Happy New Year!

Sometimes life is so sweet.

Not computer literate. Oh, and some other stuff.

I am paranoid, so I am constantly inventing more and more elaborate passwords for each and every account. And then I forget them and can't login to anything. 

I have been attempting to attach a counter to my blog, but I just can't figure it out. I have been  constantly going to every blog I read that has a counter and going to the sites that support their counters and trying to figure it out, but the instructions are a big 'ol overwhelming jumble to me and I just cannot do it. So, I guess I give up. Obviously other people know how to make their computers work. I have a hard time importing songs off of CDs. I should just be grateful that I can even turn on a computer. And that no one is pressuring me to buy an i-phone. Because they scare me. Seriously. There's one in our house and it can turn off the computer all by itself. That is just not right. I feel like HAL is going to lock us in and kill us all with the various electronic equipment we own. Death by electric mixer. No thank-you. That's why I use a whisk. I unplug everything that's not in use to save energy, but maybe it will also help if there ever is a battle against the i-phone and its desire for dominance. I sure hope the dog is on our side. I'd like to think she is, but you never really know with dogs, do you? They act like they love you and that they are loyal to the pack, but it could just be because  they don't have opposable thumbs and therefore can't open the pantry and dole out their own food. Maybe they are just waiting for the chance to break out and be the alpha of their own pack and create a world in which they don't have to pee outside in the freezing rain (even though their humans may already be so well-trained that they follow them holding an umbrella over their dog heads).

There was a hawk sitting on our deck yesterday. Our dog better not try and betray us when there's a hawk around.

You know what is gross? Soggy cereal. 

I need to go dig out our snow pants.

Blessings

Christmas Eve seems a good time to reflect on all the blessings of a wonderful year... how very fortunate we are...how amazingly quick time passes as an adult and how slowly it seemed to drag as a child and teenager....It seems rather mind-boggling that so many joyous events could have taken place in the time span of one year. 

My family. I love them so. So much to celebrate. Two engagements...five birthdays...to have the privilege of  being married to my best friend and favorite adult human. To celebrate our life together, to help one another over the fallen branches,to watch with him as our son learned to swim, to slide down a pole, to ride a bike, to spell and add and write, to play soccer, land a cartwheel and flip upside down on the swing set and speak other languages with a perfect accent and made-up his seemingly endless repertoire of knock-knock jokes...

My friends. They complete a part of me I didn't know was missing. They gift me with  laughter, support,camaraderie,  friendship. They have changed the world as I knew it.

The outcome of this year's election. Hope is upon our nation at long last.

Traveling. Being immersed in the society of another country has made me realize what I am missing from my own.

My job. Being paid to do something I love.

Our health. So easy to take it for granted, but I try to celebrate every moment I recall that I am able to bend over and pick-up something off of the floor, that I am able to walk without pain, that my loved ones are not ill or suffering.

So many tiny miracles. Isn't it fantastic that you can plant a seed and it will grow into a plant from which your family will be fed?

 

How grateful I am for this one precious life. I hope only to prove myself worthy of this unbelievable gift.

It's the most wonderful time of the year...well, some years it is.

This has been the loveliest of Christmas seasons. I have to say that I think it may be the lack of presents this year. There just wasn't that pressure to find 9 or 10 perfect items for a dozen different people. There wasn't the endless wrapping, trying to come up with new ideas for said wrapping so that the gift presentation would be even more original and enticing than the previous year. No trying to get that one big gift to knock Mort's socks off before he loses interest in it before the New Year hits. Instead, he's getting four smallish gifts that he's been dropping subtle hints about for months:

Mort: Mommy, can I tell you something?

Me: Sure, sweets. Go ahead.

Mort: I really really really wish I had a Ben 10 watch.

Me: Mmm. Don't forget to finish your carrots.

Mort: What's 6 + 6 + 6 + 6 + 6 + 6 + 2?

Me: I have no idea.

Mort: Now is later. Can I have a snack?

Instead of doing the mad dash of Christmas, we've had a slew of parties and celebratory outings and functions where we've made food and just enjoyed the company of our friends and family. It's been fantastic.

And one of my friends is getting a puppy on the 27th! Very few things in this world smell better than a puppy.

And the television hasn't been turned on for two days. Instead, we've just been reading and listening to music and using a hole puncher on miscellaneous pieces of paper.

And I splurged and finally bought pots and pans that won't kill us with their nonstick coating and/or aren't leftover from Mike's college days. We were down to one pan. Positively un-American.

And we received a new documentary in amongst the Christmas cards today.

And Mort and I came up with a new dance for the Charlie Brown music in the grocery store today. Not one person gave us a dirty look, either. See, it is a lovely time of year.

The Christmas Pagent

On one hand, I'm glad that my child is comfortable in his own skin. On the other hand, he may be getting a little big for his britches. I plan on starting the new year with a chat to his teacher and finding out just how often she has to speak to him about his behavior. Because she had to shush him twice during the Christmas program. And I had to silence him with the patented Mom glare that one is uploaded with upon giving birth because as he stood with his little group to say his line, the boy before him forgot his words and my son dramatically smacked his own head and said, "Oh man!" Last year I would go so far as to say my son was the teacher's favorite. This year, not so much.

He also was spoken to for being too noisy at gymnastics.

Is he becoming that kid? Are we failing? Or is it a combination of too little sleep, too much Christmas activity and back-to-back ear infections and antibiotics? (Please let it be the latter. Thank-you.) 

Ugh. Kids. A constant source of worry.

I am psyched(excuse me as I perpetually live in the 90s) to see the extended family today at the Family Christmas. 

I can't write today. I'm too tired.

Success and failure

Burt's Baby Bees hair and bodywash and Tom's of Maine bodywash. It is almost a burden to be informed. I guess ignorance is bliss. I liked buying whatever smelled good instead of whatever was safest. Now the true test will be if my skin can take it. Unfortunately, I have ridiculously sensitive skin and have been allergic to almost every organic or "natural" skin care product I've ever tried. Yes, it seems crazy, but I am allergic to all that is grows wild and free in nature so it only makes sense that if I rub it on my skin, my skin is going to freak out.

Santa paid a visit to Mort's school today. Mort informed me that Santa wasn't like the other Santa he saw in that his face and voice were very different. This Santa also didn't know what a Ben 10 Watch was. Should Santa admit ignorance when a child requests a certain toy? Especially when some children are already very suspicious of Santa's existence? I chose poorly in preschools. I didn't know that until this year. And now it's too late. Sigh.

Wednesday

So. Tomorrow I have my first appointment with my hair dresser since she "over saturated" the color and turned it black. Why would I pay good money to return to the scene of the crime?

 Because I just don't know what else to do. So many things have been done to my hair that I feel incapable of coloring it myself at this point because every time I try it goes black. And then I have to strip it again. And my roots are bad. When my hair was blond, I guess I didn't realize just how white I am because it blended. Now that my hair is auburn...it's a sobering  aging experience. So, we shall see what can be done.

And speaking of hair, we have reached the point once again where the little man is between getting a haircut or letting it grow. He wants it long. But it's thick and wavy and takes forever to dry,especially as it's winter, so I can't allow it to air dry for fear of him getting a cold. (I never bought into that, but since that British study was released...although they think Victoria Beckham is a beautiful style-maven, so what do they know?) But he does have great hair and it's so cute when it's long.

Between the sick kid, the noisy dog and the freaking owl...oh and the beer with the organic turkey chili, I did not sleep well last night. Can you tell? I don't know what that owl's problem is. I can see the woodland creatures  in our yard just fine. So why doesn't it grab a happy meal special of rabbit burger and shut the hell up?

What else?

Made the switch to cloth napkins finally. And environmentally safe, non carcinogen toothpaste and mouthwash. I'm still trying to track down bodywash that fits into the same category and doesn't cost $32 for 2 ounces. It feels like such a burden to have to worry about all this stuff, but if I failed to make the switch I would feel even worse. And some of the things I already used that I thought were great apparently aren't, but I'm not even certain why that is the case. Trying to be environmentally responsible and protect your family from ingredients other nations have banned for years is overwhelming. Especially when I live somewhere that doesn't have easy access to other options and all that safety costs twenty-three times what the other brands cost.

I just remembered that I got black beans and salsa for lunch today. Yum. (see how easily mollified I am?)

Lazy but grateful

I don't know that we have ever had a busier December. Every weekend  and half the weekdays have been packed with parties and dinners and gatherings and get-togethers.

But even though we're all beat and not getting quite enough sleep, I'm grateful to have so many  wonderful people in our lives with whom we enjoying spending time.

I need to get a bit of a move-on and accomplish a few errands this morning, but it's too lovely lying here in the sunshine like a cat on a windowsill. I may allow myself to drowse a bit instead.

Children can be so joyous---we were playing a game last night with a group of kids, many of whom didn't know one another and every time one of the children was "out", not one of them became sulky or angry. Instead, they all cheered on the remaining players and clapped and laughed and danced. 

And my own little mush has been so sweet of late that he makes my heart ache with his beauty. He has gone from being stingy with the kisses to randomly and solemnly kissing me  first on each cheek, then the tip of my nose, my forehead and  finally chin. And he always smells like fruit and syrup. 

I am awash with emotions, all of them happy. It's good to be mired in living.

Euro, we need you to be sinking in value, not rising.

Isn't today's paper full of good cheer? Toddlers wandering away from a daycare, euro making the dollar look like ass...I hope that I kept my euros that I didn't exchange and didn't give them to Mort for fun money. I need to switch that up if I did and give him a five dollar bill instead. Ah, hell, I might as well give him a 20. It's Christmas after all and it's basically Monopoly money at this point.

Hey, but I did decide on an outfit for one of the Christmas parties we're going to.

And I do have the noisiest dog on the face of the planet who promptly begins her 30 minute wake-up session of vigorous cardio followed by grunting and stretching at 5 am. So, I won't feel too badly when we can no longer afford to feed her.

Oh. My. Gawd.

The Christmas card saga continues.  Out of the 65 or so cards we sent, we have heard from 20 or so people telling us it was hysterical and that they loved it.

 We have heard from two people, neither of whom understood it or what our possible motivation  could be in having the audacity to send a silly picture of our family as opposed to one of us wearing our matching fucking sweaters and sitting in front of the Christmas tree that is placed just to the right of the fireplace, complete with hung stockings and roaring fire.

And of course, the two people who were negative are making me feel like crap while the 20 plus people who liked it are unable to counterbalance the meanies. Who says shitty things about people's Christmas cards? I don't call people asking why they chose the card they chose.When did people start judging one another's FUCKING CHRISTMAS CARDS?!?

 I love Christmas cards in any incarnation. I love seeing pictures of our friends' children whether they are professional pictures, traditional pictures, school pictures or silly snapshots. I like family pictures, dog pictures, it doesn't matter. I love the personal touch and it means a lot to me that people take the time to send a card. I just enjoy them all. One year we received a Christmas card that had two of Jay's cousins dressed-up as Jedis and brandishing light sabers. That was one of our all time favorite cards because the kids were obviously having such a great time in that picture. I didn't call their parents and ask why they weren't wearing santa hats.

In the words of Charlie Brown, "ArrrrrrggggguuuuHHhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!"

Irregardless is not a word

Just in case you thought it was. I'm not saying that you are one of those people. But you have to admit, there are far too many of them out there.

So. I'm still fixated on the Christmas card thing. 

Also, it's rather amazing, but honestly, I have absolutely no sense of direction. None. It took me FOUR tries to get to a place I've been to a million times today. I could visualize it in my head. I just could not figure out how to get there. I kept getting on and off the highway and driving in different directions and through the city and back on the highway. And because we (we being me and my ever constant 4 foot 2 inch companion) had to run 900 errands in the pouring rain 15 days prior to Christmas so that we could get gifts for people who handed us a list and refused to accept our statement that we did not wish to exchange gifts this year,

 [Truly-it went like this: 

Person: So, what do you want for Christmas?

Me: Honestly, nothing. We aren't doing gifts this year. Please don't get us anything.

Person: Well, I'm going to get you something! Here's what we want...

M: Really, don't get us anything. Save your money and come visit us in Italy.

Person: I have to get you something and here's what you can get us.]

 I had promised my ever faithful companion that at the end of fighting our way through malls and bookstores and boutiques and being in the car for so long my back is throbbing we could celebrate by getting ice cream.

And when we pulled up to the mo-fo ice cream place, there's a freaking sign on the door that says "Closed for Winter." Try to explain that to a 4-year-old who is at the end of his rope of cooperation and patience. I understand the closing down of mom and pop places for the winter as it's simply not economical. But this was a freaking chain whose ice cream I don't even like! Luckily another chain was in sight: Starbucks, where I satisfied the slowly melting creature with an organic milk and blueberry muffin.

I'm exhausted. I don't know that I should be, but I am.

Geez

To any and all who received our Christmas card, yes that's us. Yes, it's meant to be funny. Yes, it was created with the magic of computers. (Stella with glasses and a wig? C'mon guys...)Huh. I guess we should have done two cards, because people are either calling us to say it's hysterical or to ask us what it's about because they don't get it. "Is that you? How did you get glasses on Stella?"

I don't know why I didn't discover yogi tea sooner. It really is incredibly soothing and relaxing.

Okay, I'm having baby envy. Everywhere I go, there are these perfect little beings, snoozing in their slings and carriers and baby bjiorns. And someone who is even a couple of months older than I and has a child the same age as Mort just had twins. I'm too old to have this baby lust but when I see these Moms, harried and snappy and definitely non-blissful, surrounded by their gaggle of kids, I can't help but envy them. But kids that are 6 years apart, at best? At my age? When we're in the zone of a wonderful little guy who can pee on his own, brush and floss his own teeth AND keep himself entertained? And will even be in school full-time next year? And do I really want to return to the sleepless nights, the year of turning my body into a sacred baby making temple, the additional year of sacred baby body temple for feeding purposes, going through labor, or a c-section, then trying to regain my body at age 39? And this all with the assumption that my baby would be healthy and my eggs still viable. Ugh. I do wish we would have just done it when Jay was one and a half as we had originally planned. But Duke was finishing up his MBA and then my disc popped out and I was in physical therapy and suddenly it was three years later. I feel like I was meant to have more children. I just don't know if it will happen. I don't know if I want it to happen.

I will sell this house today!

Some mornings, you just wake-up on the right side of the bed. You look outside and see the leftover snow in your garden and a black barn cat hunting in the wee back region of your yard and the sun is not quite in the sky and the Christmas lights are on and you have a weekend ahead filled with parties and dinners and you just feel good.

I had a dream that my Mom was dating Michael Kors. Which is weird on quite a few levels. One being that I fixed them up. The others you can probably figure out for yourself.

Typical, typical

I have a slew of paperwork involving my name change and getting a passport for Mort and just stuff that I don't feel like doing, so I've been shoving it all in a cabinet.

Today, I thought, today I will tackle these things and be done with them. I will remove that little pocket of anxiety that's lurking around reminding me that I have things I need to do that I'm not doing. Like practicing my Italian. That's weighing on me as well. But I just keep finding other things I need to do.

I decided to go get my new driver's licence while Mort was at school. I drove to the DMV, all my documents in hand, and of course it was closed, because I hadn't bothered to check when it was open. I assumed it was open whenever I was ready to go.

And now, because I didn't get that accomplished, I am paralyzed and can't do any of the other tasks until that one is done. I know, it doesn't make sense to me either.

Let's play... "What color is my hair?"

Well, it's a myriad, actually. It's a mix of brown and red and auburn and orange and light brown and the ever popular white that is starting to take over.  I know better. I truly truly do. I need to live by one single rule as far as my hair is concerned and that is, never, ever, ever do anything to it. Give in to my stylist maybe once a year and let her trim the teensiest amount off of my ends. That's it. Don't do anything else.

In the past month, I have gone from having elbow-length hair to having chest length, layered hair. I have gotten bangs. It was blonde. Then it was black. Then it was light brown. Then it was black again. Then it was dark auburn. Then it was flat blackish brown. And now it's a mess of ruin.

I wasn't going to return to my hairdresser, but now I feel I have no choice. I cannot fix this on my own. The color is bad, the bangs are horrid and it looks like a blocky mess. Why do I do this to myself? Why do I not remember that messing with my hair is very painful? It must be like childbirth. You know that it hurt, but you cannot fathom how truly ungodly horrendous it was because your brain protects you so that you will continue to breed.  My brain must protect me from the sheer horror of change as far as my hair is concerned. And so I forget. And I do it again.

11 years ago today

My now husband proposed to me in our apartment in Boston. I was cranky and sick and wearing pjs and a pair of his socks and getting ready to go to work. He was going to propose to me the night before in Little Italy after we had seen the Boston ballet perform The Nutcracker but he didn't count on the fact that I would be sick and out of it on cold medicine. It's a loooong story. But it's a story, alright. I'm sure lots of people have lovely engagement stories--us, not so much.

Although it was a complete surprise, as I had told him I would be happy to live together forever, but I never wanted to get married. You try having parents with 8 marriages between them and see if you think it's a viable institution. My mom is extremely anti-living together (Catholic roots)--can you say 3 months of not speaking to me? And she had the big accusing behind my back talk with Duke of "What are your intentions with my daughter? Why are you willing to live with her but not marry her?" My poor mom. She had to play good cop, bad cop all by herself and be dad and mom both. She felt both better and worse upon Duke's response that he wanted very much to marry me, but I didn't believe in marriage.

But the longer we were together, the more I did want to get married, I just never shared that with him. But as always, he knew. I have to give him alot of credit for helping me to break down all my defensive posturing and just loving me for the me he saw beneath my prickly tough act. He showed me it was okay to be me and that I didn't have to be on guard against everyone all of the time. He showed me it was okay to be silly and laugh and not be so uptight and not care so much about what people thought of me. He loved me unconditionally. He had no idealized version of me. He loved me;gigantic flaws and wack-o behavior didn't deter him in the least. Because seriously, I was a self-destructive train wreck and a half. And with Duke, I didn't have to be.

Happy engagement anniversary. You are my best everything.

Looks like I have a job!

The magazine was pleased with my work and has asked me to continue to work for them! Woo-hoo!

How to tell when you're spinning too fast and your head is not working

The tip-off for me was when I tried to cook my son's turkey dog by putting it in my laptop like it was a George Foreman's Grill.

I'm turning the corner.

This morning I didn't get out of my p.j.s to take the kid to school. And then I went shopping in them as well.

Angry and lazy

I'm angry because the family whose children I'm playing Santa for smoke. And if you can afford cigarettes nowadays, you can damn well afford to buy your kids Christmas presents. Priorities you selfish gits! You aren't going to go without your cigarettes, but you were going to let your kids go without gifts? Quite frankly, I would rather be serving a family who had fallen on hard times and whose children were their top priority. However, I just have to look at it that kids are kids and I'm not doing this for their parents. And at least parents whose children are their first priority have love, whereas children whose needs come second to their parent's addiction do not. But it definitely takes some the sparkle out of gift buying.

I'm lazy because I can't make our house a Winter Wonderland this year. I just can't. I have decorated, but I'm bored with my controlled "perfect" decor and I don't want to do it. I want to mix it up, but I'm not willing to invest in new decorations when that money could be better used. So, we'll see how it all works out.

I may be a old before my time

i often become so furious when I read the newspaper, either because the article is so filled with jackholes and their jackhole behavior or because someone has written in, spewing their hate and ignorance all over my morning coffee. So, I will spend a couple of hours perfecting the retort and/or complaint I have in a letter to the editor. And then I don't send it because really, no one cares.

This morning I wrote two drafts of a letter in response to a situation in "Dear Abby" of all fricking things.

I'm reaching a new low. Soon I'll be wasting my time writing in praising magazines for their outstanding article on how to watch your caloric intake over the holidays.

Okay, I'm not dying! Woo-hoo!

Despite the doctor telling me my blood test results would take a week, I was called last night and I do have a random unknown-how-I-got-it infection, but it can be treated with antibiotics. YAY!

I was so convinced it was Lyme Disease or even worse, MS or one of the other frightening conditions that my symptoms kept pulling up on the Internet. So scary. Thank you for the pass, God.

And my husband was amazing through my entire ordeal. He really reminded me that he is truly in this for better or worse. In the morning, my hands ached so much I couldn't open my allergy medicine, so he would do it; he worked full-time( which for him is often a solid 12 hour day) and did all of Mort's child care, he put the clothes from the washing machine into the dryer without even being asked because he knew I couldn't lift the wet clothes, he folded and put away laundry and made-up the bed, he's done every dish in the house...basically he's done his job and mine as well. When Mort was too loud, he reminded him my head hurt, he made certain I was drinking fluids and taking my aleve. He even went to the pharmacy at 8 pm last night after doing all the dinner dishes so that I could start my treatment right away. I am so fortunate in so many ways.

I have so much to write about the non-joyful feelings i now have about the Christmas gifts I'm getting for a down on their luck family, but I have to get ready to take the kid to this morning's entertainment.

Copied from Another Blog I follow

100 more things

The things I can check-off are in italics


1. Started your own blog
2. Slept under the stars
3. Played in a band
4. Visited Hawaii
5. Watched a meteor shower
6. Given more than you can afford to charity
7. Been to Disneyland
8. Climbed a mountain
9. Held a praying mantis
10. Sang a solo
11. Bungee jumped c
12. Visited Paris
13. Watched a lightning storm at sea
14. Taught yourself an art from scratch
15. Adopted a child
16. Had food poisoning
17. Walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty
18. Grown your own vegetables
19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France
20. Slept overnight on a train
21. Had a pillow fight
22. Hitch hiked
23. Taken a sick day when you're not ill
24. Built a snow fort
25. Held a lamb
26. Gone skinny dipping
27. Run a Marathon
28. Ridden a gondola in Switzerland
29. Seen a total eclipse
30. Watched a sunrise or sunset
31. Hit a home run
32. Been on a cruise
33. Seen Niagra Falls in person
34. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors
35. Seen Amish country
36. Taught yourself a new language---well, I'm working on it
37. Had enough money to be truly satisfied
38. Seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa in person
39. Gone rock climbing
40. Seen Michelangelo’s David
41. Sung karaoke
42. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt
43. Bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant
44. Visited Africa
45. Walked on a beach by moonlight
46. Been transported in an ambulance
47. Had your portrait painted
48. Gone deep sea fishing
49. Seen the Sistine Chapel in person
50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris
51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling
52. Kissed in the rain
53. Played in the mud
54. Gone to a drive-in movie
55. Been in a movie--I've been on a TV show; close enough?
56. Visited the Great Wall of China
57. Started a business
58. Taken a martial arts class
59. Visited Russia
60. Served at a soup kitchen
61. Sold Girl Scout Cookies
62. Gone whale watching
63. Got flowers for no reason
64. Donated blood, platelets or plasma--I tried, but at the time I was too thin & didn't qualify. I sure could now!
65. Gone sky diving
66. Visited a Nazi concentration camp
67. Bounced a check
68. Flown in a helicopter
69. Saved a favorite childhood toy
70. Visited the Lincoln Memorial
71. Eaten Caviar
72. Pieced a quilt
73. Stood in Times Square
74. Toured the Everglades
75. Been fired from a job
76. Seen the Changing of the Guards in London
77. Broken a bone
78. Been on a speeding motorcycle
79. Seen the Grand Canyon in person
80. Published a book---I've published short stories
81. Visited the Vatican
82. Bought a brand new car
83. Walked in Jerusalem
84. Had your picture in the newspaper--I had a picture I drew in the newspaper, how's that?
85. Read the entire Bible
86. Visited the White House
87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating
88. Had chickenpox
89. Saved someone’s life
90. Sat on a jury
91. Met someone famous
92. Joined a book club
93. Lost a loved one
94. Had a baby
95. Seen the Alamo in person
96. Swam in the Great Salt Lake
97. Been involved in a lawsuit
98. Owned a cell phone
99. Been stung by a bee
100. One cavity or less---no cavities, thank-you very much

Better in Spirit, not so much in body.

Physically, I don't feel any better, but mentally I feel fantastic. I get to buy presents for a family whose children otherwise wouldn't receive anything for Christmas. We usually do Toys for Tots, but this is so much better because they are gifts the children want but wouldn't have been able to have. And they are asking for such small things that it almost breaks my heart. Every child deserves the opportunity to believe in Santa. I know it's only one family, but as Mother Theresa said, "If you can't feed everyone, feed one person." Or something profound like that. Maybe it's wrong that this is giving me so much pleasure? Does that make it a selfish act? But once you have a child, it's like every child could be yours and you just want to make them all okay. Children don't ask to be brought into this world. They have no say into what circumstances they're born. They can do nothing when their parents fall on hard times.

We are so lucky, because our son is healthy and he asks for so little (he sat on Santa's lap and asked for two toys) and we are lucky because we have a steady income and can make certain Santa brings him those two toys. We are lucky because we have all we need and don't want for any gifts, or food, or clean water, or heat.

And I will gladly trade any gifts I might receive every single year so that I can make certain a couple of children I don't even know get to believe in Santa for just a little longer. In that, I guess it is a huge gift that I'm giving to myself, because my child has the luxury of knowing that when he awakes on Christmas morning, there will be presents beneath the tree, and our family can extend that luxury to other children who don't believe that Santa will be visiting them at all.

I am so very humbled and grateful for this life with which I've been blessed.

So glad this is the last day of November

I think I hate November.

December is going to be so dang busy, though.

I was beaten quite badly at checkers today. Twice.

And my hands ache so much, Duke has been pretty much doing everything for me. We couldn't help but look up my symptoms and it seems like Lyme disease keeps coming up as a perfect match. And everyone's dog in our neighborhood has tested positive for it; except Stella because she gets the vaccine and we're religious about putting Frontline on her. We have woods and deer and ticks. The little boy next door tested positive for it. The other possibilities are much much worse. Or what if I'm negative on all counts? What is this?

if you like Star Wars, Robot Chicken Star Wars is really funny.

Thanksgiving in pictures by my favorite photographer

I guess I'm sort of scared?

For the past week, my hands have been aching terribly and I've been fairly listless and unusually tired. With each passing day it seemed I could add on a new body part to the ache list. It's really painful to the point where sometimes I can't even get things open. I've also started waking-up with a ferocious headache that eventually subsides after I take aleve, but throughout the day I get a blinding flash of pain in my head that's so intense I literally cannot see for a moment and become off-balance. And then it goes away as quickly as it comes. Four days ago, it occurred to me that maybe all of my aches were due to a fever. Sure enough, I had a very low-grade temp of 99.4. Every day, it varies, but it's been consistently between 99.4- 99.7. I usually am fairly stiff-upper lip when I get sick. When you're a mom, you just don't have the luxury of anything else. And I get sinus infections so damn frequently it's gotten to the to the point where I no longer have to go to the doctors, they just call in a prescription for me.

Last night, however, my body was aching so badly that every time I changed position, it felt like I was lying on a broken rib. But as I have no other symptoms, I just didn't think there was any point in going to the doctor's. Duke convinced me to go, because my symptoms are so random and weird and I'm so run down.

And damn if the doctor couldn't find anything wrong with me. They couldn't explain the fever or the aches or the headaches. So they took a million vials of blood and are testing me for everything.

On one hand, it would be great if there was an explanation, it could be treated, and it goes away. On the other hand, it would be even better if there is nothing wrong, it's just one of those wack-o things and goes away. But when you are sitting in that chair with all of those vials of your blood lined up and the long list of tests they're going to perform, it's pretty scary when your mind starts doing the "what-if." Driving home, I kept trying to tell myself maybe this was all in my head, but then I would think of that crazy flash of blinding pain or how much my hands ache and I know that pain is real. And then you start going over all the things that could possibly cause this.

What Does Thanksgiving Mean to You?

Just kidding. I don't care.

So, I've decided to drastically scale back on the Christmas decorations this year (our day after Thanksgiving tradition is to decorate whilst eating our favorite junk food and drinking our favorite beer) in the interest of saving money and electricity. Our December electric bill is always the highest and for what? We aren't outside looking at our decorations. And we live in a cul-de-sac, so we have maybe three neighbors who might see them as they drive-by. Then my husband was like, you go so crazy making the interior of the house beautiful and you've had so much on your plate lately, so if you don't feel like doing it, don't.

On one hand, it would be nice to just put up a tree and a couple favorites and be done. On the other hand, it's Christmas . We've got a little guy and throw a Christmas party for all our friends. Shouldn't I transform the house into a winter wonderland? I probably won't be able to resist.

Surprisingly, I'm an extreme control freak with the decor. I take pictures of how the house should be done and place them in each tote with the coordinating decorations. I decorate the tree with antique Christmas balls that I've gathered over the years, snatching them up at flea markets and antique stores. Every time someone gives us an ornament, it goes elsewhere. (Sorry. But I have my plan and your gift doesn't fit.) My mom used to half-joke about what I would do when our son started bringing home all the junk the kids make in school to muck up your tree and my plan was that he could have a separate tree in his room that wouldn't disturb my perfection. Which my mom, who still hangs all our crap on her tree, thought was horrible.

I thought it was practical. But damn if those kids don't get you every time. mort and i were making paper chains that one could conceivably hang on a tree, and darn if I don't want to keep going with it and make it long enough to wrap around ours. My perfect tree, with a junky paper chain. And I actually really want it. I'm going to have a tacky-ass mom tree in no time. My mom will be so proud of me.

This year we're doing presents light. Mort gets two. We get none. And we're going to instead buy presents for a family that otherwise wouldn't have any and have Mort help pick them out. We have enough stuff. Mort has so many toys, it's crazy. And we need nothing. We have clothes and shelter. We have food to eat. We have money to heat our home. We have fresh water and cars and insurance. We have a healthy loving family. We have all of our parents. We are fortunate beyond belief. And not everyone is, through no fault of their own. I used to resell Mort's toys when he outgrew them. But do I really need that $25? So, I've started putting in new batteries and the instruction sheet and taking them to The Salvation Army because with all the broken, heavily used toys there, how awesome for a little kid to find a toy in perfect condition that already works?

So in a random change of subject, I finished this month's work for the magazine and I LOVED it. It was so not work. The pace was intense for a couple of days, but luckily, Duke was supportive and recognized I was on a deadline and picked-up the slack. He even thinks I should blow my paycheck on something completely frivolous and extravagant (like the obscenely expensive designer bags I secretly covet but never ever ever ever would buy) to celebrate a job I loved and did well at; but I just don't think I could do it. I'd feel too guilty. It was exactly what I love to do. My boss seemed happy with the job I did. I hope to keep getting called back every month. It was so great to use my skills and my brain and fit all the words together and take a jumble and make it an article.

I got my hair cut. Not too much off the length, but heavily layered. I think with the new color and bangs, it looks much healthier and like an actual hairstyle instead of just big thick long Cousin It hair. Which is what happens when I let my hair go a year without scissors. It's a conundrum. I love my hair to be as long as possible. But it's very very thick and coarse. So it gets a bit overwhelming. And then the trauma of going from blonde to black to red to black to dark auburn really didn't do much for my already damaged locks. Anyway.

Psyched to see the relatives tomorrow.

Moms know

I have lost count of the number of times I have known there was something wrong with my child from a scratch on his face to a lingering "cold", to a rash that "just means he has sensitive skin" that every well-meaning person around me insisted was nothing. But I knew in my gut that it wasn't normal and I took him to the doctor only to discover that his small scratch was infected and had spread inside his nose or that his teensy cold was a double ear infection or his rash was a severe reaction to playing in a public sandbox. (Yeah, just think about what goes on in there. Um, EWW.) People can say what they will, but a momma knows when her baby is in need. I can look at him and just tell. I know when he has a fever without a thermometer, I know when he has an ear infection by the look in his eyes. 

I don't know if all mothers have this, but I am willing to bet that they do. But then again, I can also tell when other people are sick, because I can smell it on them. Quite a gift to have, eh? Yeah, it's gross. I'm like a German Shepard that can sniff out seizures and cancer or illegal drugs. Or steak.

Yeah, the snow isn't going to work for me, thanks.

I have stuff to do people! And more importantly, I cannot wear my fabric Birkenstock clogs in the snow. So, you tell me what I'm supposed to wear. It's not like I'm big on the winter options. I ruined my favorite Vans in the garden. I got a blister the last time I wore my other Vans. (How is it possible to own two pairs of the same shoe in different colors and one pair is as comfy as can be and the other pair sucks?) I guess fake Frye boots it is.

And today is hair-washing day. But I can't blow-dry my hair. So now , what? I have to go out without a hat and with wet hair. Fantastic. Thanks.

Luckily yesterday was warmish (43) and I was finally shamed into taking down the rest of my garden. My neighbor took hers down, so I was the lone blight on the neighborhood. The cool part, however, was that my 40 pound slab of kid single handedly pulled out EVERY single iron stake I had hammered into the ground to wrap the fence around. Those suckers are heavy and I had really shoved them into the ground as we live in a wind tunnel. I'm thinking he might have superpowers. I couldn't have pulled them out; I was planning on using a shovel. But I turned around and Mr. Muscle was fiercely concentrated and wrestled those suckers like they were nothing. I'm glad our garden is tucked away because if the Mennonites catch a glimpse of all the work he can do, they'll definitely slap a pair of overalls on him and call him Zeke.

Okay, so the economy is really in the toilet

Or why else would Forbes magazine release a top 10 list of Hollywood's Hottest Tots? REALLY?

That's creepy. Okay, we're a celebrity obsessed culture or whatever, I get it. I read that junk at the hairdresser or dentists office, too. But the toddler children of celebrities? We're supposed to be interested in them now? Isn't there kind of a lot going on in the world, like the new President Elect or the war or the stock market or the freakish increase in pirates off of Somalia or that Cheney just got indicted? Or our own lives?

I have my own theories as to why we have so much celebrity "news" in our culture and it involves conspiracies designed to take our attention away from the mistakes of the current administration. However, I understand why people are interested; we see these people in movies or on television, we feel like we "know" them, we form weird attachments to them ( cough* Brad and Jen *cough) , they have seemingly glamorous, larger than life lives, blah blah blah. But what have their children done to even warrant our passing glance, much less a Forbes Top 10 list? It's just plain wack-o. They are children, people. Their parents may have chosen a career that places them in the public eye, but they did not. They aren't promoting an album or a movie, they're having their diapers changed and throwing temper tantrums and getting runny noses just like everybody else's kid.

Even I can't be bothered to look at a tabloid while sitting under the dryer with my hair in foils if it has a celebrity child on the front. I can't even stand to read regular magazines with a child on the front. I have one. I know a ton of them. What would I be interested in some random kid I've never met? I don't care what they eat, what they wear, what their favorite activity at the playground is. Stop wasting my time with these celebrity kids when you could be showing pictures of stars without make-up or who has had secret plastic surgery. Thanks.

it turns out I AM intolerant.

I think of myself as this super-liberal, inclusive kind of person. But y'know, I'm intolerant of people who are intolerant. How's that for a round robin? Like half the world, I'm on facebook. And a "friend" I had on there kept posting stuff and joining groups devoted to taking away the rights of anyone who wasn't just like them. And so I decided to just hit the delete button and not have to read about others' intolerance. But seriously, you tell me how The Smiths can be your favorite group and yet you hate gays. Hello?!?

Anyway, I also have seen pictures lately that remind me that I don't have a waist. I am built completely straight up and down. Like a ruler. Or a 12 year-old boy. Yes, I am grateful l that i was blessed with being healthy, so I don't look that gift horse in the mouth. However, I do admire women who have waists and hips. I think they look great.

I'm going to visit my sister this weekend and I'm excited to have a girls' weekend away.

In other terribly exciting news, I was eyeing this dress on gap.com that cost $69. Obscene. It kills me to pay full price for anything that is for me. Kid? Not an issue. Husband? Happy to. But me? I can never feel good about it. I just can't justify spending money on myself. But I have a slew of holiday/other get-togethers and to quote a Smiths song, "and I haven't got a stitch to wear." I truly don't. Hit me up for the summer and I've got dresses for every occasion. Winter? I live in jeans and layers. But Ross, oh sweet wonderful , don't forget to check for any holes Ross had not one, not two, but three dresses, one of which was identical to the gap dress i was contemplating and I bought all three for less than the price of the gap dress. Long live Ross and TJ Maxx and Marshalls!

Once upon a time there was Hollywood's most amazing golden couple named Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston. Yeah, I'm only human. I was not immune to their appeal. I'd go so far as to say that I was enamored of them. And then Brad cheated on his wife and Angelina Jolie slept with a married man. And they can do as much good in the world as they want, I think they're ass.

So, when I see that Angelina Jolie could only breastfeed her twins for 3 months because it was "too hard", I think, "what a jackhole." Yes, breastfeeding is hard at first. But didn't she do it prior with her other biological child? I have friends who had twins that were so in trouble, one was placed on a crazy super-formula, and my friend STILL punped and breast-fed for a year, to try and give them the best start possible. And she didn't have 6 nannies, a personal chef and a full-staff. So, suck it Angelina. It's not like you have anything better to do than sit on your husband stealing ass and feed your children. Yep. Judgmental and intolerant. It's my new handle.

Ten minutes to write

Okay, for anyone whose long time hairdresser turns their blonde hair not a lovely shade of brown, but jet black and then strips it to Irish Setter red and then tones it back to jet black, Color OOps is the product for you. I have never been one to shy away from trying any old thing on my hair (which is how I ended up with a lovely hunk of blonde from my temple fall into the sink as I rinsed it), so I felt I had nothing to lose by giving Color Oops a try. and dang if it didn't strip out all the black and leave my hair in good condition! Pretty amazing. My hair is red again, so I'm going to dye it (hey, why not?) but wow, to have it come back from black is amazing. Back in the olden days of my teenage years, once you went black, there was no coming back until you had cut your hair and cut your hair and cut your hair some more. Hideous. These new-fangled products are the bomb. Dig my outdated slang. Yeah, I'm hip, I'm cool, that's how I roll...


Okay, here's something I'm more than willing to do, but what a jip. My copy editor has been pleased with my work thus far (yay! yay! yay!) and offered me the opportunity to tackle an article so bad, it needs to be completely rewritten. The good news is, I get to write the article. The bad news is, as she put it, the original author gets to claim my work and keep the byline. Ah well. It's like ghostwriting, I suppose. And I'm psyched to do it. And psyched that she chose me. And is that author ever makes it big, I can go on Oprah and cause a controversy.

New respect for moms who work from home.

I worked part-time today. From home. On my own schedule, more or less. And I was running my ass off. I still did my Mommy/house person job. I just did another job as well. I got up, had coffee, wrote a little, got dressed, made Mort breakfast, coaxed him into getting dressed, got our teeth brushed, gathered the laundry, threw a load of wash in, took him to school, dropped off the library books,went grocery shopping, came home, started editing an article,put away the groceries, left to go pick Mort up from school, came home, finished editing the article, made Mort lunch, emptied the dishwasher, threw another load of wash in, cleaned up the lunch dishes, balanced the checkbook and paid the bills, made bread with Mort and then he "helped me" shred all the paperwork I've had piling up for months(don't ask me why he thinks shredding is fun. He just does.), then the motor on the shredding machine burnt out, I helped Mort write his numbers and letters (I think he's having trouble because he's mainly a lefty but uses both hands equally, so sometimes he has lovely writing, other times it's hard to read), discovered Mort knows how to add(when did that happen?!?)colored with him, played two games of Zingo and three games of Go Fish, folded clothes and changed the sheets on the beds, fed the dog, edited another article while Duke gave Mort a bath, got him ready for bed and read him stories, talked to Duke for 5 minutes, used Color Oops on my hair, got a shower and am now ready for bed. Shoot, I forgot to get the mail. Oh well. Tomorrow.

But I LOVE my job. I'm good at it, it's fun and it's like a giant puzzle, trying to walk the line between cleaning up the author's work and keeping their voice intact. It's challenging and exciting and I feel so accomplished at the end of a piece when I've taken a bunch of words and arranged them into a proper article. I love it.

And my hair is no longer black. So, that's exciting as well. Hey, I just realized the owl that's been so noisy hasn't made a peep for awhile. Successful hunt? Or found a mate? Maybe both. Good-night owl.

I am Superwoman! I am Oprah!

Other moms probably tackle this stuff on a daily basis, but I do not, so I feel on top of life like never before. I am dressed and ready for the day. Laundry is sorted and awaiting the shoving into the washing machine. Kid is dressed, fed and ready for school and show and tell. My work is set-up on the dining room table, ready to be red-penned.

If I manage to throw something together for dinner, balance the checkbook, patch my husband's shirt, remember to pick-up more Kleenex, empty the dishwasher, work on letters and numbers with my little guy and strip my haircolor, this will be the most productive day I've had since giving birth. Well, not really. But there's something about that work-that-has-nothing-to-do-with-being-a-mommy part that makes everything else seem like I'm leaping tall buildings with a single bound. No wonder people get so tied to their jobs. I feel like I'm really doing something in a way that the other stuff I do just doesn't. I feel useful!

6 am on Sunday.

Sometimes one has every intention of sleeping until the sun rises. But someone keeps opening and closing their door and finally stands over your bed, whispering, "I need to go potty!"

"Okay, go ahead."

"I want you to come with me."

And when you get him tucked in again and shove the fallen stuffed animals under his covers and get back into bed and try to resume sleeping, a dog will jump on top of you, wriggling and wiggling and giving kisses and demanding it's time for breakfast.

Sometimes being the grown-up pretty much sucks. I need a nanny. And a dog-walker. I need a full staff so that I can go about my life. I do have a sleep mask. I think that's as close to the glamorous life as I'm going to get.

Should we have another update on how fantastic my friends are?

No? Can't take another day of gushing? Okay, I understand. But they are. And I love them. And I do have to add that one of my friends has the greatest Christmas list I've ever heard of and it just rocks: She has two items: 1) a chainsaw 2) a teakettle. And if there is a Santa, he won't be able to resist giving her both.

One of my friends' relatives had a miscarriage. All miscarriages are horrible, but hers was especially grueling. I barely got through my own and I did not have to endure what she did. I don't know her, but I send to her all that is good in order to get through this. People do not talk about miscarriages until you've had one and then suddenly they come out of the woodwork with their own loss. But why is this so? Are we trained to not acknowledge the loss? Is it because people handle the news so poorly? Is it somehow shameful because we as women want so desperately to make sense of the death that we turn our reasoning inward, no matter how irrational, and seek to find something we did so that we have somewhere to place the blame?

I was so devastated when I had a miscarriage. I refused to accept it, right up to the moment I was fading under the anesthesia. I thought that surely they would wake me up and tell me they found the baby's heartbeat after all. And then I went through grief beyond grief. Suddenly the world was populated with nothing but round pregnant bellies and babies in slings and carriers and chubby toddling infants and all store window displayed tiny perfect outfits. And then I was angry. Furious. Hateful. I took a semester off school. I went to Florida. I went to Italy. I lit candles across that country in every beautiful cathedral we toured.

I was tired of pretending this hadn't happened to me; I was tired of the shame or stigma or secrecy. When people asked me when we were going to have children, I started replying we had tried and just lost one.

People don't do well with miscarriages. If I may, please never say to someone who has had a miscarriage any of the following phrases:

It was God's will.
It was for the best.
You can have another one.
Better it happen now than later.

It is a death. Please don't ignore it. Just say "I'm sorry," as you would with any death.

When I was "allowed" to try again, I trained for the possibility of pregnancy like I was training for a marathon. I completely changed the way I ate and approached food. I exercised constantly. I took-up yoga. I was determined to build a body that could house a child. I was in the best shape of my life. I read everything I could on miscarriages and getting pregnant. I joined on-line groups of women who had miscarried and gone on to have successful pregnancies and healthy children.

I got pregnant again. And experienced the exact same thing that had occurred during the first three months of my previous pregnancy. I was told not to lift anything. Not to exercise. I was positive I was losing this baby, too. Every time we went to the doctor and heard a heartbeat, I still refused to allow myself to believe or get attached. I knew it wouldn't last. I rented a doppler and checked for the heartbeat every day until one day I saw a small E.T. like finger rise from the middle of my stomach. It was the most surreal experience of my life. I called for my husband to come and look at this strange little alien inside me moving around and making my skin rise and fall independent of my own motions.

I had an easy pregnancy. I did yoga. Everything that went into my mouth was treated as though I was feeding the baby. My one indulgence was nachos at our favorite, now defunct Mexican restaurant on Friday nights. Because we were such devoted regulars, the cooks would humor me with my special request of putting broccoli and spinach on my nachos so that the baby could find nutrients in the meal.

The doctors were assholes. They told me my baby wasn't growing correctly, that I was measuring too small. They would stand outside the door reading my chart aloud and make horrible comments regarding my health and the health of my child, to which my husband and I would yell "We can hear you! It's not a soundproof door!" They sent me for needless ultrasounds, only to be unable to read them. They told me they couldn't tell if the baby's head was down or if it was breech. They told me if I was lucky, it would be 5 pounds at best. They made me a mother fucking nervous wreck. I tried to switch to another practice, but no one was taking on new patients.

My baby was 8 lbs. 2 oz. and 21 inches long. He was perfectly healthy, if a little jaundiced. He latched right on.

And I no longer feel any pain at the thought of my miscarriage. Not because I have a child. But because it is my belief that the child I have is the child I miscarried. He just didn't have the right body to house him the first time around. The second time he was conceived, he had a strong and healthy body which would carry him into the world. But I know that it was him both times. And because of that, I never have to look back in sadness at the baby I never had, because I do have him.

Happy

I have no particular reason to be so happy today, I just am. In fact, if I think about it for too long I probably should not be happy at all. So, I'll just stay on my own mind's surface and be happy.

I had an absolutely horrid dream about being in France. Maybe it's because I was so psyched that the dollar is finally worth more than the euro. Or maybe it's because I just didn't enjoy France the way I thought I should. Others I know and respect swear up and down that Paris is their favorite place in the world, but I didn't get all the hoopla. It was just a prettier New York, in my never to be humble opinion, as my Mom would say. But I'm a cynic, I suppose, because I didn't think Venice was anything great either. I saw too many rats swimming and more starving stray dogs than I could believe. But throw me anywhere else in Italy and I'm a happy girl. Anyway, so that's my Europe summary for the day. How did I even get on that topic? Oh yeah, my France dream.

I woke-up and immediately was ordered to make a turkey dog and cut-up pineapple and grapes. All before having my coffee. The horror!

Reasons to be happy:
1. We have a busy and productive day ahead of us
2. My hair is not black
3. We will have a fun family day on Saturday
4. Birthday party to attend on Sunday
5. Snoring warm dog pressed against my side
6. Going to visit my sister soon
7. Friday Friend Day is just a day away.
8. School pictures came back and they're very cute, even with the bumps, cuts and bruises
9. Laughing with M
10. Thanksgiving is soon, which is rapidly becoming my favorite holiday as far as family gatherings
11. I know everyone complains, but it makes me happy to see all the sparkly, twinkly, shiny, shimmering Christmas decorations even the somehow beautiful gaudy white feather trees
12. Documentaries on the Netflix queue
13. The Gap Christmas ads in magazines (I know, I'm shamelessl)

Goodness

I can't believe it, because this just doesn't happen anymore, but the kid is taking a nap. I guess this cold has really taken a toll on him. We got into a disagreement as to whether or not he was going to clean-up his play-doh (I felt he was, he was pretty adament that he was not) and he said some things and did some things that led to the ol' skip the time-out and straight to your room. I then went to check on him to see if he was ready to apologize and discuss things in a more rationale fashion and he was sound asleep.

Come to think of it, I could go for a nap myself.

i know you've all been waiting with bated breath for an update

The black hair is no more. I will not be besieged by hordes of fans thinking I'm Winona Ryder in Bettlejuice. I was finally called back and offered the option of returning to the salon last night or today. Of course I said today because who wouldn't want to wait to get a hideous mix of flat black and random violet streaks out of their hair? My own son said I looked, "Spooky."

So, I went last night and they stripped the color from my hair. That's the good news. The other news isn't bad, just tedious. Because my color was stripped, I now have a very dark red/Irish setter kind of look. I have to wait until Saturday to have the brown put back in because of the cuticle needing to be flat or something like that.

I have to say, I'm really disheartened by the way this entire situation has been handled. The staff has been extremely rude to me and it pisses me off. I've been a very long term customer. I receive alot of services and pay alot of money. I tip extremely well. I'm always polite and friendly. I've given them even more business because I refer lot of clients to them whenever Mort or I get compliments on our hair. And quite frankly, they've been such shitheads about this to the point that once my hair has been "corrected", I'm not certain I can continue going there. I did my own color for most of my life until I went blonde and then I knew better (let's just say I tried it myself once and ended up with a gorgeous shade of blonde hair lying in the sink, having fallen out of my head). But brown? I can do brown. I can save a car payment a month if I color my own hair.

At the very least, I'm switching salons. I've worked an awful lot of retail and if there's one thing I cannot stand, it's poor customer service. You have to do alot of sucking it up and smiling when you don't want to. It's part of the job. Anyone know of an outstanding salon that has a great staff?

I'm reaching freak out stage

I called the hairdresser at 6 am and left a message. We went to gymnastics and came home. No return call. I called them again. They assured me my call had been noted and they were simply awaiting instructions from my hairdresser as to what it would take to remove the black from my hair so that they could assign me to someone with the proper skill set. Okay.

I've made lunch for the man. I've taken a nap(I did get up at 4 am). I've done two loads of laundry and cut up two plates of fruit for someone's afternoon snack. We've been waiting inside all day for the phone to ring so that I can go get my hair fixed at the drop of a hat. And no one has called.

Seriously, this is unacceptable. I'm in a bad place. I need them so that they can fix their mistake. But I am furious and I really want to call and scream my ugly-ass head off. Because they fucked-up. Now fix it! But I'm scared that if I don't treat them with respect and a degree of normality, they will pay me back by saying there is nothing they can do. And then I will have to sue them.

Hey, I've seen Judge Judy. People sue for less.

Why Oh WHy Oh Why Oh Why

Now that the election is over, I have a couple areas of business that I have to get in order. One, I need to finish this name change thing. I was reluctant to do so prior to the election for fear I wouldn't be registered to vote under the new or old name. In order to do this, I need to get a new driver's license. Once that is complete, I need to get a new passport.

The problem I have encountered is that I like to change things up with some frequency, after I get stuck in a giant rut for several years and keep things the same for too long. Whatever, it makes sense to me. Last month, I decided I needed a hair change. I didn't want to get rid of any length because I do not have the type of hair that can be cut anywhere past the shoulders and still look presentable. Plus, I'm always fearful of the "mom" cut. And quite frankly, people usually think I'm a good ten to thirteen years younger than I actually am, which means I can wear the clothes I like and not look like I'm too old for them like some people I know (Yes, Auntie D., we are ALL looking at you. It is never appropriate for a 57 year old woman to wear a one shoulder top, skintight black leather pants and high heels to a casual backyard summer barbeque and brag about how you can borrow your 18 year old daughter's clothes. Because Demi Moore, you ain't.)

Anyhow, God knows I've got the wrinkles and sun spots of a person who thought tanning was a good vocation in my youth, so I can only attribute people thinking I'm younger than I actually am to having long hair. So I decided to go for those thick, heavy, eye-grazing bangs. Which turned out to be a mistake, but whatever. My hair grows quickly.

Last night, I decided that I was starting to look a little washed out with my fake carmel hair color and wanted to go back to brunette. It goes better with my skin tone and would be alot easier to maintain. However, my very long term super expensive master colorist, master hairdresser fucked-up. BIG TIME. I even had a damn picture to show her!
Prior to color application we had a conversation went:

Me: " You know I don't want it so dark it looks black, right?"
Her: " Your natural hair color is black."
Me: "I know, but I don't want that. I've had back hair and it was horrible. I looked like Winona Ryder in Beetlejuice."
Her: " Don't worry,we'll just do a shiny deep brown."

As she was puttin on the color:
Me: "That looks Really black. I'm worried it's going to be black."
Her; "It's not. It just looks that way right now. And it's going to fade, so I'd rather go dark than light because the filler will start fading and your blonde will show through."
Me: "Okay, just as long as it isn't black."

Washing out my color,:
Her;"Wow, your hair really soaked up that color."


Looking in the mirror:
Her:"I love it! It looks great!" (you know you're in trouble when they say that.)
Me:"Oh my God, it's black!"
Her: We might need to do a slight color adjustment next time."

So, I have black hair. And I AM NOT HAPPY. I WILL be returning today. I don't care if she needs to use paint varnish, she is getting this shit off my head and I am not paying for it. I cannot live with black hair. I am half-Italian, but I'm not THAT Italian. Nor am I Indian. Nor am I Native American. Nor am I African American. Nor am I Asian. And all of those nationalities have the skin tone to pull off gorgeous, shiny black hair and look stunning. I look like a goth mom.

And I sure as hell am not getting my license or passport picture taken with this mess on my head.

I could smack myself for even coloring my hair. I should have just gotten some lowlights. But I didn't. And I couldn't have stressed more how unblack I wanted my hair to be. I woke up at 4 am with the horrid though, "I have black hair." Because deep down inside, I know there's really no coming back from black hair. And that is so unacceptable, I can't even begin to tell you.