New doesn't always equal bad

I must admit that I've not had a 'new' kind of haircut for a LONG time. Like maybe since Oasis or Pearl Jam had a hit record. Or maybe since I stopped eating frozen pizzas every single night or since I owned an actual telephone answering machine with the cassette tape (or even a landline phone, for that matter).

I decided yesterday at about 1 pm that I was going to cut off my bangs (maybe 15" of very thin post pregnancy hair, not the thick stuff so it wasn't too traumatic) and at 3:15 pm I was sitting in the chair of a random stylist who happened to be available to meet my whim and was texting my best friend in Chicago the play-by-play of the situation. "Bangs are cut!" and "Oh. My. God. So cute so far". The kind of stuff that men just wouldn't understand because they have to act like they don't give a shit about the way they look or their masculinity comes into question.

So, I now have short bangs that aren't too bad, actually; however, I've got to teach them to behave as they're all over the place and are in complete and total rebellious shock at the recent amputation.

Making up for lost time

A few noteworthy events have passed in the last few weeks.

One occasion worth mentioning because I so enjoy making fun of myself was the weekend I went to visit my family in northern Indiana and to also spend some time with my dearest friend.

We chose a bowling alley with cheap beer and even cheaper mixed drinks and which also employed a man named Jack who appeared to be an 80-year-old gentleman on a mission to knock the self-esteem of any bowler with imperfect form right into the gutter. So I was an easy target for Jack as I take (gasp!) five steps instead of four during my walk up the lane.

I'm trying to hang out with a girlfriend that I see maybe 4 times a year and I get the Bowling Alley Lieutenant perched atop the steps behind me yelling out to me about the shitty way I approach the game. Had I been with anyone else I probably wouldn't had been as polite about this man and his opinions, but it seems that we always find ourselves in some comical situations.

Not everyone can say that they closed down a bowling alley that had a family of nine at the next lane who was playing with four carseats filled with sleeping children on the floor next to the scorebox or that they woke up the next morning with such muscle strain in their body that it took them two days to figure out the cause of it and thinking that they had pneumonia or something because their lungs felt bruised and in such pain and then were teased endlessly by their friends about their 'bowling injury' or that when they got back to their mom's house that night her dogs had peed all over their luggage while they were gone because they smelled like another dog or some other stupid dog rationalization.

I'm pretty sure I was the only one.

Pumpkin party!

In the mailbox today

This is an especially wonderful and imaginative email. Hold out until the ending as it's worth the wait.


Hello
My name is Mary Kevin am 75yrs old of age, i Live in new york city] usa.My Husband is a good merchant, He have several industrial companysand good share in various banks in the world.I spend all my life on investment and co-oporate business. all theway i lost my husband and two beautiful kids in fatal accident thatoccur in november 5th 2003.i am a very greedy woman with all cost i dont know much and care aboutpeople, since when i have an experience of my lovley ones i feltweak.i found it difficult to sleep and give rest. later in the year 2004february i was sent a letter of medical check up, as my personaldoctor testify that i have a lung cancer, which can easily take off mylife soon.i found it uneasy to survive myself, beacuse a lot of investmentcannot be run and manage by me again.i quickly call up a pastor/prophet to give me positive thinking onthis solution, as my adviser.He minister to me to share my property ,wealth, to motherlessbaby/orphanage homes/people that need money for survivor both studentthat need money/ business woman and man for their investment forfuture rising.So therfore i am writing this letter to people who are really needhelp from me both student in college, to contact me urgently. so thati can make available preparation on that.especially women of the day, who are divorced by their husband, whythey cannot survive the mist of feeding their self.please contact meto stop weeping.probably let me know what you really need the money for, and if youcan still help me to distribute money to nearest orphanages homes nearyour town.now am so much with GOD, am now born again.may the lord bless you, as you reach me,please to remind you,dontbelongs to scammers or any act of fraudulent on internet.thanks.I AM A DEAF
Mary

Contemplating the demise of a pink flower through ingestion

Fingers crossed

Now that I've so generously shared my recent case of the chicken pox with my daughter (damn you, daycare policy, for insisting on pre-paying and no refunds for a sick child), my close friend, her son and the entire handbag department at TJ Maxx (or so it seems), I have to count my blessings (there are 28, if you wondered) that all of the outbreaks were of the mild variety.

In my mind, I seem to remember the chicken pox of my childhood being a whole lot more ominous. Kind of like acquiring some disfiguring skin disorder that meant staying home from school and immediate quarantine from all species who had furless skin as if the mere act of being looked upon by someone under 8 years old would instantly infect them with the watery, scar-inducing blisters.

I mean, I'm grateful that she had no more than 5 or 6 spots and we blissfully continued on with our lives with little alteration (which, in retrospect, could have been how things spread within my inner circle to begin with, oops); but, to not know the oatmeal baths, being drowned in sticky pink calamine lotion or the facial scars that come with the chicken pox of years ago is, well, progress.

Why I would have been drunk on brandy everyday by 3 pm

An Actual 1955 Good Housekeeping article.

On playing hooky

I received a telephone call yesterday afternoon from Rosemary's daycare saying that she had a fever of 102 degrees and I better get my butt in there to pick her up.
I promptly drive over to get her (teething, so a fever is normal) and bring her to my studio to give her some of that repulsive red sticky poison that she rejects immediately and which finds itself on whatever clean white clothing is within arm's reach. What's that called? Oh, Tylenol.
I was informed that she would not be able to return until she is fever-free for 24 hours; which would be Friday, most likely. So we decide to take the morning off on Thursday and do some random stuff together.

We load up a really nice walker that I had purchased at Target in May. She has clearly moved beyond it developmentally (who knew she'd be walking independently at 10 months anyway) and which she's used maybe four times - all of which prompted a total meltdown at being set into a device that she could neither chase the dog in nor bust up furniture with because our bungalow house is quite small and navigation is tricky for a toddler (and for an adult with a third glass of wine who's misplaced her eyeglasses, I hear).
Paid 40 bucks for it and just sold it to a child's resale shop for 7.

I dazily cruise around the store with my shopping cart while Rosemary is babbling about something incoherent (did she just say, 'iced tea'?) and scratching my head in disbelief that I was just paid less than $10 for a brand new piece of child equipment (damn you), I pick up this book and buy it (thus giving even more money to this stupid store that just ripped me off). I start to read the opening pages at the multitude of red lights on our way home (no apologies to the snot in the red Jeep who was behind me this morning at SR 26 and 52 and honking like an insane person, by the way).

If I get a minute of free time, I'd like to read it in it's entirety in the next couple of days as the secret of a happy child is something I just gotta know; because I've been foolishly acting like it was chocolate ice cream before dinner and, gosh, do I feel dumb.

She really does move this fast

Not just on the roof of your house

Last week I noticed a weird burning on my eye. I even commented that, "I think Rosemary scratched my eyelid, with battery acid". How she would have gotten into something like said acid is not quite known but didn't seem too out of the ordinary as she came to me the other day with a cigarette butt in her mouth. Chewed. She's a daredevil, that one.

I went to the urgent care center in our neighborhood as it was after regular business hours and waited for my name to be called. My eye was looked over quite promptly and quickly diagnosed as a simple staph infection; however, if I had known that there was an in-house doctor there who looked as fine as the one who had met with me (from what I could tell with my one good, unswollen eye, anyway) I probably would have gone in for that weird ingrown toenail-thing I had in June. I skip out to my car in the parking lot with a brown bag of ointment (free!) and antibiotic (not free, but necessary, I suppose).

Next morning: eyelid swollen, rash spreading, insatiable itch. Uh oh.

I head back to the doctor after much prodding from my husband as I really hate spending money on something like an itchy eye; but this seemed worthy and I couldn't ignore the fact that I might get to see Super Cute Doctor again. After waiting nearly an hour on a Saturday to be seen (and after lazily reading a tattered People magazine from 2005 and more than a little weirded out by the amount of germs that were probably living on those pages) I am finally told that it's shingles.

What?

I'm promptly given one of those cheap handouts on the wall next to, 'Asthma: It Ain't So Bad' and, 'So This is Your First Yeast Infection', or so I remember. It's been days since I was there.

So I did what anyone with an unknown affliction would do: I raced back home to log onto the internet and typed shingles into Google. I found out that it's basically adult chicken pox and after a little more research, one common denominator was that if it comes anywhere near the eyes, to get medical help immediately as it can cause blindness. Shit. This stuff started on my eyelash line.

I guess that's why I'm currently on two different antibiotics totalling 5500 mg/day for ten days; cause if I go blind tomorrow, I'm gonna be really ticked.

This morning I dressed her in pink

This weekend was fairly monumental.

First of all, I watched three movies; which we haven't done in nearly a year; as being repeatedly interrupted during a great film ranks right up there with an intense sunburn. On the bottom of my feet.

All of this movie watching was possible because we've only recently discovered the joy of setting up the baby pen in front of the television, or as it's more affectionately known in my house: the Den of Abandonment. It allows us to spend more than 2.35 minutes watching a program while ensuring that our child is not behind the bedroom door choking on the rubber doorstop.

In our overwhelming giddiness, we may have not made the most appropriate movie selections as new parents; but I thought we exhibited a fair amount of restraint, considering the last film I think I watched was Pirates of the Caribbean. Or maybe even Rocky 4.

Instead, we rented 300, The Last Samaurai and Apocolypto. With our child. In front of the tv screen. A virtual bloodbath. All of them.

I hope that what I've read is true about babies not having much rememberance of the first year; as I'd really like to swing by the video store tonight and pick up the Saw series.

Poolside

I watched it. So what.

The Victoria-Beckham-Coming-to-America thing on tv last night, that is. I don't know if it's going to be a weekly show or not based on the spanking it took in the early show reviews.

Having not knowing really anything about her, besides being British and the ridiculousness of the Spice Girls, I was kind of charmed by the show. Not charmed in the way that I would be if, oh, I don't know, SIMON LE BON of DURAN DURAN walked up to me during one of my walks with the dog and baby to offer me a chilled Evian right out of his backpack and to say that he's been thinking of me ever since that letter I wrote to him in 1985 where I said that I was his biggest fan and that we should get together and have lunch sometime in London when he gets a break from his hectic tour schedule; but charmed, nonetheless.

Having done it three times, it's now a habit

For the last week or so I've been sliding into this bizarre routine of swinging by the drive-thru window of Wendy's for a small frosty (I hear it's made of soy, which I don't really believe), stopping the car somewhere (Friday it was in the parking lot of the state tax office) and sharing it with Rosemary.

Then upon entering the house proclaiming, "This is not frosty on her shirt", when it very clearly is just seems to crack me up.

Family camping 101

The family (dog, babe, husband) and I spent three days and two nights at Shades State Park recently with several friends and three campsites to accomodate the pack. This being Rosemary's first camping trip, we spent most of the week prior to the event researching family tents via the internet and local shops.
Our previous tent had been of a small two-person, lightweight backpacking variety, which was perfect for our 60 mile trek though the Washington mountains a few years back. Ready to purchase a new sleeping abode, we confidently strolled into Sportman's Warehouse (there isn't actually a reputable outdoor store here for hiking and the like, to my dismay; but, hey, if you want guns and reloading gear, they'll hook you up) the night before our trip and were ready to shell out the cash for a 4 person tent. After looking around the tent area for several minutes and a few too many uncomfortable glances at photos on the oversized bulletin board of local folk with bloody deer and turkeys in the back of their pick-ups, we noticed that they were out of the smaller sized tent and we were promptly offered the larger one. Some discussion ensued.

"A 6-person tent for two and a half people, and maybe the dog if she hasn't spent too much time in the creekbed smearing the decay of animal carcasses into her hide? Seems a little large to me."

"Come on, we'll grow into it. How big can it be?"

We purchased the tent; and after setting it up at the campsite and having to stand in the poison ivy ten feet away with tent poles that extended to an embarassing length, I'll still say that I very much prefer an air mattress with fitted sheets and room to stand over pumping and filtering a mud puddle for drinking water and pooping behind a tree.

My favorite season

I really can't get enough of summer.

Just when I think it's gonna last all year, I start seeing fall junk in the stores and flowers go on clearance. Shit.

Summer girl

Five things of moderate annoyance

1. Nearly every last one of my nighttime tank tops (especially that dark gray one that I loved so much and reluctantly tossed out onto a heaping trash can full of dirty diapers this morning) are devoid of elastic in the straps and are destined for the garbage. From breastfeeding a grab-happy infant. Enough said.

2. Losing so much hair post-pregnancy that I now have a head full of 3/4" hairs and it looks like I'll be sporting some sweet mini-bangs in no time.

3. The size of my left arm in comparison to the right.

4. Solicitors. I swear that I'm going to put a sign up at the shop that says 'No Solicitors. We will not buy your shit.' Everything from windchimes to radio ads. Seriously, if I wanted to buy your crap, I would have found a way to get it that didn't involve your interrupting my day to do it.

5. Shoes. Kind of in general, really. I will wear one pair of shoes all season (right now it's a pair of black high-heeled sandals), every season and until they fall apart. Well, spring is barely over and my shoes for this season are already breaking down. I get attached to one pair of shoes at a time. Really attached.

Lovely Mother's Day bouquet that smelled of rotten organicness by Wednesday

Mother is a verb

My first mother's day will be spent outside as much as I can stand; planting flowers, avoiding picking up dog poo, hiking in the woods, not weeding.

Stupid event of the week

Spending 7 bucks at Jimmy Johns on a to-go lunch (Vito sandwich, large diet, bbq chips) and strolling out empty handed.

Darn carseat over my arm throws me off every time.

Happy Valentine's Day

We've gotten about 16" of snow in the central Indiana area and have had two days off of work due to the weather (and being a business owner, this merely means that I was too lazy to get my own ass out of bed and pack up my stuff to head downtown).
I'm very much looking forward to enjoying a fancy dinner out tonight.


Have a lovely holiday.

Not the way I remember seeing Pink Floyd

After a long work week, my husband and I decided to go out Friday to see a newly formed local band who play the 'entire Dark Side of the Moon album' (can you still use the word 'album'? hmm) at an all-ages venue.

My first thought was, 'Do the kids still listen to the Pink Floyd?'. I mean, I know that you can buy a 'concert' t-shirt at Target these days for about $12 (unlike the days of actually having to scour the thrift shops looking for someone's unloved Cure or Depeche Mode tee in the .49 rack at St. Vincent De Paul's shop and praying that you didn't get impetigo again because you didn't want to wash your clothes before wearing them to school); but is this album still a rite of passage? I wanted to know.

So we packed up our 5 month old baby and hit the road to the coffeeshop about 20 minutes away. We listened to the first few songs at the back of the room and I started up a conversation with a women standing next to us who also was holding a young baby.

We chit-chatted about random topics (the volume of the band was rather comfortable, considering) and I had questioned her about the earplugs that her baby was wearing. Pink and squishy, like play-doh, it appeared. She asked me if I wanted some and I momentarily flashed back to that summer day in 1994 when I saw Pink Floyd in Indianapolis and, literally, couldn't find my way out of my own vehicle because someone had asked me if I 'wanted some' and I enthusiastically nodded my head in agreement. So when I said, 'yes' to this woman and she carefully reached into her purse and pulled out a clear plastic container with about 10 pair of pill-like pink earplugs, I started laughing at the absurdity of the moment.

I then pushed the little discs onto my daughter's ears and danced with her in my arms at the small coffeeshop to a cover band playing the second side of the Dark Side of the Moon album and wondered how I could have gotten so lucky.

This is how it's done

"Hello?"

"Hi, this is Bill Lester and I have your business card here and wondered if you had a minute to talk?"

"Uh, sure. What about?"

"Well, I'm contacting you because you're a business owner and I've found that entrepreneurs are an ambitious bunch. I'm looking for someone who is interested in making $250,000 this year. Do you know anyone who would be interested in an incredible opportunity such as this?"

"Um, how 'bout YOU, Mr. Bill Lester? Don't you want to make a quarter-million dollars this year so you wouldn't have to make these dumb phone calls to people you don't even know? Seems pretty simple to me."

click.