In The Heat of Summer, Two Marital Moments

In case you haven't seen us in a while, here we are!

Yesterday I left the kids at home, idling in their summer torpor, and met Matt for lunch. After a pleasant interlude, we were walking out, and I said, "Do you like my toenails?" I gestured to my blue polish, which I thought was rather jaunty.

"Yes," he said.

"I did that myself, because I am frugal," I said.

"That's what passes for being frugal now?" he asked.

"Well," I explained, "With tip, it would have been $25 if I'd paid someone to do it."

"Well," he replied, "You could pay someone to wipe your ass."

Um? If anyone can penetrate the labyrinthine convolutions of this husband-logic, please elucidate. Because I was all, whut, and then like, sweetie, I love you so much that I want you to savor this moment of makin' your point and being right, right here on the sidewalk. Zing! Only what I actually said was, "Uhhh...." But it was in there, in the silence maybe.

.....

Last week we were on vacation in the Berkshires. Matt's brother and my lovely sister-in-law have a lake cottage, and we all crammed ourselves into it for a wonderful week of reading and swimming and doing nothing. One night, as Matt and I climbed into bed in our little white bedroom, it struck me that we had spent the entire day side-by-side and were now tucking in to spend several hours in a row right up against each other.

I said, drowsy, "It's nice that we don't get sick of each other."

"Yes," he said. "And for whatever reason, I've decided my highest purpose in life is to please you."

"I like all of that," I said, "Except for the 'for whatever reason.'"

And he laughed with a self-congratulatory giggle that rolled out the open window, wafted through the cool night air, and disturbed some nesting loons, possibly.

That is what's up around here. I'll be back. Meantime, I hope there's somebody who wants to please you. xoxo

A Hair Do And An Elbow Don't

Laura's elbow in a happier time.

Wednesday night at swim practice, Laura had her arm fully extended on a stroke and the kid in the next lane ran into her hand, jamming her outstretched arm. She says she saw her elbow bend way the wrong direction. She says it was sickening, and I can well believe it. It hurt a lot and she got out of the pool. But she was moving it and didn't seem to be too distressed. We just had her ice it and I told her she'd rest it the next day. She skipped swimming last night, but her arm wasn't feeling any better, even with rest and ibuprofen. She took to wearing one of her circle scarves as a sling.

So, like any concerned mother, I went to get my hair done this morning. I told Laura she could sleep in and skip school, but I needed to get in for my foil and cut, because that appointment was hard to get, and with the holidays upon us, the other matrons were gonna be all up in there, taking all the morning time slots and drinking all the cucumber water.

Hurr

So my lady did her thing, which takes about three hours, and then asked if she could hot roll me and take some pics for her Pinterest board, so I was like, okay, so she put a bunch of rollers in my hair and when she was finished, I looked like a Judd cousin. I have some curls, but they're not big blousy curls like she produced. And I resolved that I needed a date night, because that hair needed to be out and about.

Then I went home and Laura's elbow was not really in any better shape than before, so we got Hank and went to the children's urgent care and were seen quickly. They xrayed her and said that nothing is broken, it's probably just sprained, and it's hard to determine the extent of soft tissue damage with xray, but nothing is swollen. They gave her a sling and told her no sports for a week.

As he was ushering us into the first room, the male nurse nodded towards me and said to Laura, "Is this your sister?" I was like, oh please, and Laura explains, "No, she's my mom." And he chuckled and I kind of rolled my eyes, but, you know, appreciatively. It was the power of the hair!

And as we were wrapping up, I got a text from my friend. She was like, "How did Laura turn out? We are heading there because Harrison's cousin hit him in the head with a hoe."

Yikes!

So we go out into the waiting room and there is Hank's buddy Harrison, looking a bit wan and clutching a paper towel to the back of his head. It was clear there had been a lot of blood. My friend looked a bit wan herself. So by then Matt was there and the other dad was there and we had a pleasant little neighborly catch-up around our injured children. The intake nurse was reassuring them that even minor head wounds bleed profusely, and the dad was like, "Yep, it's not our first time at this rodeo."

Harrison got five staples in his head and is okay.

Then we went back home, and Matt went back to work, and I was still planning to go out when he got home tonight. Then something got in my eye that I was super allergic to. I have no idea what it was; I don't really have a lot of problems with allergies. But it itched and then swelled up, and I took a benadryl, which made me feel instantly drowsy.

So Matt came home and I'm like this weepy, puffy-eyed, sleepy Judd cousin with fantastic CMA hair, and I was like, "Let's just eat this pizza you got for the kids and stay home." Done. 

Now I'm stretched out on the couch and this hair is like the desert rose in the poem, born to blush unseen. And that's a Friday for you.

Around here, people are starting their vacations tonight, because the kids are out of school all next week. Y'all?

Edited to add: OMG, remember when I was bald? That was a thing that happened. Anyway.

Well I Guess The Child Has Heard One Thing I've Said

This morning Laura and I sat in the car waiting for the school bus. She had cajoled me into driving her up there because it was 31 degrees, and baby might catch a chill. Anyway, so we sat together in our heated seats and I took in her outfit.

"Oh, I didn't know you ever wore those yoga pants to school," I said.

"Well," she said, "Yoga pants, a sweatshirt, and Toms, that's the thing now."

"That's the thing now?" I asked, "What about jeans and cowboy boots, is that no longer a thing?"

She assured me that jeans and cowboy boots was still also a thing.

In the rear view mirror I spied her friend Claire getting out of her family's SUV.

I said, "Wow, you're right. There's Claire wearing yoga pants, Toms, and a sweatshirt. She has a bow in her hair and is also chewing gum."

Laura said, "Her mother lets her chew gum."

I opined as how that must be nice for her. What's funny is that I don't actually FORBID GUM, but it is not part of our lives, and whenever I see Laura with gum, I say, "Where did you get that? Why don't you go spit it out?" I think it's one of the least attractive things you can do with your face.

Laura went on, "Whenever any of my friends asks me if I want gum, I say, 'Noooo.'" And here she affected a glum, hangdog look.

I said, "Yes, as I have mentioned before, you will never see Kate Middleton with gum in her mouth."

I offered that as though it closed the case. Laura sat in silent acquiescence.

I don't know why I make a thing of the things I make a thing of, I just do. There's a method to it all, somewhere.

Let's Oil Up

So, the rubbing of petroleum products on my face.

One effect of living in a suburb, where everything is so conveniently arrayed for my vehicular consumption, is that when I need to go somewhere that's more than five minutes from my driveway, I get kind of huffy. On Sunday I set out to take Laura to her book club meeting, and then realized the little girl's house was like eight miles away and I was all LET THIS CUP PASS FROM ME. I mean, eight whole miles?!? There be dragons.

But I took her down there and then since I was so far, I didn't go home, I went to Trader Joe's, which, Trader Joe's on a Sunday in December, wow, I've never seen that many Obama supporters in one place in metro Atlanta in ever. I went to fetch a bottle of evening primrose oil capsules, as the wise Elle suggested. I have been having dry, irritable skin lately. I can't think what has changed in my personal ecosystem, except that the weather got colder (though then it got drastically warmer). It's like I'm inflamed, but I lead a pretty anti-inflammatory life, I think. With my kale and my sardine-love and all. I'm turning 40 this week; is this what 40 is going to be like?

So there is so much going and coming and wind blowing and working out and sweating and wiping my face that I was just feeling like I wanted some kind of thick protective layer on there. One day last week, in desperation, I rubbed aquaphor on my hands and then put it all over my face.

You see, I come from a long line of southern women for whom Vaseline is like penicillin. It is just a good place to start. You administer the vaseline and then see where you are. "Put some vaseline on it" was a common, common prescription in my grandmother's house. So white petrolatum is like home to me.

And you know, I don't know if that stuff leached into my brain or anything, but it did make my skin feel supple and it gave me a nice shininess. Funny, you spend your teens and twenties not wanting to look shiny, and now, I'll take shiny just great. I think oil is our friend.

So what are you guys using to keep yourselves fully oiled and in smooth working order? I feel I've gone beyond one of those normal lotiony moisturizers. I have one from Origins that I like, but it's the Dr. Weil mushroomy one and Matt calls it "Not Tonight, Honey." Is there some essential oil y'all are smearing on yourselves?

Do tell. xoxo

We Builded That

Y'all, today I paused while smearing a thin layer of Aquaphor all over my face to think, "I really need that dang blogroll back." Remember how over on the right I used to have a long list of blogs? Somehow, during the GoDaddy debacle and domain loss, that went away. I have no idea why. Like, a magic donkey stopped turning a wheel and that list vanished into thin air.

As a result, I am a really bad blog friend. If I don't see your link on facebook or twitter, I am missing things. This came home to me tonight when I spied a picture on Beth's instagram feed that said she'd given herself a gel manicure at home and had blogged about it, and I was like, wha? I need this information RIGHT NOW INSTANTLY. Then I went over there and there was stuff all about a cute spider web she made from an embroidery hoop, and I had not noticed it before Halloween because no blog roll! So many missed opportunities.

So, if you used to be listed over there OR if you hang around here and want to be listed over there please let me know in the comments! We can rebuild her! Then I'll go back to being basically on top of everyone's developments and I will be a better blog friend. Okay? And if your blog isn't obvious from your little blogger profile, leave a link! Let's get this barn raised!

And if you see me and I am glistening all over, it is the petroleum products. xoxo

I Am Like A Golden Buddha

So, when we left off with our party report, I had consumed two point five glasses of red wine and been introduced to a world of New Sensations. I had also had my ears assaulted by unbelievable amounts of lady-hollering. It was like a nine year-old girl's slumber party. And, yes, just like a slumber party, many people were in their PJ's and there was gossip.

Oh! And I forgot to tell you! Remember the post about the email from the crazy book club lady whose son-in-law was terrorizing the neighborhood? Well, her daughter was at this party. I had finally met the crazy-ish mother at book club and was most interested to see her daughter. Now I just need the son-in-law to complete the set. Anyway, Pretty Neighbor knows her, and I was like, "Get her over here and let's ask her what the heck went on that time." But there was not enough wine to make that happen.

Anyhoo, the Passion Hostess finished her presentation and PN and I decided to take our afterglow upstairs and get in line for the tanning. This was one of those houses where the layout is really nice, but in the interest of creating a roomy feeling, the builder just has these weird spaces here and there that you don't know exactly what to do with. You know what I mean? Like, their second floor landing had swollen into a sitting area with a huge couch, coffee table and chairs, and a secretary. I don't know if anyone in the family ever uses this area. Its best use might be for waiting one's turn to be spray tanned in the master bedroom.

So some shiny giggling women leave the bedroom and PN and I get to go in. We had grabbed the sweats we brought out of our huge purses. The tanning lady was a petite blonde with a very friendly vibe and rubber gloves. We introduced ourselves and discussed how she lives in a subdivision up the road, the one that famously has indoor tennis courts. Truly the woman who has everything.

I said, "So should we just strip?" She was like, "basically, yeah." She said we could take off as much or as little as we wanted, she had those paper thongs for us to wear if we wanted.

But I had been prepared and had worn my own thong. Sidebar: as I was getting ready, Matt was like, "You own thong underwear?" Like, why wasn't I informed of this? I said, "Yes, sure, I just never wear them because it's like having something in your hiney crack." He said, "And not in a good way?" Correct. So, the skimpiest thong I have, and the one I thought the best for spray tanning, is the actual pair of thong underwear I wore to my senior year of college Homecoming Dance. I am not kidding, I still have them. There is so much...I just can't even talk about it. I will say that the dance was held at the National Building Museum, which is pretty! End of sidebar!

So I said I'd tan first and carefully separated myself from my new fancy jeans. Then I took off my shirt and said to the girl, "Now, warning, I had a mastectomy and I have a scar. Don't be startled." She didn't actually yawn, but she was like, "Yep, I've seen all the kinds of naked there are." So, okay. I just felt that wearing a bra to be spray tanned was too fussy.

Then she put this barrier cream all over my palms so the tanning solution wouldn't adhere to them. (The side of my thumbs still wound up a rich mahogany.) Then she directed me into this little teepee looking thing that she had brought and had set up in the bedroom so the tan stuff wouldn't go everywhere. It was open at the top and on one side. She told me how to stand and then started spraying. It was like standing in a cold pineapple-scented mist. Not unpleasant. It took a few minutes, I guess, and then I went and stood in front of a big fan to dry off.

PN entered the tanning zone and here things slowed waaay down. I don't know if it was the wine or the nakedness or what but we all got very chatty. No one more chatty than the tanning lady. She had a lot to say about her search for a church home and all manner of other subjects. Which meant, for PN, that the girl would turn off the tanning solution and just be spraying her with cold air while she talked. It was hilarious! Hilarious to me, anyway, because by then I was leaning against a doorway and eventually I was dressed. I mean, I don't know, I think her tan took five times as long as mine? Chatty chat CHAT chat!

I ventured deeper into the bathroom complex to find the toilet. Here again, just massive amounts of space everywhere. It made my own bathroom, which we call the Golden Palace, look like the in-room lavatory at a Super 8. First I had to journey through a closet, fully expecting Narnia to be on the other end, and then a vanity area with mirrors on either side for a nice mise-en-abyme effect, and then finally to the pee pee pagoda. And there was music booming out everywhere from speakers in the walls and exciting lighting. I barely found my way out.

Then PN and I each gave the tanning girl $20 and we parted fast friends. When we stumbled back downstairs, dewy and fruit-smelling, the place had basically cleared out. We had been gone almost an hour, maybe we really were in Narnia. We ate some cheese dip and planned out how to pry T away from some drunk, intent girl who was explaining to her how the 1% need to be taxed at a lower rate because they are job creators. I decided that shrill, out of control laughter that would split the very ceiling was not the best tactic for pulling her away. Finally I just put my hand on her shoulder and said, "I'm sorry. Let's go." And later T was like, "OMG I kept glancing at you to get you to save me!" And I was like, "Not even."

So omg I have had so much fun typing this! Obviously. Then we all went home and when I walked into my house, still in the middle of our child-free weekend, Matt was all like, "Weeelllll, how was it?" And I said, "Sorry fella, stay over there, I'm tanning!" Also I smelled like pineapple-y dog pee.

The girl had told us that the tan would activate over the next twelve hours. And lo, it did. When I got up in the morning (after sleeping on a dark sheet that wouldn't show stains), I looked at myself in the mirror and went AAAAHHHH! I had last night's mascara on AND was seriously tan. I looked like a raccoon on vacation in Aruba. After I got the makeup off, it was a little less alarming.

So given that I didn't have any special plans and had just tanned for the hell of it, I rocked that savage tan to the preschool Storybook Stroll, several swim practices, karate classes, and a casual evening with friends and takeout food. Yesterday, at the playground, I saw the mom of a buddy of Hank's. She goes, "Wait, are you tan?" Like, what in the world?

But it looks good! I tried half heartedly to photograph it and you just can't tell. Picture me as I am, only a few shades darker. I would totally do it again, though I might have her do my face more lightly. She said that if you can get six girls together, she'll come do a house party, so I might do one closer to summer.

Oh, the big tanning revelation is the buns! Tanned buns! I have never seen my buns so tan and it really works. I see now why body builders/pageant queens do it. That area is a nice toasty brown and the thong lines are cute.

Now you really do know everything about me.

Thank you for letting me overshare. I hope that you have found some enjoyment from this relation. Wishing you toasty buns.

That Lock of Hair

Back last year when I'd started chemotherapy, on the night we cut off most of my hair, I saved a little bit of it. It was my favorite piece, from right in the front. I snipped it off first, saying I'd keep it. Matt questioned me about it at the time. I wish I could remember exactly what he said, but it was something like, "Do you really want to keep that? When enough time has passed for that to be a souvenir, you will have grown new hair." Those weren't quite the words, but that was the gist.

I kept it though. I tucked it in the top of my jewelry box, not in a bag or anything, just lying there. And there it lay. Every day or two, when I lifted up the lid of the box to get a pair of earrings out or something, I would have to poke it aside gently with my fingers so I could find what I needed. After that night, the hair on my head went on and fell right out and then, in time, started growing again, and the seasons went around.

Months turned into a year, and then started rounding on year two, and still that lock of hair was there. A couple of times, I took it out of the box. I would smooth it in my fingers a little and admire its texture and color. I thought, "I need to save this to show my colorist when I get highlights put in my hair again." Then I would remember that my hairstylist has my precise color formula recorded in her little black book, just waiting to be called up. Then I would put the lock of hair back in the jewelry box.

Life continued to happen. I kind of stopped seeing the lock of hair at all. With one hand I would flip up the top of the box, nudge the hair aside, pick up my jewelry, and flick the lid shut again. It grew to be kind of a nuisance having it there, as you can imagine. You need to pick up a pair of little stud earrings and there's, like, some hair in the way.

Just as I ceased really seeing that actual curl of hair, the whole issue of having hair and losing it and regrowing it kind of fell out of my top stories. Like, it wasn't the headline anymore, then it slipped below the fold, then it got buried way, way back on like page E20. Maybe after Lifestyle but before Real Estate. No longer current events, no need to catch anyone up on it.

The other night, at my first book club meeting, there was a girl there who had a kid in the same class as Laura a few years back. We kind of recognized each other, but it took a few minutes to make the connection. She shook her head and said, "Oh, I didn't know it was you! Your hair was really long, right?" I said, "Yes, it was long." She kept on, making a kind of gesture with her hands, as though to indicate big, full hair. She goes, "I mean, it was like, really different!" There was a time in the not even distant past when I would have said, "Yes, I had to have chemotherapy and it all fell out, but it's all fine now," or something like that. But I just repeated, "Yep, it's short now!" And left it there. It is not something I find I need to process in conversation anymore.

This is what I would say to anyone who is facing chemo and the loss of hair, because I know that for many people, this is near the top of the list of their fears. But I would say that, believe it or not, not only will you get through being bald just fine, there will come a day when you don't even really regret that it happened, and you sure won't spend any time thinking about it. That day will come sooner than you think. As hard as it is to imagine when you're just starting down that road, the whole story of going bald and being bald will one day be boring to you. Like, over, done, next topic.

So, that lock of hair. Late last week and into the weekend, Matt was gone to California for work. The day before he was to come back, I wanted to freshen up our little bower for his return, so I decided to clean and organize the bathroom vanity. Because you know how husbands come home from trips and say, "Show me the bathroom sink!" Yeah. I also had a cute pedicure to show him. Like, "Let me see your feet, wife!"

Anyway, I was straightening our stuff and I opened my jewelry box and plucked out the lock of hair. I hadn't really looked at it in a long time, and it just seemed like a relic. Not in the good sense of something precious preserved, but like something that had once seemed important and was now just odd. Is that still lying around? Clutter. I picked up my phone, snapped a picture of it, feeling kind of ridiculous even doing that, and then tucked it down in the bathroom wastebasket.

You always hear personal organization gurus tell you not to hang on to unnecessary things. If it's not useful and it's in the way, get rid of it. If it's sentimental, take a picture of it, then keep the picture and get rid of the thing. So this blog post is my way of doing that.

xoxo
b

But When You Rub It, It Turns Into a Suitcase

Today the captain of our ladies' tennis team had a lunch at her house for us to celebrate the end of our season. Not that we had a particularly triumphant season, but that we got through it and nobody cried. This girl is wrapped a little tight--she's an anxious perfectionist about her house--but is a genius cook. These are good traits in a luncheon hostess. She made all the food herself: butternut squash soup, two different kinds of small quiches, asparagus wrapped in prosciutto, grape salad, champagne. Simple, but good and lunchy. That's not what I came in to tell you though.

While we were eating--we were just eight at the table--my partner T told us that she uses a face cream made with cells from human foreskins. She was all, "I use a face cream made of foreskins. Yes, you know, foreskins. More prosciutto anyone?"

I enjoyed hearing this fact. So this is a thing? I thought it was only an episode of Nip/Tuck. We all complimented her on her skin at that point, and it is very lovely. The funny thing is that she is not the character you would expect to bust out with that personal grooming tidbit. I figured her for a Noxema girl, straight up.

Then talk turned to our tennis coach. She is what any non-stone blind observer would recognize as a butch lesbian. But she is long married to a man and is the mother of three children with him. She has home schooled them all and coached them to be excellent tennis players. This situation needed discussing, since we don't usually get together when we are not in her presence. I confessed that I found her kind of attractive, or that I responded to her masculine aspects. Several heads around the table were nodding. Then that situation needed discussing.

Then I got the name and price of the foreskin serum from T and then that was lunch.

Any interesting chat in your day?

Other Important Things Besides Our Basement

School starts on Thursday and Laura will be in the fifth grade. I took her to get a back-to-school haircut today. I know that as a mother, there is no greater gift I can give her than the confidence that comes from a salon blowout.

Can you tell in this picture we are a tiny bit in love with ourselves? Tonight was her school's open house, and she joked about how she'd introduce herself to her teacher: "Hi, I'm Laura, and this is my blowout. Where is our desk please?" She even stayed home from the pool this afternoon to keep it nice. I mean, the girl loves the pool, but that is the smooth blonde hair of dreams. She'll probably sleep sitting up until Thursday.

You should see my hair right now. I am like a tawny lion. Here.

That's mah hair pushed back with a little headband. When I've just washed it, like I did today, the curls cannot be tamed. Forgive the low light and Michelle Bachmann crazy eyes. Lion! Rawrr!

Hank is not so concerned as Laura with his coiffure.

Yesterday I was out with Hank, and he climbed down from the car and stood in the parking lot. "It is hot as HELL out here," he said. He made this pronouncement not at all like he thought he was swearing, just exactly like I would say it. I couldn't even come up with a correction, because he was perfectly right. It was absolutely mothereffing hot as the hinges of hell and it was the perfect moment to remark such. I just said, "Mm hmm. Now hold my hand in the parking lot."

Then, THEN, I walked Hank and his buddy into Kangazoom, one of those bounce house places. A while back, they had a Groupon that offered a 10-visit punch card for $20 or $30. I can't remember which, but it was a really good price. We had gone once, in the spring, right after the Groupon, but I was waiting until a day when it was, you know, hot as hell to come back. So Hank and his bud and I all walked into Kangazoom, all wearing the all-important socks and ready to rock. I signed the little waivers for the boys. And the girl behind the counter told me that would be $18.50. Yes, a walk-in visit to this place costs $9.25, choke. I remembered I hadn't shown her my punch card, so I pulled it out of my wallet.

She pointed to our little friend, "Is he related to you?" No, I told her, he's our friend. She said, "Well you can't use the punch card for him, it's just a family pass." I studied the punch card. "When did that start?" I asked. "It's been that way from the beginning," she said. Hmm, I thought. She said, "Did you get that from the Groupon?" And I said I had. "It was on the Groupon," she said. Hmm. I didn't remember any provision that the pass was only good for one's own children, but I supposed it was just possible. I didn't want to make a huge thing. "Okay," I said. While I was looking in my wallet, she had a sudden change of heart, punched the card twice, and handed it to me. "Here," she said, "I've had a really bad day." I didn't know what to make of that so I thanked her and joked, "Is all the screaming getting to you?" "No," she said, "It's the moms." Whoa. So I smiled and we went on in and the boys jumped.

And I looked up my Groupons right there on my handy Groupon app. I could still read the fine print for the Kangazoom deal. There was nothing anywhere that indicated it was to only be used for one's own family. That wouldn't even make sense. How would that even be worded? It just said that it was valid for one punch per child per day. It annoyed me because it seems like a clear instance of the merchant, in this case Kangazoom, thinking better of the whole Groupon thing and wanting to have backsies on the deal, at the expense of the customer. Which will do nothing but tick people off, because even if I'd had to pay for our friend right then, I am gonna get my ten free jumps sometime. I would have complained to Groupon if the girl hadn't gone ahead and honored the punch card. I still might. Heck, I am now. If the point of participating in Groupon is to build goodwill among customers who have a choice of a million other bounce places, this won't do it.

Anybody had a similarly icky situation with a Groupon? I've heard mixed things. I've always been happy with the ones I've bought, but I'm pretty selective. Like, only buying Groupons for restaurants we already go to, stuff like that.

ANYHOO. I bought the boys each a drink and snack from their snack bar because she'd made me feel like a freeloader. And a good time was had by all.

And now Matt is down in the basement poking around. I better go see what he is doing! And offer my opinion!!

More Pomp Plz

Just popping in to say that I am flying to Santa Cruz tomorrow for my PhD graduation ceremony. I'm going out there alone, but lots of friends will be there, and my gal Erika is flying up from LA to make it a weekend of special lady time.

I had dreamed of our family of four all going to see me walk. As the time drew closer, though, it was clear that there were better ways to blow a few thousand bucks. Like eating food and living inside. But I just didn't want to miss it, as I'm certainly not going to ever earn another degree. I mean, this one took for freaking ever, I should go mark the occasion even if I did get the diploma back in the fall.

So today I was busy getting ready for my trip and such, and in addition I made two separate trips to the pool at the swim club--not our neighborhood pool--once for each kid to have lessons/practice. And I worked out with Pretty Neighbor and I parented the foster kids a bunch. Finally at about 5:30 I was opening my mouth to tell Matt that I was going to go get my nails done before the nail place closed. At that moment he told me that he was about to leave to play basketball with the guys from his old office. They needed 8 to play and he was number 8.

I just looked at him, assuming that any moment he would realize the importance of my arriving in California to see all my friends with properly groomed nails. I said, "So you want me to not get my nails done before I fly to California to see all my friends and be in my PhD graduation ceremony?" He went into, "You know I am happy to watch the kids whenever you need me to, you just have to tell me so I can plan," etcetera blah blah. I don't mean "blah blah" in a bad way. But you know. He really hated to back out of the game, wouldn't it be fun to get a pedi in California, man man husband talking. Reader, I am not even asking you to take my side, because even the very rocks cry out that they are on my side.

So I did what anyone would have done, which was to lie down on my dining room bench and cry. Matt came and stood concernedly over me, squeezing my knee, while tears trickled down into my ears.

"It's not even about my nails, I just feel that this whole graduation ceremony is an afterthought and nobody notices and nobody cares but me and even my finishing my dissertation was a story that got swallowed up by cancer last year and who really gave a crap and I had a lot of happy feelings a few minutes ago that just went away just now," I explained.

Nearly daily I have reason to be glad I put a bench in my dining room. You will never be sorry if you do.

Matt made protesting and soothing noises about how proud he was of me and how he hadn't been thinking of this graduation as a big enough deal. He seemed a bit taken aback by my sudden emotional fragility, and so was I. We were a sad little tableau, there in the dining room. Me prostrate on the bench, him standing there in befuddlement.

Then I had a brainwave. By this time, the foster daughters, who I had sent home fifteen minutes before, were back in my house having never gone home at all. I asked them if their father was awake and they said he was. I texted him and told him that I had a nail appointment and could Hank come over there please? He said of course, and it is lucky for him that he did.

Then I went away and got a mani pedi and darned if that didn't make me feel all better. And Matt and I kissed and made up. Our bark sails on. And Hank stayed at the neighbor's for two hours, and now I am all packed. I have narrowed down my graduation dress to three choices and I'm taking them all.

I'm taking the same shoes I take everywhere. I believe that there is no shoe environment I couldn't conquer with my Haflinger wool clogs and my tall Kork-Ease wedges. And I threw in a pair of cheap thong sandals I got at Target. They are a metallic pewter and when I put them on and saw how my pedi looked with them, I wanted to have sex with my own feet. Gross!

I will pop in later and tell you how everything went. I love you all!

One Handed or Two?

When I was at the nail salon yesterday, I was watching the all the technicians work.  This is always a fraught space for me, because as much as I love having someone else tend to my toenails, part of me feels that when I'm in the chair getting a pedicure, I am one step away from lying on a Roman couch, being fanned and fed grapes by conquered Dacians.  I know. I have that feeling but I also know the forty-seven things that could be said to counter it.  Anyway, that's not what I came to say.

I was watching them work and it made me think about how my sister-in-law Kate used to work at Origins.  Though, as I've mentioned before, saying she worked at Origins is like saying Michelangelo worked at the Sistine Chapel. She is a genius with makeup and skincare, and she sold it like hotcakes because she truly cares about it and about helping people look good. I swear it's her spiritual gift. Now she's a therapist and it's really like she's just pursuing the same vocation in a different form.

Once she was trying out a new makeup product on me, and she remarked that, in the store, when you're showing a person how to apply makeup, you never touch her face with just one hand. Always use two hands.  That beyond the practical need to steady your hands for what you're doing, touching someone's face with one hand is disrespectful.

I thought about it and it seems totally true.  The one-handed touch communicates something totally different from a two-handed touch.  Don't you think?

Then I thought about how, in some cultures, it's rude to reach out for something offered to you with one hand. You show your appreciation by taking the thing--a gift, a business card, food--with two hands.  This might not be as codified in our culture as it is in, say, Japan, but I'm wondering if we think this way and follow this rule without realizing it?

I was having these thoughts and then I noticed that the woman next to me was getting a really strange pedicure with a crackle finish.  Have you seen this?  First they put a coat of white polish on, and then a coat of color, which crackled and showed the white underneath.  That drove all other thoughts from my brain except how to twitter it as soon as possible.  Then I couldn't stop staring at her feet.

Happy Sunday, sweetses.

Wigs from behind the Iron Curtain

Last spring and summer when I was bald, my Hungarian cleaning lady, Fabienne, arrived one day with a giant shopping bag full of wigs. I did already have a wig--remember Codi?--but Fabienne thought I might like a little variety.

The wigs, she said, had been her mother's. Her mother is not dead or anything, she's just living in Richmond. I'm not sure why Fabienne has the wigs. I took them and thanked her. Later I realized that none of them would work. I stashed the shopping bag in a closet. Then last week, Fabienne texted me:

Hey Becky I got a haircut that's waaaay too short, do you have those wigs?

Realizing they were about to be out of my life forever, I raced to the mirror to photograph them. So I could show you.  Because that's how I think of our relationship: we show each other weird wigs.

If you are not at work, please do yourself a favor and play this video as you scroll down. It is the necessary soundtrack to these Eastern bloc beauties. You will not be sorry.

Okay, this one is kind of cute.

Sadly, this one is the closest to how my actual hair looks now.

Oh my. Paul Giamatti as John Adams!

I kind of like this darker color. Kind of Lisbeth Salander?

This was supposed to be a sexy pout. Obviously I have no idea how to look sexy. Matt is a lucky man.

How would we describe THIS choice specimen? Need help.

Laura helping out.

By this time, Hank was upset at all my metamorphoses and was begging me to stop putting on wigs, and I bet you feel the same.

So then Fabienne came right over and showed me her too-short haircut, which was not too short at all and was very cute.  She told me she was going to a dinner party the next night where there would be a man she was interested in, so she wanted to wear the little dark wig.  I tried, as strongly as I could, to persuade her that her actual hair would look better than the wig. Then she came to clean on Friday and told me that she'd been wearing the wig for days. Trololololo!

This post is in honor of the fact that Tuesday afternoon I am getting a haircut. A HAIRCUT, PEOPLE.  This is a milestone.  I do want it to grow a lot longer, but my hair girl assures me that it would benefit from a little shaping and will grow out from there. You can bet you'll hear more about this.

Tuesday Talking Points, Plus Hair

1) Moon Sand.  For or against?  Please hold forth.

2) I got a mani/pedi today. Usually I just get a pedicure. It was nice.  Now I want to dial the phone with a pencil like a Joan Holloway-type I used to know. Except that my phone has a touch screen so that wouldn't even work.  Fingers-OPI's Samoan Sands; toes-Kangarooby.

3) The "seafood salad" they sell in the deli at the grocery store. Terribly, terribly against.

4) We just hosted my mom and dad for a night, now they're off to the mountain house and we are heading to Chattanooga--also known as Chattaboogie, Chattavegas, Cha-Town, and Hot Buttered 'Nooga--to see some friends up there.  Back tomorrow to ready ourselves for New Year's weekend in North Carolina. All of this vacation is tiring but what is one to do?

5) Is your child into those Wimpy Kid books? Laura got the new one for Christmas and inhaled it in about an hour.  It's not Anne of Green Gables, but they are funny.

6) Here is my hair now.

It is short (of course). It is curly.  It has a will of its own and no discernible plan.  Remember the part in one of the Ramona Quimby books where Beezus gets a haircut she hates and she cries, "It's forty year-old hair!" That's how I feel about this.  It is so darn no-nonsense.  It has multiple and competing cowlicks. It gets terrible bedhead. It is auditioning to be Jane Lynch's understudy on "Glee."

7) In happier grooming news, I got the most awsome lipgloss del mundo and I have to tell you about it.  I was at Costco on the December 23 (crazy) and they had these sets of Stila lip glaze, like six for $17.  I impulse-purchased it for my own Christmas stocking.  They are the best.  Each and every color is wonderful.  I love the texture and the glossiness and the translucency.  You can't tell but in that picture I'm wearing the "Merry Merry" one.  You might need this in your life.  And I needed to share.

8) I'm submitting this post for consideration by Keely's Random Tuesday Thoughts!

9) Be sweet.  See you in a few.

xoxox
B

Holiday Travel and Intergenerational Cultures of Grooming

As many of us set out to visit family this holiday season, I offer this:

You know how when you go visit your grandparents, there are cleansers, lotions, and grooming products in their bathroom that you have never heard of, known of, or seen for sale in any retail establishment?  You get in the shower, get wet, and find yourself confronting a completely foreign array of cleansers, lotions, and unguents?

Matt and I have a name for those products.

Grampoo.

As in, "Honey, your hair looks kind of, um, different."

"Yes, I had to use the grampoo."

So as you hit the road, don't forget to bring your own toiletries.

But don't worry about bringing a box of Kleenex because the bathroom closet at your grandparents' is stuffed with them.

Authentic Eighteenth-Century Curls

Sure they are!

On Friday morning, Laura's fourth-grade class put on an American Revolution Wax Museum, for which each kid was assigned a character.  They had to research their person, write a short speech about their notable achievements, and then come in costume ready to do their spiel whenever anyone approached them.  Laura was Sybil Ludington, who, as Laura could tell you, is remembered as the female Paul Revere, though, as Laura would also tell you, Sybil's midnight ride was twice as long as Paul's, AND she was only sixteen years old and rode forty miles wearing a skirt.

Kind of awesome, really.

We know a lot about Sybil Ludington in this house right now.

Coming up with colonial costumes, two weeks after Halloween, was, as we say in the South, a total PITA OMG WTF?  Like, by the time anyone could focus her attention on this, Party City and similar retail costume clothiers had turned their businesses into Christmas emporia with not a Betsy Ross lace cap to be found.

That's what I was tense about: the headwear.  Laura had this old dress-up dress that we used as a base, though Laura complained that "the crushed velvet makes me look too rich and I'm supposed to be middle class."  Yes dear, you are entirely too rich.

Then we added the long faux-leather vest, which was actually a "child's pirate vest" we found left over at Party City.  Our concept for Sybil was that she was wearing her ordinary day dress and then, when it became clear that she had to go muster the militia, she threw on some of her father's riding gear and set out that minute.

We added the gloves because it took the look away from the sort of pirate moment we were starting to have.

But I knew the way to clinch "colonial" would be to add a bonnet or one of those Mother Goose lace caps.  I could not find one, and nobody had one to lend.  I tried to improvise something with a tea towel, and we started to venture into Mary and Joseph territory.

So somehow Laura and I came up with the idea that if I curled her hair, it would seem costumey and appropriately eighteenth century.  I mean, all girls in early America had these ringlets, right?  I'm sure there is an American Girl movie that says so.  And anyway, I think it's more authentic than a bonnet because only grown, married ladies covered their heads all the time.  Or so sayeth the BBC adaptation of Pride and Prejudice and that's authority enough for me.  I got up at 6:45 and went to work with the curling iron and the hairspray, and she was SO IN LOVE with herself when I was finished.

Anyway, the whole event was super cute, even if those fourth-graders are Olympic-level mumblers.

And there was a very not-African Phyllis Wheatley there.  Also, Laura's friend Patrick Henry was so cute I wanted to pin him to my jacket.

And in other Laura hair news, the cutest barrette arrived in the mail from Beth.





Beth has a cute Etsy shop where she sells these handmade felt barrettes.  Thank you, Beth! Check her shop out if you need something for a little girl. Laura loves this barrette and it is totally in line with her sartorial commitment to peace.

That is what's going on with Laura's hair.  She was so eager to keep these curls that she hasn't bathed all weekend.  Delightful!

I hope y'all had a great Saturday and Sunday.  More soon. xo-B

I Have Hair Now, Sorta

This is my hair now.  It covers my head and you can't really see any scalp, so I am calling it a look.  In the last couple of weeks I've gradually stopped wearing a wig or a hat or anything.  One day I just woke up and no longer thought I looked like Gollum in The Lord of the Rings.



I'm going for Mia Farrow in Rosemary's Baby.  Do you see it?  Squint your eyes. 

Before she has the devil baby.  Squint more.

Okay I'm not there yet, but in a few weeks maybe.

The Hamiltons brought over a cake for my no-more-radiation-a-bration.



Fudgie the Whale!  I was surprised and touched.  They said that "Way to Get Irradiated!" was too long to write on there, but this was nice too.  Fudgie is one delicious whale.

Oh, and I am on the Twitter now!  @SuburbanMatron.  I have no idea what I'm doing on there or what it's for, but it's fun, with the twootling around.  Look for me and tell me your handle so I can follow you.  Seriously, I need people to follow, I keep checking on there to see if anyone is saying anything new.

I'm what you call a late adopter.

Home Haircuttery, with Uncertain Results

Obviously Hank has needed a haircut for some time. I know this not only because I can see him with my own eyes, but because virtually everyone we come into contact with offers this opinion. "That boy needs a haircut!" Yes, I expect this from grandparents, but the UPS guy? Really dude, just take your brown shorts and your advice and get back in the truck.

Hank is shaggy, I know. He has also been resisting the idea of a haircut for a long time. When I bring it up, he says, "But I like it this way!" So I let it go. He has beautiful blond hair and I like it that way too. I did trim his bangs a couple of times.

Finally, yesterday, I decided he needed shearing. I thought it would be less hassle if I cut his hair, rather than coaxing him into the barber's. I have never cut his hair before. But I am cocky and figured I could do it. Also I am cheap.

First I took another "before" pic of Shaggy. He's shaggy but happy.

I knew that I could do a pretty tidy job with the electric clippers, as I've done Matt's hair that way. But I also knew that if I cut Hank's hair too short on top, we'd have weeks and months of rooster tail, because that's what his hair does if it's not long enough on top. So I decided to try to give him a scissor haircut.

Mistake. I really don't know what I'm doing with scissors. And yes, I know there are, no doubt, countless Youtube videos that would teach me how to cut hair, but who has time for that? Did I mention I'm cocky?

Here's a "during" picture.

If he looks unhappy, it's because he was. He was nice and patient though, in his beach towel with chip clip, sitting on the stepladder. In fact, he kept saying, "Aren't I being so nice and patient?" Heartbreaking.

So, scissors in hand, I got the front done okay and then headed around past his ear. Then I really started to screw things up. He just has a lot of hair. And it seems there really is some kind of trick to it. Okay, I repent! It got to the point where I would pick up a random piece of hair and clip at it in desperation. Not good.

I decided to turn to the clippers. I put the number 8 guard on and did the back and sides, attempting to fade them into the the longer hair on top. I was going for one of those longer-on-top with short sides little boy cuts. Reader, I don't know if what I achieved is an acceptable haircut or not. I want you to tell me if he needs a twelve-dollar fix at the barber. Everyone at my house kept saying, "Well, it's not really terrible."

"After" pics.

You can see in this second photo that I couldn't get that right side right. Actually the pic makes it look worse than it looks in life, but it got to the point where I was worried I'd make it worse by "fixing" it. Here's the back.

Fortunately, he doesn't give a rip how it looks now that he's not having to be nice and patient anymore. And I can't tell if it really looks okay, or if I just think he is so cute it's blinding me to a fugly haircut. Maybe it's good enough for summer? You guys need to talk to me and tell me what you think.

Both kids are on their way to Chattanooga right now to spend a few days with Matt's amazing mother Betty. It's only until Monday, but I'm worried that I'll miss them too much. Laura has been out of school for two months now, and I have absolutely loved having more time with both of them. They are nonstop hilarious and (mostly) charming little souls.

Maybe Betty will take one look at this haircut and march him straight to the salon. If so, she has my blessing.

Girl Time

Since I know you want to be apprised of all my movements, I will tell you that my friend Erika is here visiting me and we got our toenails done today. Her color is unknown, mine is OPI's You're a Pisa Work. So that's taken care of.

I had my third chemo infusion today. One more to go, woot! Erika came and sat with me--I told her it was five hours and she was still willing--and we had a lovely time. I got through about a quarter of a People magazine, and the rest was Olympic-level chatting. Then I got to give a pep talk to another young woman who was there for her first treatment, and she asked me where I got my wig, and I talked to her about the whole hair issue. I felt like such an old hand.

Now we are about to watch that movie An Education. Lecia recommended it the other day, and I remembered that when Erika and I were discussing our mutual love for Peter Saaaaarsgaard. This was about hour three of chemo.

Oh and did I mention that Mom and Dad took the kids up to the mountain house for the next several days? And could life get any better? Have a good night, y'all.

Let's Check in on Codi, Shall We?

For those of you just joining us, Codi is this here wig on my head. Her color is "maple sugar," did I tell you that? So how is Codi doing? She's fine, just staying busy, you know how it goes. I'm quite pleased with her; I think she looks pretty natural. And God bless her, she keeps a shape that it takes a blow dryer and a round brush to achieve with real hair. She feels like real hair too. Sometimes find myself twirling a lock of it the way I always did my own hair. Then I get slightly embarrassed, like you might if you had to kiss someone for a play and you got really into it.

Or not much like that maybe.

Underneath there I'm like Ripley in Alien(s). That little cropped 'do that Matt gave me lasted about five days before it got too thin, and he buzzed it the rest of the way. Codi went on better after that. My head turned out to be a really normal shape too. You never know.

The kids like Codi. I went in to read to Laura's class last week, and afterwards Laura said, "Mom, you were sitting there and your hair looked so real!" And Hank said today, "Mom, I'm getting used to your bald head. But I'm more used to your wig."

They have both been real champs about it. One of the first days that it was all cut off, I was walking around the house and Laura said, "Mom, why don't you put your wig on?" I said, "Listen, you guys are going to have to get used to seeing me in wigs and hats and bald at different times." That's why Hank reassures me every now and then that he's "getting used to it."

When Matt's brother Andy came to visit last week, Hank told him he had something to show him in his room. He led Andy up there and told him where to sit. Then he sat down opposite him and said, "Mom's taking medicine that makes her hair fall out. My medicine won't make my hair fall out, but hers is falling out and she has a wig to wear. And she looks like a boy."

Matt had been the one to tell Hank what was about to happen with my hair, and he obviously got the message. I love that he wanted to clue Andy in, like he knew that my appearance might be surprising. I also overheard him telling Laura all about it the day he found out. Of course she already knew and was like, yeah, old news. Matt and I considered the whole thing a successful information roll-out.

The only awkward thing in the Codisphere is when I run into people I know only slightly or see very infrequently who don't know about the cancer and chemotherapy, and they say, "Oh, you have short hair now!" or some such. This happened three times in the last couple days and I dealt with each differently.

Scenario 1: at the party I took Laura to, the mother of the birthday child saw me and said, "Oh wow, you went short, it looks cute!" To which I replied, "Thanks!" and left it at that. If she'd been bringing her daughter over for a playdate, or I'd been at her house, I would have filled her in. But it was not the moment for me to be all, "Lemme bring the room down a little bit."

Scenario 2: at the carnival we ran into one of Laura's former classmates. I'm friendly with the mom, she's very gregarious, and she was there with her whole family including the grandparents and all her children. She said, "You have short hair now!" I said, "Yeah, there's a whole story to that." She said, "Really?" I said, "Yeah, I'll tell you about it later." Then I laughed and she laughed. I'm not sure what we were laughing at, except that it probably seemed like I had some bad salon experience to impart. Again, it didn't seem like the moment to start at square one.

Scenario 3: leaving swim practice, a neighbor I know only slightly through Pretty Neighbor, said, "Oh, it's you! I didn't recognize you with your short hair." She was sitting in her golf cart and I was standing with Laura. Somehow it was easier to be brief and direct. I said, "Actually it's a wig. I'm having chemotherapy." And she said, "Well it looks really cute." And I thanked her. I figured she'd get the deets, if she wanted to know more, from Pretty Neighbor.

So I don't know, we are muddling through, Codi 'n me. I can stand to wear her for a good eight or nine hours, or how ever long I need to be running around doing things, but there comes a time when it's moonrise on Mt. Baldy. You know how it feels really good when you take off your bra, or your high heels? It's kind of like that, only on your head.

Who's That Lady?

Oh mysterious lady. Why, it's me! Other titles I considered for this post:

Bewigged

Or, my real favorite:

WigHer

Anyhoo, I was planning some properly glam shots of me all wigged up, but I just haven't been feeling great since chemo on Wednesday, so these snaps my mom took at the park will give you the idea.

The wig's name is Codi. Here's something you learn at a wig shop: the whole shopping experience is one of the most retro you will every have. The wig purveyors have names like René of Paris, and there will be large pictures of Raquel Welch adorning every surface. The lady helping you will have been wearing wigs for decades. Do not study her eyebrows too closely. She will be a comforting and knowledgeable presence, just do what she says. And all the wig styles sound like the names of Charlie's Angel rejects. So "Codi" it is. I'm still learning her ways and fiddling with her bangs.

So my wonderballs dexamethasone pills, which made me feel superhuman for a few days during the first cycle, did not really come through for me this time. I felt fine on Wednesday, when I last checked in with you guys, then on Thursday I was pretty much crashy all day. I didn't want to get off the couch. About 5 in the afternoon, I went up and hid in my room, napped, and didn't come down until it was time for the kids to go to bed. Matt and the grandparents have picked up the slack, and yesterday I felt well enough to get out to the park.

Still no nausea, just the blahs. With me in this state, Hank can beat me in a tricycle-foot race.

That's about where I am. But mostly feeling fine. I'm slightly more bitchy, but that could be Codi.