Zero reason for spending time on my appearance

It's been eleven weeks since I had my hair cut. Shocking even for me. I try for every six weeks, usually make it within two weeks of the goal, and it's a frequent topic of conversation with my hairdresser. I use to schedule my next appointment when I paid for the current cut, but unknown scheduling with my kids' activities brought that to a halt, and despite emptying my nest, I never got back into the habit. Thus the eleven weeks of hair growth.

I'm not one who spends quality time on my appearance. I don't like myself in a mirror, especially now when my face is not that of thirty-year-old me who I am in my head. I'm also not satisfied with outward me, and I've made a NewYear's resolution to come to terms with that - enough where I don't mind my photo being taken. Something I truly, truly, hate.

During the eleven months between hair cuts, I decided my long hairstyle was not flattering, and I researched haircuts for women over fifty. Truthfully, I typed in hairstyles for women, and over fifty popped up in the search engine. Thanks, I'm sure in part to the many Amazon Alexas in every room of my house. The only offerings were of famous women, and I jokingly told my co-workers, whose opinions I was garnering, that I would march into the salon demanding to be turned me into Raquel Welch.

Hairdresser: "I hate to tell you this, but Raquel Welch wears wigs."

Sigh.

I knew I needed to go back to layering my hair, and with the help of my Friday volunteer co-workers, we decided on this hairstyle from this picture on the web of Faith Hill.

Hairdresser: "Oh, I can totally do that, but are you okay with losing at least two inches of length?"

My hairdresser has issues with shortening people's hair. She's had adverse reactions from customers who've lost their shit at their first glimpse into a mirror. She almost faints at the thought of trimming more than an inch from the head of someone with long hair and has hyperventilated twice at my youngest daughter's insistence of two different choppings. Now here I was asking for the same. My hairdresser insisted Faith's hair was even shorter than the two-inches she was recommending, and I agreed that mark was a good compromise.

First, she gave me more bangs. I could've stopped right there and been a happy customer. I've disliked my wispy bangs for a while now and had wondered if old age was causing this lack, but she miraculously made more, and I loved it.

Next, she moved to the back, and at the first snip, picked up the discarded hair from the floor to show me precisely what two-inches meant. I gave her the thumbs up.

Me: "Make me look like Faith Hill. Minus the blonde color."

I liked the result. Usually, I don't want my haircut until a couple of days later, but this time, I did. I really liked it. I thought I looked younger, and I felt great.

Hairdresser: "Don't be surprised if your daughters and husband don't notice. Especially the husband. Men don't notice stuff like this."

Yet, it was a dramatic change! Of course, they would notice.

Darcy didn't react right away. Home from college, she spotted me first, and when she did not respond immediately, I finger fluffed my hair to draw her attention.

Darcy: "I saw you got your hair cut. It looks the way I remember your hair being when I was a kid, so it's taking me a moment."

Me: "What does that mean? I look like Faith Hill."

Darcy: "I don't know who that is, but it makes you look younger."

When the eldest daughter also did not immediately comment on my cut, I assumed then my husband would definitely notice. Isn't that the way it always works? The opposite of what we expect? Also, how could he not?

He did not. He was more interested in the fact that Darcy was home as if he'd never known this was going to happen despite the phone call telling us she had scheduled a doctor's appointment and would be returning for it. I finger fluffed, I shook my hair from my face, and still, I got nothing.

The next morning Darcy and Tom were both in the living room when I entered.

Darcy: "It's so weird to see you see you look the way you did when I was ten years old."

Me: "Really? Well, at least you see a difference. Your dad didn't even notice my hair."

Tom: "I noticed you had hair."

Maybe if I start singing Faith Hill songs?

An apology to my youngest

In working on my resolutions, I've been tackling the editing of my blog. It's really an aside to tackle old resolutions, but I have so many projects I genuinely want to finish. Editing the blog is a priority because I'd like to have my blog made into a book for my kids. It's a diary of our lives, and I think they'd enjoy it.

In doing the editing - I try to get through five entries a day - I've come across interesting tidbits that have made me think. One is a perception people, including myself, had of Darcy from toddlerhood.

Like siblings who come after the firstborn, Darcy was compared to Madison, and because she was different and more outgoing and talkative and inquisitive, people would tell me I was going to have to "watch out for her when she's a teenager."

I never really believed people meant it literally. I took it as the silly joking things people said about the second child. You know, the comments about how the second child is "certainly not like my firstborn" or "If I knew what I'd be getting, I'd have only had one." I never believe any parent who said things like that because, well, it wasn't something I could fathom. My kids are everything. They are number one, and they come first, and my life was not complete until they entered my life. Truly. Motherhood is the greatest thing I've ever experienced, and I thank my lucky stars daily for being entrusted with their care. But that isn't to say, I didn't believe I'd need to keep an extra grip on Darcy, although as she got older, I remember being somewhat annoyed as the comments continued.

One of our closest friends regularly made comments as Darcy aged and inched closer and closer to graduating high school. It got to a point where Darcy wasn't interested in spending time with this friend because the hurt was too great. I should've stopped it. I'm not sure why I didn't. I may have made half-hearted comments to some those who piped in with a comment or two, but I'm ashamed I didn't tell those people and this friend to shove it. I'm more ashamed of any comments I may have made because in allowing these, I let my child believe being herself wasn't good enough, that being herself was somehow wrong or bad, and dammit, this kid has suffered for that.

She recently had her yearly check-up, and as I've done since she was born, I recorded this today in her electronic medical file. Then, for curiosity's sake, I read through it and discovered a pattern of stomach complaints, rashes, and chest pains. Tests were run and came back completely normal. Diagnosis? Stress, in most cases. Stress! She was ten years old!

She's talked to me about this topic since starting college. She's told me how she's worked hard to NOT be what everyone told her she would become. How she's held herself to a higher standard than her friends and family, and while I know she's proud of what she's accomplished, to what degree is the damage for being perfect?

I can give you excuses. While there is a vast amount of information on parenting, it is mostly instinct and behavior learned from our own parents, along with a stubbornness to NOT make the same mistakes we blamed our parents for, and for the most part, we fly blindly through parenting. I chose to stay home with my children, and their success meant validation for doing so. All true, but certainly not good enough in hurting my kid.

Whenever this topic haunts me, I'm reminded of something one of Darcy's first-grade teachers said to me halfway through the school year. The woman told me while Darcy learns, she really takes what she learns, and relates the knowledge to the outside world, and to what it may or may not mean for her, and for those around her. 

The teacher said that was highly unusual at this age and said how much she enjoyed teaching Darcy because the kid soaked everything in, asked questions because she genuinely was curious, and then took all of what she learned and ran with it.

That teacher left before Darcy finished the grade. It saddened me then, and it saddens me now because that woman could've taught me a lot.

I'm sorry, Darcy. For many things, but mainly for not having your back against those who made you feel inadequate. I'm sorry for my role in doing the same. I'm so proud of the kid you were and the woman you've become, and while you've struggled with yourself and forced yourself to succeed, you were always going to do so no matter what anyone said.

So, be kind to yourself. Know that I love you, not for a 4.0-grade point average or for how much you make in life. I love you for your kindness, your humor, your big heart, and your vast personality. I love YOU. And from now on, I've got your back.

How to behave in the new hood

Several years ago, my neighborhood changed drastically. Death took a majority, others downsized, and my favorite of all neighbors moved to another state to be closer to his children. Where I once had a hood of familiarity and friendships intimate enough to refer to the same as family, I now have strangers who want little or zero contact.

Major upheaval in life. Or at least in my life.

Because gone are the days of knocking on neighbor's doors for borrowed sugar. Now, according to one of the new neighbors, a knock brings a greeter carrying a gun.

Gone are the days of sitting in garages drinking coffee and chatting up those passing by. Now, the garage doors are tightly closed as soon as a car enters or exits. Gone are the days of dinner invitations, block parties, and general niceties. Now, we're lucky to get a smile, a wave, or a mumbled greeting, let alone a sentence or two.

Perhaps it is also my fault. While I did greet new neighbors as they moved in, I haven't gone out of my way to further a relationship, preferring to gripe instead of their lack of what I call, "Midwest neighborhood-ness." Meaning, as it was in my youth, welcoming neighbors and bringing them, or pushing them, into the fold. Making them a part of the established group.

Once, during one of our frenzied hurricane preparation periods, I remarked to a new neighbor about his parked boat having been moved.

Me: "I was holding on to hope that your boat would lead us out of the expected neighborhood flood."

I was joking, of course. We sit on a hill. There is little chance of flooding.

He, however, did not chuckle. He snarled and then went on a ten-minute rant concerning a letter he'd received from the neighborhood association board informing him he'd exceeded the seventy-two hour parking period. He commented on neighbors further down the street in error of the deed-restricted rules. I was treated to angry words and a tirade on "whatever busybody neighbor had turned me in."

Me: (to my husband later) "I assured him it wasn't us, but I wanted to respond with a dressing down on how if he spent more time interacting or exchanging hellos with the neighbors around him, they might not be so inclined to report him."

The next day the same neighbor invited me into his house to see his renovations. I was walking my dog, but he insisted I bring in Elliot, and as the two of us heading into the front door, I looked back into our hood, hoping someone was watching me entering this angry stranger's house in case Elliot and I were never seen again.

Yikes! If I think this about my neighbors, what must they think of us? I wasn't precisely channeling my "Midwest neighborhood-ness."

This whole introduction is leading up to a problem we are currently having with my next-door neighbor, who has started taking to throwing out chicken bones into his front yard. Or maybe it's a whole chicken, I'm not sure. All I know is that my dog really likes this new occurrence.

Now, back in the old days, we tossed out dinner bones for the neighborhood dogs. Because one, dogs roamed untethered, and because two, the damage bones did to animals' teeth, and stomachs hadn't been discovered yet.

But having had to take my dog to the emergency vet following his ingestion of a pork bone, we are very leery of giving Elliot any type of bone, dog-made or otherwise, and these bones next-door are making potty runs and walking trips quite tricky.

My dog is ten years old and does a relatively decent job of remaining in our yard without a leash. Others have pointed out that perhaps the neighbor doesn't agree with us on this, but seeing how the neighbor's yard is certainly not up to our association code, I doubt he cares a hoot about our playing loose and fancy with the leash law. Which I believe pertains only to dogs outside of their own yards. 

Sure, the neighbor could prefer to not have my dog in his yard, but other than sniffing a rabbit under his bush, Elliot doesn't usually set foot in the yard because well, it isn't much of a yard. And even if my dog spent hours in this yard, throwing whole chickens or bones is a bit passive-aggressive, in my opinion. Having vast experience in the "Midwest neighborhood-ness."

The question is, how do I handle this situation?

My experience says to speak with my neighbor. Find out why he throws dead animal carcasses into his front yard and ask nicely if he could stop doing so. Or approach him another way and ask him if he knows a chicken died in his front yard. I've thought up several different approaches, but our friends and family members cringe at these, offering the other side where I'm a terrible dog owner, and while I admit some fault, I'm still good with hearing it from my neighbor's lips. As long as the communication is respectful and friendly.

This is how we always handled things before in our hood. We communicated. Granted, there was one incident that wasn't so friendly, and many feelings were hurt, but for the most part, we always spoke kindly with one another and came to an agreement we could all live with peacefully. Then we had a cocktail.

This new hood? These new neighbors? These tumultuous days of pent-up rage? I'm at a loss. Any suggestions?

Back to normal and it's way too quiet

My house is SO quiet. After a month and a half of guests, kids (yes, I still refer to my adult children and their friends as kids), and holiday festivities, my house is like one of those big, rundown mansions in the neighborhood where the kids dare one another to enter. It's dusty, messy, and during the day, very empty.

And it's eerily silent. Devoid of laughter and loud voices telling tales. Gone are the wafting scents rolling from my kitchen of baked goods. There are less laundry and fewer dishes in my dishwasher, and despite my full, way-to-small refrigerator, the foods crammed inside are not of the delicious holiday variety but of our day-to-day fare. In other words, boring.

I like Mondays. For me, it's the beginning. A clean slate to start over. If my life and my house are in disarray, I fear not because come Monday, I will be home alone with time on my hands to do what needs to be done to bring everything back into order. Sometimes I literally hold on to knowing Monday is coming, and it has never been more so than yesterday's Monday.

The last of the family disbanded on Saturday. Darcy returned to college and her adult-ish (her words, not mine because like me she chooses to keep the kid moniker) life of classes and work, and to hold my sorrow at bay, I held on to the solace of Monday. To the opportunity to begin the new year working on my resolutions and knocking my house and laundry into tiptop shape.

I just hadn't counted on the silence.

That's something one definitely has to get used to after a holiday of giggles, stories, warm bodies crowded on the couch, fights over television shows, foods from favorite eateries, and plans made to explore places.

Jason and I are trying. One day at a time.

She is always listening and judging

This is a Madison story. Whenever I ask her to write a post for my blog, she groans--noises reminiscent of ones made when I told her to do her homework. So, I'm paraphrasing her story and from her answers to my questions.

Madison's tale:

Last night after everyone went to bed, and after I had stayed up well into the wee hours of the morning (this would be Cara's addition), I shut off the lights to head into my bedroom. That's when I discovered that the tree lights - the tree mother replaced our Christmas tree with and decorated with colored lights - hadn't been turned off.

The lights are attached to our Amazon Alexa just like our Christmas tree had been, and, not wanting to wake everyone up, I whispered softly to Alexa so that she would turn off the lights with her typical Ba-dupe sound.

Me: "Alexa, turn off tree lights."

But, instead of the Ba-dupe sound and the lights going dark, I got Alexa at volume ten.

Alexa: "IT APPEARS YOU ARE WHISPERING! IF YOU WANT TO TURN ON WHISPERING MODE, GO TO THE ALEXA APP AND ENABLE THE WHISPER MODE!"

It was SO loud, and I was hopping up and down on either foot, whispering for her to stop before she woke up the entire house.

Me: "Alexa! Stop!"

Alexa: "ARE YOU WHISPERING? IT APPEARS YOU ARE WHISPERING!"

Me: "Alexa! Stop! Stop!"

Alexa: "WHISPERING CAN BE ENABLED BY GOING TO THE ALEXA APP AND TURNING ON WHISPERING MODE."

Every time I told her to stop, she would point out that I was whispering. I kept saying her name, and she kept telling me by golly, she was not going to allow me to whisper when I hadn't followed her directions.

It was quite hilarious.

At 3:00 in the morning.

GMC's Yukon XL

In June 2019, I wrote about our experience in renting a Yukon XL. Here is an excerpt:

Before the trip, there were several texts regarding concerns on the rental car and whether or not we had a big enough vehicle to carry seven people plus luggage. Apparently, upon hearing the tale and viewing some of the baggage, the rental agent agreed we needed a bigger car. That's how we came to renting the Yukon XL. Cue the music...

Us: (to the tune of YMCA) "It's fun to ride in the YUKON XL. We love to drive in the YUKON XL."

We had a lot of fun with the Yukon XL. More fun than I could possibly portray or give justice to by writing about on this blog. Just know that it came up in daily conversation, that it had a force shield around it, that the amount of room and comfort was off the charts, and that no other vehicle will ever match our experience. Seriously, GMC should snap up our family for a commercial. We could sell the shit out of this vehicle!

The Yukon XL remained alive in our family through a group text named Yukon Yik Yack, where we post various sightings of Yukon XL's. When Madison drew Jay's name for the Christmas gift exchange, she decided his entire Christmas would be Yukon XL themed. She made him stickers, socks, and a water bottle with various Yukon XL's that she drew. The final gift was a note telling him to be on the couch Christmas night at 8:00 p.m.

Where he was treated to this video:

Written and produced by Madison, it was completed over several days. The coup was finding that one of the family's renting in the building where my family rented their beach house was a family who drove a Yukon X!

Again...

GMC, give us a call. We can totally sell this vehicle!

Elliot starts off 2020 right

After Susan and Rusty arrived for the holidays, Elliot began limping. He walked around the hood with us one night and couldn't finish. We had to take turns carrying him home, a feat that wasn't easy for us old gals. He immediately began licking his sore paw, and this went on and on every time he walked on it. 

Darcy and I took him to the vet. A place I haven't been to in years as this dog belongs to Tom. I leave that chore for him. After all, I took the kids to the vet doctor all those years why shouldn't he get a turn with this child?

Vet: "A minute ago, the dog was your dog."

Darcy: "She does that a lot."

Me: "The dog belongs to both of them. They're the two who brought Elliot into the family."

Darcy: "You love him."

True. Which is why I took Elliot to the vet where I also decided I'd bring up his skin condition. Elliot has had a skin issue ever since the day we brought him home. I blame the breeders. They handed over Elliot covered in fleas, and the poor animal has had skin lesions ever since. We've been told he has allergies, and after testing, etc. it was decided he was allergic to fleas. Go figure! 

A flea bites him, and then he scratches, and then it spreads until he has scabs over 75% of his body. He has to be miserable. I thought it odd the vet couldn't narrow down a treatment, but then I've heard from other sheepdog owners that they too have dogs with the same problem. 

Turns out, medicine has progressed! The vet decided Elliot's paws - all four of them - were infected with a secondary infection caused by his allergies. He recommended a special shampoo, once a week baths, daily brushings, and a new allergy pill for dogs. We took it all and then went immediately to the pet store to bath him with the special shampoo.

He hates getting a bath, but he does love to be clean. Plus, he gets to pick out his own treat, which the store puts at the animals' level. A week later, his skin was SO much better, and we took him back again to give him another bath. The pet place has three washing stations, and they provide everything an owner needs to bath a pet; shampoo, conditioner, towels, treats, brushes, and a blow dryer. You do the work.

After Elliot was bathed, we decided we all deserved a Starbucks. Elliot was totally on board with that run!

He decided on a puppachino, and since his cousins, Brody, Kol, and Pumpkin gave him Starbucks gift cards, he treated us. 

So far, his skin lesions have all but disappeared. He is suddenly more energetic. He wants to play more often, and he even seems to enjoy being loved--something he usually isn't keen on. He enjoyed the company for the holidays and is looking forward to what 2020 has in store for him. 

He hopes there are fewer baths and more Starbucks.