A frugal beauty tip I found in this Wise Bread Forums topic:

1-2 times per week, put 1/4 to 1 cup of olive oil in your hair (depends on how much hair you have and how well-coated you want it). It feels very odd at first, as it soaks up whatever you give it (start slow and you can always add more). Wear a shirt that you can ruin, of course, and you’ll want a disposable shower cap OR I just use a ponytail and then 1-2 plastic grocery bags tied near the nape of my neck.

Leave on for at least 1/2 hour, and you’ll want to do this right before washing your hair. When you shower, shampoo and then use a regular conditioner.

I assume it doesn’t have to be pricey olive oil, or else that would defeat the whole frugal angle.

For the first time ever in my life, I actually bought myself a nice bed. Between the bed frame, the mattress set, and all the new bedding I bought for it, I easily spent upwards of $1,700 (which made me a little queasy at first until I realized my Macbook cost me around that much too, good grief) and well, it was worth every penny let me tell ya.

I have a lot of pleasant memories about lounging in comfortable beds. When I was younger, there was my grandmother’s white four poster bed, with its soft mattress and wash-worn sheets, where every morning my cousin and I plotted what trouble we’d get into for the rest of that particular summer day. And there were the firmer twin beds at our great-grandmother’s down the road, perfect for midday naps because the room they were in was out of the direct sunlight. We’d lay there with the window all the way open to capture any bit of a breeze, an oscillating fan whirring in the corner for soothing white noise, lulled into that luscious place between drowsy and dead to the world.

During the final years of my marriage, our heated pedestal waterbed was like a personal womb, floating and warm, and I remember how I’d let out a deep sigh every time I climbed in it at night; and how I’d almost cry when I had to leave it again in the morning. (And the fact that I resented so much having to share it with my then husband was probably a solid predictor of the divorce to come.)

It was so, so hard for me to leave that waterbed behind when I moved 40 miles away to begin my new single life. Unfortunately, money was tight, and I could only afford a cheap mattress with nothing but a metal frame. I did what I could to make it comfortable, by adding a featherbed cover and sheets with the highest thread count I could afford at the time, but still, I hated it.

That meant for six years, I was miserable without a bed that comforted me - and even though by a few years in, I could have upgraded to something better, by then I hated my apartment so much that I couldn’t bear the thought of “ruining” the aura of a brand new bed by bringing it into a place which didn’t feel like my home anymore.

So, I found substitute beds to love.

There were those belonging to the men with whom I was having sex. I’ve been lucky enough to fall for guys who have great taste in bedding, and many of my best memories of these relationships involve cuddling in soft sheets under cozy comforters. (I wonder sometimes if the sadness I inevitably felt as I drove off was from having to leave the man behind - or was it the loss of his bed which I was actually mourning?)

There were those at the hotel next door to the club I frequented every weekend, which offered the perfect sleeping environment: heavy curtains that could be closed for total darkness, an A/C which could be set to freezing, pillows with the right amount of squish. Sigh.

But now, I finally have a bed which touches my soul every night when I climb into it. You just can’t put a price on that feeling.

Another one of those theories I have, but not one I’ve bothered to Google yet, because, um, my head hurts too fucking much to do it:

I’ve been a smoker for the majority of my adulthood, except for my pregnancies (for those, I’d quit until after delivery, and within a few months after, would go back to smoking again).

But I’ve never suffered from migraines except for during the time that I quit smoking (because it was bad for me instead of because it was bad for a child I was carrying). When I started smoking again shortly before my ex-husband and I separated, my migraines also faded away.

I never considered any correlation between these two things until now - because I’ve quit smoking again, and wouldn’t you know it, the damn migraines are back (and with a vengeance).

Bah. Time to go bang my head against a wall (yes, it actually helps to do that when the pain is this bad).

But until we meet him, the solution to the single person’s isolation may be simple: shut the lid on our laptops, and get over ourselves - you don’t have to do it all on your own. We’ll only find the comfort to our singles’ loneliness by spending time in the physical presence of people we love. If we want love, we have to love. We have to open our hearts to connecting again. (Tango)

As a reminder to myself that I need to pay better attention to the word choices I make:

The problem with excuses, I have recently gotten really clear about, is that the Universe hears them as instructions.

I learned years ago to stop saying things like, “I can’t afford it” or “I don’t have time” to requests that I just plain didn’t want to do. Because the last thing I want to manifest is lack of time or money. (Good Vibe Blog)

Perhaps a bit more focus on what I’m sending out to the Universe will improve what I’m getting back.

I’ve still got eight more years until I’m old enough to join the AARP, but knowing I’m becoming a grandmother this year has already started to impact my view of myself and caused me to think about ways I can ease into that new role gracefully, but without losing my vibrancy or attractiveness as a woman.

Jamie Lee Curtis will turn 50 this year, and is featured in AARP magazine in anticipation of that milestone (which makes her eligible for membership):

Curtis says growing older means paring down to an essential version of yourself.

“I’ve let my hair go gray. I wear only black and white. Every year I buy three or four black dresses that I just keep in rotation. I own one pair of blue jeans. I’ve given away all my jewelry, because I don’t wear it,” she says. (CNN.com/Entertainment)

So, now I have something to think about: what are the elements that define the essential version of me? And can I embrace these without winding up feeling that “fewer essentials” means “less attractiveness”?

Finally got the word that I’m approved for the new apartment (not that I was worried about the approval, just annoyed at having to wait so long to have them confirm it).

It will be a nice expansion: from 809 sq ft to 1,117 sq ft; from one bedroom/one bath to two bedrooms/two baths; and a washer/dryer included (happy dance, I hate lugging laundry!).

The second bedroom is basically going to be my office, so that I can make a better effort to separate work from the rest of my life by having a room that I can walk out of every night, closing the door behind me. I’m thinking about putting my loveseat in there with the desk in case I don’t want to sit in that desk chair all day, but I’m still undecided on that.

I’ll also use the closet space for all my ‘work’ clothes: tank tops and sweats, etc. The extra bathroom is a bit extraneous, so it will be for the cat (i.e., litter box) and for guests.

The things I’m giving up: a garage (exchanged for an assigned covered parking space in the gated community), patio (for a “sunroom”, which is basically an extended area of the living room with some windows), and $125 or so more dollars every month.

So I went to the doctor today. This means I’m really sick, because getting me inside a doctor’s office for anything other than my annual gyno exam is next to impossible. And being really sick means:

• I haven’t bathed in days, so I stink;
• I haven’t washed my hair in days, so it’s oily, and sticking to my head in some places while sticking out from it in others;
• I have no makeup on and have not tanned in about a week, so I look kinda pasty;
• I have really bad chills, so I can’t feel my fingers and toes, which makes me clumsy and awkward;
• Did I mention that I stink?

So, when I’m leaving the doctor’s office, there’s another patient waiting, some young guy. I only noticed him because he was sitting in the chair right near the front desk where I had to check out, and I wasn’t there long anyway. I walked out and drove over to the nearby pharmacy to get my prescription for antibiotics and some Mucinex (yay for flu and upper respiratory infection!).

Because nothing is ever easy when you’re so sick that all you want to do is hurry up and get home so you can lay down, there was a problem with my insurance card at the pharmacy that took quite a while to figure out. Before I knew it, there was another customer behind me and guess who it was? Yep, yep, same guy from the doctor’s office.

Then he started talking to me, and (unless my illness has affected my ability to gauge social interactions), it seemed it was more than just talking, I think he was actually flirting with me!

Wow. If I can get hit on even when I’m at death’s door, then I guess there’s still hope!

This is the second time in as many weeks that I’ve run a fever after having been out in public for an extended period of time. Maybe I’m not meant to be around people.