Shallow

Have you heard? The CBC is in a little over a week, and I've had a running of list of things to do to get ready for months now. Business cards? Check. Awesome butt-shaping blue jeans? Check. Cute shoes? Check. A functional diaper bag that can also be my carry-on? Check. Cute haircut? Check . . . oh, wait.

I got my hair cut last Thursday. My hair is curly and big, and really has a mind of its own. When it's curly, I manage it mostly by not managing it . . . that, and great products which, I swear, are an invention of the 21st century. Occasionally, I blow it out myself, but usually, if I want to wear it straight, I pick what I hope will be the first day in a long stretch of rainless ones, and go have someone else do the 45 minute elbow-wrenching job. And if the gods have smiled upon me, that blow out will last . . . 4 or 5 days.

That's why I have just noticed today the carnage. I don't know what happened. My stylist usually does a fantastic job . . . but Thursday, she cut my shorter layers so short that they could now be classified as bangs should I choose to wear them that way. She left my longer layers so long that now that I've allowed it to do what it wants to do, I can only describe my new do as a curly mullet.

I fixed my hair this morning, and then I cried. And then I called my sister and sent her a picture. She kind of laughed and then didn't say much except, "I . . . um . . . I think we can fix this?"

Not exactly convincing.

We then discussed the merits of having a Jane Austen-ready haircut (there are none), and I did a Google search to see if anyone is casting for Louis XIV (most are looking for a man to play the lead, even if the hair is spot on).

I called the salon this afternoon. And I'm going back in tomorrow morning to get it re-done. But the bangs? The bangs I didn't ask for, and that have not, for a reason, graced my face since an unfortunate eighth grade hairstyle mishap -- well, I'll just have to wait for them to catch up with their cohorts.

I should just wear it straight until it grows out. But have you been to the North Carolina mountains in the summer? The whole afternoon thunderstorm weather pattern is pretty much the norm around these parts, and what kind of crazy person straightens curly hair on a rainy day? Even on a good day, my straightened hair has a look of potential energy about it -- like any exposure to humidity might cause my head to explode into an afro-like puffball of unruly ringlets, mostly because that's exactly what happens.

So somehow this bad hairstyle sent me into a tailspin that I have struggled to get out of all day long. It's a symphony week and I like to get things in order early when I know 5 of the next 6 nights will be occupied with non-housekeeping and mothering activities. I've done NONE of the things I needed to. I played with my kids. I figured out how to webchat so MommyJ could see my ugly hair. I wrote this blog post and put out some other fires, but I didn't clean the floor or fold any laundry or even make dinner -- my lovely husband brought home burgers for the kids and sushi for the grownups instead.

To add insult to injury, Miscellany pooped all over my bed, onto sheets that I just changed last night. LAST NIGHT, I tell you! It is on CPod's side. Maybe I'll just leave it. Poop? Bad hair? Anything else? Please, let the cleansing strains of Appalachian Spring do their work on my psyche tonight. I need a lift in the worst kind of way.

I spent the afternoon asking myself if I was really that shallow -- so shallow that a bad hair day can turn me into a self-centered ogre? Yes. Yes, I am.

I was due for a reality check, and I got it when I spoke with my best friend this afternoon. Her mother is in end-stage renal failure, and at this point, dialysis is out of the question and the best they can hope for is a short wait on the transplant list. We just went through this with CPod's mom, and I wish that degree of worry on no one. Our outcome was positive, and I can only pray that hers will be as well.

That bad haircut? Pales in comparison to the sentence of a life-shortening disease calling in its dues. That needed perspective-kicker has shifted my focus away from the mirror. Good thing, because the reflection is really, really bad.

(I just read this to CPod. He really thinks I should say something about how I'm trying to work on my present lack of depth. Or some redeeming characteristic that mitigates my narcissism . . . yeah. I got nothing. Maybe the act of posting the debacle will be cathartic enough for me to move on, but chances are I'm not moving on until tomorrow morning. Keep your fingers crossed for something halfway attractive!)

Information Overload

I must confess: I love SiteMeter. I love the map of the world with little points of people, all connected by one thing: they clicked on my blog. I love thinking about all the different backgrounds of all the different people from all over the world (if I'm being supremely optimistic and selective in my map-viewing) who all, somehow, end up on this site.

Imagine how excited I was when I discovered that people can actually reach this tiny little blog by searching for random things on the internet! I am immensely intrigued by this. What are people thinking about? What are they interested in? What things do people search for, and then stumble upon my blog?

And then I was a little dismayed, nay, flabbergasted at the things people search for . . . and then find my site.

For a tamer example, I get a fair number of hits from people searching for "crazy things to do at Disney World" or other things of that nature. And they get sent to this post about our recent experiences at the Happiest Place on Earth.

I also get frequent hits from those searching for "who invented the port-a-potty". I kid you not. They get sent to this post about . . . an experience in a portable toilet. And as a public service to all those who thirst for such information (and apparently there are more of you than I ever imagined), I did a little research: the portable toilet was not invented so much as it evolved in Long Beach, California's shipping yards. Shipbuilders had to traipse all the way back to the dock to use the facilities, and one of them designed a portable toilet they could temporarily place on the deck of the ship under construction, thus increasing productivity of the workers who no longer had to take so much time to go visit the potty. You're welcome.

I also get a lot of hits on this post, and mostly, they are because of image searches . . . I guess because of the embryo picture? You have to admit, it is pretty cool.

But the worst one of all I just discovered the other day. Some poor soul -- I don't know if it was a desperate mother or an 8-year-old who just discovered Google Search on the internet -- searched for, "farts, burps, snot, boogers". And guess where they ended up? Yep. Right here, my friends. You are in elite company. Turns out, I wrote this post a while back about being a mother of boys. And I wrote those four words in one sentence. Of course, I also added in "poop" and "hurl". Because apparently, I am even more disgusting that the strange person who conducted the search in the first place.

Long live SiteMeter! How else would I know how I fit into the strange world of bizarre internet searches? And people think they're anonymous . . .

Quizzies and . . . what?

CPod took a religion course at BYU with a professor who surprised them from time to time with what he called "quizzies": brutal pop quizzes of 10 questions each. The class was small, and so the students developed a level of familiarity with one another and the professor, and all felt comfortable joking around to a certain degree.

One day, the professor, of course, sprung a "quizzie" on the class. After it was over, and they had traded papers to grade them, one young, innocent freshman girl said to the professor and class at large, "Boy! If these are your quizzies, I'd hate to see your testies!"

Oh, yes. She did. CPod says it took a minute for the awkward silence to finally degenerate into honest-to-goodness laughter, but that poor girl was never quite the same again.

My (Al)most Embarrassing Moment

Two-thirds of my children have been sick this week, which means I've been housebound since Tuesday. Yesterday, body temperatures were manageable, if not normal, and we were all headed for stir-craziness if we didn't get out of the house. So CPod and I bundled up our younguns, piled them in the car and went to run some errands.

We stopped at a few places, meandering up to a certain purveyor of rotisserie chickens and yummy side dishes. We ordered our food, got the kids corralled into a booth and sat down to eat.

It was at this point that I realized I had an urgent need to use the facilities. I scooted on over to the bathroom, did what I had to, and then washed my hands. As I turned to leave, another person came in . . . a little boy, about 10 years old or so. Who looked at me kind of strangely. I smiled and reached for the door handle, and then, glancing to my right, noticed . . . a urinal. Which they don't usually install in women's bathrooms, right? Right.

Come to think of it, I had wondered why the restroom only had one stall.

I wasn't really embarrassed, just a little alarmed that I hadn't noticed something so basic. CPod sure had a good chuckle, though.

But can you imagine how it could have gone? It could have been OH so much worse.

Imagine if I'd been in the stall and seen some manly shoes under the door waiting their turn. I'm sure I would have thought he was the one who had made the mistake -- especially since I didn't see the urinal until I was on my way out. And I would have said something . . . like, "Hey, um, I think you're in the ladies room." And he would have glanced significantly at the urinal and I would have averted my eyes lest he do something, you know, totally expected in a men's washroom, and slunk back to my table.

I shudder to think what wold have happened had I walked in on someone in midstream.

And worst of all, I'm having nightmares now about being accidentally stranded in the men's room stall, trapped by an endless stream (couldn't resist) of urinal users with no opportunity to escape from under cover without being noticed. Oh, the horror.

Next time, I'll pay closer attention. I'm the bald one in the ugly A-line dress, with cankles and absolutely no boobs, right?

A Good Girl's Encounters with the Law, Part I

This post is inspired by, and thus dedicated to, my good friend Destinee. Her post from earlier today prompted me to make such a long comment that I decided to halt my hijack of her blog and make an entry of my own.

When I was seventeen, the summer before my senior year, I drove a bunch of friends up to The Nearest City of Any Size for The Ubiquitous Street Festival. I remember I wore this awesome handpainted wraparound skirt that I got at some boho shop in my music camp college town, and I really thought I looked the part of the cool artsy girl. (I'm still trying to nail that look!)

My best friend A. had on espadrilles (sandals with straw bottoms) and in the dark, I'll admit it was hard to tell if the puddles we walked through were composed of mostly water or mostly beer. I suspect probably mostly beer, because after driving the 40 minutes back to my friend's house, my little car smelled like Anheuser-Busch had set up shop in the back seat.

A.'s house was in a little part of town up on the mountain that has it's own police force of 3. I'm not exaggerating. They were -- still are -- notorious for issuing citations for the most minor of offenses, and for having a lot of time on their hands to just sit around and wait for somebody to screw up. Enter me.

I left A.'s house in the dark, and got a little lost on all those windy mountain roads. It was a bit disorienting -- so much so that I failed to come to a complete stop at one intersection. I had barely pulled out onto the cross street when I saw blue lights in my rear view mirror. This was not my first ticket, so I was familiar with the drill. I got out my license and put on my prettiest smile and waited for him to come to my window.

Which he did. Maybe I should have wound it down before he came to the window. Then, maybe, he wouldn't have been assaulted with the unmistakable stench of alcohol when I opened it. Maybe, he wouldn't have been so suspicious of the little brown bag of trash sitting neatly between the front seats.

And maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't have found it necessary to give me a breathalyzer test right out there in front of God and everyone driving past to see. Oh, yes. Alcohol has never passed my lips, but I have had to blow into the liquor stick. With cars driving by. Carrying people I knew. Oh, the horror. At least he didn't make me walk the line.

Just wait. It gets worse.

So a few days before this little ill-fated excursion, I cut my hair. Drastically. Try from mid-back all the way up to boy-short in one fell swoop. And who thinks to get a new drivers license whenever they change hairstyles? Not this chica.

Small Town Cop looked at that license, then looked at me, then looked at the license, then looked at me again. I swear, he was going to take me on down to the station and book me for identity theft until I finally saw the name on his badge.

Turns out, his brother lives two doors down from my parents and when I finally came up with enough details about his nephew, he decided I might be telling the truth. And when he was finally convinced I wasn't a drunk driver out for a joyride, he let me go home with a warning. Where I arrived 35 minutes late. And, thankfully, where I found two parents who totally believed my outlandish story.

And that's why I never go to The Ubiquitous Street Festival in The Nearest City of Any Size anymore!

I was going to post about my subsequent legal troubles, but I'll save those for another post, and just call this one part one. That's all.