The Look

I haven't had the luxury of a good haircut in a long time. I usually just go to Fantasic Sams and have them hack off a good 5 or six inches once a year.

I used to have my friend Christa cut my hair before she took time off to have her darling baby boys.

She would give me the best hair styles to frame my face. They were up to date and youthful because she is up to date and youthful.

I enjoyed sitting there in the salon with her chatting about this and that. But there was always a point that I dreaded. She would spritz the final touch of hairspray with a flourish and hand me the mirror. I would stiffen. She would smile at me encouragingly. I would set my face. She would nod. I would relax and look at my hair and she would say:

"There! You just did it!"

"What?" I would be crushed. "Did what?"

"That Look. The same look you always make when I'm done cutting your hair."

"But I tried so hard not to." I would whine.

"It never fails. You always do it." My beautiful blonde and smug friend.

This became a not-so-looked-forward-to tradition between the two of us. Well, I didn't look forward to it. I'm sure Christa did. She would always laugh delightedly when she saw "The Look". As hard as I tried, I never disappointed her.

***

So last night, I'm getting Celeste and Emme ready for a Father Daughter Dance at the local Country Club. They bathe and wash their hair, dress in lovely black and white taffetta dresses, put on their Sharpay perfume. They then announce to eachother that it's time to go the Hairdresser.

That's where I step in. I'm the Hairdresser. I plug in the hot rollers. I set out my tools and I blow Celeste's hair dry. The hot rollers are hot.
"I just want one roller Mom. Right in the front." is Celeste's request.

I indulge her with one roller. I blow dry Emme's hair.

Celeste takes off the roller after a bit. She looks in the mirror. She has one curl cascading down the side of her head. It lies serenely on top of the rest of her silky straight locks. I regard her hairstyle, thinking that I like it, but maybe it could use some tweaking. I plan on tweaking it in a moment.

I'm still drying Emme's hair when I feel someone's eyes on me. Celeste is looking at me long and hard. I look back at her questioningly.

"Mommy. You gave me The Look."

My blood runs cold.

"What Look?" I ask cautiously.

"That look that you always make when you don't like how I combed my hair."

Oh. That Look.

I get it now.

It's not a bad look. All it means is that I like it, but it could use some personal tweaking. It's a look reserved only for hair.

I think Christa would have loved to have been there.

Conversations in the Minnie Van part 3

I have to write this down before I forget...

One morning, I was driving the girls to school. It was a gorgeous January day, just starting, and the kids' music was playing in the car. The girls were singing and the baby was drinking from her sippy cup.

Halfway there, Brookie dropped her sippy cup on the floor of the Minnie Van. Celeste tried to bend down to get it for her, but her seatbelt stopped her.

"Mom, could you get Brooke's sippy cup for her?" Celeste asked.

"Sure! Wait until I get to a stop sign." I answered.

At the next stop sign, I bent over and reached for the cup. As I handed it to Brooke, I realized I had seen something disturbing. There was no one behind me, so I took another look.

Emme was only wearing one shoe.

I started the van off toward school and said,

"Hey Emme. You're only wearing one shoe."

Emme looked at her feet.

"Oh yeah!" She said. "I guess I forgot to put on the other one."

Thinking back on my days at St. Hilary, I recall that one of my worst nightmares was going to school without shoes on.

"Emme. Are you okay with this? It doesn't bother you to be wearing only one shoe?"

"Yeah, it's okay, Mom." She assures me.

"Well, you're living my worst nightmare!" I say.
(Celeste gasps. I never claimed I was the best mother in the world.) "We need to find some shoes for you in this car so you can go to school with two shoes on!"

I start to think. All of last year, we had about 5 pairs of shoes in the car, but I had recently taken up a habit of cleaning it out nearly every day. There were no shoes except for their dance shoes.

"How about you wear your tap shoes?" I tell Emme. "Yeah, you can wear your tap shoes. Wouldn't that be cool?"

"No way mom. I am not going to be tapping around my classroom in tap shoes all day. I'd rather have one shoe." Emme is stubborn.

Celeste tries to help. "I can wear the tap shoes and Emme can wear my school shoes."

I think about this, but I can't stand the thought of Celeste tapping around the whole school in tap shoes. Emme's right. It's just too wierd.

We get to school and park. I send Celeste off to first grade and decide that I will have to buy a pair of shoes for Emme at Target which is just 5 minutes away from school.

"Mom, you're going to have carry me into my classroom. I don't want to get my sock dirty."

I pick up Emme and turn her in to Mrs. Margo who looks at me with a raised eyebrow.

"How did she get past you with one shoe on?" I can see her imagine Emme walking outside to our car, me oblivious to my child's welfare. Then I see the light turn on.
"Oh! you have an attached garage! It would be easy for her to get in the car without you noticing!"

Yep. I smile at One Shoe Emme.

"Okay! I'll be back with some shoes. See you soon!"

"Okay Mama! I love you!"

I love her too. So much.

Emme's Laugh

Emme has a wonderfully infectious laugh that makes you want to laugh too no matter how unfunny the situation at hand may be.

She throws her head back and, with that gorgeous toothy smile of hers, let's go.

When she's done laughing she, all the while grinning, heaves a bit for a breath and says:

"Good Times. Good Times."

I know for a fact that she got that line from "The Grinch Who Stole Christmas" which is her all time favorite movie.

So this tells me she gets the irony.

This kid kills me.

Happy Valentine's Day!

I'm wondering why the greeting card companies put those little stamp squares (place postage here) on the envelopes for Valentine cards to husbands and wives.

I get that there are people who are overseas and want to send cards to their spouses, but do the overseas greeting card manufacturers (say the Afghani ones) put the little stamp squares on their envelopes?

Not only that, but the ratio of people who give their spouses greeting cards in person is likely greater than than the people who send their cards overseas.

Okay, so not overseas - how about if a person's spouse were in another state? If Bruce were, say in Boston (or for that matter, I'll take him overseas to London where he once was for Valentine's day), I would just wait until he got home to give him his Valentine's day card.

I'm just going to belabor the subject a bit more: Say I'm a military wife and want to send my hubby a Valentine's day card. I wouldn't just send a card. I would send pix of the kids and artwork from them and some homemade cookies and a sweater - lot's of goodies in a big box where I would tuck in the Valentine card right on top. No need for little square once again!

And while I'm at it, why do we need a square anyway? Are we that dumb that we can't figure out where to place a postage stamp? Has email taken over our lives so much that we've forgotten how to write a note and send it via snail mail? If that were the case, then I'd send my Valentine an E-CARD!

Okay - I'm losing it, but here's the thing: that little gray square (place postage here) completely offends my sense of aesthetics. I wish it were gone. I would have liked to have had a nice clear white rectangle on which to write "To Bruce" unmarred by a little grey square in the upper right hand corner.

Yeah, I put a sticker (not a stamp) to cover it up, but it's not the same.

Mitie's Vinca

Vinca, our platinum Burmese kitten, is the only pedigreed being in this family. But you know, I was thinking, My dad was mexican and my mom's dad was born in Mexico and so was her mom's dad and it goes pretty far back on all sides. Further back than Vinca maybe.

Does that make me pedigreed too?

So what would I be called I wonder?

Moctezuma's Monica Armendariz Sanchez de Miller?

just a thought

My Brownie

One fine day, this past summer, my friend Dominique asked me if I would like to be a co-leader with her for a Girl Scout Troop. "Sure" I said. I'm always game to take up a new activity that costs money, time and lots of volunteer work.

We had a slow start rounding up interested parties, but boy did we take off as a troop during Girl Scout Cookie season. Cookie sales are not my forte. Selling anything is not my forte. I like to buy. I love to buy. But selling....ugh.

At first, I listed my goal for selling cookies as 5 boxes. "5 boxes!" My friend Monica stared at me in surprise. "Yes. 5 boxes is a fine goal. You know, that's 5 boxes for each girl." (Celeste is a Brownie and Emme is a Daisy.)

"Monica,", says my friend Monica W. "Surely you can sell more than 10 boxes. Everyone loves to buy Girl Scout cookies. They practically sell themselves. I set my goal for 100 boxes."

"Yes, well," I reply. "I like to set my sights low so that I when I pass my goal, I feel good about myself."

Monica, the psychologist by trade, raises her eyebrow at me.

"Fine. I say. 50 boxes."

The next day, I get a call from Dominique. "We've already sold 200 boxes, and we've just begun!" Nice.

Michelle sends me an email. "Wow. I sold 100 boxes at work today. The first day!"

hmmm

Bruce took our order form to work. But guess what? One of his co-workers jumped the gun and took his daughter's form to work the week before the sale even started. (whine). He sold 100 boxes.

"Give me his troop number. I'm reporting him." I growl.
"There is no way I'm going to hunt him down to get the troop number so that you can report him." Bruce laughs at me. bwahahaha rings in my brain.

Celeste, who is listening in, says, "Mom, let me sell the cookies at school."

"Oh boy" I think. All of her classmates are Brownies. One has cornered the market already. She is in for disappointment. Ignoring my protective instinct, I say "Okay, Celeste, I'll put a form in your backpack to take."

She came home with 20 orders.
*
This Sunday afternoon, my Celeste, my shy, darling little daughter tells me, "Mom, let's go sell Girl Scout cookies. Now." I groan inwardly. "But I've already changed my clothes. Go ask Dad."
"No way." Says Bruce.
"Mom, all you have to do is put on some jeans. You'll be fine."

I put on some jeans and off we went.
We spent two hours in our neighborhood. Celeste would walk up to each door and bravely ring the doorbell. "Hello" she would say in her delicate little voice. "Would you like to buy some Girl Scout Cookies?"

My neighbors were no pushovers.
As I watched with anxiety, I heard:

Neighbor: "How much per box?"
Celeste: "One package for 4 dollars".

Neighbor: "When are you going to deliver them?"
Celeste: "I will be back with your cookies March 1st."

Neighbor: "Do you want me to pay now?"
Celeste: "You can pay now or when I deliver your cookies."

My steel magnolia.
I had not coached her on what to say. I had not pushed her. I was ready to go home after 3 houses, but she didn't want to stop. Steadily she went on, politely offering her cookies, answering questions and admiring pets. I am filled with admiration for her.

This tiny little kid sold 54 boxes today. All on her own with me simply there as her adult escort.

This is what Girl Scouting is all about. Courage, Confidence and Character. I had the privilege of watching it in action right before my very eyes.

I learned a lot today.

Emme who had accompanied us, looked up at me with those huge hazel eyes. "When I'm a Brownie, can I sell Cookies door to door too?"

Knowing it's not so bad, and even something to look forward to next year, I answer,
"Of course my love!"

Not So Much

So we just get home from the girls' jazz and tap class from which I have been exactly one half hour late for two weeks in a row.

Such a long story, which ends up with me mortified when the teacher announces that they would practice jazz first next week because SOME people can't make it to class on time.

I apologized to the teacher and explained that I had the times mixed up, but I spent the next couple of hours wallowing in humiliation and self flagellation.

We get home and Brooke is screaming for milk, Emme is singing "Vinnie Valentine" at the top of her lungs and Celeste is desperately trying to do her homework in all of the noise and clatter while I try to make some dinner.

As fish sticks bake in the oven, I am trying to load the dishwasher when Brooke, who has abandoned her cup of freshly poured milk, decides to help me. I want to get this done, but she is insistent on helping. It's nice that she wants to help, but she is 21 months old and I am tired and my brain is fried and Emme is SO LOUD with her singing while Celeste is reciting her memory verse from school.

I can't take it anymore. The hackneyed saying "Calgon Take Me Away!" (really, when am I ever going to take a bath with Calgon no less?) is repeating itself over and over in my head. I snatch a cup away from Brooke who has put it in the dishwasher upside down and I yell at Emme to STOP SINGING! please.

It is silent for a blissful moment. Celeste grabs the opportunity to innocently recite her memory verse,
"Love is patient. Love is kind...."