Marsha Marsha Marsha!

So I'll have to write another entry to bring everyone up to date on my crazy last few days. INcluding but not limited to: the ER, being drugged out of my mind, spending a few nights at my parents', and getting personally chauffered to Starbucks.



Right now I want to talk about a brush.



Steve and I spent last night at a hotel in downtown Indy for my birthday. It was really fun and really really nice. As I was packing up our bag, I used his brush. Since I had curled my hair under - it was fairly easy. Sometimes he asks me if he can borrow my brush. I always tell him the same thing. "I don't brush my hair." 90% of the time my hair is in a finger-brushed ponytail, or if I actually "do" it - it's really curly ergo, I'm not going to "brush" it.



So anywho he has this paddle brush and I can't help but feel like Marcia Brady. "97, 98, 99, 100!"



I used to have this friend, Christa, in college and she always was asking me if I had a pick.



A pick?



I would always tell her the same thing. "No Christa, not since 1987." And resisted the urge to say, "But I do have a banana clip and some legwarmers in my purse - I mean fanny pack!"

I'm not knocking the pick, I carried my fair share back in the day and some of my friends still use them - but it just always struck me as odd and that she would ask me - over and over - if I had a pick. odd.

Anywho - so it felt weird to brush my hair. I guess that's all I have to say about that.