(Gray) Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow!

So, being around my parents and basically having my self-esteem captured, water-boarded, shredded into little bits, and then thrown out with the trash has left me feeling worn down and blue. Suddenly RootWatch '09 feels like Sad Old Worthless HagWatch '09.

It's been quite a journey that I have taken with my own head of hair these last few months. We've reconnected, and I have to say, I appreciate my hair, crazy flaws and all. I had taken it for granted for years. I had been dying it various shades of wonderful and not-so-wonderful since I was thirteen years old! I really had no idea what would be waiting for me underneath.

Now, after letting all the color grow off, I have gotten the chance to see the fascinating pattern of gray around my temples and widow's peak (sort of a Lily Munster/Eddie Munster hybrid). I've watched as the natural curl slowly bounced back, after being suffocated by bleach and peroxide. Life has officially returned to my hair.

But as wonderful as that all sounds, it is seriously time to start chasing the elusive fountain of youth, once again. While a part of me feels free, an even bigger part of me feels dowdy. And that's no fun. I have many, many years ahead to try this little experiment again, and I know when (or if) I am ready to permanently go au naturel, it will be just fine.

Until then, Viva L'Oréal #62B!

Naughty Again This Year

I have known that they think all of the following for a while now, but it was all reaffirmed for me in many spoken and unspoken ways this past weekend...

I spend too much money.
I spoil my kids.
I am enable my in-laws.
I eat out too much.
I don't call enough.
I watch too much TV.
I am materialistic.
I am wasteful.
I am difficult.
And my personal favorite...
I appear bloated.

One thing is for certain... The message is strong, clear and consistent.

I get it.

But what I don't get is why anyone wants to be around someone as awful as I, any more than I want to be around anyone that feels this way about me.

PS: Can someone please check my grammar on that last sentence?

Purging

I tell you what... I am pretty tired of looking inward when things get complicated with people. It can't always be me, can it? Do I really need to just be more tolerant and patient and compassionate when others are acting selfish and silly?

Today I want to feel like the injured party, for once. Today I want to be annoyed that everyone around me is being childish. Today I want to feel secure enough in myself to know that I am taking a stand and saying what I want and calling people on their accusations and careless words.

You'd think that the people around me would think twice about judging others and calling people cruel names, such as "alcoholic", especially having one in their own immediate family, and all. You'd think they'd pause before putting others down, yet congratulating themselves on their apparent redemption, while their deep-seated dysfunction remains firmly intact.

Maybe miracles do happen, but I am not buying it. Sorry.

I am irate. I am sad. I am annoyed. I want it to be Tuesday, so I will have my house all to myself and I can finally exhale and relax and try to get these crazy people out of my mind.

Maybe then I will go back to feeling guilty and bad and put the weight of the world back on my own shoulders. For now, I will mope and whine. Maybe I'll even do a little judging myself.

Armageddon II

Oh, who am I kidding? There won't be any grandiose display of diamonds or cookware under the tree this year (see Part I), and that is just fine with me. My self-preservation strategy this year is to simply ignore Christmas. Call it a desperate measure to keep the anxiety in check, if you'd like.

So, speaking of the Apocalypse coupled with an unhealthy dose of stress...

Those four ominous horsemen have been replaced by an elderly couple, driving a red Toyota Camry cross-country, due on my doorstep in about 10 hours. And if you think I am exaggerating their power to incite mass hysteria and plagues of locust, you obviously weren't around when the whole Texas showdown, precipitated by my brother's near-death experience/alcohol intervention, took place.

Take cover, my people. Take cover.

Seventh Sign of the Apocalypse

Those horsemen better saddle up because either the world is coming to an end, or I have officially lost my mind (once again).

My husband is quite an amazing gift-giver. He is stealthy and he is generous. Anything I want is mine... and he doesn't even need hints!

So last night, in an apparent act of desperation, he flat out asked me what I want for Christmas. I gave him my standard answer, "Ohhhh, nothing," with that slight martyr inflection, inferring that there might be some little ol' thing that I could think of to put on my list.

And then he let it drop. I began brainstorming. Panic set in. There really wasn't anything I could think of that would put a little extra spring in my step. Except...

It is no secret that I am not so hot in the kitchen. I don't like to cook, and I really don't have a problem with that. That being said, I have been inexplicably drawn to some cool looking non-stick cookware at Target. But honestly, as much as I think I would love it, and how desperately I want to believe that it will make me enjoy cooking, I fear I will just be depressed on Christmas morning when I sit down in front of a really big, heavy box filled with a bunch of Teflon-coated metal just waiting to be used. Which means I would have to actually cook. Ick.

So maybe me wanting cookware isn't the seventh sign of the Apocalypse. Maybe the Pale Horse of Death, as the embodiment of my family's starvation from my lack of cooking (yet abundance of diamond-wearing), is the seventh sign.

Sounds reasonable to me.

And So It Begins...

We've certainly already endured our fair share of 'grown up' problems here at our house. But yesterday seemed to usher in a new era, one in which the blinders are off, and things will never be the same, no matter what we try to do about it.

My father-in-law died. My husband's dad...the boys' grandfather. I look at the facts, and it really isn't shocking or, if I am being honest, terribly tragic. He was 90. It was peaceful. Life on this Earth, as he would want to continue living it, was over.

My husband is being strong and stoic. But I know he's feeling guilt and regret. But I also know that as seemingly destructive and useless as guilt and regret can be, he will transform it into something worthwhile... More time with his boys. More love shown to those around him now. Being a better father than he already is, if that is even possible. And while that is all good, I hate the weight he puts on his own shoulders.

And I also hate that this is just the beginning. One down, three more grandparents to go. It's inevitable, but it is still jarring. Watching my boys absorb the reality while remaining firmly entrenched in their teen lives of friends and games and homework and life. Should they be sadder? Are they too sad? Do they really get it? Should they really get it?

And while we pass through this final arc of but one great, honorable circle of life, I am humbled by all the other tragedy and heartbreak around us. On one hand, our problems feel so big sometimes, yet, it is very, very obvious that others have so much more to bear.

Why, then, are we always so blindsided by things like this? If it is everywhere, everyday, why are we not calloused and shielded? Do our souls regenerate with new life after each little piece is ripped away?

Who knows, I guess. I suppose our ultimate task is to persevere.

"In the confrontation between the stream and the rock, the stream always wins - not through strength but by perseverance." ~H. Jackson Brown.

The Bean Sprouts

So I am kind of known around here as the mom of teens. However, the truth is I am the mother of only one (very moody and wonderfully maddening) teen. My other child is not a teen. In fact, he is one very sweet little boy that still likes a tuck-in, is willing to snuggle on the couch, never passes up an ice cream run with Dad, and speaks in full, non-inflammatory sentences.

But that's all about to change.

My precious Mr. Beans is about to officially cross to the dark side. Sure, I have seen subtle harbingers in the form of hormone surges, texts from girls (MANY texts from MANY girls), smelly armpits and even a bit of defiance. But I have heretofore been able to shrug them off because he's still my baby. After all, he's 12, not 13, so any experimental foray into teendom is only temporary, and kind of cute. Until this coming Saturday. God help us all...

And while I want so badly to hold onto him, as he is, keeping him cute and innocent and nice, I also wonder what life has in store for this creature that is unlike any other. I can't wait to meet him after all the messy teen chaos gets sorted out, and he becomes the incredible man I know he will be.

Because while the scenery will change, and hair will grow, and the voice will deepen, the awe-inspiring soul that draws others to him, the smart but gentle humor that comes so naturally, and the courage and self-esteem that make him stand so tall will all still be there, shining brightly.

Let's just hope I haven't lost my mind by then, so I can enjoy him a little.