The Achy Breaky Two Tone Snooky Do

CONFESSION:  I am a minivan driving, school volunteering, Starbucks drinking, child extra-curricular event attending mother of three over forty.  WTF happened?

Last thing I remember was getting initiated into a sorority in college and going to a LOT of parties, and then I vaguely remember dating this guy because he seemed like someone who would really piss off my dad, and then SURPRISE! the joke's on me because I married him and bore three of his children and here we are in this house that doesn't clean itself with that minivan parked at the curb.  Whoosh!  Take cover, Pa, it's a tornado in the trailer park!

It's no secret that I want to believe I am still in my late twenties.  I may not be able to control my varicose veins or my batwings or the family gobbler forming under my chin or the Three-Baby Pooch that rests on the top of my low-slung jeans, but I can control my fashion sense, my taste in music, and my hair.

I confess, I am still stuck in the Gap.  My uniform is Gap jeans or khakis with various versions of the Gap t-shirts or western shirts.  These clothes say to me, "Hey, you could pass for a teaching assistant in college!  You could be in a bar!  There's no way you drive a minivan!"  when what they are really saying is, "Guess the make and model of my minivan?"  Therefore, I have to occasionally mix it up with a funky thrift store vintage shirt or something from Anthopologie.  I guess what I'm trying to say is my wardrobe is confusing.  Like my personality.

I listen to college bands.  I have always had an insanely emotional attachment to music, and there is nothing better than finding the perfect song to express what you're feeling.  It's like someone else 'gets it'.  It never hurts if the lead singer or guitarist is cute.  I love me a good guitarist crush.

 Flavor of the month:

Damian Kulash, from Ok Go.  

He's 35, so it isn't TOTALLY cougar.

I plan on being one of those old women who wear their hair long forever.  It's all I got.  I will let it gracefully go gray, after I am well past 55.  For now, those suckers are getting covered.  I'm a pretty low maintenance gal, but I do spend a chunk of change every 12 weeks or so getting fake color put in my hair.  I want to look sassy, not brassy.  I know it doesn't look like I was born with it, I'm not THAT delusional, but I want it to look like I care about something when I have the jelly donut stains down the front of my Gap t-shirt.

Today, I went in for the quarterly transformation, and my stylist (who is a lovely, perky, cute blonde twenty something who is going to Mexico next week for a wedding as a single, unattached fun-loving home-owning person...what was I talking about?) talked me into doing some layers.  SOME layers.  I love her dearly, but two hours later I left with Billy Ray Cyrus on my head - the light side AND the dark side.  And no one wants to see the dark side of Billy Ray.  When I saw her cutting some big chunks out of my previously unlayered hair, I had visions of Rachel Green from Friends, and some quick math told me that The Rachel hadn't been in style for at least 10 years.

When they spin that chair around and you face the music, if you don't like it, do YOU say something?  I've been seeing this girl for over three years, I don't want to hurt her feelings.  And there is a part of me saying, "They can't glue it back on, honey, just pick up your dignity, pay the bill and get the hell out."  I went home and tried to flatten out the Rachel bump and reduce the look of the Mom Mullet, but to no avail.  Then I looked in the mirror at the back of my head.  Oh no.  The dark side was darker than I thought.  Luke Skywalker had the crown and Darth Vader had the ends and they were fighting for dominance somewhere in the middle.  

Vader layer:  "Yes!  Yes, give in to your hate of the hair color!  The force is strong with this color!  Come to the dark side!"

Luke layer:  "No!  I will never give in to you!  I want to go to the light!  I'm looking into the light!"

Creepy old lady from Poltergeist:  "Don't look into the light!  Stay away from the light!"

Almond Joy commercial:  "Sometimes you feel like a nut..."

After looking at my hair too long, I decided I was being ridiculous.  I worked all afternoon, but the whole time, Billy Ray Cyrus was singing in my head.  Ross was trying to date me, and then break up with me.  Darth and Luke were fighting, with the Emperor cackling in the background.  Finally, the kids got home from school.

YD:  "Mommy, did you get your hair cut?"

ME:  "Yes."

YD:  "Oh."

Son:  "I like it Mother.  Can I have chips and salsa?"

OD:  "Um, it's like...two tone.  Did you get it colored in two shades?"

My middle schooler called me Two Tone.  Oh my God, I had to get back to blonde unattached home-owner before she left for Mexico, because what if she never came back and only she knows the chemical formula for the color in the Luke Skywalker side of my hair?

My hair is now officially bipolar.

And a pseudo-mullet.

I called extremely cute stylist and told her I was worried about the Dark Side.  She told me that it's always hard to see the highlights in the lower layers.  We sat in silence for a moment, and then I got some Mom Balls and said, "Yeah, well I need the layers to match."  I am scheduled to go in at 11:30 today, and now I'm even more afraid.  What if I've offended her?  What if, to make her point, she goes over the top and makes me really light on the bottom layer?  What if it actually tips the balance so the top half of my hair is Joan Jett and the bottom half is Blondie?  Will I love Rock n' Roll, or will I be in Rapture?

What have I done?

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 21

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word culture. Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.

Today's topic: Celebrity Marriages.

"I always just hoped that, that I'd meet some nice friendly girl, like the look of her, hope the look of me didn't make her physically sick, then pop the question and... um... settle down and be happy. It worked for my parents. Well, apart from the divorce and all that!"

- Tom, Four Weddings and a Funeral

I'm sorry, men, but in the words of the poet Jon Bon Jovi, you give love a bad name.  Celebrity husbands?  I'm talking to you.  Is it a particular plague among celebrity husbands, or is it just that no one cares enough that Phil McCracken of Dubuque, Iowa, is screwing around to put it on the cover of People?  Does Joe Blow screw around as much as your average Hollywood husband or wife?  This question, coupled with my obsession with Girl Scout cookies and therefore acid reflux, is what keeps me awake at night.  (Really, it's the cookies.  I know lots of people cheat.)

Sandra Bullock is only the latest Hollywood wife to discover her husband has been burning the coal in someone else's furnace.  Before her Brad left Jennifer for Angelina and Reese caught Ryan with Abbie and Sadie caught Jude with Sienna (who caught him with the nanny) and Uma caught Ethan with Ryan (who was the nanny) and Halle caught Eric with everyone.  Let's not forget Elin or Vanessa Bryant in sports or Elizabeth Edwards and Silda Spitzer and Jenny Sanford and Mrs. Larry Craig and Mrs. James McGreevey and Mrs. Bill Clinton....Really.  I could go on forever.

Famous women caught cheating on their men...um, maybe Madonna and A-Rod?  Farrah left Lee Majors for Ryan O'Neal?  Anyone?  Anyone?  Bueller?

To right this wrong, I have developed a simple multiple choice test for women to give their famous husbands.  Answered honestly, I think it will save some heartache.  You're welcome, Hollywood.

1.  You ask me on a date.  You:
a) Ask me if I want to stay in or go out.
b) Take me to In 'n Out Burger.
c) Say you'd like to screw my sister.

2.  While dating, I have to leave town for work.  You:
a) Read Jane Austen's "Sense and Sensibility"
b) Take a class in sensitivity.
c) Watch the porn movie "Scents and Spankability"

3.  We decide to marry.  You propose:
a) In Paris.
b) On the beach.
c) an open marriage.

4.  As a hobby, you:
a) drink screwdrivers.
b) like carpentry.
c) screw everything.

5.  When you text me, you sometimes:
a) send me links to funny videos.
b) tell me you love me.
c) call me the wrong name.

6. Your favorite drink is:
a) A daquiri
b) Whiskey, neat
c) Beer bong between the stripper's tits

7.  Your biggest personal problem is:
a) Organization
b) Communication
c) Herpes

If he answers A to most of these questions, he might be gay.  Best to keep him as a movie or shopping date for a while.  If he answers C, YOU fail for keeping him around this long.  Jesse James?  You had me.  You were the poster boy for not judging people by their looks, or their tattoos, or their porn-star ex-wives.  You start playing around with tattooed biker chicks for a little fun, and next thing you know:

 You're guilty conscience is forcing you to make bad fashion choices.  

That's right, Jesse.  You earned those overalls.  Perhaps regular pants irritate the sores.  Even Larry the Cable Guy is saying, "Hey man, just because we dress alike DOESN'T mean we have anything in common!"

Perhaps what these men really need to do is not get married.  They aren't doing women any favors by marrying them.  Honestly?  Sandra Bullock has other options.  And who wouldn't want to be with Jen?  (Hmm.  Okay, bad example.  But she seems like a really fun girlfriend!  Take ME to Cabo, Jen!)  But Reese, Uma, Halle, Elin, heck, even Hillary could hook up with someone else.

I understand that good people cheat.  I completely see how people get from Point A to Point B.  I get it that if you're feeling down and troubled a la James Taylor, and someone approaches you at just the right time and tells you how amazing you are when your partner doesn't seem to notice, you will be tempted to stray.  But as the child of a marriage with adultery, can I propose that if you can't be loyal and true, then don't stay married.  Period.  And if you do get married, and then repeatedly cheat, I hope you get potato salad in your pants.  You may still be a good person, but you deserve the itches.

And Jesse?  I hope you really enjoy your time in the garage, because I think you're going to be tuning your own engine for a while.  Let me suggest another quote from Four Weddings and a Funeral for your next relationship:

"Charles:  Let me ask you one thing. Do you think - after we've dried off, after we've spent lots more time together - you might agree *not* to marry me? And do you think not being married to me might maybe be something you could consider doing for the rest of your life?
Carrie:  I do."

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Have a great weekend!
EIGHT HOURS LATER:  When God gives you a gift, like Jennifer Love Hewitt vajazzaling, and you don't use it?  Well that's just a crime.  I will discuss the hiring of someone to vajazzle you on Monday.

Laura is to braids as I am to Aniston

Last Friday I got a haircut.

When I say "haircut," I mean the chemical painting of my hair to cover up the 'Old Hag Salt and Pepper' color I naturally sport, cutting of the hair, and then waxing of my Freda Kahlo moustachio. After I paid my (gasp!!!) $130 bill for said haircut and procedures (please God do not let CH read this post), I started thinking that might be more than Laura paid for hair maintenance in HER ENTIRE LIFE. I will be embracing my future styling, heretofore called "The Half Pint."

Anyone who watched "Little House on the Prairie" and saw Melissa Gilbert bounding down the grassy hill knows Laura was a braid girl. Except for Little House in the Big Woods, Laura is always illustrated with her hair in braids, either down her back or done up in a bun-type do. I have serious doubts as to whether Laura ever had her hair colored. It was probably highlighted from the sun, as she sometimes disobeyed Ma and ran on the prairie without her bonnet, but never in an orangey Sun-In sort of way (see Julie in Junior High).

I feel confident it's equally likely Laura Ingalls Wilder never had wax applied to her body, be it the upper lip, brow or netherparts, unless it was after the hogs were butchered and some tallow for candles spilled. (And I dearly hope that was not on her netherparts.)

Basically I'm thinking Laura would strongly disapprove of my entire haircare regimen.

Since my appointments are so expensive (somehow I am shocked at the total every single time, and check the receipt for mistakes), I only get my hair done every 12 weeks or so. It's important to me to let my roots grow out 3 inches and to get a nice downy black fluff above my lip so that when I come home from the appointment I look so stunningly improved that if CH should happen to see the amount it took to get me that way he might ignore it.

As the appointments are three months apart, I forget them. Organized mothers have their appointments written down in a handy calendar they keep in their purse. I'm not one of those mothers; I write things down on scraps of paper I keep in my purse, later used to catch gum from my children. The salon calls me the night before my appointment to remind me, and again, I am always surprised. This is the life of the disorganized wife and mother - always full of surprises!

My stylist is a lovely unmarried young person who is blonde, thin, childless and owns her own home. Because of this, she has no traces of bitterness or stress about her, and always seems cheerfully optimistic that she can help when I ask to look like Natalie Portman or Jennifer Garner. I whip out a book to read and she goes to work.

Last week, something went very wrong.

Instead of my usual lighter color, trim, and lip wax, I ended up with darker hair, a Jennifer Aniston cut circa Rachel, and a very abnormally swollen, pink upper lip. I looked like I was unshowered, ready to break up with Ross (again), and resembling Hitler in pink. I was a real-life dirty Rachel Green FemiNazi.

I don't know what happened on that fateful day. Was Blonde Girl distracted? Angry? High? Taking out her secret sado-masochistic streak on me? I'll never know. When she twirled me around to look at my hair, I stifled a gasp and said, "It looks great, thanks!" because I am that much of a gutless wonder. And then I gave her a 20% tip (included in the $130 total for those keeping track) and made my appointment for January, which I promptly forgot.

Next time, I'm going for braids. Welcome to The Half Pint.