Cute Do

We all had a trip to the beauty parlor this week.  I got a trim and highlight touch-up/repair.  Z got her summer cut, a short stacked bob.  What does it say about me as a parent that Z's haircut is SO much more fashion forward than mine?  Q got a trim so he doesn't look like a shaggy hippy (his father's words). 

I am so tickled with my color.  When I got the highlights last fall, they were not at all the subtle lightened-by-the-sun-looking streaks I was hoping for.  Instead, Red gave me super fashionable chunky streaks.  I am not a super fashionable kind of gal.  I like to pretend that I am still a natural blond, so I really didn't want obvious evidence to the contrary that I am not!  Luckily, my hair bleaches prettily, so even though they were not natural looking, at least the streaks were a nice color.  Eventually, I got used to my 'tiger stripes,' as T called them.  What I never got used to was the fact that the brightest of the stripes started about an inch from the root line in the front.  Nothing says natural like a full inch of dark roots around your face!  Pretty!  But those are a thing of the past.  My hair is now looking sun-kissed and natural.  And Red is SO cheap!  Yet another perk to life in a small(ish) town!

Z probably got six inches lopped of the back of her hair.  Adorable!  I didn't realize how hip her 'do was until I started looking around and noticed that about every third adult I noticed had some variation of Z's cut.  Bun said she wants Red to cut her hair to look just like Z's.  I'd say that was a successful cut!

Q had a mighty case of the fidgets, so we are lucky he came out with both of his ears intact, let alone a symmetrical cut.  He did a good job for a little guy in a new environment, surrounded by a bunch of chatty women.  A far cry from the barber shop! 

I made yet another trip to the salon the next day for a Rock Star pedicure.  Basically, nail gel + glitter + more nail gel + baked under a light = BIG sparkly toes.  LOVE!  I'll spare you photographic evidence.  It was a fun girly beauty week.  I am now obsessively searching for the stuff to do gel nails myself.  Just what I need.  Another project!

Call Me Murphy Brown (aka:Construction: Day One)

The big excitement around our house is that we have started the attic conversion project. Yesterday afternoon we handed over an eye-watering check to Eldon the contractor and the worker bees arrived promptly at the crack o' dawn this morning. The contractor estimates that the whole project will take two to three weeks. Do I believe him? Well, I believe he thinks they'll be done by then... But actually done? Um, no.

Our attic runs the length of the house, so we are turning it into an in-law suite for T's parents. We are adding two bedrooms, a living room and a bathroom. This involves re-joisting the floor to make it load bearing, a giant dormer, and re-ducting the AC system. I am pretty sure my first house didn't have as many square feet as this addition does! Also? We hadn't even finished the first day of construction before Eldon was suggesting spendy upgrades. No, I don't think it will be done in three weeks.

I managed a remodeling faux pas before the workers even made it inside my house this morning. I was getting ready to take the kids to school and all of my clean bras were in the laundry room. I made a stealth trip to the laundry room (topless, naturally, for maximum humiliation potential). I went through the garage so I wouldn't flash the neighbors through the kitchen windows. (T opens the curtains first thing when he gets up.) Eyes on the prize, I grab the bra and only then notice that the blinds were open. And the workers were sitting my my driveway. Awesome.

Maybe they will continue to show up early in hopes for a repeat performance?

I Never Thought I'd Do That

First, get your mind out of the gutter. All clear? Okay, then.

I was in my closet getting dressed for the day when I heard the thundering hoard (aka: my children and dogs) explode into my bedroom. I called for them to go back to the living room and I would be out in a minute. Seconds later, the screaming began. Z had taken it upon herself to enforce my rule and Q was protesting vehemently. (The dogs had wisely abandoned the fray.)

Without thinking I went into my room and told her, hands on hips, "It is not your job to enforce the rules, Z! Take care of yourself and I will take care of Q!" It was only then that I realized that I was starkers.

I'm guessing my authority was somewhat undermined by my wobbly bits jiggling in time to my shaking finger. I had to leave the room before busted out laughing.

Kid? What Kid?

I guess I'm having a bit of trouble getting back into the parenting groove after my AMAZING trip to California. I managed to pick Z up on time, but after lunch, I got caught up in an internet research project for the hubs...

I was watching the clock like a hawk and it seemed to be going very slowly. Then I hit pay dirt and was finding the info T wanted. I looked at the clock and it was holy-crap-I'm-late-o'clock - otherwise known as 2:04 when I am supposed to pick up the boy child at 2:00. Yikes!

Luckily we literally live on the same street as Q's school. I broke all land speed records to get there. He was the last one there. Again.

I am so awesome.

Defeat

Events transpired against me and my painting clock ran out of time. Rats. We leave tomorrow for Small Town to get our furniture (YAY!) and the rest of our junk (not so yay). My in-laws left this morning, so I thought I would get at least a good start on Q's room, but it was not to be.

First, I had to move Q and Z out of there and into Z's room. This would have been fine, but Z doesn't have light-blocking shades for nap time. Q has a hard enough time sleeping with his sister singing/banging toys/actively disturbing him without having to contend with light, too.

So off I went to Home Depot for a roller shade. Easy peasy, right? Well, it might have been if I hadn't managed to pick up the one shade on the entire shelf that was missing one of the end pieces. After a return trip to the store to exchange the shade, we were back to the house to install the blind.

I am a girl who has my own power tools, so I know my way around a drill. My dad and I remodeled a kitchen from the studs out. And yet somehow I was defeated by a dang roller shade. I installed the first bracket without a problem. Then I measured and marked for the second bracket. So far, so good.

When I drilled the holes in the wall, the screws missed the stud and were just spinning. No problem, I'll just insert a wall anchor. I have never ever had a wall anchor spin. Until today. I guess the walls had been repaired with toothpaste or something, but it would not hold an anchor. The second anchor was holding, so I figured I was okay.

Until I tried to hang the shade. I somehow managed to install one of the brackets backwards/upside down. That shouldn't matter, should it? Well apparently it does. Those little flimsy pieces of tin bent all to pieces when I tried to hang the actual shade. I managed to get it hung up after working myself up into a full-body sweat and teaching the kids a few new vocabulary words.

So now I can put the kids down for their naps... except that they are wired for sound from all the installation excitement. The only way I can get them to lie down is to lie down with them. There goes my painting time.

And to top it all off? When I tried to open the blind? It fell on my head. If T loves me he will re-hang it while I am gone and we will never speak of it again. Unfortunately, that isn't how things work around here. He will re-hang it, but then he will tease me about it until I am dead. I can hardly wait.

I'm Not Smart.

About 50 miles away from the ranch my cell phone rings. I figure it is T telling me he is on his way to New Town. But no. It was T telling me that I had managed to leave my purse and the diaper bag at the ranch, and advising me no to let Q have any blowouts on the way home. No wallet = no driver's license, no money, no credit cards.

Well. My blond roots are showing.

Luckily for me, my mom-in-law stepped in with a little loan to keep me in gas and groceries until T gets to Small Town on Friday. Yay! Another small act of stupidity that I will never. live. down.*


* In my defense, I didn't take my purse and the diaper bag out of the car. I leave those things there so I don't forget them. Some other helpful someone did the removing.

Empty

There are two kinds of people in the world: people who fill their cars up as soon as the gauge hits the halfway mark and those who wait until the car is actually approaching empty before filling up. T and I are a mixed marriage. My husband, an always-be-prepared boyscout of a man, is the former. I like to live on the wild side. I fill up with a quarter of a tank left. Cheap thrills.

I noticed on the way home from dance lessons that I was running low on gas, but with two crabby children and Sonic hamburgers in the car, I talked myself into waiting until the next morning. Apparently I never even glanced at the gauge on Thursday's library run because it never crossed my mind to fill up.

This brings us to Friday. So. Very. Tired. The hubs tells me I was a snore beast all night. I know that this must be true because he kicked me in the rear hard enough to leave a footprint! That was around 5:00 a.m. I never made it back to sleep. Having gone to bed around midnight (I know! Show some self control! Get off the internet!), that made for about 5 hours of sleep. I can barely function on less than seven. Yikes!

I think it is possible that I sleep-drove Z to school on Friday morning. I was about 3/4 of the way home when the OMG-you're-about-to-be-stranded-on-the-side-of-the-road light came on. That woke me up. I toggled the display over to 'miles to empty.' Three miles. No problem, I think to myself. I will just gas up on the way to pick up Z. T never has to know!

Thinking I'll run an errand or two before getting Z, Q and I head out around 11:15. When I start the car, the display says two miles to empty. Holy sheep! That will be cutting it close. I watch the gauges like a hawk all the way to the gas station. As I coast up to the pump, it clicks over to zero miles to empty. Whew! I made it!

I open the console to grab my wallet. What, huh? Oh, hell no. Where's my wallet? Sitting in the library bag in the middle of Z's floor. No cash. No cards. No options. I had to call T. At work. Oh noes!

Me - "T? Get the mocking over with quickly, then come rescue me."

T - "Oh, hell. What's wrong?"

Me - "I'm out of gas and I don't have my wallet."

T - "Bah, ha, ha, ha, ha! I'll get there as soon as I can."

So there I am: stranded at the low rent gas station with no way to leave. Then a police car pulls up. T gets out of his squad car and hands me his debit card. I run into the station to give them the card. I tell the gal that it is for the gray car, only to notice that the other car out there is gray, too. So then I tell her, "Um, the one with the police car by it." Dying. Inside.

Fourteen years later (seriously, it took like 20 minutes to fill up!), T leaves and I go in to sign the receipt. The clerk is kind of giving me the hairy eyeball (or it felt like it, any way), so to cover up the awkward, I said, "Wow! That is the slowest pump ever!" She replied that it gave me time to cool off and "deal with things."

She thought the police car was there for me because I was in trouble! She thought I was a criminal!

"He's my HUSBAND!" I blurt out defensively. I will never live this down.

Rae Ann + Dreads = WRONG

Until I was 30 I had straight hair. And I don't just mean straight, I mean stick straight. I mean hot-rollers-only-put-a-slight-wave-in-it straight. I mean you-couldn't-even-backcomb-it-with-gel straight. And then my thyroid quit.

Suddenly my hair had a slight wave in it. It held a curl a lot better. After I had Z, I noticed two things about my hair: a.) it was a lot darker (wah!) and b.) it was a lot curlier. But really only in the back. The front was just wavy. This made me crazy. Now, after Q, my hair is darker yet and has become full-on curly. The curliest parts are on either side of the nape of my neck.

What the hell?

After a life spent in pursuit of curly hair, now that I have it, I have no clue what to do with it. Unlike straight hair, brushing makes it look worse instead of better. I have a LOT of hair. I turn into Rae Ann of the Large Hair Clan if I come near it with a brush. A white girl fro is a fashion don't.

I am not a daily hair-washer (I don't manage regular showers, let alone hair washing!), so there are times when I will go for several days without brushing my hair. Also, I don't have bangs, so I have gotten into the habit of wearing my hair in a ponytail when I go to sleep. Surprisingly, this seems to make my hair more tangled than sleeping with it down!

So this morning I take my hair out of my barrette and run my fingers through it. Imagine my dismay when I discover two largish clumps of hair on either side of my neck that seem to have fused into nasty blondish ropes. YIKES! I practically had to get out the dogs' Furminator (mat comb) to get them out.

I told T that I guessed I was going to have to move to Jamaica and wear one of those crocheted hats if my hair was going to act this way. He said he was sorry I wanted a divorce.

Clearly some priorities need to be changed around here. Personal hygiene should not be a luxury. I am joining Kristen over at Motherhood Uncensored and declaring 2009 to be the Year of the Mom.

Care to join me?

Fluff

I was scrambling around yesterday(as usual) before we were to leave for Ginormousville. We had no real deadline to get there, but I did want to get to the post office before the lunchtime crowd. I hustle the kids and the dogs and the packages into the car and set off at glacier speed.

The Small Town post offices are conveniently located on the opposite side of town from where we live. Luckily, the opposite side of town isn't all that far in Small Town! When we got there, I rounded up all of the junk supplies I would need to mail my packages: two boxes; a sharpie; tape; return address labels; wallet. Wait. Wallet?

No wallet. I frantically dig through all of the usual places I stash it in the car. Not in the purse, the floorboard or the console. I vaguely remember getting it out of the car to get a customer service number off of one of the cards. Damn! I must have left it sitting on my desk next to my computer.

Trying not to have a temper tantrum, I load everything back into the car, grit my teeth and answer all of Z's where-are-we-going? and why-do-we-have-to? questions. We drive all the way back to our house where I jump out to go grab my wallet from my office.

Guess what! No wallet. At this point I am more frustrated than frantic and march back out to the mom-mobile. Surely I looked everywhere before we returned home, didn't I? I go to the passenger door and am greeted by a bushel of fur with assorted noses, legs and tails sticking out. Izzy and Griffin are entwined and completely cover the passenger seat.

Could it be? Using a crane, I heft Izzy's big ol' butt off the seat and what do I find? My wallet. Arg! It should be noted, that I carry one of those giant grandma wallets with a checkbook, photos and a million receipts inside. It took some serious fur to cover up that puppy (no pun intended!). I couldn't help it. I totally cracked up.

The happy ending to my story is that even though we made it back to the post office in the middle of the lunch hour, it was all but deserted. We hardly had to wait at all. I guess it was payback for not losing it when I found my wallet under the dogs.