The Request

My daughter texted me asking if she could bring a friend to Thanksgiving dinner.

"Sure," I said and I meant it.  The more, the merrier.

Then she texted me instructions.  She said, "Be normal and don't wear something too weird." 

Yeah, good-luck with that, Kate. 

Hats, hats and more hats...and with pictures!

Several people had questions about last week's post, so here's the clarification you requested.  The headgear that Jerry's wearing (no, it's not a shower cap) is a feathered headband and was worn during a New Year's Eve that we celebrated with our friends and former neighbors, the Grayelettis.  The beautiful - but unhappy- baby is our own sweet Brody on the occasion of his first birthday.  He obviously doesn't like hats as well as his grandpa.

Brody's Uncle Josh loves a good hat, too.

Josh has quite a collection of hats and in that, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.  I have enough pictures of my husband in goofy hats that I could wallpaper the dining room with them....but I don't and perhaps that's why we're still married after all these years.  However, I am not above including one in this blog occasionally, especially if I think I can get a laugh out of it. I thought the feather hat would do it, but didn't count on people not being able to recognize what it was. 

Enchanting!

Precious

Now that I think about it, it's not just the guys in our family that love wearing hats for all occasions, it's just that they look the funniest in them.  We gals look cute in velvet witches hats or adorable in homemade birthday hats but people don't usually laugh out loud at us. 

The men, for some reason, are funnier than we are when they put on hats.  I don't know why but I do know on a gut level that this picture of Jerry from the 1970s will make some people laugh out loud. 

"Chris, look what I found in the basement!"

And, finally, here are a few pictures from the Zimmerman tiara collection. If this isn't enough to land me in divorce court, I think this marriage will probably last a lifetime.

Tiara and wig - jackpot!

Mine has an understated elegance

Little Kate

"Oh!  What kind of family have I
gotten myself into?"

That Awkward Stage

Whenever anyone says, "I'm having a bad hair day." I feel a twinge of envy - not because I wish to look worse than I do but because they are able to quantify their bad hair into days.  To say "I'm having a bad hair week ...or month ...or year" just doesn't sound as cute.  If I were honest, I'd have to say "I'm having a bad hair decade" which knocks me into the realm of the whiny now, doesn't it?  Whiny for sure but honest, too.

I first became aware of hair issues when I looked at my sixth-grade class picture.  Sixth grade is an awkward age anyway and this picture is painful to see.  My bangs sort of made this horrifying swoop across my forehead (and beyond) that caused me to want to swear off bangs forever.  (And the sparkly blue glasses?  Let's not go there either.)

I am blessed with thick, heavy hair.  The only time it looks good is on the day when I have it professionally cut.  When beauticians see me come through their door, they all either go on break or scurry to the back to try to look busy, hoping to avoid being the unlucky one to give me my haircut.  It is painfully obvious to them that this is going to be more than just a mere haircut - it's going to be a project.  It will take far too long for what they are going to be able to charge me.  (By simply glancing at me, they can see I'm the kind of patron who is carrying that $7.95 coupon wadded up in the pocket of my ratty blue jeans.) 

When I was a newlywed, my mother-in-law said, "I prefer your hair short, Chris." Because she was my mother-in-law, I ignored her and started growing my hair out.  It was the era of frazzled or stringy hair days.  Sometimes frazzled and stringy hair days.  Not my best look. 

Somewhere along the way to my 50s, I learned of Locks of Love, an organization that takes donated hair and makes wigs, primarily for children stricken with cancer or alopecia.  You grow your hair out to nine inches below the nape of your neck, put it in a pony tail, cut it off, put it in an envelope and mail it.  Simple.  Elegant.  Worthwhile.  I did that.  It felt really good, so I decided to start growing it again.  My hair grows really fast and it got to be mid-back length in only a couple of years. 

Around this time, our daughter Katie was a senior in high schol.  On her spring break all her friends went on exotic vacations and she was stuck at home, bored.  I have mentioned before in this blog that she has a Svengali-like effect on me and I am therefore powerless to exert my own will when under her spell (see the post entitled "I'm Being Dressed by Barbie" for further proof.)  When she suggested that she dye my hair red, I said, "Why not?"  Off to the drug store we went. 

There was an amazing array of products to choose from but our goal was specific.  We were not going for clown hair here, just something to add a little pizazz to my natural mouse brown.  We skipped burgundy and even auburn and settled "medium reddish brown." 

At home, we were giddy with excitement. Kate started working in the coloring foam when she realized that I had way too much hair or not enough dye, same diff.  She left me sitting there and went back to the store to get more.  Now I'm no Einstein but I do understand basic chemistry (not really) enough to know this was a recipe for disaster.  I ended up with circles of hair that didn't take the color and other parts that were super-saturated.  This was permanent hair coloring. What was I thinking? 

And so it was that I decided to cut my long hair again, only to find out that Locks of Love does not accept color-treated hair. I was disappointed but hair grows and in the blink of an eye it was shoulder length again but now there were strands of silver in it.  Locks of Love does not want gray hair, either.  Both colored and gray hair do not accept color the same as hair with natural coloring in it and, after all, they are making wigs for children.  I don't even want gray hair, why would they? 

This summer I was on my way to my class reunion and stopped in Cleveland to visit Kate, who took one look at me and dragged me off the the closest Cut and Curl.  She hovered over the stylist, telling her every hair to cut, how long to cut it and basically micromanaging the experience in every way she could.  They got to the front and I put my foot down.  "No bangs." I declared.  Katie thought I'd look good in bangs. "No."  I insisted.  She insisted.  I left with bangs.

Whenever I look in the mirror now, the awkward sixth-grade me peeks out through the wrinkles in the form of a weird swoop of bangs.  "I can kind of see what you mean." Katie admits.  The funny thing is, I don't mind it as much as I did the first time.  I think I've finally grown into being comfortable with who I am, no matter what I look like on the outside.  Considering that time is speeding by at an alarming rate, this is probably a very,very good thing.

Naughty, Naughty Erik

Both of my daughters have an impressive history of getting boys to do, well, pretty much anything the girls want them to.  We have an entire photo album filled with pictures of boys with moussed hairdos, boys with green goop on their faces and cucumber slices over their eyes, boys soaking their feet in peppermint foot soak. There are pictures of boys dressed in prom dresses, in cheerleading outfits, and my favorites of all -- the boys with the colorfully painted fingernails.
You have to be pretty persuasive to get a macho guy to let you paint his fingernails pink! 

Once my oldest daughter, now retired to wedded bliss and motherhood, actually shaved the chest of one hairy, hairy senior in high school.  God love him, he was working pouring asphalt that summer - a hot and miserable job.  At work, he would sweat profusely but after that fateful evening's shaving, he refused to remove his t-shirt because he knew the other guys on his crew would never let him live down his hairless chest.  (Later he admitted that when the hair grew back, it itched like crazy.)

Tonight my youngest daughter, a Chelsea Handler* in-training as well as a waitress at an upscale eatery, convinced one of her coworkers (who will now and henceforth be referred to as "naughty, naughty Erik") that it would be funny to pull a little prank on her mother.  (Me.)  I know that naughty, naughty Erik is not to blame for this hoax.  No, he was just the latest victim, lured into Katie's web of deceit.  Katie should be a lawyer.  She is very persuasive.  I have my own laundry list of things she's convinced me to do against my will, so what chance does one of her peers have to resist her?

(*Chelsea Handler is a comedian that is known for her elaborate practical jokes.)

Waitressing and I go way back - back to the time when we were waiters and waitresses, not just the generic "servers" of today.  I loved the thrill of a crazy busy shift and understand the boredom of a quiet one.  Serving is a demanding job, but if you perform it well, people leave money on the table for you.  How cool is that?

Tonight, just as we were finishing dinner, the phone rang.

"Hello, is Katie there?"  the very professional sounding man said.

"No, you've reached her mother.  I am in South Carolina.  She doesn't live here."

"Well, this is the contact number on her application form.  I am calling from her work trying to reach her because she didn't come in this evening."  he said.

"She worked the morning shift," I replied.

"She was supposed to work both, but she didn't show up." he countered, smooth as silk.

"I will have her call you right away," I said, already hearing imaginary ambulance sirens and feeling my blood pressure soaring to new heights.

"Thank you," said he and he hung up.

Now, only kids will think that calling somebody's mother and scaring the heck out of her is funny.  All mothers know that I went into panic mode and saw hundreds of scary scenarios unfold on the movie screen of my mind.  Mentally, I was already packing my bags and buying airline tickets, on my way to rescue my baby. 

Not for one second did it occur to me that this might have been a prank phone call, so trustworthy and believable did this guy sound. He missed his calling, too. He should have been an actor.

I called Kate.  She didn't pick up.  I called again.  And again.  And again.  I had the feeling that she was avoiding me, which relieved me somewhat and caused my fear to morph into irritation.  I texted her that she had to CALL NOW.  I called again.  I got a text from her but I was already calling again.

Finally she picked up and said, "Gotcha!  I'm actually at work.  That's what happens when we get bored.  It was my friend Erik who called you."  I didn't believe her, so she sent me a picture of them to prove it.

As my blood pressure was falling back into the normal range, I thought next time there's a lull in the action, maybe she could just paint Erik's fingernails pink.

Road Trip, Part II

On my way to Michigan I stopped in Cleveland for a quick visit with my daughter Kate.  That girl can talk me into anything which is why my hair is now so short.  Does losing weight by getting a haircut count?


When the visit was over, Katie wrote out the directions to Detroit by hand.  She packed me little bags of sweets and treats to eat on the way and gave me a short pep talk.  Even though I had eaten the chocolate before the car rolled out of her parking lot, I still had carrots to munch on and felt pampered.


Much of the trip from Cleveland to Detroit is on the I-80 turnpike, a fast, stress-free drive.  As night fell though, I  realized two things.  First, I couldn't read the directions.  Second, Kate had sent me on I-696, the Michigan Autobahn -- zoom
zoom.  On both sides of me millions of vehicles with twinkling headlights were hurling through space at speeds that rocked the light fantastic.

My lane was different though.  We were traveling at a much more sensible speed -- at least those cars lucky enough to be in the lane behind me.  I know I was significantly improving their driving experience by allowing them that rare opportunity to relax and unwind because every time I looked in the rear view mirror, the line behind me was longer.  Clearly they were grateful. What a satisfying feeling!

Okay, right -- in my dreams.   Actually people were driving like there had been a nuclear explosion behind them and this was the sole route to safety.  Anyone behind me, the lone driver on the entire expressway driving the speed limit (a tooth rattling 70 mph), rapidly changed lanes and probably even flipped me the finger as they passed, but all I saw was a blur.   

So relieved was I to reach my exit alive that it didn't much matter to me that I tarnished my sterling driving reputation by calling my daughter Jessica six times for directions.  In the end, I only had to make one u-turn at one of those strange intersections with that peculiar sign that says, "drivers turning left stay right." That defies logic but somehow it all works out.  I eased my car into the driveway just in time to kiss my grandson goodnight.

So far, the worst thing that has happened to me on this trip is that I've been forced to pump my gas myself.  Most of it has even ended up in the tank.

It's all good.

Win, win

After reading my last post, my daughters asked me to make a few clarifications.  Malibu Barbie wants you to know that she never dresses me.  Indian Princess Barbie says you will know if she's dressed me by whether I look good or not.  If I do, she did.  If not, then not.


Princess has a point.  Today, for example, I am wearing a (formerly) white tee shirt that my son-in-law intended for Goodwill and a pair of striped men's boxer shorts that at one time belonged to Malibu Barbie's boss.  I'm ashamed to admit that this is not even a low in wardrobe choices;  sometimes they are actually worse.  I know this because I have been looking at old photographs.  Talk about masochism!


I realized I've pretty much spent a lifetime looking frumpy, dowdy and generally wearing clothes that frankly weren't all that flattering.  Then I remembered:  I made a pact with myself when Princess was born that I wouldn't buy anything new until I got down to my pre-pregnancy weight.  My reasoning, I dimly recall, was along the lines of motivational. The thought was that I would inspire myself to lose those last few pounds faster. 


Well that was a dumb, dumb idea! Daughter is pushing twenty-three and I recently lost almost enough to get down to my highest weight during that pregnancy. About now would be a perfect time to admit defeat.  I could justify an entire new wardrobe with just that single sentence, one that will make me look like the hottie that is trapped inside me.  Except now I don't want anyone to see my wrinkly chest, my bat-wings or my chicken neck. 


So what I'm saying here is that I'm going to let vanity prohibit me from wearing more stylish clothes?  Isn't that the very same trap I set for myself originally?  Apparently these last few decades have taught me nothing. 
 
So, thank God Indian Princess got old enough to take charge of the situation!  Tomorrow she will be arriving for a week's visit.  She will probably take one look at me and drag me off shopping.  We will go directly from the airport to the mall.


She will get to do what she likes best (shopping) and I will get to do what I like best (spending time with her!)  So it's win, win. 


Ain't life grand? 

My suspicions have been confirmed.

I just read an interesting article on my facebook feed that confirms what I've always known.  The gist of this scientific piece was that studies show that daughters do not dress like their mothers. (Duh...did we, the people, pay for this study?) Interestingly though, they say that mothers who feel their daughters have fashion sense take cues for their own style of dress from their girls.  In other words, daughters don't dress like their mothers but mothers dress like their daughters.


So there you have it.  I'm being dressed by Barbie.