Loving and Hating

Loving:
Having friends who will trim up the ragged edges of my hair in the elementary school library.  (Yes, that's how bad it still is.  People approach me with scissors.)


Call Me When You're Sober  by Evanescence.  That girl can wail.  (I downloaded it on Itunes this week and it's logged more playtime than any other song on my list except Hips Don't Lie by Shakira which single-handedly pulled me out a funk this summer.  It's absolutely seamless on repeat play.)

Friday Night Lights on NBC which gets my vote for best new series this year.  Well-written, well-acted.  I know it's about football.  Get past that and start watching. 

Mrs. Mays Almond Crunch  Get thee to a Costco.  Don't bother looking at the fat content.  Just tell yourself that nuts are healthy and full of protein.  Then sit down with a bag and watch Friday Night Lights.

That I felt this earthquake Sunday night.  It was a little one, but I felt it--as did Juliana up in her bed.  I made sure to fill out one of these forms which is the height of dorkitude. 

Hating:
The fact that my desk chair randomly and slowly sinks to its lowest level leaving me typing with my chin resting on the keyboard.

How the people who bought my old house decided to refinish the floors and had a truck in the driveway that made so much goddamned noise that my entire house vibrated.  It went on all day until 8:40 PM.  Who the hell is still refinishing floors at that hour?  Let me tell you something, I lived in that house for four years.  There's not that much in the way of wood floors.  I'm guessing theywere going for the crispy crust of wood floors since that much sanding couldn't have left anything substantial. 

The fact that Ritu was out of town for three days during which time  I developed a sore throat and a headache, the children turned into demons, and it rained non-stop. Then,  when he came home to save me, it turned out HE was sick with some stomach bug.  Where is the fairness in that?  How high do you think he ranked on my sympathy meter?  I woke up feeling much better this morning, but I'm guessing that was simply out of necessity.  (When I was sick, my thermometer refused to acknowledge that I had a fever.  And everyone knows that you can't receive Official Sickness Sympathy until you have a fever.  (For the record, Ritu claimed that he was most likely feverish last night, but zero proof = zero sympathy.)  I get extraordinarily high maintenance when I get feverish, because as soon as my brain overheats, I immediately start to cry.  Any little thing will set me off into paroxysms of sobbing.  Most people around me know enough to stick a thermometer in my mouth when that happens.)

Ok, 5 loving and 3 hating.   I must be losing my edge. 

My Hair. Oy. My Hair.

My hair and  I have had a long journey together.  It's always been stick straight, yet unruly.  For many years I fought against it.  From junior high all the way into college, I permed the living bejesus out of it with varying results (mostly all unattractive.)  After college, I decided it was time to make peace with my hair.  It was going to be straight, dammit, and it was time to work with it, not against it.  I grew out the last perm and cut it short.  I kept it that way for quite some time.  But still, I wasn't satisfied.  I played around with a number of lengths, from boyishly short to down at my shoulders and I would occasionally add layers in an attempt to give it some volume and style.  But here's the thing.  There's no point in adding layers unless you plan to "do" your hair.  You know, things like putting in "product", then blow drying it with a round brush.  I hate blow drying.  It's boring and it makes me sweaty.  What's the point in showering, shampooing, then intentionally adding in a sweat-producing grooming element?  So, instead, I shampoo then let it air dry.  At some point, while it's still damp, I brush through it.  Voila!  It's done!

When Juliana was a baby, I decided to grow out my bangs.  I was 33 and I'd had bangs my entire life.  But here's the thing.  I'd also had a cowlick in the front of my hair my entire life.  This cowlick was a part of my bangs.  All those years, my bangs were nice and smooth except for that spot just off center where they split from the cowlick.  I don't know why I tolerated that cowlick for so long other than I'm a slow learner, I don't handle change well, and it was the closest thing to natural curl that I had.  (I may be the only person who ever considered plastering my worst bed-head with hair spray because at least it had some volume and wave.)  Baby Juliana had an unruly mop of hair at this point and I vowed she would learn from my mistakes.  She and I grew out our bangs together.  She with fountain-like ponytails and bows on the top of her head and me secretly wondering if I could pull off that look.  After a long painful process, my bangs blended into the rest of my hair and I couldn't have been happier. 

I had finally found the perfect style:  straight, all one length, and bang-less.  I suppose you could call it a bob, but when I think of a bob, I think all swingy and turned under.  That, of course, would require use of the sweat blaster.  My hair has a fine texture, but it's healthy (no heat damage!) and when it's the right length, it's smooth and shiny.  Note that I said "when it's the right length".  But here's the thing.  I am notoriously bad at scheduling hair cuts.  I know that I should just schedule the next one when I'm leaving the salon, but who can plan that far ahead?  Grownups, that's who.  Apparently, I'm not quite there yet.  Since I don't schedule that way, it comes down to me having to call for an appointment.  Quite the stumbling block, that.  Wow, do I ever hate making phone calls.  But that's a whole separate blog entry there....

When my hair gets too long, the weight of it makes it look lank and limp.  If it's long enough to touch my shoulders, the friction makes it fly-away and full of static.  Multiple times a day, I end up catching it under my purse strap, swearing, and yanking it free.  When my hair gets too long, I get cranky all over.   

One of the hardest things about moving as frequently as we have is finding and building a relationship with a hairdresser.  I finally found one after living here for about a year, but then she got a boyfriend and a life and stopped cutting hair.  I languished for awhile and finally decided I just couldn't bring myself to pay upwards of $40 for a haircut.  Who the hell pays that much for a haircut?  Grownups, that's who.  But my hair is perfectly straight and all you have to do is cut it in a straight line.  It takes about ten minutes for a complete haircut.  So, I started getting my hair cut at the same place I take the kids.  While I'm too big to sit in the Barbie Jeep, I still enjoy going there and I can choose a lollipop when I'm done.  And it only costs $18.50.  We have a really nice young woman, Kendal,  who now cuts our entire family's hair.  I fell in love with her when she was able to consistently give David a great haircut.  (Poor David.  He has multiple cowlicks and two crowns.  Thetwo crowns grow in opposite directions, like fingerprint whorls.  Where the whorls meet, the hair collides in a battlefield-like patch.) 

Fast forward to today.  I'd finally gotten it together a few days ago and called for an appointment.  Kendal had time to cut all four of us this afternoon.  Just before 9:00 AM, the phone rang.  It was the salon saying that Kendal was sick and did we want to reschedule or have somebody else cover for her?  These were desperate hair times, so we stuck with our appointments and agreed to the substitute.  When we got there, I informed the sub--let's call her Crappy--that Kendal kept a notecard on how to cut David's hair.  She found it and did David first.  I was pleased to see that his hair looked quite nice.  Juliana was next.  She wants to grow hers long after a year of having it short, so all she needed was a trim.  Again, it turned out cute, especially with the addition of spray on silver sparkles.  Ritu went third.  Over time, he's had less and less to cut, but still it requires some technique and, while it was quite short, it looked nice.  Finally it was my turn.  I sat in the chair and told her I wanted to take it from shoulder length to about chin length, but just that same blunt cut.  She started to cut and it seemed awfully short.  I figured she was cutting the underneath a little shorter, like they sometimes do for a little bit of volume.  She kept cutting.  At this point, I debated saying something, but it's not like she could click on "undo" so I rolled with it.  She worked on it for the requisite ten minutes, then started to take off my cape.  I stopped her to point out that THE LEFT SIDE WAS CLEARLY LONGER THAN THE RIGHT.    Should that really be MY job?  Shouldn't a stylist be the one to notice that?  Had we somehow traveled back to 1984 and asymmetrical cuts?  Here's a little hint as to how obviously uneven it was:  even Ritu noticed.  She hacked at the left side for a bit.  I could see Ritu again making a face that indicated it wasn't right.  I glared him into silence and pulled him aside to hiss in his ear that there was no way I was letting Crappy McHewer play even the table legs with my hair.  So, there you have it.  I'm left with a jaw-length uneven bob.  My face is long and narrow to begin with, so basically I look like the Little Dutch Boy's horse.  I'm not sure what else to do besides hide at home for the next six weeks.  Maybe there's some special shampoo that I can use just on the left side to make it spring up and look even with the right?   I know there's a lesson here somewhere, I just don't know what it is.  Please, y'all.  Say a prayer for me and my hair.  And send hats. 

A New Disability

I gave David's hair the sniff test after his shower because he's shampooing-challenged.  When I questioned him as to whether he'd actually washed his hair, he told me he'd used "about a pound of shampoo".  When I said I couldn't smell it, he scoffed at me. "You must be deaf smell-wise!"

Happy Little Trees

The other morning while Juliana was on the potty, she made the following pronouncement:  "Mommy, If I become a painting artist when I grow up, the first picture I'm going to paint will be a man and a horse.  You know why?  Because I like horses and I can see the picture in my imagination."

She plans to be some sort of an artist.  But sometimes she wants to be a teacher.  Once she asked me whether she should be an artist or a teacher and I suggested she be an art teacher.  It was like the heavens opened and God smiled down upon her.  "Mommy, that's IT!  That's what I'll be!"  It's nice to still have all the answers for awhile longer.

She's growing up so fast.  She can pour from a brand new half gallon of milk without spilling a drop.  (But then she'll turn around and knock over her cup.)  She still loves to be my "best helper" even though our chances are more limited with her in school all day.  One Saturday I was hoping to run to the grocery store alone between soccer games.  (Yes, I know I should be able to get all these things done while they're in school, but it's simply not happening.  I swear, I'm getting less done these days than when they were babies.  I'm not sure what the problem is exactly.)   I told her she would stay with Daddy while I shopped and she was outraged.  "But I'm your best helper!  Do I need to call Gaga (that's what they call my mom) and tell her that her daughter won't let her best helper come with her to the store?"  Needless to say, she won that argument. 

Her new favorite thing is to play "Cooking With Janet" while I make dinner.  The premise being that she and I host a cooking show.  She puts on her TV voice and narrates everything we do to straight to the audience.  "Hi, and welcome to Cooking With Janet.  Tonight Janet is making a delicious dinner.  It's called spaghetti and salad.  I'm going to help her.  I'll be cutting the carrots for the salad.  You don't want them to be too big or too small.  Right, Janet?"  She provides all sorts of helpful tips and techniques.  "If you have a person in your family who doesn't eat salad, you could just give them some apple.  Like our brother David.  He doesn't eat ANY vegetables.  Just apples."  We've never watched many cooking shows, but she is spot on with her hostess persona, even down to punctuating statments with a fake laugh. 

Let's see.  A painting artist/TV show host.  My God, I've given birth to the next Bob Ross!

Birthday Blog

http://janet40.wordpress.com/

The birthday blog is up!  You people....you've made me laugh and cry all morning, dammit.  Thank you ALL for being my friends and for making this birthday so special. 

If you didn't get a chance to send something in and would like to, let me know.

O Canada

Ritu and I are leaving town today for a long weekend.  We're heading north to Vancouver and Victoria.  We haven't been away without kids since our tenth anniversary five years ago.  We came home two days before September 11th.  If another attack happens after this trip, I will take the damn hint already and protect my country by staying home forever. 

With nothing to read here, you can all be toiling away on the posts for my birthday blog.  (Oh...you thought that was a surprise?  I am WAY too much of a control freak to have surprises.)  Remember!  Anything less than 3 single spaced pages of glowing tribute means you were never my friend!

 

 

Billy Ray!!!!!

A few weeks ago, I took the kids to their first concert.  Actually, it was their second concert as we'd taken them to see They Might Be Giants when they were 3 and 5.  That was a short, but fun show.  (And if you have kids and don't have TMBG's No CD, you are missing something great.)  But this concert was their first big production.  We're talking downtown in the arena.  A real stage show, big video monitors, and 8,300 other screaming fans.  We went to see Hannah Montana and the Cheetah Girls.  If you have kids who watch Disney Channel or listen to Radio Disney, you know who they are.  If you don't, they are what Disney does best:  Find appealing teenagers who can sing, give them a TV showcase, and have them record songs.  Next,  pimp them out all over the country with concert tours and of course, all the ensuing merchandise.  Finally, collect your giant bags of money and call it a day.  Now that I look back on it, I feel a little manipulated.  I mean, really, do a 9 and 6 year old need to go to a stadium concert?  And of course, they can't go by themselves, so I had to buy a ticket, too.  But they're both so into Hannah Montana and the Cheetah Girls that when I heard about the concert, it was actually MY idea to get the tickets.  And I wasn't alone.  Two of my other friends with kids got tickets for their families as well.  There ended up being nine of us: three moms and six kids.  That was about the way the entire crowd broke down.  For every 3 or 4 kids, there was a mom who had brought them.  The funniest part was seeing some of the moms who were all glammed up.  What the hell?  I guess I have more of a life than I thought. 

 

Hilary Duff had toured through here a few years back and I'd talked to someone who'd taken her kids to it.  She said it was so loud that her daughter was actually crying.  We made sure to come prepared with ear plugs, just in case.  David is my kid who is supersensitive to noise.  He spent many years sitting in movie theaters with his hands clamped over his ears, waiting for the audio to start.  He was fine once it got going, but that first onslaught of sound always unsettled him.  I have fond memories of him sticking his face in his popcorn like a feedbag  because he refused to remove his hands from his ears.  David is the reason I haven't seen a fireworks shows since 1991.  True to form, he asked for his ear plugs before we even entered the auditorium. 

 

It took a lot longer to get in than we'd expected, then we had a hell of a time finding our seats.  The lights were down, an opening act was already playing, we were stumbling around looking for our section and the kids were freaking out that they were missing the whole thing.   Somehow we managed to find our seats which were mid-way up the lower level at the far end of the stadium.  We were high enough that we could see over the floor seats and had a straight on view at the stage. 

 

Hannah Montana came on first.  The concept behind the TV show is that a teenage girl named Miley Stewart has a secret identity as a pop star named Hannah Montana.  Miley has long dark hair, but she wears a blonde wig as Hannah, so nobody knows they're the same person.  (It's like the glasses completely disguising Clark Kent, ok?  Work with me, people.)  The role of Miley/Hannah is played by 14-year-old Miley Cyrus, who is the daughter of Billy Ray Cyrus.  On the TV show, Billy Ray plays Miley's dad.  Got that?  Sure, the concept is a little hokey, but Miley Cyrus is absolutely adorable and completely engaging.  I actually enjoy watching the show with the kids. Miley has quite the set of pipes and her songs are as infectious as pop songs can be.  Furthermore--and I never thought I would EVER say this--Billy Ray Cyrus is looking mighty fine these days.  In fact, my friend Amy and I amused ourselves by yelling BILLY RAY during quiet moments of the concert.  (An aside: the other day I found the Achy Breaky Heart video online and showed it to the kids so they could see what Billy Ray used to look like.  I only played it once but hours later as Juliana was getting ready for bed, I heard her upstairs singing it.  Further proof that the song exerts some sort of stealth mind control.  There is nothing so susceptible to being stuck in your head as Achy Breaky Heart.  And don't think I can't hear you all cursing my name already.)

 

So, Hannah Montana came out on stage and she couldn't not have been cuter. She was dressed in a silvery dress over knee length black leggings and tall black boots with sequins around the top.  And of course, she had the long blonde Hannah wig on.  She smiled and sang and danced and would occasionally wave at fans in the first few rows.  Every time she would wave,  Amy's daughter, who just turned 7, would spend the next 10 seconds deliriously and delightedly  waving back at her. 

 

The only thing that concerned me was that they had her out there as Hannah Montana.  Now, on the tickets it said:

 Miley Cyrus as

Hannah Montana

I don't understand why they couldn't just let Miley Cyrus be Miley Cyrus.  I mean, if you watch the show, you know she's Miley pretending to be Hannah.  Why trot her out as Hannah all the time?  Couldn't she at least have taken off the wig at some point?  Would the kids have loved her less if she had?  I think not.  That whole part weirded me out just a bit. 

 

Too soon she was done, and there was a lengthy intermission as they readied the stage for the Cheetah Girls.  The Cheetah Girls started out as a book about four girls who have a singing group and get discovered. A few years back, Disney Channel made the book into a TV movie.  This summer they premeired the second Cheetah Girls movie, hence the timing of this tour.   The four girls are three nobodies plus Raven-Symone who, depending on how old you are, you'll remember either as little Olivia from the Cosby Show or as the lead actress from That's So Raven.  Raven is enormously popular with the Disney set and she starred in both of the Cheetah Girls movies.  When the Cheetah Girls tour, however, Raven isn't with them.  Now, maybe she's too good for them or too busy having a real career, but the problem I have is that the other three NEVER MENTION HER.  I mean, come on.  If we all have to pretend that Hannah Montana is a real person, why can't the Cheetah Girls throw us a bone and say something like "We're so sorry that our friend Raven can't be here today!"  Nope, we got nothing.  It's like Raven was dead to them.  So right off, I was resentful.  Look here bitches, you rode Raven's coat tails to get to where you are now.  Where is the love?  But the more I watched the Cheetah Girls perform, the more I understood why Raven wanted no part of them.  Holy God, as charming as Miley Cyrus was, that's how skanky these chicks were.  Two of the three wore so many hair extensions, I couldn't believe they could actually hold up their heads.  And the costumes, sweet Jesus, the costumes.  Now, it was a Disney show, so there was nothing too risque, but it was more than obvious that their costume designer had been forced to listen to one too many screaming 11 year old and he was going to make those wenches pay.  Each costume was less flattering than the next.  The word that kept coming to my mind was "heinous".  At one point, the frizzy blonde skanky Cheetah Girl was wearing this dowdy, ill-fitting khaki ensemble that must've been an homage to the Crocodile Hunter.  There couldn't possibly be any other explanation.  Oh, the pain.  And their set went on forEVER.  After a few songs, Juliana announced she had a tummy ache and spent the rest of the show curled up on my lap.  <sigh>  I wasn't too surprised because this is often how she deals with sensory overload.  She didn't want ear plugs and she didn't want to leave, but she needed to be on my body.  After we'd been there nearly 2 hours (the show started at 4 PM) Juliana's friend Shannon leaned over to me and said "Is it 8:00 now?  Because it feels like it's probably 8:00 by now."  From your lips to God's ears, sister.  They would not stop singing.  And somewhere along the way, they decided that melodies were optional.  Just a waste of time.  You know, sort of like attractive costumes.  David and his friend Andrew who had been on their feet and attentive during Hannah Montana, were now engrossed in Andrew's gameboy.  Andrew's 12 year old sister was playing Tetris on her mother's cell phone.  Excuse me, Cheetah Girls, but if you've lost the 12 year old girl segment of your audience perhaps it's time to SHUT THE FUCK UP. 

 

Ok, how about a few pictures?  I took them with my phone, so forgive the graininess.

 

Here's David, who really hates to have his picture taken.  Note the ear plugs firmly in place. 

 

Juliana--think she was a little excited?

 

Juliana and Shannon, happy with popcorn.