I know it's just hair, but I still might cry.

I was wandering Target last night (a perfectly acceptable Friday night activity) when Annie sent me a text. It was a brief conversation:

It was not one of my most open-minded moments, but her hair -- her natural-grows-out-of-her-head hair -- is so pretty. Dye her hair black? My mind immediately went to a pasty-white-faced girl wearing a safety pin through her ear and black combat boots on her feet. 

Honestly, look at this senior picture Mike took of her: 

I know I'm terribly biased, but I think she is beautiful and her hair is just gorgeous. So why in the world would she want to go and dye it at all, but especially why would she want to dye it black? 

She had an answer for that:

It was late, pushing 11:00pm. I didn't really have a good argument other than "because I said so." It is only hair. I was too tired to argue and figured in 6 weeks she will be 18 and technically able to make her own decisions anyway, barring "my house, my rules." And I'm trying to be less of a control freak. So I waved the white flag of surrender:

And because I'm still a work in progress on the whole control freak thing:

A mother can hope, right?

How Monday went down(hill)

My Monday started at 1:30am, when I went to bed. I stayed up late working on a project for work, one that I had to present at our 9am staff meeting. Bed at 1:30, alarm at 6am, hit snooze once or twice (or thrice). "I might get 5 hours of sleep," I thought to myself.

Enter Charlie with a bloody nose at 3:30am.

"Mom? Mom?" Why do they never ask for Dad? "I have a bloody nose and it's all over my pillow."

Ok. Out of bed, tend to bloody nose, be compassionate to big boy until the red tide has stopped and he's ok with going back to bed.4am. Zzzzzzzzzz.

6am. Boing! Boing! Boing! Annoying ring tone signals it's time to hit the snooze button.

6:09am. Boing! Boing! Boing! Snooze.

6:18am Boing! Boing! Boing! Oh crap!

"Anniecharlierobbie! Everyone up!"

Hop in the shower. Lather, rinse, out. Grab some clothes, attempt to shake the wrinkles out. Head downstairs to dish up honey nut genericOs and pack a carbalicious lunch for Robbie.

"Anniecharlie! Are you up? Robbie -- go get some socks from the sock basket. Charlie, I need to hear you...Robbie, now put the socks on. Your feet. Not on the kitchen table. Mike! Are you getting ready? She's gonna be here in 15 minutes! Kids come get your medicine. Robbie, the socks. NOW. Ok. Now shoes. Check the basement. Take this medicine. Charlie! You're gonna miss the bus. Come get your medicine. Annie, go start the car and turn on the defroster. Charlie..."

Up goes my hand, with Charlie's ADD medicine in it. Pop goes the pill in my mouth. Swig of Diet Coke and "Oh crap! What did I just do?! That wasn't my medicine."

And that was just the start to my day. I dropped the kids at their varied places, discovered two holes in the back of my shirt, and headed to a doctor's appointment. It was a new doctor in a new building. I found it easily enough, but wasn't sure which of the 4 entrances I should use. So I pulled into a spot, got out the registration letter and headed for an entrance. Clearly, the ADD meds hadn't kicked in yet because this is how I left my car in the parking lot:

Oops.

Off to the office, late for the meeting where I was scheduled to present the project I'd stayed up until 1:30am working on. You know, the project that my boss said during the meeting that we didn't really have time to discuss and could I just give a re-cap? That same meeting that I looked down at the agenda and saw another assignment that I was supposed to have finished but completely spaced.

Oh yeah, Monday was not loving me at that moment. Trust me, the feeling was mutual.

But things were looking up. Everyone in my office was set to go out to lunch to celebrate my birthday (belatedly). As the birthday girl, I got to pick the restaurant. So I did. But that place was deemed too far away. Plan B was a great Mexican place within walking distance of the office. I could almost taste the fish tacos and guacamole just thinking about them. That's as close I was going to get today...we walked there only to realize the place is closed on Mondays.

After lunch at Plan C, it was back to the office. My thoughts were racing (maybe those ADD meds?) and I had a tough time shaking the anxiety of the day. What happened next told me with no uncertainty that I had crossed into the danger zone.

I started thinking about how I would probably feel much better if I went for a walk. People, do you see what happened? The events of the day transcended my usual instincts to inhale some chocolate or find a donut STAT. Instead the unthinkable happened -- my stress had driven me to the point of CONTEMPLATING. EXERCISE. I told you it was serious.

Not wanting to get all sweaty, I opted instead to tune into the "relaxation station" on Pandora Radio. Some deep breathing and I was able to finish the work day.

The evening finished out circling back to get Mike's laptop bag that he left in the car of the woman nice enough to transport him to work and back; the younger-than-me people at Target giving me a whatchutalkinaboutwillis look when I said something about the Keystone Cops in reference to my day; and my internet connection blinking in and out as I am trying to finish this blog post.

Now I really need to hop in the bathtub and shave my legs. But I think I'll wait until Tuesday.

Two lies and a truth

Scenario #1: About 7:00 this morning, I awoke to the sound of breaking glass. I sat up to find two knife-wielding ninjas (thanks for the inspiration, Judy Daniell) coming in through the bedroom window.

"Mike!" I screamed. Upon hearing the panic in my voice, Mike leapt from te bed and engaged in some fierce hand-to-knife combat with these two very bad dudes. In the melee, he ended up with a broken ankle and torn ligaments.

Scenario #2: Early this morning, Mike was out riding his new FatBike (that's really what it's called). He heard shrieking and saw an old woman frantic because her little tabby cat had run into the street and into the path of a garbage truck. Mike pedaled with heroic speed and threw himself in front of the truck, saving the cat. However, the truck's rear tire ran over Mike's right leg, breaking his ankle and tearing a few ligaments in the process.

Scenario #3: While getting dressed this morning, Mike tripped over a pile of clothes that have been waiting for several weeks to be taken to Goodwill. He felt 3 pops and was in excruciating pain. A trip to the walk-in orthopedic clinic revealed a broken ankle and torn ligaments that will require surgery to repair next week.

Which do you think is the truth?

Missing GoGo

One year ago today, I wrote "What the obituary will not say."  Incredibly, a year has passed since my mother-in-law died. In that year, there have been birthdays and holidays and sacraments -- milestones in our lives that she should have been here for. That she was here for in spirit.

At Christmas, I gave each of the kids something I found among Karen's vast collection (the nice, memorial way of saying "basement full of crap") that I thought she would like them to have. Mike's dad had given us baskets full of old sheets -- Star Wars, Super Heroes, McDonald's, Battlestar Galactica, Peanuts -- that his mom had saved over the years. I had a friend turn those sheets into a quilt for Mike. It's a memory of his childhood and a hug from his mom all at the same time.

So now we've gone a whole year without her. Sometimes it doesn't seem possible. We've been sad, absolutely. Sometimes the tears come out of nowhere.

But we've also laughed, recalling stories of her, thinking out loud what she would think or say in certain situations. That's kept Karen alive for us and for the kids. Mike even started a Pinterest page where we've pinned things that remind us of her or things that she enjoyed.

She would have loved to hear all about Annie's first year of high school, expected phone calls after each of Charlie's basketball games and laughed at the funny things Robbie says. She would have questioned my sanity when I dyed my hair blue and given Mike at least 2 tubs of Vaseline for his dry elbows.

A few weeks ago, I was at the national headquarters of Karen's sorority. While waiting for the person I'd gone there to see, I stood in the foyer of the building filled with memorabilia. It was as if I could feel her there. If it wouldn't have seemed weird, I might have pulled up a chair and just soaked her in for a while.

The next day, I was giving a keynote address at a caregiver event. I was wearing Karen's favorite bracelet and sat down at one of the tables to go over my notes. I looked up and there was a pot of pansies sitting in front of me. Karen's favorite flower. She was there. I can only hope she'll be there in the next several months when Annie starts driving. (Heaven help us all!)

I'm not exactly sure how Karen would have us mark this day. Probably with a trip to the children's museum and a dinner of chicken pot pie. And a lot of laughter.

Mom, Karen, GoGo, Friend

Missed & loved.

The Erma test

After spending two plus days at the Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop, you can imagine the pressure I felt to come back and post something funny. I thought about it the whole way home. I even half-hoped my family would provide some fodder when I walked in the door.

I was so deep in thought that I barely heard, then subsequently ignored, the low fwap-fwap-fwap sound coming from somewhere behind me as I neared the end of the drive.

My hopes for humor-inducing minor catastrophe were dashed when I walked in to a pretty picked up looking house. Shoot.

Twenty minutes later, I was out the door again, on my way to the gas station/theatre class/soccer game/church. If there was a fwap-fwap-fwap going on, I didn't hear it. But as we pulled on to the highway, there was a very loud POPSLAP!

"What was that?" Annie asked.

"I don't know." I shook my head and kept driving.

There was no more fwap-fwap-fwap. But there was a loud and getting louder gruuuuund-gruuuuuund-gruuuuuuund. I looked around for some beater of a car driving by that could be making that ruckus. No luck. By this time it was clear that I -- or at least my car -- was the source of the ruckus. I didn't really want to pull over on the side of the highway, so I put my flashers on and slowly drove to the nearest exit, just around the bend.

That's when I noticed the bluish-black smoke and started to smell something burning. Had I lost my tailpipe? Was the radiator dragging? Was the engine on fire?

Now off the highway, I pulled over to the side of the road, turned off the car and braced myself for what I might find.

That bluish-black smoke? Does "burn rubber" mean anything to you? Oh yes, ladies and gentlemen, fwap-fwap-fwap, POPSLAP and gruuuuund-gruuuuuund-gruuuuuund are the sounds of a leaking, exploding, and finally shredding tire.

I am happy to report that I did NOT cry. I did what any other blogger/recent attendee of the Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop would do. I raised my eyes to the heavens, laughed at the knowledge that Erma was putting me to the test, and started taking pictures.

(No, I don't think Erma Bombeck has the power to cause my tire to shred. I'm sure she put God up to it.)

After I was finished taking pictures, it was time to find the spare tire. I was pretty sure it was in the trunk -- under my luggage from the conference, my CPAP machine, the earth-friendly grocery bags, the extra fabric from Annie's $100 uniform skirt, the pair of shoes I meant to take back to Old Navy last fall, two Christmas gifts I knew I bought but couldn't find in December, three blankets in case we ever got stranded on the side of the road in the wintertime, and the body of Jimmy Hoffa.

Just after I moved all that stuff to the inside of the car and before I could figure out if our AAA membership is still active, a big maroon truck pulled up behind me and a guy asked if I needed help. After quickly reasoning that he wouldn't kill me in front of my children, I said sure.

Ten minutes and some small talk as I waved oncoming cars to the other lane later, I was on my way.  Thanks to Darrell of the big maroon truck for coming to my rescue.

And thanks to Erma for helping me laugh about it.

untitled

Syrup is on the shirt, dripping off the table, sticking to the floor.
"I was just having a snack, Mom."

Week-old, old-school metal lunchbox is crunched beyond usability.
"I was trying to make it fit, Mom."

Dog is off and running, leash-free, through the neighborhood.
"I didn't mean to, Mom."

Possible titles for this post:

• 7-year-old for sale
• Lovable deep down
• Where is the Margarita Fairy when you need her?

Got any other suggestions?

I've always hated statistics.

I love words. I mean I LOVE them, with all capital letters. And as much as I love letters and words and sentences and paragraphs, that is how much I hate numbers and equations and all the specific and factual properties associated with them. In fact, my worst subject in college was statistics. I HATE statistics -- and now, my husband is one.

Mike was downsized from his job as a graphic/web designer/social media guru today. His job that he just started in August. His job that he really enjoyed. He was good at it; he could make telecom expense management sound interesting. Unfortunately, the company he was working for (until 1pm this afternoon) is struggling. Sales have been low, too low. Mike is not the first one they've had to let go. And he probably won't be the last.

He said his boss was unhappy having to let him go. She said it had nothing to do with his performance, just that she "is no longer being given the resources to fund his position."

I think we're both shellshocked, but not surprised. When Mike called to tell me the news this afternoon, I thought he was joking at first. After I hung up the phone, I went into full GO mode, making lists of things he needs to do, people he should contact. Then I put the list away. It can wait a few days while he catches his breath and processes it all.

This bitter pill has been made easier to swallow by the fact that they've asked him to turn in some proposals for freelance work. So there is some hope there. Another position he saw before the holidays (and considered with some interest before ultimately deciding he wanted to put his full effort into growing his impact at his then-current job) has been re-posted. He's already heard from a friend with a lead for some other freelance work.

So we're not devastated -- yet...who knows how we'll feel when the shock wears off. There is reason to be at least mildly optimistic. Plus, I still have my job and the few freelance blog writing gigs that I do each month.

And for the moment, we're finding humor where we can. When I picked the kids up from school today, Charlie asked if I could chaperone a field trip on a Tuesday morning.

"I bet Dad could do that," I said.

Then Robbie wanted to know if I was coming to school for 100s day.

"I think Dad might be there," I answered.

So I told them. "Dad was let go from his job today."

"Legos?!" yelled Robbie, our resident Lego addict. That was good for a laugh.

We'll keep looking for the laughs because they feel good -- and because you can't quantify them with statistics.