Stumbling Towards Perfect

Shortly after the girls and I moved in with Big V, the Jellybean experienced an intruder trying to break in to the house. She was home alone while the rest of us drove to the bank on this random, beautiful, sunshiney, couldn't-be-more-perfect afternoon. She's 13 and sulky and wasn't about to go anywhere with her hair looking like THAT! And so she stayed home alone. Dotter and I were waiting patiently in the parking lot singing along to Hannah Montana for the umpteenth time while the all-important deposit transaction was happening inside. Who knew that in the next second I'd feel extreme helplessness and panic, something I never want to experience again. On the other end of my cell phone, in a hushed but screaming voice was Bean... "they're trying to get in the house! oh my god! oh my god! MOM! they're opening the window - they're trying to open the WINDOW!" What the hell was she saying? I couldn't focus. I couldn't hear. I couldn't see.

So, I surprised the hell out of myself (again) by finding out I was pregnant. I say "again" because I have two children already and neither one was exactly planned for. This one wasn't planned for either, thus the surprise. I found out months ago, so at this point (20 weeks into said unplanned event) I find myself resolved to the fact that I shall hatch a little changeling somewhere around September 20th of this year. (Yes, I am well aware of the fact that I must endure the E-N-T-I-R-E summer. No need to mention that to me every time you see me.) It seems our little Cletus the Fetus is a genius. Told Big V won't be able to feel the flipping fetus until probably week 25, Cletus the Fetus has set out to proove the good doctor wrong. The past two weeks have been spent hosting Boxing Rounds of the Extreme Embryos and Gymnastic Championships of the Gamete Gurus. (g amete: look it up.) Big V is in awe beyond words, wrapping his calloused hands around my bulging belly any c

Last night I posed a simple question on my Facebook: How much do you tip your hairdresser? I seemed to have unwittingly opened a can of exploding opinions. 36 comments later I learned that the average tip was 20% - a little more if the service was stellar, a little less if it was so deserved. However, a few comments shocked me - and these tended to be from the hairdressers themselves, like this one: " As a HAIRDRESSER i feel 20% is norm anything above is awesome. And if you are giving a service, a tip IS expected! It's also called common courtsey ." Really? A tip is EXPECTED by you? How about the customer expecting good service FROM you? The last time I went to get my hair done I was left alone waiting several times. Now, I've been getting my hair cut, colored and styled since I was seventeen. I think I know the drill by now, so trust me when I say I can tell the difference between waiting for my color to set and waiting for you to answer the phone (once it was your m

Before Christmas I was walking around a store, pleasantly paying no particular attention to anything around me while gossiping on my trusted (red) Motorola Razr. Suddenly everything went blue. There it was: the dreaded Bootloader screen. It might as well said, "Your phone has been completely wiped of all software, memory, contacts, and use capabilities. Proceed to your nearest US Cellular where you will quickly become more enraged than you ever thought was possible." I was told there was nothing they could do. The phone was dead. The only option was a new phone.... B U T - - - my contract wasn't up yet, so a new phone isn't allowed. Huh?! I only had a couple weeks to go, so I decided to forego modern accessibility & convenience and spend the next few weeks roughing it sans cell. When my self-imposed sentence was up I gleefully skipped all the way to US Cellular: "Howdy-ho, Lovely People of the Cell Gods! I am here to joyfully pick out my new phone!" Fort

I think everyone has a talent. Yes, everyone. Sometimes they're not as obvious as the ability to belt out the National Anthem without making people cringe, or painting works of art with your toes... sometimes talents lie hidden underneath, ready to be unearthed, discovered, revealed to the world. I happen to have an insane unconscious skill of matching my underwear to whatever color shirt I'm wearing. Now, you may not consider it a talent - I mean, really, how hard is it to match, you might ask. So let me give you some background. (1) I rarely, if ever, 'decide' my outfit prior to stepping into it. (2) I usually get dressed in a darkened room (not because I'm uncomfortable with my body, but because I'm usually sleep-dressing and don't want the light to bother my eyes). (3) I'm usually running at least 15 minutes behind schedule, so there's no time to dawdle picking out the perfect panties to match the shirt I choose. And yet... I rush the kids in the

How guilty I am of this... I have been taught to believe that strong, independent women can do it all. We multi-task. We get things done! I check emails while holding a conversation on the phone. Matthew starts talking to me and I walk away to check the mailbox (I can still hear him, I tell myself, but I need to see if there is any mail I need to attend to). I keep calculating checkbook balances while Dotter tells me something - some story, she's cute, happy, with such a sweet smile, and I wonder what her story was about. The Jellybean is telling me about the new girl at school who brags about smoking, I know it's a learning moment, but dinner needs to be made so I interupt and ask her to please take out the large, glass casserole dish on the bottom shelf, "Go on," I say. "I'm listening." But I know that I'm not. I'm not listening at all. I'm juggling. My mind is whirling a thousand miles an hour with checklists: Dotter needs to take a shower