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.

Oh man

I love my little guy so much. I could stare at his messy little face and moppy little head until the end of time. I could listen to that sweet little voice for the rest of my life and never need to hear another sound.

Let the season of sickness begin!

Why, oh why are kids such freaking germ magnets? (That was a rhetorical question.) It's because they are so gross. They have an obsessive need to touch anything or anyone, they will continue talking to someone who is coughing directly in their face and they do a half-hearted job of washing their hands unless heavily supervised. And who pays the price? That's right, the parents. Your children are sick, but insist on trying to behave and run around and stand on their heads as though they are well and refuse to let their bodies rest, which makes them even crankier and more prone to spontaneous tears and yelling for seemingly no reason. They insist they do not not need to blow their nose, no matter how much they are sniffing. They refuse to drink fluids. They insist they feel fine, even though they have red, puffy eyes and a hacking cough, runny nose, and temperature.

And then you cannot go grocery shopping or take them to get a haircut or let them go to school or return your library books or go into the next room because they suddenly act as though you have disappeared into thin air and they cannot find you, which results in more fits. You are trapped inside all day with a wild little germ-ridden ball of freakish energy and crazy thoughts.

The season of sickness is the new festivus.

Blogs galore

I kind of can't believe how many design blogs are out there. Maybe because I don't enjoy them. I think I feel inadequate when I read them.

I'm puzzled as to where these people (usually moms) come up with the time and money to do so many little projects or redecorate their house in a day or have the energy to "Do something really FUN! Like strip and revarnish the floors! Junior LOVES to help!" My sister will absolutely be that mom. She can do anything AND she really enjoys it AND it always looks amazing.

I admire their pictures and then I think, why can't I do that kind of stuff? And then I have to have a talk with myself and realize, I don't want to do that stuff. I'm not handy at all, nor do I have any plans on becoming handy. I can spackle with the best of them and I have my own shortcuts, like when someone in my house was installing new hardware in the bathroom and put a big hole in the wall, I fixed it for him, but what I fixed it with--I'll never tell. I can use a drill and a level and superglue. I can almost use a tape measure. I can change a battery or a lightbulb while standing on my tiptoes on top of a book on top of a ladder. I can definitely make little spots of beauty throughout our house that I enjoy and feel good about.

But if our floor needs redone, I like to pay someone else to do it. Or if I can ignore it, that will always be my first choice.

I do admire the pioneer women moms. If I could be someone else, I'd like to go in that direction. The ones who strive to make their lives completely eco-friendly and have the smallest of carbon footprints. I have one friend who is like that and she is beyond amazing.

I'm somewhere on the edge of a lot of things. I grow our food, but only in the summer. I don't can and I don't want to learn. I'm an organic gardner and I don't use herbicides or pesticides, which means half the time my flower beds and garden look like a jungle and the other half of the time I'm breaking my back pulling weeds. I tote around cloth bags. We follow Joni's words and have spots on our apples but leave us the birds and the bees. I recycle. I can whip-up a costume for my child for his school's nursery rhyme day. We mainly use one car and traded in our fancy one for a smaller fuel efficent model. All of the cleaning products in our house are eco-friendly, which means I spend a lot of time scrubbing harder, but not feeling guilty about using things that could make my kid or dog suffer. I only use cold water to wash clothes. If it's not in use, it's unplugged. I make everyone in the house crazy by insisting they put on another sweater or wrap up in a blanket to keep the thermostat low. We color on both sides of the paper. I make my own cards. I recycle printer cartridges and donate eyeglasses. I'm on the no junk mail and no catalog list. I've made the decision to not put Christmas lights outside this year to save electricity.

But on the other side of things, I can't sleep without air conditioning. I like clothes and bags and junk jewelry and my i-pod. I can't knit or sew, unless you count buttons and uneven hems. I don't make our food from scratch. I like fizzy water, which comes in cans or glass or plastic bottles. And I can't even believe I'm admitting this, but I DON'T COMPOST. I BUY my organic soil. I let my son practice his scissor skills on rolls of wrapping paper that I no longer like. Hell, I use wrapping paper! And I don't reuse it. I drink everything through straws and then I throw them away instead of washing and reusing them. I don't always buy free trade coffee because it's so damn expensive. I like to read fashion magazines. I believe advertisements that promise a mascara is going to change my life. Wow, this is very cathartic.

So, in closing, I'm not the person that I would like to be. But I also am not willing to put in the work to get to be that person. I wish I was a hippie pioneer woman, but despite my Birkenstocks and reusable bags and organic food, I'm lazy and I like useless stuff. And that's who I am. And for better or worse, I like myself the most I ever have and I'm the best version of me I've ever been. Maybe I'll become better one day. Maybe I won't.

I guess they won?

I don't care what anyone says

I still think Lisa Bonet is the most beautiful woman in the world.

Outside from 11-5

Yesterday's weather was such a treat. Almost makes one glad for global warming. It's not like we NEED polar bears. I saw a black squirrel(i didn't even know there were such things. I'll have to ask Shelly.), a walking stick AND a praying mantis. A real score. And when we got home, we went next door and hung outside until the sun went down.

 Unfortunately, we are both paying the price today with allergies galore.  I have a sinus headache like I was a 21 year old partying on her birthday with a shot of tequila for every year of living instead of  a momma  who was drinking water and eating  apple slices and home-made cake.

Can I just stress once again how very much I love my friends? (What's with the unintentional rhyming today?) If ever there were a better bunch of women, I have never had the pleasure of making their acquaintance.  Their company is like rechargable batteries for my soul.  What a gift to have people with whom you can sit around a kitchen table and completely be yourself in all your ugliest and most beautiful moods and laugh and complain and talk of the mundane (oh my good Lord, there I go with the rhyming again) and be completely understood and embraced. 

Nice Weather Makes Life Better

I guess I'm on the other end of the song California Dreamin' because it's 70 degrees in November. And to that I say, Woo. Hoo. YEAH!

And even better, today is an outside party day, complete with bouncy room, hay rides, and scavenger hunt.  And cake. I'm slathering on the Bain de Soleil for that San Tropei tan.

Melancholy

It's amazing the things that cause me to become overwhelmed with a wave of sadness: a little kid struggling to keep up with an adult, old photographs of my son as a baby, not an infant, but when he was about six months old and up because I didn't even get a chance to know him then and our life was so different then and I'll never know him again when he couldn't speak or when he was getting his teeth, or learning to sit-up, when he had blunt undefined baby features and wispy baby curls and chubby baby hands. I'll never have another baby again and my baby is already so grown-up. I wish I would have known him then like I do now. I was a better mom then, though. I guess because I wasn't having to guide and correct his behavior so much to help him be a the best version of himself that he can because he wasn't venturing out into the world without being strapped to my chest or in a sling.

It makes me sad to look at photographs of when we had first moved back to the area and bought our first home and had just gotten Stella and she was so athletic and sleek and energetic and full of herself. And now her waist has thickened with age, despite her daily exercise and her muzzle is getting white and she snores and creaks. And babies were not something we even considered and we were so carefree and didn't even know that we were. And we loved that house so much. We got to build it from scratch and everything was exactly as we wanted and we went to visit it every day, to the point that I started making and bringing cookies for the builders because they were so great about my ever changing mind. We could walk everywhere and used to walk through snowstorms to the grocery store and beer distributor and sit in front of the fireplace and Duke would always shovel our elderly neighbors' driveway without ever telling them. I would cook elaborate meals every night because I wasn't worn out as I am now.

So strange that we moved and bought this big house with plans for expanding our family (and the better school district). So strange that life can only be lived forward and understood in hindsight. Melancholy. I hope you leave me soon.

Woo-Hoo!

That's all I'm saying. 

Okay, no it's not. I am beyond thrilled. I feel like our country has been given a second chance. I am so glad that not only did he win, but he really won--America as a whole wanted this change. And that makes me feel good, too. It makes me feel like we're all in this together. I was able to stay in the moment and be grateful that I live in a country where I have the right to vote, where no one is trying to prevent me from voting, where my vote counts, where I am able to get to the polling place and not feel threatened. It was sheer luck of the draw that I was born in America. I am thankful.

Most of my lofty ideas of yesterday did not come to fruition as someone was sick. So I had a fairly quiet day: waited in line for 45 minutes to vote and marveled at all the people I knew that had nothing to do with having gone to high school with them. I guess I'm becoming a part of the community in which I live. Which I have to admit is nice. Grocery shopping on my own took about 1/2 the time, no surprise there. And I got one wheelbarrow full of work done, as well as the laundry and made French toast for dinner for the sicky and stir-fry with these great spicy faux chicken strips I found for the grown-ups. Watched the polls and finished a book. Painted my nails! How fancy and decadent  and impractical is that? 

In an effort to distract myself...

Today we will put away the Halloween decorations. Today we will take down the fence and winterize the garden. Today we will feed the ducks and go to gymnastics. Today we will go grocery shopping. Today we will see our friends. Today we will do laundry. Today we will bake bread. Today we will be grateful for all that we have and all that we are. We will be grateful that we are healthy and that we have clean drinking water and the right to vote. We will look for and appreciate the beauty in everything around us.

Election Day

I am terrified that Obama won't win. I am terrified that he will win and that just like the "election" between Bush and Gore, that McCain will seize the President's seat illegally. Our country is in such dire straits and we need change so badly. I don't know how we will survive as a nation if we continue on with this same mindset. We need CHANGE.

Ugh. My stomach is going to be in knots until the results are in. And if Obama doesn't win, I just don't know what to do. When I was in Europe this summer, "Obama for President" and "Elect Obama" t-shirts were being sold everywhere in every language.  When we were there five years ago, "Peace" flags hung from balconies and windows and we were questioned constantly as to why Bush was our President and why we were at war with a country that had nothing to do with Bin Laden( if you believe that it was Bin Laden behind the bombings.) The entire world is looking to us to change and reclaim ourselves as The United States of America.

Gotta go get ready to vote before we start the day. God willing, when the votes are in, we will have Barack Obama as the new President of the United States. God bless us today and help us to find the vehicle for change so that our children can have the advantage of growing-up in a country that has been blessed with so much already if only we can find our way back to the light.

 

Don't let your child have a camera

I take alot of pictures. It's nothing for me to rip through 257 photos at a one hour event.Mort likes to play with my camera. I do not like Mort to play with my camera. I gave him an old one that doesn't work to play with, but he doesn't want to play with one; he wants to take pictures with one. Okay, I can get behind that and nurture his creativity and desire to capture moments in time. (Yeah, I know that's not what he's doing, I'm just putting a good spin on it.)

So, for Christmas, he got a camera last night. Now he is taking pictures of the white walls, the carpet, Mommy when she first woke-up and had not yet had coffee, the television, and all are accompanied by, "Look at this!"

In conclusion, do not buy your child a camera or you will have to ooh and ahh over pictures of yourself that you would like to destroy and that he is going to go share at school today. Just sit your child in front of the television and ignore them. It's for the best.

Family Trees

I'm trying to research my family tree. It's very difficult as  I have little information on which to use and it makes me angry that every website claims to have the information that I want....for a price. It's my freaking history. Shouldn't I be allowed to have it for free? Is it this hard for everyone, or is it because I have a convicted member of the Mafia as a  deceased grandfather? I found his FBI file, but stuff is blacked out. I did discover from which region of Italy my ancestors hailed, which is cool, because if I'm going to live there, it would be interesting to see. Or not. I don't know. What am I really looking for? Do I think if I go to this town in Italy all these people will be walking around looking like me? 

I might try a church tomorrow

I won't tell you which one in case I'm too lazy to actually go, so that no one is disappointed in my heathen ways. Mort is the smartest kid in the world. I told him I would like for us to go to church and he immediately pitched a fit. "WHY? I don't want to go. It's boring." And this is from a kid who has been to church one and a half times.

And that's an excellent point. It is boring. I don't want to go either. But it's my obligation to make him be bored at church so that he doesn't grow-up and become some freaky culty wack-o church person in order to rebel against me.

I dreaded Sundays as a child because we had to waste all that valuable time being at church, We used to try to take really long bike rides so that my mom couldn't find us and we would miss it. One time I even used my kissing Barbie (complete with lipstick) to put red marks all over my sister's face and hands and then we told my mom we couldn't go to church because she had the measles.

I wonder if I'll go through with it tomorrow. I hope so. I hope I don't come down with a sudden case of measles.

I think I should be a movie reviewer

Sure, I dropped out of the one movie class I had in college due to sheer boredom, and I wasn't a communications major, nor do I know much about the cinematic world. However, I do know that when a movie is adapted directly from a book and sticks to the book except makes the characters more sympathetic and less grating and has the ending of justice one is fruitlessly praying for while reading the book, you cannot say that is a bad movie. You can say the book sucks. But you can't blame it on the movie. 

Case in point, I rented the Nanny Diaries from the library out of sheer curiosity as to why it was so horridly received in comparison to the bestselling (and no that doesn't make it fantastically  written) novel.  And it was better than the book, imo. So, there's that.