you thinking I'm some kind of big-handed freak. Maybe that last shot was just a matter of perspective? Here's my second try:

Great. Now it's a claw. I have the delicate talons of a bird of prey. Horrifying. Hear me shriek as I descend upon your manhood like a bloodthirsty American Eagle, filled with rage and DDT.

Let's try one more time. There's got to be a way to make me look normal for my blog post. I have an image to uphold:

Eff you, itchy finger. Eff you.

I'm sure this post had a point. Maybe it didn't? I thought I might try and do that Bloggy Nani Po Mo post every day thing. I re-wrote the former boss piece that I mentioned the other day in my Blogverboten post so that the person in question is now unrecognizable from any person living or dead. So I'm still thinking about publishing it. My attorney husband advises me that I may do so, especially considering that I no longer work for the alleged person and I've changed any identifying details. While I decide on that, I give you eczema and self-portraiture. Enjoy!