The One Thing We All Have in Common

Yesterday as my son A was telling me his nose was stuffed up, I suddenly became conscious of the soreness creeping up my throat and into my sinuses. Uh-oh. E-Grrrl sneezed three times and I had an epiphany: They don’t call it the common cold for nothing.

We have been listening to each other trying to delicately snarf snot up our noses. We’ve been congregating around the Kleenex box and creating our own medical waste depot as the used tissues stack up. I think a biohazard sign should replace the door knocker on the front entrance. My eyes are red, my teeth hurt, and I want my blankie. My kids, carrying their Dad’s sturdy, disease-resistant DNA, are more or less carrying on as usual, toting cough drops in their pockets.

Because of my heart, I can’t take any form of cold medicines or use decongestants. They could send my heart rhythm into a tailspin because they’re stimulants—in the same category for me as caffeine, cocaine, speed,--all those things my mean doctor has forbidden me from consuming. Low-life entrepreneurs know how to turn Sudafed into crystal meth. Why don’t these people put their smarts to good use?

I’m waiting for the Drug Enforcement Agency to awards MBAs to enterprising drug dealers who decide to go straight. “Yes, you should hire me because I have a DEA MBA in recognition of my ability to take $10 worth of cold medicine and convert it to a highly desired, energy-enhancing product using FDA approved ingredients. It's sold at 1000 percent markup using guerilla marketing techniques. Production and warehousing are done from my home. I successfully managed this low-overhead 200K cottage industry using unorthodox supply chains and distributors to deliver my product to a cash-strapped market with poor credit. In the process, I’ve created jobs for residents of low-income neighborhoods who lack formal education. I should be on The Apprentice! I’m the ultimate American success story.”

And I’m the ultimate washed-out blogger with boogers. Time to grab my blankie, and hit the sofa. But first, another hit from the Kleenex box.

September 23, 2005

Things that Make Me Go "Yech!"

• When people slime the sidewalk with frothy saliva or the unspeakable contents of their sinuses
• Big honking piles of dog doo standing like pyramids near the sidewalk
• Little stinky piles of cat doo lurking like a viper in the grass
• Men who take leaks in public, which brings me to my aversion of
• Sausages displayed on uncovered platters at open air markets
• People walking with unbagged loaves of bread tucked under their arms
• The pigs head that was displayed in the meat case at the Place du Luxembourg market
• Riding the Metro when it’s jam packed and we’re all stacked together like crayons in a box
• The fatty edge of the ham
• Raw chicken—and even worse, the vile collection of giblets that require me to put my hand up the chicken’s butt to remove
• The smell of a day old dishrag used to wipe up milk
• Damp towels
• The loathsome combination of locker room floors and bare feet
• When the cat’s tail brushes my face
• The unspeakable things that dogs eat and love---How could they???

September 22, 2005

Morning in Brussels

Wednesday. Chiropractor day again. The bus is late but the sun is shining so I don’t mind. Wearing my dark leather jacket, I sit in the sun like a solar collector, soaking up all the energy the day has to offer.

The ride to the Metro station and then into the city is quiet—except for the accordion player who gets on at Roodebeek and starts his shtick. You know the way some people have an inexplicable hatred for mimes? Well I find roaming musicians in subway cars to be insufferable. This guy is no different—it offends me that he invades my space and my silence and expects to be paid for annoying me. If there’s a Billboard Top 10 for Metro musicians, it includes such irritating hits as Volare, Theme from the Godfather, the Tarantella, Feelings, and other schmaltz. After the rolling audio assault, I fantasize about throwing a lit match into the cup that’s being passed to collect euros. But I’m a (mostly) good Grrrl, even if I entertain evil thoughts, and I simply stare into the blackness outside the window and will my station to appear.

Walking to the chiropractor’s from the Metro station, I discover there’s a special open air market being held at Place du Luxembourgh today. There are booths featuring bread, cheese, sausage, scented candles, baby clothes, wooden toys, ethnic jewelry, honey, gourmet preserves, flowers, plants, and sandwiches. I spot a booth selling fancy glycerin soaps in cute shapes and packages. Last night as I tucked A into bed, he confided to me that he has a new “girlfriend,” a Dutch girl in his class who also rides his bus. (“Do you sit with her on the bus?” “I usually just sit near her, right behind her.” “Dude, if you like her, you need to sit WITH her on the bus….”) He wants to give her a present to declare his warm intentions and has asked me to look for a little pot of strawberry-flavored lip balm, just like his sister E-Grrrl uses. I tell him I’ll try, but I’m not sure I’ll find something appropriate in the cosmetic shops downtown. When I see the soaps at the market, I know I’m saved. I select a clear blue soap with a yellow center, shaped like a daisy. It’s packaged up nicely, nestled in paper grass, tied with yellow raffia. It’s the perfect token of affection for a fourth-grade boy to give to the girl he likes. (I know better than to select a heart-shaped soap. Subtlety is everything in elementary school courtships.)

With soap in hand, it’s onto the chiropractor, who takes note of my sore lower back and tight shoulders. He tells me the change in weather is going to be a big challenge for my spine in the coming months. I feel like a granny with rheumatism who can predict storms by the aches in her knees as he explains how changes in pressure, humidity, and temperature affect my joints and muscles. He tells me that above all, I’m to keep my muscles warm, especially in my lower back. This statement will be my justification for the two sweaters and the down vest with the fur collar that I ordered from Eddie B yesterday. A Grrrl has to take care of herself. (“Darlin’, I can’t allow myself to catch a chill. It’s bad for my health. Bring on the cashmere, hon.”)

September 22, 2005

Dirty Little Secrets

When we refer to a person’s dark side, we often refer to someone having “a skeleton in his closet.” Well I’m here to tell you that a family’s dirtiest secrets aren’t in a closet, they’re in the hamper.

As the one who does the laundry at our house, I can tell you I can’t wait to wash my hands after emptying the hamper and sorting the laundry. Handling sweat soaked t-shirts and unrolling balled up socks is kind of gross, but touching the kids’ underwear reminds me that even though it’s been years since I purchased diapers, I’m still dealing with their shit—on all levels.

At times, ages 8 and 10 feel an awful lot like ages 2 and 4. I continue to confront monsters under the bed, in the basement, and just outside the window. Tantrums, meltdowns, pouting marathons, slamming doors and stomping feet are still part of life. In short, there’s a lot of drama at my house. The problem is I’m not the dramatic type. I’ve buried my sister and my parents and seen lives unravel in a moment or in agonizing slow motion. I read the news. I pray for people in touch circumstances. I know what life can deliver to my door, so I’m not sympathetic to full-blown fits over having to take your shower first, the unfairness of homework, or the searing pain of not getting a snack when you want it.

And yet I could throw a world class fit over dirty, nasty underwear. I’ve been known to lecture that the primary difference between the civilized and uncivilized world is toilet habits and hygiene. I have extolled the wonders of toilet paper, its ease of use, and the joy of seeing it disappear down a pipe with the push of a lever. And yet, with sad regularity, when I reach into the hamper, I pull out underwear that shows me my advice is ignored. My children are too dainty to wipe their own asses, but I’m a low enough life form to have to clean up the aftermath. Oh yeah Kiddos, tell me again about how things aren’t fair.

I fantasize about sewing a flag from their brightly colored soiled underwear and flying it over the house. Our family motto could be “Shit Happens.” And that’s my dirty, little secret.

September 20, 2005

The Liberation of V-Grrrl

V-Grrrl, ever the picture of moderation, has been in the middle for so long she even bores herself. It’s sad to keep a (mostly) good grrrl down. After weeks of having her blog languishing on Yahoo, V-Grrrl is planning to escape her anonymous existence in the suburbs of the Web and get a piece of real estate in the middle of the Internet. Yes, V-Grrrl wants to play in traffic!

I’m working with my friend and former colleague, Charlene, to build V-Grrrl a custom home of her own on the Web. Char is going to help create a more interesting and personal graphic design for my new Web site. We’ve located software that will let me better present and organize content, so I can archive blog entries into thrilling categories like: Fights with My Family, Twisted Takes on Christian Theology, Girl World, Sentimental Gush Inspired by My Perfect Children, Psychiatric Events Inspired by My Imperfect Children, Near Death Driving Experiences, Things to Feel Guilty About, Funny—in Every Sense of the Word, My Favorite Things, Life in a Low Country, Doctor! Doctor!, Junk Drawer, and the ever popular Leftovers.

You will also get to meet my friend Mike, who is funny in every sense of the word. He’ll have a page called Mike on the Bottom (unless of course, he wants to be Mike on Top). Mike is a journalist who has reported on important topics like exploding toilets, why locusts are like teenagers (all they do is sleep, eat, and have sex), and how being rear-ended in a car accident makes you feel like you’ve gotten a cosmic spanking. He’s slandered his grandma in print, invented a character called Suicide Squirrel, and been slapped around by his editors for not being squarely in the MIDDLE (or better yet, a little to the RIGHT). Because Mike’s editors prefer for him to report on more serious and mundane topics, V-Grrrl is going to give Mike a place where he can color outside the lines.

We all need to operate outside the lines sometimes. That’s what makes great art—and crazy people (remember Van Gogh?) We’ve got our art supplies in hand and we’re ready to have fun, get messy, be colorful, make mistakes, and occasionally paint the world black. We’re hoping to avoid straitjackets, but we make no promises—except to let you know when the new site is ready.

September 19, 2005

V-Grrrl Goes to the Doctor

Late yesterday afternoon, I finally got through to the general practitioner an American had recommended to me. The doctor answers the phone and I hear barking dogs, laughing kids, and the clatter of family life in the background. I’m immediately caught off guard because this is not what you hear when you dial a doctor in America . (“XYZ Medical Clinic—Can you hold?” or “For an appointment with Dr. X, please press 1, for a prescription refill, please press 2, if you’re a lawyer or pharmaceutical representative, please hang up now.”)

I think I have the wrong number, but this is the right number and that’s the doctor on the other end. I’m caught off balance and so I sound like a nervous sixth-grader talking to an adult, my voice turning statements into questions: “Hi, I, uh, need to make an appointment? I, uh, have atrial fibrillation, and I, uh, just moved here? From America ? And I need an EKG? Can you do that?” DUH. The doctor kept her cool, and in accented English asked me if I wanted to come in Friday morning. I’m astounded. I don’t have to wait at least a week or two for a routine EKG? Is this possible—an appointment tomorrow? Belgium is seeming like a good place.

When I arrived at the doctor’s office this morning, the waiting room was empty. I didn’t know whether to be happy or suspicious. Either she doesn’t overbook her schedule (hallelujah!) or all her patients have died (uh-oh). Because I’m a little nervous, I’m wearing my favorite faded Levis—they’re like an adult blankie (No, I don’t suck my thumb when I wear them but they’re so soft they calm me down). Because I was raised to be uptight and proper, I feel a little sheepish that I haven’t at least worn khakis and a black sweater and dressed up a tiny bit for the doctor. I shouldn’t have worried. The doctor comes out to greet me in khakis, Keds, a white t-shirt and navy blue zip cardigan—blonde curly hair held back by a headband, light blue eyes with just the right amount of crinkles at the corners, and no makeup. I’m thinking she should model for Eddie Bauer. This is a good sign.

Her set up is typical for a Belgian medical office. There are no sign-ins, no receptionists, no nurses, no paperwork to fill out, no insurance cards to be copied, no divulging social security numbers, places of employment, next of kin, and the medical history of your whole family tree. Dr. Gelderblom has a desk and a lap top in her combination examining room/office which is all yellow and blue and blond woods, like the best of Swedish design.

Being an anal retentive goody-goody, I have copies of the highlights of my medical records organized in chronological order: my last physical, my blood work, and three reports from my cardiologist and an emergency room physician and radiologist who saw me last year. I hand them to her as I sit in a chair and she takes her place behind her desk.

I’m thinking—this is the part where I have to fill out the five-page medical history and sign multiple waivers of liability. Instead, she asks for my Belgian ID card so she can copy my address down. Then she says, “Tell me about your medical history.” I’m used to checking off boxes and filling out forms, so once again, I’m caught off guard, but this time I recover quickly so I don’t do a repeat of yesterday’s weak-kneed adolescent performance. I recite why I’m there, tell her about my cardiology issues, the medications I take daily, a quick summary of surgeries, and an aside on my chiropractic treatment. She doesn’t take any notes, just listens. She asks me if I have children. (Oops, forgot about those pregnancies! Really, being a mother is central to my existence. It’s always on my mind. I love my kids, honest I do!) She asks about my family medical history, and I give her the grim news on cancer and cardiovascular disease. (What can I say—we’re AMERICANS! What isn’t overcome by cell mutations gets clogged up and kills us. That’s life in the good ol’ USA .)

Finally she opens up the tidy little file folder that I’ve carefully labeled with my name and scans my lab work and reads the summaries from the cardiologist. She commends me on my fabulous cholesterol (153—applause please!) and then chuckles over the cardiologist’s assessment that I may need to take prescription blood thinners by the time I’m 60. “Isn’t he an optimist!” she laughs. She thinks I’ll see that Coumadin prescription long before I’m 60. Me, I’m loving my cardiologist in Richmond for giving me the best case scenario. (You go Dr. Caven! If we wish hard enough, it will happen!)

She concludes I need to see a cardiologist here, not just a general practitioner. She taps a few lines into her laptop and then grabs a form letter and fills it out by hand, puts it into an envelope, calls a cardiologist, and makes me an appointment.

She also writes me a prescription for flu vaccine. Yes, flu vaccine. Here in Belgium , you go to the pharmacist, pick up your own vaccines, and then go to the doctor who loads it up and injects it. She tells me to get my vaccine in October and to store it in the refrigerator. (She has no clue this is a BAD IDEA—my kids would pour it over pancakes, sprinkle it with cinnamon, and eat it. Nothing is safe in my refrigerator.)

She then listens to my heart and takes my blood pressure, which is 100/50. She asks me if it’s always that low. I tell her no, of course not--it’s actually been LOWER, 80/60 to be exact. I am Dead Man Walking. She wonders that I’m not light-headed. I tell her I’m often so drowsy I can’t function, and I sleep a lot. Between the medications I take, my health history, and the naturally low blood pressure, it’s no surprise.

The best part of this visit is yet to come. We sit down at her desk and she writes me a receipt (by hand) and gives me the bill for this 30-plus minute consultation. I think she says 90 euros as she hands me the bill. It’s actually 19 euros (less than $25). I’m shocked. Thrilled even. I can’t wait to see what the cardiologist charges!

Life is good! I have a doctor I like, a cardiologist in waiting, and a lot of euros left in my pocket. I ought to celebrate with a big bowl of ice cream--after all my cholesterol levels can take it. But since I’m ever the good patient, I decide on some dark chocolate—I’m convinced the antioxidants are keeping me healthy.

September 16, 2005

What's a Girl to Do?

My daughter is almost eight and is blossoming into such a girly girl. I’m both happy and dismayed. The ambiguity I feel about her love of all things pink, her fondness for styling hair, and her interest in fashion pulls to the surface all the conflicting messages we send and receive about women.

The public and private debate rages on. Is it nature or nurture that makes a girl get girly? And when does being girly become a problem?

Unlike her brother, E-Grrrl has had a strong sense of gender from the time she was a little over a year old. She recognized her own femininity and gravitated to her own sex early on. She has always been an alpha female. She started nurturing baby dolls and bossing her brother around before she could walk. Unlike me, she loves to cook and is eager to learn to sew. She thinks shopping is a great way to spend a day and trying on shoes is a vacation. She saw a “spa kit” in a toy catalog and put it on her birthday list. I shake my head and wonder where all this came from—but I have to admit, the nut doesn’t fall too far from the tree. (I’ve got the shoe boxes and spa products to prove it.)

In my own life I try to walk that delicate line between being concerned about my appearance but not getting obsessed with it, enjoying good clothes but not blindly following fashion, wearing makeup and not letting it wear me. In my 40s, I’m getting better at being comfortable in my own skin—even if it’s sagging. I guess if I’m still figuring out how far to nurture my own feminine instincts, it makes sense I’d struggle to guide my daughter as she does the same.

As a preschooler, I banned the kiddie makeup kits and lip gloss and said no to letting anyone paint her nails. I never fought with her over her hair or insisted she wear it a certain way. We had no little hip hugger jeans, miniskirts, shirts that showed her stomach, satin pajamas, or bikini underwear in her dresser drawers. She had cute clothes but I allowed (even encouraged) her to get dirty and be active and have fun.

And even if I was privately trying to drop a few pounds, I never talked about my weight (or anyone else’s) in her presence. The word “diet” is taboo at our house. I try not to pass my neuroses to her, though God knows, I’m a mother and so I MUST be passing on my neuroses to her, even if I think I’m not. I took her to a girl’s basketball game so she could see women athletes in action and instead her admiring eyes were glued to the cheerleaders on the sidelines and their perfect ponytails. I let her dress as a cheerleader for Halloween but refused to sign her up for a cheerleading camp for six-year-olds.

For the most part in those early years, there seemed to be a good balance between being a girl and being a girly girl. We even managed to live a mostly Barbie-free existence until this year when she discovered the Web and Barbie.com. There the unseen forces behind the Disney princesses unleashed a powder puff assault of pink estrogen on my vulnerable little girl. At Barbie.com, E-Grrrl discovered she could dress and undress virtual Barbies, apply makeup to faces online, and choreograph ice skating routines for Figure Skater Barbie. It was here she was introduced to Hillary Duff, ‘tween queen, for the first time and started playing her videos over and over again. Now she’s like a junkie who needs a fix and is looking for a new drug.

I’ve caught her poring over In Style magazine and reading Bridget Jones’ Diary—at the tender age of 7. “This is so funny, Mama!” she said about Bridget, and I wondered what parts she’d read. Suddenly I’m concerned play time will never be the same. Barbie will be shagging G.I. Joe, who will be seeing one of the Bratz girls on the side. Who knows what’s going on in the toy tent at night?

From In Style she gleaned helpful fashion tips. She tells me with great authority, “Denim is ALWAYS in style” (though E-Grrrl personally hates denim and won’t wear it no matter what anyone says.) She pages through the designer’s new collections and critiques the dresses and hairdos on the models. At one point she says something catty about the woman in a photo spread. I immediately call her out on it—I’ll take a girly girl but not a MEAN GIRL (loved that movie—have you seen it?). In my best Southern Goddess voice I tell her: “Darlin’, the Roberto Cavalli dress may be TRASHY but that doesn’t mean the model is! Remember, she’s getting PAID to wear that dress—we’re sure she’d never wear something so TACKY in real life!”

(My mom would be proud of me. Her message to us whenever we’d say something mean was, “Let’s be charitable!” I’m sure she’d find something nice to say about that Roberto Cavalli dress. “You could use it to dust with. The ruffles will trap the dirt!”)

What can I do with E-Grrrl but sit back and enjoy the ride and tap the brakes when things go too fast or too far? For now, I’m going to admire her good fashion sense, accept that at this stage she may think Hillary Duff is cooler that the Dixie Chicks and Sheryl Crow, buy the Barbies AND the baby dolls, and let her revel in all things pastel. I will, however, hide Bridget Jones and the Chick Lit.

(“Darlin’, I’m not ready to go there with you yet; let’s go check out shoes instead.”)

September 15, 2005

Falling Apart, Lost in Space

This morning I had to drag my sleepy self down to the chiropractor in the center of the city for my weekly appointment. Yes, weekly. The older I get, the more my scoliosis drags me down. Sometimes I feel like the freakin space shuttle—I have serious design problems and require a team of professionals to keep me flying. Today I just can’t get off the ground.

Because I was in such a hurry to get out of the house to see the chiropractor this morning, I forgot to take my heart medications before I left. Now it’s lunch time and my heartbeat is out of rhythm as I sit here in the big black chair that serves as Mission Control for my virtual life. As I’m typing, my heart is typing too, keeping pace with my blog brain which means it’s racing ahead, pausing frequently, tripping all over itself. Pardon me while I talk to myself since Houston isn’t answering. (“Take a deep breath V-Grrrl, actually take several, the meds will kick in soon. Hang in there Grrrl--head down, blog later.”)

Later…

Well the heartbeat settled down fairly quickly but by then my energy level was in full arrest. (“ Houston , we’ve got a problem. We’re running out of fuel.”) I dragged my sorry self and my sore back over to the sofa, clung to my favorite afghan like an over-tired preschooler and drifted off into the lovely black space called sleep. An hour later I start to surface and think, “I better call that cardiologist that Clive told me about for an appointment.”

So I call the cardiologist and get an appointment for the routine EKG I need, but as the receptionist is taking down my information, she asks for my primary care doctor’s name. I told her I don’t yet have a primary care doctor here, but explain I have a full report from my former cardiologist and my primary care doctor in Virginia that they can review now, and I will get a primary care doctor soon. No, she tells me in accented English, this is not enough. If I’m going to see a cardiologist, I need to have a letter of referral from a Belgian doctor. Once again I plead my case, once again, she says they can’t create a record for me without a primary care doctor. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn.

Soooo….I get the name of an English-speaking primary care doctor from a fellow American here. I call her office and get a scratchy recording. The message is in Dutch. I have no clue what the hell is being said, though I can tell at one point the speaker is reciting a number. I hope that at the end there will be a beep and I can record a message. No. Instead, when the Dutch ends, I get to hear the whole thing in French. If the recording were clearer, I might be able to catch the number and figure out what to do, but I can’t get it and there’s no beep and I hang up and think, “Houston—we have a problem. You’re transmitting in Klingon. I repeat you’re transmitting in Klingon.”

All systems jammed. I hang my head, then rally and blog for another day. I am Lost in Space. Like E.T., I want to go home.

September 14, 2005

Homesickness

Homesickness rolls in and out like clouds across the horizon, dimming the view momentarily, darkening the house, triggered by forces I’m not conscious of. Like a fast-moving storm, the change in atmosphere catches me off guard.

Sometimes homesickness is born of frustration because I miss something concrete and practical, like the abundance of closets, cabinets, and outlets in my house in America . Or I’ll miss a luxury like my Jacuzzi, which I pine for every night the way a teenager does for her first love. Sometimes it originates deep inside, drawn from a memory of a moment or season in Virginia—the warm mornings on the deck, the children digging ponds in the dirt, the sound of cicadas and crickets, the sweet smell of honeysuckle, the ghostly sight of the moonflowers opening on the fence at night, the earthy scent of the lake.

There are days when I long for the 24/7 convenience of the American retail landscape and my confidence in navigating all the choices it offers. I miss shopping in all its permutations—knowing the brands, the stores, the best time and place to buy. I don’t like to shop here at all because it reminds me of how lost I am.

There are items I sent into storage before we moved that I wish I had with me now, not for practical reasons but emotional ones—photographs, stuffed animals, the decorative plates that sat on my dresser—little things that triggered happy memories.

I miss every word in the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer Sunday service and the creaky floors, red carpet, and stained glass windows of St. John’s . Church here is a lovely stylish shoe that doesn’t fit. It’s not comfortable and I find excuses to slip out of it.

And perhaps most of all I miss my girlfriends, the laughter and support we offered each other and the experiences we shared. Complaining about housework, jobs and our families, dissecting our children’s behavior and their schools, sharing our accomplishments, joking at our own expense--it made us all feel better to know everyone occasionally sags under the load of their responsibilities. We reminded one another of the amazing things we accomplished every day. We learned to laugh at our failures and celebrate our milestones. Now I feel a bit like an adolescent, worried about finding my own place in the social landscape, fitting in without selling out, saying the right thing.

The worst and best part of my overseas experience is a sense of being unmoored and untethered. It’s been liberating to truly start over in a new culture but unnerving too. I know that having left America behind, I can’t go back and see it the way I once did. I can move back into my house in Virginia but not back into my old life. One day I will miss Belgium--the bread store we walk to on Sunday mornings, the winding tree-lined trails of the parks near our house, the cool summers, the old brick buildings and architecture, our favorite restaurants, all the gardens, the cobblestone streets, my life without a car.

Virginia will never feel the same to me—but I’ll hang on to it, much like a favorite pair of jeans that no longer quite fits but that I can’t bear to part with. Part of my history, part of my dreams, the substance of who I am and long to be.

September 13, 2005

Wild-Haired Women Wake Up With the Blues

In a world of silky-haired models with bone straight hair, I stand out from the crowd. Or I should say, my hair stands out—literally. An erratic halo of dark frizzy curls frames my face and tops my shoulders. While other women’s hair lies down and behaves and announces to the world that they are smooth and firmly in control of their lives, my hair likes to stand out and shout that I’m a bit of a mess--inside and out.

My hair tells the world that I lack discipline, and I’m lazy. It confesses that I refuse to get up early and gather my resources to deal with the natural disaster I’ll see in the mirror. Which force of nature will it be--a volcanic explosion of curls hurled straight up into the air or a tidal wave of frizz cresting in fury over my forehead? I could be a National Geographic cover girl. I look like a species that has yet to be discovered, except perhaps by Dr. Seuss.

I sometimes think the reason I wake up depleted is that all night as I sleep, my hair is siphoning energy out of my body. When the alarm goes off, my body is as limp and wrinkled as the sheets, but my curls are a fabulous example of potential AND kinetic energy, tightly wound springs that dodge and bob my feeble attempts to order them.

Other women use chemical weapons (mousse, gel, hairspray) and power tools (hair dryers, straightening irons, hot rollers) to create order and control in the morning. I’m a hapless leader who is ill-equipped for battle. I have a small bottle of John Frieda “Dream Curls” that I spritz hopelessly over my head in the morning. It’s like trying to end a mass uprising with a purse-size bottle of pepper spray.

What can I say? I’m weak. I have no pride. I just surrender to my inner wild child and let my unruly hair go its own way. I put down the brush and reach for the lip gloss. Screw my hair. I’m going to decorate my pie hole instead.

September 12, 2005