Five days ago I heard the devastating news that my good friend passed away in her sleep.

She was 37.

She has 4 kids and one amazing, sweet husband.

This passing was completely, 100% unexpected.

This was a woman who I thought would live to be in her 100's; old, cranky, healthy as a horse and sharp as a tack.

I never would have guessed this would be a woman that God decided he needed a little earlier than what my crystal ball was predicting. 

And I wonder if she agreed as she was taken home to her Maker. 

This was a gal who loved everyone fiercely, and she loved her children even more. As her husband quoted her at her funeral, "I don't want to raise average kids to send out to the world, I want to raise the best."

And so she did. She was 5 feet tall and tough, but all in the name of love.

What I loved too was that she never once worried what others thought of her. She was too busy making the world a better place, raising her kids to be the stellar children that they have become in the short time she has been with them, serving others and finding humor and happiness all in between.

I. Loved. This. Girl. 

She used to live behind me, our homes shared the same alley. How I loved that she was right there. The knowledge in that brought peace to my heart. She was such a brave, courageous woman that though I was 950 miles from my family and felt the vulnerability of that, her friendship was enough for me to feel safe in this new state, full of new people and ridiculously stupid drivers (like the time when she mentioned how ridiculous it was that people stopped a whole car-length behind other cars at the intersection or how they would stop several feet before the intersection line--she turned that into a story so funny I nearly cried). She and I would laugh the day away. There was always something to talk about, something to laugh about, something to smile about.

She gave the best stories. She could turn a generic story about running to the store to get some milk into a laugh-fest, adding details of humorous things only she had the knack to pick up on. 

She once told me the story about her older sister's worthless boyfriend, how he treated her sister terribly and somehow, she found a way to get us all laughing in the end. Every story had humor.

After finding of her passing I cried. Tears would fill my eyes and before I had enough in them to make them cascade down my face, I would instantly be reminded of a funny story or experience that had her in it. My tears of sadness turned into tears of laughter. And this carried on to the next day. 

I wished that for just a few minutes, that would be allowed to mourn, to let it all out, to cry it away.

And then I got a very distinct impression. I felt it was my friend giving me these funny memories, these moments we shared with loud laughter. I then understood that my friend was telling me that she didn't want to be remembered through tears of sorrow, but through the good times, through the humor. 

And once I embraced that, I decided that I would honor that request.

I firmly believe that just because someone dies it does not mean that they are forever no longer in existence. Just because my friend is not here, inside her physical body, she still lives! She's still here! 

A couple times I heard her laughter during these past few days. No one has the laughter she does. Hers is unique. It's loud, heartfelt, popping, and contagious.

I hope to hear it more. I hope to view the world more as she did. So much I learned from her in the six years I have known her. How I wish I would have told her before she passed how much of that I have taken with me and how much it has changed me for the better.

I quote her all the time. I wonder if I ever told her that.

I find humor and happiness in all things. She inspired that in me. "Life is too short," I would say, "to be serious". And I see that she was the prime example of my own words.

I found that being a strong, courageous woman is a trait I should never shun from being, something I should never apologize for. Being stubborn too, I have found, is not a trait I should ignore or be embarrassed about. This woman was strong, this woman was stubborn as hell, but all in the name of love and in the name of honoring her children and keeping her family safe. She didn't care what other's thought of her, she knew what was best for her family. And what she was was the best mother and wife that family could have asked for. 

How many times do people come into our lives, touch our lives for the better and we never tell them? Too many times. 

Pam, I hope you're reading this. I hope you know how much I keep you close to my heart. I hope you know that I know you are not far and that I know you have checked in on me, just as you would do with all your friends and family. 

You are the perfect example of loving, mother hen. 

And a life-changing friend. Your work has not ended, but just began. And I know you, you'll dive in head-first protecting, comforting, healing, guiding, all with that unconditional love you have and finding humor in everything to go tell those on the other side. 

If only I could hear those stories. 

God bless you, my friend. And thank you, for blessing my life.

My friend Jane, wrote this:

I think DYT has taken a beautiful system and made it accidentally a tool of judgment. (...) What happens is we want to say "I AM" and "YOU ARE" definitely this type. And if you're wrong, then you're fooling yourself. Don't you see it? And thus self-judgment and judgment of others. 

And it had me thinking.

Why? Because I am guilty of this. Have I been upfront and told my friends that I thought their Typing was wrong? I hope not. Sure, I find frustration when a friend is beating a dead horse over something we all already know is her Type and yet she won't listen or is continuously wanting confirmation on a Type.

Does it really matter if we know what our Type is?

For me, and for some I know, yes.

But for others?

I don't think so. Or maybe the better answer is: Not yet.

I'm part of a Facebook group that houses a kaleidoscope of women. All of different ages, all from different parts of the world, all with their own, unique story.

And I have found that knowing your Type does not come easily as I thought, and as a lot of others believe. A friend's recent posting has had me feeling somber and turning inward, knowing that I needed to write and praying as to what I should.

Time and again we fail to understand that if we walked a mile in our friends' shoes, that we would see life and ourselves differently. Maybe knowing who we are isn't so "black and white" or an eye-opening experience.

While I can't always state a person's dominant, I am pretty fair at knowing what their two strongest energies are. And there are several instances where I talk to my friends, who are dead set at claiming a certain Type and here I wanna yell, "No, you're not a 3! You're a 2/4 or 4/2!" and yet what I'm not seeing is why they claim that type. What if Dad was an abusive Type 4 and Mom, an avoiding, beat down Type 2, who didn't know how or even appear to TRY to protect her children?

What if someone believes that being a certain Type meant being safe? What if it meant that all people would love them if they were that Type? Or, what if being a certain Type provided protection to a very wounded inner child?

Can you see now, why someone would want to claim anything other than those Types that may appear to harm, even if that is their true nature? We condition ourselves at a young age to learn what is good, what is bad, and how the hell to survive, even if those conditions we placed in our minds are distorted. They are nevertheless, TRUTHS to us. And yet, we tell them they are wrong, as though they are stupid and we are know-it-all Yodas.

Maybe what is most important in our life is happiness. That's it: Happiness.

Does it matter if you claim Type 2 today, embrace it and love yourself for it and in a few years realize that you are actually a Type 1?

Does that matter at all?

No!

What matters most is that you love yourself. What matters most is that you can heal from any past wounds and move forward, knowing that you are doing the best you can do, embracing all aspects of yourself; the good and the bad.

If we are forced to believe that we are a Type that we are not ready to accept, I fear we will regress and only turn inward, avoiding any and all aspect of that Type, which in turn will lead us to a life of pain.

I tell ya, had I not spent years of learning self love, having read a handful of books about self help, and experiencing trials that I know only the Good Lord gave to me as He was seeing my need for self knowledge and betterment, I would have wrongly typed myself by the time Carol Tuttle's book had reached my hands.

So when a friend says, "I'm a Type 2" when clearly they are a Type 4/1, do them a favor and congratulate them. And unless they ask for your opinion, don't give it. We do not know the paths our friends are leading. We do not know the darkness they are trying to escape from. We can't see the path they labored through to get to where they are.

Help them love themselves, all of themselves. That's better than telling them what they are and what they aren't.

Once upon a time there was a brace-faced girl.

Who religiously over-plucked her eyebrows.

And spent her teenagers years a chameleon. She would be whatever the majority of the group was. Or the type of person that she figured would get her the boy she liked.

(Heartbreak much?)

And while that seems like no big deal, for this suppressed Type 3 girl, it was a challenge. She tried matching her Type 1 friend's high energy, but it drained her and even she knew she was coming off fake. She tried being serious and strict like her Type 4 friends, but she didn't agree with their "It is or it isn't" opinions. She tried being confident and pushy like her Type 3 friends but she considered other's feelings way too much...plus she thought she was ugly. 

Every day she would question her actions, her motives, wondered what the hell she was doing and why did it not feel right for her to be the way she tried so desperately to be when personalities came so effortlessly to her friends.

Being a Type 2 "fit", albeit the mold was itchier than chigger bites all over ones ankles.

Sure enough this woman grew up, "blossomed", if that's what you consider finally knowing how to master makeup, symmetrical eyebrows and fashionable clothes.

She met a man, a real kickass, charming man. And together they started a family.

Everything seemed right.

But this woman, wife, mother wasn't wholly happy.

But she didn't complain. She had everything in life she had always dreamed.

...including as much food as she wanted to eat. 

And eating away her emotions, her dissatisfaction with herself, she did.

(End of third person narration.)

5' 3" 210lbs

At my heaviest, the day before delivering my youngest.

How I hated this picture. My mom insisted we take it so we can "document" this moment of sheer obesity pregnancy. I know this is a poor picture but I refuse to ask my mother for the original copy. I was miserable and in terrible pain. That's all you need to know.

I was determined to believe that all 65 pounds gained would just melt off within a couple weeks of delivery.

Size 13 pants

Yeah, right, Ladee. When does that ever happen?

A year or two later, my friend and I decided to go on a diet together. We would track our calories, keep it at a healthy number and whaddya know, Ladee started losing weight.

And while my body was finally a sight that I no longer cringed looking at, I continued to feel that something was missing.

But I didn't know what. Nothing made sense. I had everything. 

So I thought that this was it. This was the happiest I would ever become. And I was ok with that.

...but I still found food as my source for comfort. My weight was a constant yo-yo. I would be strict and then I would toss all my healthy desires to the wind as I ate whole bags of M&Ms and a whole box of ice cream Drumsticks. And you think I'm kidding.

And then one day my family and I heard the most tragic news, Grandpa was sick and would pass soon.

Such a traumatic moment became the moment of awakening. While I spent weeks in mourning over my precious Grandpa, the walls that I did not realize I had placed for safety around me crumbled. I was at my most vulnerable. I was broken. 

And one day I realized I needed to wipe those tears, pick myself up, and live.

I started changing. A little Ladee was coming forward and from deep within, her voice quiet at first, but as I embraced her, she became more prominent. 

After a couple years of this, this little Ladee now my main personality, I thoroughly believed I had gone through some sort of identity crisis. But could it be a "crisis" if I'm freakin' loving who this new chick is?!

I found Carol Tuttle's Book, "It's Just My Nature" and my life my sense. 

I decided then to let myself be more authentic, more natural, embracing my natural looks (except those eyebrows, those will remained penciled) and no longer trying so hard to be someone I'm not.

This inner love for myself, finally seeing myself as the Lord sees me, gave me the desire to be healthy and mostly, to. be. happy. 

Mr. Hunter has stated that I'm not the same person he married. But he never once as said he wished for the old Ladee back. He senses my happiness, my confidence, and while it was a momentary culture shock for me to not turn to him for his every opinion, desire, or action on something, he has welcomed my "inner blossoming". 

And I couldn't have asked for a better companion.

While some things have changed, both inside and out. Some things, clearly, haven't:

Fact: Ladee was a dork then and Ladee is still a dork now. 

*Please note that I am no longer The Type 3 Woman. Here's why.*

Well, everyone else is doing it. I might as well do drugs and jump off a cliff too.

Mark it in your journals people, I wore color on my lips.

These big lips wear nothing but Chapstick Medicated.

So what does that mean?

It means I only have one lipstick color...from four years ago. 

Buried deep within the dark part of my bathroom drawer, hadn't seen the light of day in several months, to be pulled out for "Just In Case" moments.

Like today. Thanks to The Crazy for making me keep it.

So I had to get a little creative. 

Type 1's lipcolor = The lipstick +  white liquid shimmer eye shadow

Type 2's lipcolor = The lipstick + a dab of this (brunette). No joke.

Type 3's lipcolor = towel burned lips (I did T3 last) + light brown shadow to bring back to "normal".

Type 4's lipcolor = The lipstick + a bright pink eye shadow that also bunks with lipstick.

While I should have gone all out and done a full face of makeup with each Type, I didn't. I had the burning desire to get this all done now, and to do that would take several days, if not all day. And motivation. Which comes at random.

Maybe makeup can be another day.

Perhaps. 

Eh.

My conclusion on wearing each Type:

Type 1 - I laughed at myself with this look. I look ridiculous. And like a man. My nose looks eww. And I felt like I was suffocating myself with trying to be excited in this photo.

Type 2 - I felt like I was forcing myself to be the romantic we all know I'll never be. I hated trying to be soft and sweet, yuck. Reminded me of times past when I wasn't myself.

Type 3 - DUH, how do YOU think I felt?

Type 4 - I had three different Type 4 tops and after doing those photos, I felt like I had a knot in my stomach. I can see why people feel anxiety for reasons not found as I was on the verge of having an attack myself wearing such bold colors. I threw off my last top and didn't hang it back up. I'd rather go naked, I've decided.

But I have a confession. 

I have one color that I love beyond my love for chocolate turnovers that, according to the Type 3 mold, is not a color I should be wearing.

Sorry?

No, I'm not. Will I ever place myself in a mold again? 

Crud, I hope not.

I really don't know what this color is called. It's a deep grey with a hint of blue. Looking online I found a site that called it "pewter" but that brings me back several years ago when I was debating with my friend that pewter was more of a grey-brown than a grey-blue.

According to Wikipedia, we're both right.

But regardless, I don't see this color as "pewter". 

I loved this pewter shirt as it sat for weeks in my closet, unworn. Something about that shade me happy, but I figured it wouldn't look good on me as grey was just for the Type 2s. 

Encouragement of a friend had me trying it on.

How could I look so good in such a "wrong" color? I don't know! But the rebel inside smirked and said, "Who cares? I like it!" I took a pic and sent it to my friend with this message, "Screw brown, this is my black".

And then I was introduced to the beautiful name Zyla. I know little of Zyla. 

...except that Zyla calls me "The Sexy Librarian". 

Hello, best name ever!

I sure as hell like her. 

Or him. Whoops yes, HIM.

(My bad.)

Especially after hearing my friend, Jane, say this:

"Zyla does NOT determine your (type) by your...colors, you are (your type) first and then those are your special additional colors, that might even seem out of range."

Why does this make me so stinkin' happy?

Because it allows me to be a rebel without really being a rebel! Ya know that I'm sayin'?

That's like God saying, "No one can cheat in college and expect to become a high-paying doctor... Except. For. You. You are immune. Enjoy."

My "First Base" color is technically my black! And my energy color is a darker version of my first base color which therefore would make sense why I love wearing it and why I feel so darn good doing so!

Sometimes being a rebel is being right.

I'm a conclusion jumper. It's a habit...a flaw of mine. I don't even know if it's a Type 3 trait.

Sometimes I'll make assumptions of people and situations without fully assessing the picture; what the people involved may be going through, why someone may be acting how they are.

And while I feel that being a conclusion jumper can be used for good as I have made quick decisions and they have worked out for the better, that doesn't mean that being this way all the time is A-OK.

I go to church on Sundays. No biggie. It's the first of the only two good habits I have.

I try not to come to church with the week's stresses. Sunday, especially church, is a time away from the norm, a time to reflect on your week, finding where to improve, a time for spiritual uplift.

It's my recharge...albeit half the time I'm bouncing my leg, twiddling my thumbs, or will roam the halls during class before I suddenly combust due to an over-snuffing of my energy.

Quick overview: Church is 3 hours long.
-Hour #1: "Sacrament Meeting" where we take sacrament to renew our covenants made at baptism and to hear talks/sermons from scriptures.
-Hour #2: "Sunday School" 'nuff said.
-Hour #3: "Relief Society" where the ladies 18+ years old attend to hear a lesson on spirituality; how to be a better person, how to receive Christ in our life, how to serve and love others, etc.

I only attend Sunday School about a quarter of the time I should. It honestly varies on my level of energy.

One Sunday I was in the halls during Sunday School, chillaxing the ADHD and talking with one of my friends that I hadn't seen in a while.

Our close friend comes barreling past us. While she wasn't technically walking fast and was actually very silent, I could sense she was in high-stress mode. And I felt she was trying to project that to the Sunday School Ditchers.

And at the feeling of this, although I love our good friend, I was getting irritated. Like a T3 would, I guess? She was zooming back and forth and stirring the cohesion around my bubble to become confused and suffocated and dramatic. And for someone like me, who relies on those three hours as time away from the chaos of life, to find chaos come barreling back into it, is a recipe for a little active/reactive. When people do this, my first emotion is I sadly find no pity for them.

I have no heart, I believe. In my truest of true forms, I think my heart is black. My "give a damn" is broken when situations like these happen. To top it off, Carol Tuttle justified this by saying my (and other T3s) heart chakra is weak.

Clearly she is saying, "Sorry Ladee, you are bound to be a big, fat meany, especially if you wear black."

The friend I'm talking to turns to our friend and offers to help her. I could not help our friend as I was already asked to play piano for a class. I turn to my friend and say, "That's nice of you." to which she responds, "Well yeah, I'm doing this for her, just because I know she's having a hard day." And then she proceeds to tell me about what our friend is going through. All of these issues appeared like something that has happened last minute or with not much warning.

And I agreed, that is stressful to have sudden changes dumped on you.

I love church. But I have found that church is just that, CHURCH. It is not a time to be fretting and going crazy because there's a slight change in the normal church routine. It's just three hours, let it go. If it's gonna be a wild church day, oh the hell well. That doesn't mean each week will be that way. And that doesn't shed a light on the person that you are. And my good friend, the one that was stressed, is amazing. I admire the person she is. Anyone that knows her, knows that one bad Sunday does not mean that she, herself, is bad.

I see myself reacting how I wanted to. I wanted to roll my eyes and say, "Oh get over it!" Church will work itself out.

But this is where my Type 2 pushes me back, shushes me before I get a word out (or contort my face to show how much I think this situation is being blown up to be bigger than it is), and will tell me of times where I have been in high-stress mode for reasons I felt were legit, even when no one felt I was being reasonable...other than my husband who has to agree with me. ;)

And then I felt bad.

Because I was in Christ's church and was feeling far from Christ-like. Here I saw that there was a person in need, regardless of how stupid I thought the need was, it was an important need for her. And I wrongfully excused that. Type 2 reminded me of the times where I have knelt in the most humbling of circumstances, begging the Lord for solace to a problem that to anyone else, would have their heads shaking in confusion, as to them, my need for solace made no sense. I have asked for help in situations where clearly to another person, I shouldn't need help. I have said no to opportunities that could have been of benefit to me and others but because of where I was in life, I could not do more than be a simple homemaker; making it one day at a time.

And at that very moment, I wished I was more Type 2. A little more considerate at the first sight of seeing someone in stress...that I had a little more heart.

There comes a time when you just have to say no. Even when temptation is knocking. And even when it's so not.

I turned 30 this year. I was certain the end of the world would come before I would ever reach this age. 

(But in my mind I'm still 18.)

(And am told I look like I'm 21? Lies!)

A lot of my friends are in their 20s and yes, I am way more mature than them.

I'm not an embarrassment at all to my kids. Or to Mr Hunter. I don't dance on the front lawn. By myself. Because Mr Hunter fixed the car speakers. And the air conditioning. Or just because I want to dance.

I sing too...make my own "theme music".

And I certainly don't give sloppy kisses and sappy "I love you"'s to my children in public.

Just in front of their friends when I drop them off.

Or call Mr Hunter "Sexy Man" on facebook, for the world to see. And for all our friends to then call him that while assembling for church.

...

See, I'm totally grown up.

Dawn Direct Foam (DDF) and I are tight. We've been close since 2007. DDF gets me and I totally get DDF.  So much so that I know DDF isn't worth the price selling on the shelves. It's like three bucks for the DDF with the pump (pic above) and for the large refill bottle--fork out twice as much.

Now that's not too much money, right? I went to the Cheesecake Factory last night and spent over $20 on an entree and dessert (that's going straight to my backside) and I considered it highly worth it. But simple dollars can add up when you're going grocery shopping and notice that you're just about over your weekly budget when you remember you need the damn dish soap. And we're not about to sacrifice that Ben & Jerry's ice cream for clean dishes. Hell, we'll borrow some soap from the neighbor before we would ever let it get to that.

So you stand there for ten minutes, looking at the never ending wall of dish soap, noting that you can get a decent sized bottle of soap for a mere buck...but you want DDF even considering the price increase. So you put DDF in your cart, feeling somewhat guilty and angry that these name brands have to cost us so much.

What in the world is in this direct foam that makes it cost five times more than the generic and will WORK in your direct foam pump? Well, let's get out our periodic table of elements. The secret "ingredient" is merely two parts "H" (hydrogen) and one part "O" (oxygen). Yep, that's right--water; you know, that organic stuff that we drink that's supposed to help suppress hunger and increase metabolism? No, we're not talking about Green Tea, honey.

Now you CAN buy the generic, not feel guilty, put about a tablespoon or so into your direct foam bottle and ADD WATER. If you're a dollar store junky and like to get your dish soap from there (respect), you will need to add more than a tablespoon of soap (as it is much runnier and already has more water in it than the store brands). If you notice that your wannabe DDF isn't foamy, add more water.

The secret's out! DDF, you're amazing, but you're nothing but diluted dish soap. Forgive me?

I wonder if the bra-making industry feels at times they're walking on egg shells for us women.

Always worried that someone will get offended with their product for one reason or another. After all, boobs are no laughing matter, said no crude person ever.

I mentioned in this post how I once lost 90 pounds and it shows. I'll save you all the nightmares of how this bod looks by keeping my camera tucked away. No need to thank me. My mirror only wishes I would do the same.

But one of the biggest problems I have with the weight loss, and probably the only reason I wish I didn't lose the weight is when it comes down to what's under the bra, or not under the bra, that is.

These babies were a full D after I gave birth to my kids. I finally looked proportional after living my whole life with a round booty and nothing to balance it out on top. "Bubblicious" was my nickname, given to me by two Senior boys in high school. Nothing feels better than to have Senior boys point out a problem trait you didn't know you had to which you spend the rest of your life hyper-focusing on it, even if they said the nickname was "a good thing". Right.

And now, 90 pounds lighter, these babies point sadly toward the floor, in front of my feet as though to monitor the ground I will be walking upon. They're depressed. And unless I wanna drop $3500 on some silicone, there's no way around it.

I won't bother telling you my cup size. But I do know that I could go one size smaller. I fill out my bra nicely at the bottom of the cup and it's nothing but empty space above it. Does that make me a false advertiser?

A while ago I bought some sport bras (as though I really need them) only to prevent the slapping sounds of loose skin when I run.

But I got tired of how these bras accentuated the fact that each boobie looks like I have half a large Hershey Kiss on my chest when viewing me from the side.

So I decided to buy some padded sport bras. Did you know they had these? I didn't until a couple days ago. Again, these bra companies think of it all.

After looking over the wall of sport bras (c'mon people, can't we just have three to chose from? You know my T2 is going berserk over here) and mentally going through my morning routine as to which bra I could get on the easiest and the fastest, as well as what would work best with my headset cord, as you remember I wear mine under my shirt (and bra), I settled on this:

In white.

And I gave it a try this morning. 

I snapped the front of and instantly didn't like how it felt (but hey, my boobs suddenly looked alive). I guess I could've tried this thing on at the store. But I usually don't try on clothing. Something weird about it. 

I couldn't figure out why I didn't like the fit until I had finished getting ready. 

For one, there's is an extra strap in my back. I felt like this bra was doing all that it could to make sure that I was going to stand up straight, shoulders back, and boobs forward. I guess they don't know that I already do that; cheers to Mom and her constant nagging that I need to sit/stand up straight my first 18 years of life.

Now the shoulder straps. They hug too close to my neck. Why can't they just sit on my damn shoulders like regular bras do? My old sports bras did. These things were irritating as they rubbed my skin. On top of that, the shoulder straps were padded.

And then it clicked. I looked at myself in the mirror and chuckled, "Good thing this bra can hold these massive boulders that I lug around." 

Obviously, I don't need a sports bra with extra back support and neither are my boobs so heavy that I need to have the shoulder straps padded and closer to my neck. 

But of course, these bra companies don't want to offend those who haven't been blessed with decent-sized ta-tas. Or maybe it's just easier to make these bras all the same. Regardless, I'll pretend like the bra company believes what I got is "big enough" to have added support in the back and shoulders. 

Thanks, Bra Maker Person. It's nice to assume I've got the boobies of Pam Anderson every now and then.

Carol Tuttle recently did a video on the effects of daily washing your hair. And how it's a big no-no.

I realized that in the amount of time it would take for me to write why and for you to read why, you could've watched this video three times over.

So--here ya go.



Now, I've known this for a while. For at least 20 years. Did I follow it? No. Did I believe it? Only for the past 12 years. Even then did I follow it? Ehhh, ish.

Do I follow it today? I try. Honestly, there are days when you just can't do without washing your hair. Especially with my Monday-Friday workouts. I get gross and my hair becomes just as bad.

In this video there is talk about dry shampoos. So what are dry shampoos, really?

As this website states, dry shampoo is "a water-free way to freshen and restyle your hair when you don't have time for a leisurely scrub. Just sprinkle or spray the preparation on your hair, wait a few moments for it to absorb the oil and other gunk that sticks to it, and then brush or blot it out."

Well put.

For the longest time I believed that you could only buy dry shampoos at a salon = too costly for me to justify paying.

Until I saw a commercial about TRESemme's Fresh Start.

And that night I went to the store and bought me some.

It comes with simple, 4 part instructions that sums up to say: Place into oily part of hair with fingertips and scrub dry with a towel.

The scrubbing with the towel is to remove the dirt and oils from your hair.

Well, maybe I just don't know how to "scrub" with a towel. Because my hair looked worse after using it. I've tried this several times, using differing amounts of the product (less is "best", I guess, but none is better) and my hair looked as though I had denied myself any hair care for a solid couple of weeks.

Enter hat. Insist on wearing it even though you and your husband are going on a hot date to a nice restaurant. Nothing says sexiness like a silk shirt, strands of pearls, pearl earrings, gold bracelets and a dingy PHX Suns hat. All because you were gullible enough to believe a $5+ product would actually work and even dumber to give it a try during a time that if it failed you would look like a fool.

TRESemme, TRESemme, ooh, la, laaaaame.

And then my beautiful beautician cousin told me, "Just use cornstarch."

Say what?

This stuff?

Like, fo' realz?

Now I use it every time my hair gets oily. And when they say a little goes a long way, baby, a little. goes. a. long. way.

What I do:

First off, I put the cornstarch in a gallon-sized, plastic, zipper bag for convenience as those little boxes with the wax paper inside is recipe for a disaster when all you need is about a 1/4 tsp at a time. I ignore the fact that it looks like I'm hoarding a million dollars' worth of street drugs in my house.

Cornstarch. Or is it? You tell me.

How to use:

1. Dab the fingertips of your first three fingers into cornstarch. Really peeps, you don't need a lot. And if you have dark hair, especially be cautious.

(Note: COCOA ALSO WORKS. Yep. I've done it and I like it better than the cornstarch as my hair is dark. But I could no longer handle the paranoia of smelling like I bathed in Willy Wonka's chocolate river.)

2. Rub cornstarch into the fingers of both hands. It'll look like there's hardly anything on your fingers but promise me, it's there and it's enough.

3. Finger through the oily parts of your hair. 

4. Repeat first three steps until you have the oily strands covered. 

If by chance you do add too much into your hair and now you have a white patch, scrub out with a towel. This doesn't always work though, hence the reason I say to use a little as you can always add more; not always can you take away.

Now let's compare pricing:

Dry Shampoo: $5 for a 5.7oz bottle---used a handful of times and now sits under your sink with the other products you pathetically wasted your money on.

Cornstarch: $1 for 16oz box that, if used only for your hair, will last you for-ev-uh-ish.

Being cheap wins. 

Oh, P.S. Baby powder works good, from what I hear. It smells nice too if you want to, well, smell like a baby's tush. I've never used it though.

I have long hair. Long, thin-stranded, hair. My hair is confused and has been for years. It doesn't know whether to be straight or curly (regardless of the years of appointments it has made with the straightener), and the result of my hair becomes a funky, wavy-frizz. 

How does a hair type like mine fit in with being a Type 3, especially when Carol Tuttle wants us to be exactly who we should be and that we should embrace all aspects of ourselves.

I understood that as including your hair. So I did some searching on the perfect, T3 hair.

But, a good chunk of the photos I see online of those who get makeovers to look like their true, Type 3 hot self, are this:

(source)

(source)

(Aren't these ladies beautiful?!)

The problem between my hair and these 'dos: I can't pull off short hair. Seriously. Nope. Nuh-uh. No way. Sadly, even the great Carol Tuttle doesn't have a wand magic enough for me.

This is exactly how I would have my hair, erryday if I could. Red, sleek, piece-y, pointed at the ends. 

(source)

I can do the color, and have considered it. But straightening it takes a while. Ok, not terribly long but too long for this Type 3er. On top of that, I live in a humid location. Is there any reason to straighten my wavy hair while residing here? And on top of thaaaat, wearing my hair straight pulls my face down. 

One would assume then that that would make perfect sense for me to chop these locks off and go short. Because it would take minutes to straighten and be easier to keep tame.

Sorry. No can do. My crystal ball tells me I'll be an 80 year old great grandmother and will still have my long hair.

Have you ever heard beauticians labeling some 'dos as "low maintenance"? Especially as they chop 14 inches of hair off their victim who now can no longer wear ponytails? Anything that requires 20mins of blow-drying, 30mins of straightening/curling, and forcing your hair to act different from it's natural movement is not low maintenance.

IMHO.

Or maybe I suffer from chronic laziness. I dunno. I'm one of those girls who wants to have her cake and eat it too. Chocolate please. With chocolate frosting. 

I want to do the least I can do and still get amazing results.

And I found that by letting my wild mane be, well, wild. 

What I do:

1. Wash my hair. Duh.

2. If washed at night, sleep on it wet. If washed in the morning, allow to air dry (doesn't take long with my hair). A nap works great during this time. Will blow dry hair only in dire need.

3. Put product on in my roots. My hair is flat on top. Several years ago I nearly cried buying this $18 can of Big Sexy Hair because that's what the lady who cut my hair told me to get and I'm gullible and will believe anyone and anything. I youtubed how to use it, tried it and considered this product trash. But I couldn't throw it away. It was $18! I pulled this out last month, since I believe in second chances, and dare I say, a love has kindled. Once empty I'll probably look for a Suave/Aussie comparable. 

I will spray the roots and massage in to spread evenly with the exception of the hair at the top of the crown. I have about a three inch wide section at the top of my hair that doesn't get this product as it does have a tendency to make hair look greasy.

4. I then use my diffuser to dry the product and give my roots a lift. 

We'll pretend mine looks this good. And that it's not offf-white and dirty, cracked, and held together with rubber hair ties.

(Below: Remember to attach diffuser to blow dryer before use.) 

(Below: And do a little this.)

4 1/2. After this, depending on how cooperative this 'do is, I am done and may spritz lightly with the Aussie Freeze Spray you see a little down the page.

5. Will add a small amount of this to my ends to give my layers definition. Since the layers of my hair have been razored to blend in, they tend to look even more frizzy than when I've had the layers cut. Word of advice with this hair type and what kind of mousse to get: Never use the maximum hold unless you want super defined curls and crispy ends. The lower the amount of "hold", the better.

This stuff (below) works pretty dang good too. The only unfortunate thing is the issue I have with getting the product out while it's running low. You have to give it a rigorous shake and hold the dumb thing completely upside down to get the product out or it will make loud, airy, popping sounds, says my irritated husband at five in the morning. 

5 1/2. Now I'm done. Rarely I'll diffuse over the product again. Doing that creates more curls and it's not the curls I necessarily want. I want the waviness and funky look.

6. I will spray this (below) in my roots and flip my hair back and forth like a show girl to give a little pump if I'm going out later. Or if I throw my hair up in a pony (seriously, all hair needs to be pony length...or own a few hats) then I'll spray on the ends of my hair and poof it to look spunky.

Once you get in the swing of it, this 'do takes maybe ten minutes. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

A beautiful, long, Type 3 hairstyle. Drool....

(source)

It rained today. It's still raining. And I was outside for a couple minutes while the fat drops from the sky thudded my scalp. And it didn't bother me a lick. 

Had I straightened my hair and this happened? ...another story.

I know it seems like I'm hatin' on my secondary more often than embracing it. And while I do tend to do that about 75% of the time, I understand that running from her is running from myself. When the secondary calls, it's best to answer.

I love, absolutely love, being a Type 3 woman. I feel most comfortable in my skin this way. Never did I know that this way of living would feel so good.

Quite frequently I tell The Crazy (Miss Type 2) to just hush or to disappear, generally when it's regarding something that I want done instantly and she's getting in the way. The mental stretch becomes agonizing at times. With some tasks I will want to be determined, the go-getter and she will force me back and have me questioning my motives and whether I am fit for the job.

But I do honor her and should honor her more when she beckons me to take time off and to decompress. As I tell my friends, "I'm doing a 'defragment and delete'"; meaning: "It's time for me to take time off from the constant going and the constant socialization while I turn inward, let some things go and recharge".

Now, I don't know if this is a regular Type 3 thing: to get a little burned out with present life that you need a day off (perhaps four) before resuming. I figure it's my Type 2 who's wanting me to baby myself and give it the care it deserves.

I am a Bible study teacher. And I love it. Like, love, love it. I love my students and I love hearing myself talk teaching them. Being this teacher has made my life rich in blessings and I'm a better person for knowing these kick-butt teens. They inspire me which leads me to do all I can to empower them and uplift them and tell them that the world is theirs for the taking!

And while I love this job, it takes quite a bit of energy out of me come Friday. And this is the time where I will actually listen when my secondary steps in and says, "Miss T3, it's time to take a back seat."

Sometimes it only takes an afternoon to "defragment and delete" and sometimes it takes a few days. My secondary knows how long I'll need (not saying she doesn't press her luck to stay longer). She understands how easily I get burned out with situations and helps me decide where I need to "trim the fat" in certain areas of my life. Others may call this "picking your battles". One of the few times when my dominate and secondary energies become the perfect marriage is when I'm trimming the fat from my life. My secondary looks at the big picture, all the details and ponders on what's best in my life and once decision is made, my dominate will embrace that idea, and follow through with it.

And it's those times that motivate me to continue to find the perfect balance of energies.

Carol Tuttle has mentioned time and again that if you are not a bold, striking Type 4 then you need to throw out all your black clothes yesterday. And why?

Type 1s look silly and childish in black. Bright, spring colors are for you!
Type 2s look washed out and not taken seriously in black. Muted, soft colors are for you!
Type 3s look old and fat in black (gee, thanks). Rich, shaded colors are for you!

Hearing this for the first time was quite a bummer as I believed black to be the universal color. But looking in photos I can see where my black clothes tend to have dominance and the eyes go there instead to my face. I also look older and more tired in black, the color pulls my face down, even when I'm smiling.

Problem: I'm too cheap to throw out all my black.

And I know I'm not the only one.

One day I was surfing Carol Tuttle's blog and read the comments in one of her videos.

Kathryn said (source):

I'm a Type3 and I have another Type3 friend who took her black clothes and soaked them in a light bath of bleach water, just enough to remove part of the dye and not destroy the fabric. She came out with some burnt oranges, and other rich hues!


Kathryn, your friend is a genius and you were inspired to write this! We, the people of the cheap, thank you.

Now it was time to try this out.

I took two black tops that I felt no emotion to (because I got these). If I lost them during this experiment, oh well. If they turned out as planned, coolio. I could go either way.

I filled the bottom of the washer with hot water and added, oh, 3/4 c bleach. I don't measure when I use bleach and therefore I probably go overboard with it. But I wanted results fast.

I let it soak in still water for 30 minutes (moving it around every ten-ish minutes, making sure it remained fully submersed) before allowing the washer to continue its cleaning cycle.

Before:

After:

The shirt, my first attempt, didn't turn out as I would have liked as I had it agitating in the bleach water instead of having it sit in still water. Some parts of the shirt didn't lighten as well as the rest. It doesn't look bad, it just looks like it's a little damp in some areas.

Biggest bummer? I hated this sweater when it was black. Now I love it (hellooooo chevron!) and it doesn't fit me! AUGH! I don't know how to modify clothing (now could be a good time?) and therefore will figure something out with it.

Maybe there's a giveaway in the future? That is, if there's more readers out there than the ones I have made up in my head....

I can't figure if the reason I'm cheap is because one, I have been raised that way; two, because I can't justify spending money on myself when I can use it for more useful things; or three, because I know that eventually I can get it for a cheaper price or free.

And that's why I haven't bought Carol Tuttle's course. Believe me, I'm sure it's mind-blowing. I believe when my Type 1 sis-in-law says it's gives you a world of knowledge. But I would want the whole package, the biggest package she is selling and for that price, I'd hire a maid and lawn-guy for a month.

All this talk about Energy Types between the gals at church, the gals on facebook, that even the small amounts that I talk about it at home (to be considerate) has driven my husband to madness that if I said, "Hey sexy man, I'm gonna buy this course from Carol Tuttle to help me with my energy profiling...and it's $250," that I'd lose him...toss up between him just leaving or going to the loony bin.

So instead I waste my time online. Because all mothers, especially married mothers of three children, have the time to do that.

I found a post with some tips on the colors we Miss T3ers can wear.

And I'm a little excited.

Because I got all this info fo' FREE.

Source.

To the Type 3's: Don't these colors just make you happy? 

I went on a trip with Mr Hunter recently. He took me out to Shreveport, LA where I, for the first time, visited a casino. I fully understood that I would lose any money that I put into the slot machines. Other than choking on cigarette smoke and feeling my lungs burn, I had a good time. Like I predicted, we lost our money, but I did come out of there with a steal in my hand and my husband rolling his eyes. Today that man confessed he is burned out about Energy Types. I think the final straw was when he heard one of our children tell another adult which energy type they were.

Me, jumping in excitement in the gift shop: "Honey, look at this! It's got all the Type 3 angles and colors and texture....I love it! I love how chunky it is and that it's gold because silver would totally ruin this whole piece..."

And to get me to shut up for a measly $10, he bought it for me. I'm praying the gold will not fade!!

I wore it to church today. And I love it! My favorite part about the necklace is the sound it makes when I bend and then get back up, all the little pieces clap together to make this cool tinkling sound!