Eat Less Chikin

Accidental Test #1: Passed!

Jelly and I went and got haircuts last night, our twice-yearly venture. Some people go every six weeks; I find it more thrifty to go every six months. I don't care enough about my hair to go more often (ok, that's a lie, let me rephrase - I'm too cheap to pay to cut my hair more often), and I like to cut hair so in between I trim us and do a passable job at bangs maintenance. But every once in a while I pass a mirror and shudder, and grab the phone and get us into a chair ASAP. My latest stylist is a full-bottle-of-hair-spray-each-time, gum-smacking, as-seen-in-'Steel Magnolias' wonder. She has a boyfriend who is only slightly older than Jellybean and is unexpectedly pregnant, and likes to talk shit about various people while saying 'bless their heart!'. I adore her. I really don't care that she doesn't do as great a job as my last stylist, I love that it's half the price and that she takes half the time and that I sit with my mouth half-open in shock listening to what she's dishing out. I've lived in this small part of Raleigh for three years as of March, and I've learned more since in the two visits to her than in all that time.

So anywho, after that (during which Jellybean was GOOD AS GOLD, and everyone in the salon was absolutely beside themselves with how quiet and still and sweet she was, and how polite and adorable, and how lovely her raincoat, and how beautiful her mother, and everything except for that last part DAMNIT!) I decided we both deserved some fast food Inside, because if you are a mother of a toddler you know how exciting that is. To, you know, Go Inside. Where there is a play area. So instead of Old McDonald's, where we go every single frickin' time, I decided to live it up a little and we went to Chick-fil-A. Since for once I was driving past and it wasn't a Sunday. To make a really boring story short, we had a lovely time at the God-lovin', gay-hating, chicken-cookin' establishment, went home, had a bath, read stories, sang some songs, JR went to bed, and I almost pooped my pants. Sorry, should I have warned you that was coming?

The exciting thing about having a severe MSG allergy is that I get not one but two very strong reactions. The first is a migraine. I talk about that one all the time here, ad nauseam. The second I try to shelter you from, because, let's face it, Everyone Poops, but Everyone Doesn't Want to Hear About Your Poops. Since it's still early in the day today, and depending on when you read this, quite possibly around a mealtime or a time when you might still want to enjoy life, I will spare you all the details. Suffice it to say, I was quite suddenly and violently made aware that I had eaten MSG in the very recent past. My initial anger at stupid Chick-Fil-a, and my own anger at myself for turning a blind eye to their abhorrent politics to partake in delicious waffle fries and lemonade, suddenly turned to a realization that I had NOT had a migraine, or even a headache of any kind! Hallelujah!

So - that's totally freaking awesome. Mr. T, I salute you. Despite the fact I had some minor tingling in my fingertips this morning.

And chick-Fil-a, I'm very, very disappointed. I loved you long time, but it looks like we finally have to break up. I was suspicious of you before, but after some internet research into your shady ingredient doings my suspicions have been confirmed. If your recent anti-same-sex marriage proclamations hadn't made you my enemy, your bowel-scouring would have.