NOW and the haircut

My blood is boiling. Mia is screaming upstairs. I hate you I hate you I hate you! We just got back from the salon where the boys got their hair cut. They were really starting to look shaggy and not in that "cool anti-establishment teen hearthrob even though I'm 8" way. In a trailer trash "Don't your parents take care of you?" way.

We got to the salon at just the right time, because I could get both boys in. Grant wants his hair a little longer than usual (read above description of style) and Spencer wanted the usual buzz in the back, tight on top look. When Mia found out she wasn't getting a haircut, she started to whine. And cry. And whine. And cry. I tried explaining that haircuts were $9 and if I were to get cuts for all of them plus a tip, we would have to spend $30. I tried explaining that she's a girl, she didn't really need a haircut, long hair is pretty and we're still trying to grow out her famous half-mullet experiment she pulled on herself a year ago. I tried bribing her with dollar store hair pretties. (If you haven't guessed by now. The Dollar Store in my nirvana. Guilt-free shopping rushes for only $1. And its amazing what you can find for just a buck.)

She wasn't having any of it. All she could see was that her brothers were getting special treatment and she wasn't. No logic or reason would soothe her. This was her first taste of gender inequality. First, falling behind on grooming practices, next overlooked in science class, and finally under-paid/under-appreciated for doing equal (if not more) work than a man. Welcome to the world sweetie!

I just need to remind her of all of the perks that women receive that men can never enjoy.

1) Hair pretties/options. Up until the 60's (unless you count the Revolutionary War and Cavemen), men's hairstyles were for the most part....boring. Oh look! This time he parted it on the left side! Now he's parted it on the right! As women, we can go long or short, straight or curly, bangs or no bangs, ponytail/pigtails, headband, bun, french twist, swiss braids or the Dorothy Hamill (One of the other reasons I really want Mia to keep her hair long. My mom kept my sister and I in the Dorothy Hamill haircut for years. I remember envying Laura Ingalls braids on Little House on the Prairie and feeling so hurt when a woman wondered why a boy (me) was in the women's restroom at Marshall Fields.)

2) Lipstick. The perfect picker-uper. I challenge any woman who might be having a bad day...job loss, grieving the loss of a friend, perpetual lateness, pms...to put on just the right shade of lipstick and not feel instantly better. (Keep in mind I am a Mary Kay consultant, so if you are a woman and you disagree with this statement, you just haven't found the right shade...and I can help!)

3) Crying. Even with sensitivity training and a new post-modern vibe on masculinity, it still is not okay for men/boys to cry. When my boys do it, I want to punch them in the arm and tell them to "suck it up buttercup." Of course I don't, but I'd like to. Sometimes, there's nothing in the world like a good crying session. Now, true, it needs to be in the right place and time with only the right people around you. I've cried at the radio station (many times) and they've looked at me like I forgot to take my Prozac in the morning. Nope. Sometimes I just feel bad about something and sometimes my feelings come out of my eyeballs. That's it. When you can cry into a soft pillow and rest your weary head and have someone say, "It's all going to be okay. I'll take care of you," that can be the best feeling in the world. Completely releasing your emotions, your soul, and knowing that someone who loves you will take care of you is the best part about being a woman. Not that we can't take care of ourselves, but knowing that there is someone who loves us and is willing to be there for us, is good enough.

So when we got home, (Mia crying and screaming the whole way home) I put her in her room until she could calm down. I went upstairs and just gave her a hug. I was there for her. And that's all she needed. Not that she can't take care of herself (she gave herself the half-mullet the last time), but sometimes Mom is good enough.

Going for Gold

The Vancouver Olympics are on and I've been watching with the family. Who needs cable when you've got talent like that on the television. Drama, action, tears and joy and glamor all in a bid for the gold. My kids, of course, are riveted and have been doing luge runs on a skateboard in the living room. The dogs just are part of the obstacle course.

I often wonder about being an athlete. It has got to feel so great to stretch yourself and to fly. To extend your hopes and dreams from your heart, through your muscles, all the way out to your finger tips. To go for it. Visualize and achieve.

But the biggest challenge must be deciding when to "go for it" and when to play it safe. How do you know when to do the triple lutz? You've practiced the double a gazillion times. You can do it in your sleep. When do you know to throw that little something extra in?

The front-runner has it easy. All she needs to do is do what she has practiced over and over again. She knows at what level she needs to compete. She is expected to achieve greatness. Everyone else has it tough. To beat that front runner, you need to throw in that extra something. And that extra something could land you on your butt. On cold ice, which can't feel too good. So do you play it safe? Clean? Do your best? Or do you push it a little?

I'm sure it's a dilemma for those Olympic athletes, after working their whole lives to only find themselves vying for 6th or 7th place. Do they think about the thousands of other athletes who would have given up eye teeth for a spot in Vancouver? Are they grateful for the opportunity and appreciative of their gifts? Are they satisfied with 6th or 7th? Or do they desire to push it a little?

When are we satisfied with our achievements? Our careers, our families, our dreams and ambitions. There is always another front-runner to chase. Another goal to work toward. Sometimes it's good to play it safe and guarantee comfortable success for yourself and your family. That is an admirable way to live. When do you play it safe? When do you do your best? And when do you push it and do your better?

Beauty Queens

So I got a really cool opportunity this weekend. I was asked to be a judge for the Miss/Teen Blue River competition in Saline County, NE. My radio alter-ego Sue Bayou is still recognized in some areas and they thought that I might know a thing or two about talent and asked me to be a judge.

I drove down to a little town called Crete, NE. The pageant was being held at the town's Catholic school/church, and when I got there, there was no where to park. I figured a beauty pageant is a pretty big deal in a small town and figured that everyone was there to cheer on their next door neighbors.

I walk into this big room and it is packed with people standing in line at a buffet. Strange. I didn't realize beauty pageants had buffets, but this was a small town and so I guessed that every event included a buffet. And then I realized, I wasn't at the beauty pageant....I was at a funeral. The church had double-booked two events. The Miss Blue River Competition was upstairs in the gym, this was a funeral for a former Cretian. (And yes, when you leave the town of Crete voluntarily, you become an ex-cretian.)

It's a good thing that I realized that something wasn't quite right. Could you imagine the horror if I had walked up to the bereaved and told them that I was here to judge? Yeah, St. Peter couldn't make it, so I'm here to judge.

I finally figured everything out and made it upstairs in time for the talent portion of the pageant. What a fantastic group of young women, willing to put it out there for not just an audience to see, but to be judged. For someone they don't even know to give them a number and to have those numbers added up, tallied. And then to face the rejection of not winning. There could only be one winner and one runner-up. Everyone else was a loser.

Or maybe not. As I looked at the faces at the end of the competition, I could see that these young women were not in this competition to win it. I'm sure that they would love to be the one in the crown with the sash and the flowers. But they were in the competition, just to compete. They loved trying to win. It was the challenge of getting over the fear and the inhibition that they took pride in the most. These were incredibly strong and beautiful young women and I just know that by taking that stage, by putting themselves out there, they all were winners not only on Saturday, but that they will be winners their whole lives.

I feel like I am judged all the time. As a mother, as a wife, as a housekeeper, as a potential job candidate. And it's not a good feeling. There's nervousness, trepidation and a constant self-questioning. But at least I'm out there on the stage. At least I'm trying. And if I'm trying, I can only be a winner. And if all else fails, I can go to the dollar store and buy my own tiara.

Victory Against the Elements

We are freezing. This winter has been horrible in Lincoln, NE this year. Storm after storm. Extremely cold temperatures. I am having North Dakota flashbacks, although I don't have a bright orange extension cord sticking out from under my hood. (If you've been there, you've seen it.) As I sit here, our furnace is trying to get above 64 and we hit a low last night of 58. Brrrrrrr.

I hate the cold weather. I hated it when I was young and single and free in Fargo. Although I remember winter after winter of driving up to Chub's Pub and just letting my Jeep run until closing time. I hate it even more with kids.

Finding hats and scarves and gloves and boots and socks and shoes and backpacks and coats drives me insane. Just getting out the door every morning is an exercise in arctic patience. And I try to be organized. I have 3 bins. One for hats, one for scarves (on which I have written scarfs because I forgot the plural. Bad mommy.) and one for gloves/mittens. The hat bin holds one winter hat, one baseball hat, a hood that doesn't match any coat we have and one sailor hat. The scarf bin holds about 50 different scarves of varied color and texture as my mom is an unbelievable knitter and I'm using knitting as a dieting technique. The glove/mitten bin has 12 left handed gloves/mittens and that's it. (How come the Kastrinos kids are always sticking their right hands in their pockets?) Anyway, I try.

Yesterday was bitter. And then you throw in the windchill. I only live a block from the boys' school, but I have to pick them up on the far side of the school. When you factor that in, it's more like 4 blocks from school and then to go the long way around (not through the snowy playground) its more like 6 blocks. So whenever its below 32, I drive to pick them up. Yesterday was 9.

I drove over to pick up the boys. Kindergarteners need to be picked up in person, the teacher won't just let them go out to your car, so I have to walk from the car to go get Spencer. All of the other parents had the same idea to pick up their kids by car, so I had to park 3 blocks away (mind you I only live 1 block away-I know it doesn't make any sense). I bundled up Mia as best as I could using the hat/scarf/mitten bins. She was mismatched and wearing a hat the Hulk could have worn, but she was warm. I completely forgot about any hats/gloves/warm clothing for myself and just suffered through.

Knowing I could move faster carrying Mia, I picked her up and carried all 35 pounds of her-which believe it or not, gets pretty heavy with below zero windchill. Trudging forward through the snow, avoiding the slick spots, I stopped a fight among two kids I didn't even know who were slipping and sliding on the ice. I found Grant and kept him out of the snow, proud that he was wearing his complete winter gear and I talked with Spencer's teacher for a couple minutes fulfilling my parental duties.

I was feeling like Supermom, parenting not only my own children, but helping out with the community as well. I was not letting the weather, the bitter cold get the best of me. I had my children adequately equipped to battle the conditions and I suffered myself in sacrifice. I was winning! Whoo Hoo!

And then Mia peed on me. So much for victory.

Roses

I was running late this morning to do some Mary Kay facials on a former co-worker's wife and their daughters and I was going through downtown on O Street. I get really worked up when I'm late. I hate it and I was starting to get just a little frustrated with other drivers. I have to remind myself that they have just as much right to the road as I do, that they live at a different pace than I do, and they have different places to be that are equally as important as mine. Just move it a little faster, sweetie.

There was a car in front of me that was driving a bit erratically. Not quite "drunk driver" erratically, but doing some unnecessary slight swerving. That was one thing I noticed, the other was that this car was sparkling clean. Almost unnatural with all the slush and snirt all over the streets (snirt=snow + dirt). And the driver was having a tough time maintaining speed, a little slower here, muuuuch slower there. Who was this jackalope driving in front of me? (jackalope=donkey + antelope)

The driver was a middle aged man and his passenger looked (from behind) to be of similar age. What struck me was the behavior that they were exhibiting in broad daylight, at 9:30 in the morning. She was feeding him. Little bits of I don't know what. Actually putting little bites of something from her hand to his mouth. So sweet and romantic that this action seemed shocking to me. And she'd do it again. Not just once, but over and over, they were sharing some delicious morning treat.

Of course my imagination starts to wonder, what is this romantic snack? I felt convinced it had to be something sweet. A cinnamon roll perhaps? Something too sticky for him to eat with his own hands and handle the steering wheel, so his love needed to portion out bites for him to savor. Maybe it was a donut from the shop that they just stopped at to share a cup of coffee and some sweet talk. Maybe it was some homemade coffee cake that she had whipped up in her kitchen, an old family recipe that she needed to share with her love. Or maybe something spicy? A breakfast burrito with a little heat to spice up an already simmering love story.

I wondered who these lovers were, in the middle of their lives (and the road) acting like teenagers. Had they just met? Late love roaring with a passion. Was it a second-chance at love? Both partners having been burned by love's flame before, now finding a renewed spirit in another person. Or have they been together a long time?

I live next door to the Welcomers. That's not just what they do, that's actually their name, the Welcomers. Jill and Tim are both in their 50's and have 5 children, the youngest is a teenager. And Jill and Tim are still sweet on each other. Before she leaves the house, Tim makes sure that Jill has everything she might need for the day, sets her up with a bottle of water and stops what he's doing to make sure she's taken care of. He will not let her leave without a kiss.

I thought about the Welcomers when I looked at this couple in front of me (driving me crazy and fascinating me at the same time). I wonder if Jill feeds Tim pieces of cake or donuts and I know that they still do. After all that time, they somehow seem to keep the fire/oven/baked goods going.

Romance is hard to come by when you're living your life. Worried about finances, whether or not you'll find a job to pay the bills, drained after a day of discipling kids and disappointing bosses, dealing with illness and depression over things we have no control, balancing the needs of others, grocery shopping, errand running, list-making, nap-needing. Being worn down with the stresses that midlife brings, it's hard to believe that romance exists at all.

The phrase that I am reminded of is "The bloom is off the rose." And I suppose that's true. I've been married for 10 years and the days of Chris and I feeding each other is long gone. But even if the bloom is off the rose, at least it still is a rose. And Valentine's Day is just around the corner. I just might get Chris a heart-shaped box of cinnamon rolls.

Ben Franklin

I bribed the kids last night. It was the first night of the final season of Lost! and I put them to bed early. I told them if they stayed in their rooms, I'd leave the light on so they could read. And I'd take them to Ben Franklin today.

In my neighborhood, Ben Franklin is the equivalent of Disneyland. Or crack. Ben Franklin is the local variety store with an emphasis on crafting and scrapbook supplies. They also have one heck of a candy aisle. Harkening back to candy aisles of old, Ben Franklin has penny candy (now 2 pennies), gummy candy, sugar sticks, suckers, gum, chocolate coins, chocolate balls and every kind of taffy under the sun. They also specialize in nostalgia candy, so if you love Bit-O-Honey or candy cigarettes (which are really pretty gross), you'd go nuts at Ben Franklin too.

I like to give each kid a dollar and they pick up one of the handy dandy bowls Ben Franklin has to collect your sugared treasure. And then they can pick out their goodies. Its been a great way to teach math. Spencer, my 6-year old already knows how to subtract and how to "count up" to a dollar. And Grant, my 8-year old has learned how to "play stupid" and get 30 or 40 more cents out of Mom. Ben Franklin is just a great motivator and learning opportunity all rolled up in one.

While we were there some teenagers came in. I'm not sure how old they were, but I would guess about 15 or so, too young to have a car and way too old to be with parents. These kids looked pretty rough. One of them had on a long black trench coat. The girl had black greasy hair and funky mismatched shoes. Lots of black and eyeliner and pimples...on all of them. These looked like the kids that skateboarded and listened to punk rock music. They could have easily stood on a street corner and smoked cigarettes and gotten into trouble, but instead, they were at Ben Franklin, getting their candy fix. Which I thought was pretty cool.

As we were leaving, I made eye contact with the girl and I wondered what she saw in me. Did she see herself in 20 years? How could she, with my sweatpants and disheveled look and "mom" hair. What would she be doing in 20 years? Would she be making grand statements and running around with liberal artistic friends, not caring about the establishment? Or would she be struggling to find shoes in the morning and picking up dog puke (I did that this morning. Even grosser than candy cigarettes). Would she pick up her backpack and travel Europe and eat exotic food? Or would she clip coupons and make soup out of leftovers and try to make oatmeal more interesting?

Maybe she didn't think that at all. She probably didn't even notice me. Or maybe what went through her head was this: "When I grow up, I just hope I can keep coming back to Ben Franklin."

Waldo

I've never really written about my husband Chris and he's more than fine with that. He's a pretty soft-spoken guy. Doesn't like to make a lot of fuss or stand out. He wears a lot of black, brown and gray, so that he doesn't stand out. Every once in a while, he might break out a blue sweater, but its pretty much black, brown or gray.

I don't know if it's the weather or he's just in a midlife crisis, but recently (before the job loss/economic cutbacks) he bought a couple of new shirts from Kohl's. One was a green and gray stripped rugby shirt and the other one had red stripes. Look out Lincoln, here comes some color!

Chris is the manager of a hospital warehouse. The hospital here in Lincoln has two campuses and helps supply other medical facilities in the area. So he is in charge of making sure office equipment and medical supplies get to where they are supposed to go. He houses the old stuff too and makes sure that it gets donated/recycled as needed. It's an amazing job to coordinate all the "stuff" that comes and goes through the hospital system.

The warehouse also has a second function, it serves as a school for developmentally disabled young adults. They have teachers who assist them and the students receive "on-the-job" training and education. They are able to get a sense of self-worth, knowing that they are instrumental in helping the hospital function. They take inventory, make sure things are in the right spot and just help the permanent staff keep everything in order.

I'm not sure if you are familiar with the "Where's Waldo" books, but in those books, the character Waldo is a tall skinny guy with glasses who wears a red and white striped shirt and hat and "hides" in pictures of the book. You can stare at these books for hours and hours looking for Waldo. Our kids love them and the "Where's Waldo" books have kept our kids busy for days on end.

Well Chris is a tall skinny guy with glasses and yesterday, he decided to wear his red and white striped shirt to work. He was working in the warehouse, going through the aisles, checking inventory when he heard the first one, "I found him!" A few minutes later, he was a few rows over counting some stock, when he heard it again, "I found him! (giggle, giggle, giggle)" A few minutes after that he was back amongst the forklifts checking on something managerial, when he heard it again, "I found him!!!!! (giggle, giggle). And then he realized, he was Waldo.

If you think about it, we spend about a third of our lives at work. That's a huge amount of time to not have fun. To just slave away and earn a paycheck. Maybe it's a good idea from time to time to mix it up and play a game. To throw on a red and white striped shirt and go looking for Waldo.