Haaaaaairs
As soon as we started having full-cast rehearsals for The Vagina Monologues, most of us noticed something weird: We had a disproportionately high number of redheads in the cast. Now, I’m guessing not all of them were natural redheads, but still. Only something like 1% of the world’s population has red hair, and according to Wikipedia (“they can’t put anything on the Internet that isn’t true”), here in the U.S. only between 2-6% of the population is red-headed. In a cast of 28 women, we had 8 redheads. That’s almost a third. Apparently when it comes to talking about their lady-bits, redheads are much more likely to do so. You know, based upon my completely unscientific, anecdotal observation.
I am currently somewhat obsessed with hair. I have made my peace with my own hair color; since giving up dye and cutting it all off last spring, I have come to love my silver streaks. I feel more ME, again, somehow. I don’t know how I’ll feel when I’m ENTIRELY gray, but right now I’m digging it. (Though I am maybe a wee bit jealous of all those beautiful redheads….)
So on the color front, huzzah! It’s all good! The problem is that I’ve reached the PLEASE KILL ME portion of our growing-out-my-hair program. read more…
Back to real life
One of the things I love about doing a play is that it completely lifts me out of my regular existence of largely being a hermit, spending my days alone at the computer, spending my evenings with Monkey and Otto and then vegetating on the couch in front of some truly horrible television programming. [Sidebar: So now that we all know that Storage Wars is fake you’d think we’d stop watching it. You’d think we would remove it and Storage Wars Texas from our DVR. You would not think that we would continue popping popcorn and plunking ourselves down to watch these shows every week like they were solid entertainment, but you would be wrong, because… ummmm… yeah, I got nothing. I like popcorn? Yes.]
It’s good for me to pretend to be a social person. By the time we get to show week, we’re all cruising along on adrenaline, and I gamely pop in my contact lenses and spackle my face every night and head out to spend the evening with a fabulous group of women. And I love every minute of it. I keep finding myself thinking WHY DON’T I DO THIS MORE OFTEN?
And then the show ends and I come down with some sort of Mystery Exhaustion Virus and I remember why I don’t: I’m a delicate flower. read more…
Note to self: Buy some air freshener
So we opened The Vagina Monologues last night, after months of rehearsing and planning and some fretting. If you’ve ever been in a community show, you know there’s this nerve-wracking phenomenon where someone always struggles with their lines to the point where you’re thinking CRAP, this is going to be a DISASTER! And then at the final dress rehearsal everyone just pulls it out and you go PHEW, okay, I think it’s going to be fine. (I wonder if that happens in professional productions, too? Probably not.)
Anyway, it was all very exciting. Otto drove in with me to see the show (“Because it’s Valentine’s Day! What else am I going to do?”), and when we got the door an hour before curtain, he kissed me and headed off to kill some time. I walked into the lobby and found a volunteer from the organization backing the show. We’d met before, but she didn’t seem to remember me, so I introduced myself again, and she said, “Oh, Mir! I didn’t recognize you all dressed up!” In fact I was NOT all dressed up, but I did have a metric ton of spackle on my face and my hair was straightened, so I resisted blurting out, “DO I NORMALLY LOOK AWFUL? WHAT ARE YOU SAYING??” (Hi, I’m Mir. I’m 5.)
We chatted for a minute and then I went to head backstage, but this lovely young woman stopped me. “Do you want to grab a program?” read more…
It’s getting hot in here…
To be filed under Things I Never Thought I’d Be Blogging About At My Advanced Age: Breastfeeding.
Specifically, I have to tell you something about back when I WAS breastfeeding. You know, a dozen years ago. I have teenagers; let me tell you about my breast milk! That won’t embarrass anyone AT ALL. But it’s germaine to the topic at hand, which I solemnly swear to circuitously reach in due time. Probably.
More specifically: When Chickadee was a wee floppy baby, I breastfed her, and I also pumped now and again because I truly bought the hype that formula was THE DEVIL, as young mothers who know everything about parenting are sometimes wont to believe. Breast milk was BEST and DAMMIT I was going to give my baby only the best so that she could grow up to have no problems ever. [Sidebar: HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. I want to grab Young Mir and shake her until her eyeballs rattle.] So I nursed, and I pumped, and eventually Chickie went on a nursing strike and I ran out of frozen breast milk and ZOMG I GAVE HER FORMULA. Clearly this is why her life isn’t perfect.
This is also why—when I was pregnant with Monkey—I insisted that we buy a freezer. A freezer I could fill with breast milk. This seemed totally logical at the time. read more…
The little black pants that could
I may have mentioned a few (dozen) times that I’m in a play this week…? Possibly? And one of the super things about putting on a production of The Vagina Monologues is that it really doesn’t require any sort of set or costuming or anything. Basically the director picks a theme for what the cast will wear and then everyone goes home and pulls something out of their closet and whatever. Boom. Done.
Last year we had to wear black, purple and gray, in whatever combinations we wanted. That was really easy, frankly, since I wear those three colors kind of a lot, anyway. This did not stop me, however, from going out last year and buying some, umm, SPECIAL pants for the show. In my defense, they were on clearance. Also in my defense, I was doing the “angry vagina” monologue and I really wanted to wear something kind of hardcore that I would never ordinarily wear. Further in my defense, SHUT UP, it is TOTALLY not weird that I bought some faux snakeskin black, shiny skinny jeans.
[Chickadee was horrified. Like, asked me over and over to confirm that I would never, ever, under any circumstances, wear them “for real” any time other than the show. Her horror amused me, but not to the point where I wore them anywhere else. Because they are ridiculous and that was the point.] read more…
The name’s Bond. Jerkface Bond.
Once upon a time there was this incredible deal at Amazon on the Bond 50 Blu-ray Collection—22 James Bond movies (that’s all of them except for the one that just came out last year, Skyfall). And my darling husband purchased it because he really loves Bond films. Truthfully, I think he really loves the CARS in Bond films, but whatever. Details.
Here let us pause while I note that of the 23 James Bond movies in existence, I had seen maybe… three? Two or three, prior to Otto and his Bond enthusiasm. We saw Casino Royale together and I think I liked it. I don’t really remember anything about it. Then we saw Quantum of Solace together and I spent the whole movie going “What’s going on?” and “Who is that?” and “What the heck just happened??” When the lights went up in the theater, I turned to Otto and said THAT WAS TERRIBLE. He agreed that it was “disappointing for a Bond film.” And so it was with GREAT TREPIDATION that we ventured out to see Skyfall, and yet, that one was really very entertaining. So when the opportunity to get all the films for very little money came up, I thought what harm could it do? Sure, let’s watch all things Bond!
Let me just insert a small spoiler here and tell you that this has been a real test of our marriage. Because apparently I had never seen a really old Bond film before and I had NO IDEA what I was in for. read more…
Patriarchy!!
So I think I mentioned that I’m doing The Vagina Monologues again, this year. (Do you live in northeast Georgia? You should totally come see it next week!) I love everything about being in this show. EVERYTHING. I love being in a show, period. I love being surrounded by a group of kick-ass women. I love raising money for a worthy cause. I love knowing we’re raising awareness. I love the way Monkey’s face contorts when he references, “That… SHOW… you’re in.” (One day I started reciting my lines in the car and he said, “What the HECK, Mom? YOU ARE INAPPROPRIATE.”)
Basically, it’s all good. I think Otto particularly enjoys that for a couple of months I am leaving the house and interacting with other people on a regular basis. I’m not saying that I’m not completely adorable just as I am when I interact with just my computer and my child’s school for weeks on end, I’m just saying that he has an easier time peeling me off his leg when he gets home when I have to leave for rehearsal.
And of course I consider myself a feminist year-round, but it’s OH SO EASY to forget about all of the things out there that are Not Okay when you kind of don’t spent a lot of time out in the world. Then I start with the play and get all GRRRR! RESPECT THE VAGINA! all over again while these issues are front and center in my brain. read more…
We interrupt this funk with some noise
I do my best stressing-out in bed. It’s my gift. Also, it makes me pretty much the greatest spouse ever, because what is sexier than a person who gets into bed at night and immediately begins crying and/or agonizing over a variety of unfixable and unhappy life circumstances? Nothing! ROAWR! Otto is a lucky, lucky man.
Fortunately for me, Otto is also a patient, patient man. Why, in the last year or so of… uh, challenges… Otto has even relented somewhat on his position about bedtime snuggling, now pretty much reflexively pulling me into a cuddle the moment I start fretting after the lights are out. (I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this, before, but if you don’t have yourself an Otto, you should get one. They are SWELL.)
So last night it was kind of par for the course: We got into bed, I called the dog up (she was hiding underneath, as she does), and as Licorice settled between us and Otto took my hand, two things happened. First, my brain began to race, because YAY FOR BEDTIME ANXIETY. Second, we heard a bizarre noise in the distance. read more…
Tongue-tied
It’s very rare that I don’t know what to say. (Mind you, I don’t always say the right thing, but I can usually muster up SOMETHING. Even if it involves shoving my entire foot and half my leg into my mouth.) Maybe it’s because I’m getting older or maybe it’s just that I’m finally learning that whole “better to be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt” thing. I’m still happy to play the fool when times are easy. In tougher times, though, I’m not entirely sure what to do.
I spent the weekend mulling over these notions of how “love wins” and “love is enough.” I want to believe. Desperately. I’m working on it.
Step 1: Fill my aching, fearful heart with only the best ideas and memories. Do whatever I need to do to make that love tangible. So this morning I’m going back to one of my very favorite memories, savoring it, and—why not?—eating a grapefruit. Hopefully my sweet girl knows I wish I was sharing it with her.
Shhhhh, don’t wake him up
When you think about having children, you dream of all the magical things you’ll do together and all the memories you’ll build. You hope you’ll have similar interests and hopes and goals.
Actual conversation from earlier today in the car, upon spotting a rather unfortunate-looking (read: dead) armadillo on the shoulder.
Me: Oh no, Mr. Armadillo. That’s not a good place for a nap!
Monkey: Maybe he’s very sleepy.
Me: Like he was walking along, and suddenly he was just overcome with the need for a short rest?
Monkey: Exactly. So he just flopped over on his back like that for a power-nap.
Me: And put his intestines in a tidy pile beside him.
Monkey: Right. Because it’s hard to get comfortable with your innards on the inside. He just took ’em out, you know, just to get comfy.
Me: Kind of like taking off your pants so they don’t get creased while you sleep?
Monkey: Yeah, he was all, “My intestines can just wait over here. Ah, that’s much more comfortable. Also, I appear to be slightly dead.”
Me: Well, that’s unfortunate.
Monkey: Indeed.
I’m so proud.