The Bed List

It’s election season, and whenever politics gets stupid and creepy (okay, stupider and creepier than usual), that’s the time to tune in more regularly to Jon Stewart on The Daily Show.

One thing about getting older (coming soon!) is the realization that hot means nothing unless you have a brain to go with. Luckily, Mr. Stewart racks up the points in both areas. Early-grey semi-distinguished-looking sparkly-eyed? Check. Smart enough to make you snort your Dr Pepper up your nose laughing at what he just said? Check. He has a crack team of writers and researchers working for him, but you have to admit that all that info is just so much more noise until that deadly eyebrow lift and blank “You have got to be kidding me” look skewer the day’s ridiculousness.

So, dinner a deux with plenty to laugh about (or cry, given the state of American politics), then dessert. And you know what I’m talkin’ about when I say dessert.

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Deva Diva

Ladies, can we just admit that our longest, most frustrating relationship in the world isn’t with a man, but with our hair? If you’re a curly like me who grew up in the stick-straight Marsha Brady ’70s, you know what I’m talking about. So it was with relief and joy that I discovered the Bible for hair like mine, Lorraine Massey’s amazing Curly Girl.

Ms. Massey, who underwent curly trauma growing up in England, hit on two things that will forever change your relationship with your curls: throwing out the shampoo bottle (conditioner and friction, baby!) and a specialized haircut. Since stylists who cut this way--cutting it dry, paying attention to each individual curl instead of giant swaths and layers of hair--are rare, I was delighted to find an angel to go along with the Bible. Her name is Janelle.

Janelle is a traveling stylist since she does so many updos for weddings. She showed up at my house yesterday, all legs and gorgeous blonde hair (you know, the kind of woman you hate on sight just out of principle), but was so nice and engaging you just couldn’t help adoring her. It took her an hour and a half between the first clip and snip and the big reveal, but I was one happy camper when she was done. Lift at the roots! Curls with movement and dimension instead of bulk and droop! Bliss!

Never underestimate the power of a great haircut.

Cross Girl (Proud Maisie) by Frederick Sandys

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Perspective

It’s so tempting to spend time dwelling--well, carping really--on all of your issues. Why your life is screwed up. Why things never seem to go right. Why there’s never enough time to get all those tasks around the house finished so you have time to do what you want. As we used to say in college, BBATTB. (Bitch, bitch, all the time bitch)

Thankfully, we also have opportunities for a little perspective. Mine came today in the form of a phone call from a lost student. This is a girl who had it all--slim, gorgeous hair, smart, witty, the works--and also had nothing--screwed up family life, custody issues, parent on drugs, too much responsibility at an early age. Mr. Man and I both adored her, so we were wrecked when, at the end of her senior year, she just disappeared. No graduation day, no celebrations, no fanfare. Just gone.

Out of curiosity, I hunted her up on Facebook. It took a while for us to connect, but when she did, I found out what hardship really looks like. Take all of those issues above and add a mystery illness that turns out to be Guillian-Barré Syndrome. What began as tingling and numbness in her feet ended with her in the hospital for three months, intubated because she lacked the muscle tone to breathe on her own. This lovely girl, tall and beautiful enough to model, has to use a walker to get across the room and is a veritable shut-in. She’s one of the lucky ones who will regain most of her mobility, but it’ll take months of physical therapy appointments--painful, frustrating appointments three times a week--before she can walk at a pace that would, frankly, annoy most of us with too much to do and a tendency toward irritability (my hand’s up with yours there, honey).

And yet somehow, I could hear her smiling. She sees her blessings for what they are. And although she gets upset about what happened and wishes things were different, she’s taking her small victories where she can. It’ll be a long journey back to something resembling normal, but I have no doubt she’ll get there.

After that, my messy house and my family’s inability to pick up their dirty socks just seemed like a petty thing to be worried about. It’s all in your perspective, darlings.

Artwork by the amazing M. C. Escher.

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Cirque du Maman

It’s quiet in my house this Saturday morning, but I know that won’t last. Frick is at a friend’s, Frack has a friend over, Mr. Man has completed his crack o’dawn coffee meeting and is now about to go bike riding with a friend, and mimi has squirrels.

Every mother on the planet knows about the squirrels--the ones who camp out in your brain, jumping about and chatteringchatteringchattering about everything you need to do or haven’t done or have in process or are trying to stick into a dank corner and let rot. Since school started, the squirrel chorus has just gotten louder. Now it includes forms to sign and papers to grade and kids who need sleep and lunches that “need made” (as my Western PA-raised MIL would say). Every. Freaking. Day.

It’s a wonder mothers get anything done--more of a wonder that tasks do, indeed, get done, and that no one goes to school starving or naked. Although mimi will admit to taping a couple of fives to the microwave in lieu of a lovingly-packed lunch this week, because the ham vs. peanut butter decision was just too much of a stretch at 6:20 am.

I look at the other moms in the grocery store sometimes, the ones who are slim and self-possessed, who wear lovely clothes and enviable shoes, and wonder how they manage to hold it all together so neatly while the leaves of my squirrel nest get disarrayed and reorganized as more and more relatives join the party. Or appear to, at least. In my darker moments, I have to remind myself to lean closer when my cart passes one of theirs, and listen. My tree isn’t the only one with squirrels.

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