May 13, 2007

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom

August 1969

I love you. (And I love that dress, too.)

May 10, 2007

what the hell, hair?

I’m still not speaking to my hair today, although we did have a moment of detente this afternoon when I scared it into submission with the blow dryer. But mostly it was just totally out of control for the whole damn day. And yes, I understand that when the humidity is 110% it’s haaaaard for the hair to do its thing, and yes I know that I really should have made an appointment to have it cut THIS week and not NEXT week, and YES I take full responsibility for the whole coloring debacle.

But get over it already, hair. I’m tired of living with your noticeably horrific “natural” color (is it brown? is it blond? is it just dirty?) and ever increasing gray (do they all HAVE to grow RIGHT IN FRONT?!?). I have come to terms with your greasiness and limpness and total resistance to any sort of styling. In fact, I have gone OUT OF MY WAY to find a style–and a stylist!–who can meet your demands to Be Yourself at all times.

In other words, I pretend like I like it when you stick out in twenty different directions. I act like that’s how I really want it to look. Just to keep the peace.

Hair, you are pissing me off. And for the next week, there’s nothing I can do about you. Which pisses me off EVEN MORE. I may have to skewer you with some little glittery bobby pins, because that is all I can think to do.

Are you scared? You should be, hair. You should be.

May 9, 2007

I am being distracted by . . .

1. Henry coughing. Poor baby.

2. Twitter. Dammit.

3. Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love. Read it. Now.

4. True Jeans. A dream come true.

5. This blouse. Why oh why didn’t I just buy it today, when I was IN THE STORE?

6. My hair. We’re not on speaking terms right now.

7. Flickr. Of course.

8. My complicated theories about the return of 70s fashion.

9. The presence in my kitchen of the last little bit of margarita mix. And the last little bit of tequila to put in it.

10. THIS POST. I mean, really.

What’s distracting YOU today? Could it be this charming (and yes, LONG) survey? Would you take it anyway? Please?

I’ll share my last margarita with you . . .

May 8, 2007

did someone mention drinks?

It’s Tuesday, and I have a man here replacing my hot water heater (FINALLY!) which means that the water is turned off, which is a bummer because I never got a shower this morning and I really REALLY want to brush my teeth. Also we’re out of groceries but I don’t think he’s going to be done in time for me to go get food before I have to go get the boys.

Don’t you wish you were here to hang with me? Especially now that you know I need to brush my teeth.

In lieu of that, how about you go take a survey for me? The incredibly nice people at BlogAds want to know a little more about you all. I know, I know, but really, it’s fun! There’s even a section about drinks! Or so they tell me.

Go here to help pay for my shoes share your Very Important Opinions about Friday Playdate. I appreciate it so much!

And then, as a reward, you can go read about why being a stay-home parent sucks. (I feel compelled to say that I did NOT choose that post title. Just so you know.) I’ll give you a hint: it has nothing to do with not being able to brush my teeth. And while you’re there, you should also read the companion post, about being a working parent.

And, as always, thank you for supporting Friday Playdate. You’re the best.

May 7, 2007

"When Sophie outgrows Polly Pockets, I’ll go to AA. But not before."

On Saturday night, I went to a gone-away party for my friend Rebecca, who moved to the Bay Area in February. Her move was such a whirlwind that there was no time to pull together a party for her, so this weekend she and her husband came back to town and the girls in her Dinner Club wined and dined them.

And by “wined and dined” I mean that we drank margaritas and ate homemade guacamole and fajitas and talked about how our boobs are COMPLETELY DIFFERENT from what they used to be. Whatever.

I am still relishing how wonderful it was to sit with these girls and talk about plastic surgery and real estate and feminism and books. We laughed about how much we drink and talked seriously about how many women our age are being diagnosed with autoimmune diseases and how many others are on medication and in therapy, and we theorized why that might be and what the connections are. We talked about guilt and desire and where to buy a bra.

I will write about all of that later, perhaps, but what I want to tell you is this: the couple who hosted the party don’t have their air conditioning up and running yet, and so they had all the doors and windows open because it was in the 80s here on Saturday. Their children were in the bedroom watching TV while we all sat on the patio and drank margaritas. Lots of margaritas. That’s important to the story, by the way.

Anyway, we’re drinking our margaritas and talking about Really Important Stuff (like our boobs and how smaaaaaaaal they are) when the kids start screaming. They’re yelling something about a frog, so we all wander in to see what’s going on.

And there in the master bedroom is the biggest frog EVER. Honest to god, it was the size of a small dog. I wish I had pictures because you would be totally freaked out. I’m freaked out just THINKING about it.

The frog hopped under the bed, and then came out from under the bed and hopped down the hall. Every time it hit the floor we could hear it’s gigantic feet flopping against the hardwood. That is, if you could hear anything over the screaming. No, not the kids, the women. My friend Christa said, “I’m not usually such a girl, but that thing is disgusting.”

Eventually, the men caught it (after they lifted up the sofa to fish it out) and they chased us around the room with it for a minute (because even when they have graduate degrees and luxury cars and businesses of their own they’re still little boys) and then they put it outside. And we all stopped screaming and had another margarita.

It was, really, the perfect evening.

The title of this post is one of the two funniest things anyone said all night long. The other was Christa telling me repeatedly that I can NEVER MOVE AWAY or she will KILL ME, which she repeated the next morning when I went to fetch my car from her driveway. And I promised that I would never leave Oklahoma City, ever. Really.

May 4, 2007

actually, hermit doesn’t sound so bad

Henry: I wish I were a hermit. Or an orphan.

Me: Hmm, really?

Henry: Yes. What’s a hermit again?

Me: A hermit is a guy who lives off by himself, away from people and restaurants and the mall.

Henry: Oh. Okay maybe that’s not what I want to be.

Me: Okay.

Henry: I want to be an orphan.

Charlie: What’s an orphan?

Henry: Someone who doesn’t have any parents. That’s what I want to be.

Me: Hmm. Why is that?

Henry: Because then I could do WHATEVER I WANTED.

Me: Oh, I see.

Henry: I could do computer ALL DAY.

Me: That’s true. But when you were done playing on the computer, who would make your dinner?

Henry: Oh. I hadn’t thought about that. Maybe I don’t want to be an orphan.

Me: Good.

When I told my dad about this, he said, “Did you remind him that no one would be there to hug him?” and I said, “No, because that doesn’t work for Henry. He needs to know where his chicken nuggets are coming from.”