catfish to caviar

Any occurrence requiring undivided attention will be accompanied by a compelling distraction. - Bloch

When I grumble about early onset dementia, I’m only half kidding. And my forgetfulness would seriously concern me if I didn’t get distracted by the accouterments of domesticity and not remember to worry.

“Organization,” I would answer when asked about my strengths. “The ability to multitask and prioritize.” I could triage daily assignments and court filings like a mo fo. But these days I can’t recall whether I fed the dogs so I feed them again.  I say “again” because they’re getting fat so apparently I’m remembering to feed them but forgetting I did.  And last night I camethiscloseto massaging Purell into baby girl’s precious skin instead of baby oil. This is not something I do. I don’t make mistakes.  In my defense the bottles are identical if you don’t notice the writing on the label because you’re distracted by your pudgy dog licking the toothbrush right out of your kid’s mouth.

It has become a habit, an exercise in time management, to buy milk any and every time I’m in Whole Foods/Publix/Target so that our supply always meets our demand. Last night I discovered 2 open cartons in the fridge which made no sense because why would I have opened both? That would’ve been a mistake and please remember that I’ve only made one thus far and a little Purell never killed anyone.

Me: “Babe, did you open the milk?”

Husband: …

Me: “Did you open the milk?”

Husband: “Hmm?”

Me: “Milk. Did. You. Open.”

Husband: “No.”

Me: “Do you think it was opened at the store?”

Husband: “Of course not, you opened it.”

Me: “I didn’t.  Someone opened it at the store, spit in it, filled it with sewing needles and crack and put the cap back on.”

Husband: “Yeah, maybe. But probably not.”

Me: “It’s $5. I can’t waste it.”

Husband: “You won’t sleep unless you toss it.”

So I fought back tears as I poured out an entire carton of milk that I probably opened myself when there are children starving in the world but I can’t risk my kids drinking needles and poison. When you become a mom, you realize the world has teeth. You also realize there are crazy people everywhere and you might be one of them.  Revelations like these would drive me to drink if I didn’t get distracted and forget to worry.

Would you let Scrappy Coco 'do you?

A name says a lot about a person, especially when it comes to a career. For instance, while Colton Maxwell Darlington is as good as Princeton bound, poor little Peaches Titsworth will almost certainly be wearing her name on her shirt. Nowhere is the implication of a name more telling than in a hair salon.

Stylist: Tiffany
How to spot her: Crayola red chin length hair, hipster nerd glasses, Hello Kitty watch
Price: $30
Signature cut: Country chic bob a/k/a The Gosselin

Stylist: Trinity
How to spot her: Razored inky black hair, brow ring, black clothing.  Because she only wears black clothing.
Price: $45
Signature Cut: Long, sexy morning-after layers. Think Jennifer Aniston, post-Rachel

Stylist: 7ven. (Not Sven, Seven.  As in the number 7.)
How to spot her/him (you’ll never be quite sure): Nordic blonde pixie cut, pinup tattoo sleeves, Elton John platform boots, air of boredom and superiority.
Price: $300
Signature Cut: The Gwyneth, The Swank, The Winslet, The Oscars, The anti-Gosselin.

Is a name change mandatory when one becomes a hairstylist? Or do creative types with creative names find themselves drawn to a creative industry?  OR do they become creative because their hippie parents named them after Matrix characters and lucky numbers and, really, they had no other choice?  Discuss amongst yourselves.

Same goes for strippers because God help me if I end up in the hospital and the only person who can save me is Dr. Kylie (Candy, Destiny, Misty, you get the picture).  I admit to being prejudiced, just never based on race, religion or romantic partner.  That being said, I will totally prejudge you based on any of the following: 1) pants that sit below your butt, 2) prevalence of the word “dude” in your vocabulary, 3) NASCAR and 4) being named after anything edible.

Parents, choose those names carefully and only when sober.  To each his own, but I urge you to imagine your child’s name at the top of a resume.  Would you hire him/her/7ven?  Unless your last name is Paltrow-Martin, a name that doubles as a fruit might not be the ripest pick.  Just ask Peaches.

Mothers are all slightly insane. - J.D. Salinger

I’ve come to the conclusion that being a mother isn’t all that different from being a vampire.  With motherhood comes pale skin and dark circles, dazed days and nocturnal nights.  Remember the scene in Interview with the Vampire where newly “born” Louis is encouraged by Lestat to see his surroundings with his “vampire eyes?”  Suddenly his world is lucid, filled with movement and magic and infinite detail.  I think I know how Louis felt; at once powerful and fearful, enlightened and burdened.  That Anne Rice wrote this book after losing a child is achingly clear. 

Our children are born from blood and pain then fed from our bodies to create an enternal bond.  Their legacy is our immortality.  And we then see, with our maternal eyes, that the world is filled with wonder and whimsy, with angels and demons.  Because I’m a mother I see danger lurking on every corner and on better days I can cast my eyes from the shadows and look into the sun.  On the worst days I find myself climbing onto the darker shelves of my imagination, rattling those dusty jars of irrationalities and choking on what ifs.  The news stories that used to make me sad for a moment can now take up hours – those children become my children and the sadness becomes tangible; a tiny snag in my chest that comes with each breath and the knowledge that strangers are capable of evil deeds.  But most frightening of all is the acute awareness of what I’m capable of doing to protect my children.

I used to do my best writing while blowdrying my hair in the morning.  Something about the solitude, the mindless hum and heat made my creativity bloom and I would have to stop mid-style to jot down my ideas.  Lately my brainstorms have been replaced by revenge fantasies.  Sick, right?  On better days I daydream of creating a satellite detector that will identify all predatory humans and incinerate them instantaneously: fair, clean.  On the worst days I imagine Dextering with glee the lunatic murderer from last week’s headline, the strung out mother who forgot to feed her baby, the man alone in his car who parked just close enough to watch my children at the playground yesterday.  And I must admit, I am pretty damned creative.  I’ve become a vigilante vampire mama, if only in my head and my hair has never looked better.

I’ve lived more than half of my life in heels. My personal motto: The higher the heel, the closer to God. But now that I have twins in tow, I fear flats are (silently, clicklessly) sneaking up behind me. I want to give in, really I do, but I just can’t give a few meddling moms the satisfaction. Their disapproving stares are egging me on and I’m clever enough to recognize the judgment peering from beyond the thin veils of admiration. When they say, “I don’t know how you do it” what they mean is, “You shouldn’t do it.”

Pre-pregnancy, I spent every waking moment in heels. I could run in them, jump in them and, by golly, even climb a mountain in them. They added height, elongated my legs and allowed my ass to defy gravity. In my opinion, heels are heavenly and flats can go to hell.

While I was knocked up I would explain to naysayers that I walked more easily in heels (true), that my back hurt when I wore flats (also true), and that I never tripped while I was in heels (not entirely true). By my 8th month I had moved on to wedges which gave me height with balance. At least I thought so until I fell on the sidewalk and cracked my head open. One ambulance ride, one panicked husband, seven stitches, 1,347 tears and 4 hours of fetal monitoring later, I conceded and bought a pair of leopard print flats. I even wore them a time or two, that is when I worked up the nerve to walk again. It wasn’t shoes I distrusted, it was gravity.

And then came the “I told you so” comments ad nauseum. Had the hell on heels remarks been offered in the form of advice instead of admonishment, maybe I would’ve been more apt to listen. But I’m nothing if not an eternal brat. Still, shouldn’t we be lifting each other up, like a lovely pair of Brian Atwoods, rather than stomping each other into the ground? Am I a bad mother because I refuse to wear sensible shoes? Really? I mean, really? To all of you other mothers, I’m sure this is the first of many mistakes I’ll make, so settle in, grab a snack and enjoy the show.

So here I sit, a relatively new mom, wedged uncomfortably between the devil and the deep blue sea. I recently gave in and added a pair of retro Converse low tops to my collection but they haven’t seen much action. The first time I wore them Husband said they looked crappy and minutes later I stepped in dog poo. Coincidence? I think not. Maybe it’s just for spite, but I’m off to the park with my two wee beasties…and two of the highest heels I can find.

Nothing major, just having a bit of a blue period.  Light blue?  Aspiring to be more like the little lady in this clip.

Ouiser, I’d recognize this penmanship anywhere. You have the handwritin’ of a serial killer.