A month goes by...

So begins my attempt at a series of Pre-Christmas blogs. Last year, I brought you some doozies. This year I hope to not disappoint!
The date, December 1, was blinking on the orange glow of my alarm clock, yet, I hadn't an ounce of strength, will, or heck, even ability to remove myself from beneath the covers. Although, I had removed the covers about 221 times over the night, during my frequent "night sweats." It's hell being female, sometimes, especially when you're missing some of the required parts. Besides that, I had the worst case of gastroenteritis I can ever remember, which was proudly kicked off by a round of the technicolor yawn in my cousin's toilet, during one of the debut parties for my lia sophia business. Who feels sorry for me? Come on...I left the house for the party, feeling smart in my pressed khaki pants and (supposedly) stylish, fitted denim jacket, smelling success in the air. I left in a much more humble state, as I carried my leftover Walmart plastic bags to the car with me, just in case I tossed my cookies on the way home.
The thing is, when you're a mom, you abandon the notion of "being cared for." You live and breathe to care for your children, your pets, your home. You, in fact, are a sub-creature of your own life. You're simply the body that performs the tasks that keeps everyone else thriving. When I do become ill, I remember vividly a time or two I was under the weather and staying with my grandmother. She was amazing. Have I ever mentioned that? I remember laying on her couch, drinking Sprite from yellow Tupperware cups, watching General Hospital. I remember the times I'd have to make it to the bathroom, and she'd not only escort me there, but she would stroke my hair, speak gently and, with great intestinal fortitude,clean up any mess I may have made. I never saw her flinch, or turn away, or even imply that I was too much for her to handle. That, my friends, is pure love. I suppose, however, I do that now, for my kids. I realize all of the disgusting things I've put up with; things that, as a teenager, I would've contorted my face about, and exclaimed how "GA-ross" they were. There was a time period, a long one, at that, when I swore I'd never have children. Time passes, lives change, right?
December began, like it or not, and I'll mark the day in rememberance, as the one I spent on the couch, with my new Black Friday steal, a Target Christmas blanket and my eyes barely in focus on the television. I don't really know what my kids did all day. They behaved, I suppose, and no one bled. All in all, a success. I think my oldest is finally at the age where the human in him is beginning to surface, and he can, for brief periods, be kind and considerate. I hope I am not speaking too soon, on that, but he did bring me a lemon-ice and a spoon, and he did get his sister a bottle and refrained from beating the bloody heck out of his brother that day.
Brighter days of upcoming Christmas cheer are ahead, though. I am well again, and there are only two more grueling weeks of school before a much-needed break. It's Christmastime in the city, friends, and whether you can hear Silver Bells or not, we can look at it one of two ways. In a month, not much changes. The time will pass, regardless of how you choose to celebrate, or not celebrate. Yet, everything changes. I tend to become lost in October/November/December, bulking it all together in this "holiday" package with sparkly wrapping because, well, I can. In the glimmer and glitz of the holiday mayhem, however, lives still go on: some people are more jolly, some people still suffer... I, however, try to keep some spirit alive, because just around the corner, there is still a let-down to experience...it's the ultimate disappointment that, (if you let yourself travel this road) in a matter of weeks, it'll be over. It'll be January. Either way, keep your head up. There are still 22 days to shop.

Love, Love, Love

What is it we want? What do we really want? There are many answers mulling through my head. The one at the forefront, however, and coincidentally, the scariest one, is "I don't know." See, you would suspect, that at my age, with three children, a college degree and, for the most part, stability in life, I would know.
I've had a song in my head for weeks, as I once in a while do, when I hear something that speaks profoundly. Or, in this case, sings it. J.J. Heller's "What Love Really Means" is the song. In the lyrics, she describes multiple situations when people are searching for the love that will make them feel whole. And as I listen to it, I wonder how many people there are, doing that very thing. I am one of them, to be sure.
It's not what you think. I'm not greedy or discontent. I even thought I knew what love really meant a couple times. I suppose the first time I was absolutely positive I knew was the moment I saw my first baby's little wrinkly red face. And then the second one, and the third. Perfect, innocent little reminders. Let's face it though, that's not the kind of love we're talking about. Or is it?
Is it romantic love we seek? Is it the excitement of a new love, a "Bad Romance" as Lady Gaga would say? A frightful yet exciting, thrill-seeking, emotional high? Note: Mom, that's for you. I will never lose the mental image of you making claw-like hands and singing "Love, love, love."
Is it the concept of a soulmate? The romantic in me still believes that soulmates exist; the cynic in me says "fuggetaboutit." I think, if they do, in fact, exist, the whole theory is reliant upon flexibility. Your soulmate might not come in the perfect package you envisioned. Which is why so few of us have found them: we are too jaded by the fantasy of perfection.
I listen to Don Moen's Sunday morning radio show on my way to teach the teen Sunday school class every week. I love the inspirational stories. I always, always cry. Because I believe, deep down, that these people who are sharing these amazing stories of love have something I don't, but I'm convinced that I'm thisclose to finding it. I remind myself about timing, constantly. It's not up to me. God can count the hairs on my head, how foolish am I to think that I can control timing? Don said he heard a quote, I forget from where, about searching for peace, love and contentment. The quote was something like "Are you searching? Join the masses who are, the people who feel the emptiness, like a vacuum, inside. The truth is, that's there for a reason, and can only be filled by God. When you give up on looking for tangible things, or even people, to fill the vacuum, and you realize that God's love for you is the greatest form of fulfillment there is, you will feel whole." So is that it? That's what J.J. Heller says in her lyrics: "You will love me, for me. Not for what I have done or for what I become."
So, it's God they're talking about. And I can jump on that bandwagon and agree, but it doesn't mean I've accepted it or invited it myself. It'd be hypocritical to say I have. I'm still among the masses of searchers.
Inevitably, it's a process, like anything else. Accepting God's love, filling that metaphoric vacuum, is likely the first step. Maybe even not so much a "first step" but rather, a pre-requisite to step-two: the mysterious human love we crave in our every day existence.
So I'd love to hear from anyone who can tell me what that means. What is the love you crave? Are you still writing bad romances, or are you "filling your vacuum" too?

The Salon

Beauty salons are very scary places to me. They are wonderful places, don't get me wrong. I can walk in with eyebrows mimicking Bert from Sesame Street and hair like the Mad Hatter, and "poof" I walk out looking like Eva Longoria. Or something like that. I mean, if I was Latina, perhaps. Bad analogy.
Anyway...
I went to the salon last Friday. I look forward to these trips more than some holidays, I think. First of all, I am alone. My loud children are left behind, to fend for themselves. Well, not really. But they sort of are, because I'm not sure what my husband does to really "hold down the fort." There are these sleek, red leather club chairs in the salon, that immediately make me feel stylish when I sit in them. One of the multi-colored hair girls behind the counter (it's a hip place, go with it)saunters over with a wine glass full of ice water and asks if I'd like anything else. I can barely whisper "no" because I am overwhelmed that I'm holding a real glass. I would browse through the hair style books, but I'm too busy gawking at all of the artwork, the colors, and listening to the easy chatter of hairstylists with their clients. I glance at the lady next to me, in the other red club chair, and she is oblivious to the things I am noticing. Her water glass sits untouched as she thumbs through a People magazine and checks her phone every 2 minutes. I decide that this must not be special for her. She does this all the time.
My hairstylist, Jenn, is a cute girl in her 20's, with a bubbly personality. She asks me questions about my family, and I answer, dutifully. She asks what "we're doing" today, as if I will be handed a pair of shears and invited to cut along. I say the same thing I usually say: "I'm still growing it. Just the ends, and trim up the bangs, I think." She nods and says she'll give me a stress relief. Stress relief? I expect a cart of Ben and Jerry's, Diet Pepsi, and a stack of Gerard Butler movies to appear. Instead she weirdly massages my head. And it feels nice, I suppose, but my hair is getting in my eyes and it reminds me of when my boys (yes, my boys) "style" my hair at home.
We head to the awkward, neck-paralysis sinks. She washes my hair with things that smell expensive and she chats about her dog, her husband, and what they're doing for Halloween, which, she mentions nonchalantly, includes a trip up north for a weekend party. She asks what we're doing, and I tell her, just staying home and trick-or-treating. As I say it, I realize it must sound lame. But to me, it's an excursion, because on any normal weekend, we do much less than even that.
I feel a little grateful when she starts the blow dryer, not because I don't like talking, but because I am running out of things to say. I wonder what my kids are doing. I wonder if I turned on the dryer.
This appointment, I also scheduled an eyebrow wax. I did this because I have shamefully let things get out of hand, and even the best tweezers couldn't bring me back. I need wax intervention.
I sit back in another paralysis-inducing chair as another jovial little elf-like gal comes to examine my mess. She says "Are we just shaping up?" and I giggle, thinking of how she's GOT to be trying to be polite.
"Divide and conquer," I tell her. She chuckles a tiny bit, but she has no idea what I mean.
As she leans over me, she apologizes that her scarf is falling into my face. I mutter some dismissive response, and she says "I hope it at least smells good. I sprayed it with perfume this morning. I always do, I would hate it if I smelled bad and I'm leaning over people all day."
I haven't gotten past the spraying of the scarf. People do that? I have never thought of it. I tell myself I am going home and spraying all of my scarves.
When they announce that I'm finished, I examine my red skin on my eyebrow area, but I'm not bothered, because at least I see skin. My hair is shiny and even, and I am secretly proud that I wore a skirt and tights, because now I'm "complete."
On the outside, anyway.
Look out, Eva.