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I hate it when someone asks what I do.

If I say, “I stay at home and raise my kids.” I feel so unimpressive.  I know how hard I work, and often it’s a thankless task, but it never feels like I can adequately convey the magnitude and diversity of that in “I stay at home and raise my kids.”

If I say, “I’m the COO of a family run company,” I know I’m spinning the truth around a bit much and I feel like a liar.  Or a lobbyist.

If I say, “I’m independently wealthy,” they laugh.  And rightfully so.

If I say, “I’m a nude model,” they become awkwardly silent, and I laugh.

I’m not going to justify my choices in life.   I often fall back on the saying:

“Never explain. 

Your friends don’t need it, and your enemies won’t believe you anyways.” 

I have no idea where I read that, but I don’t want to be blamed for plagiarism, so hear me now:  I did not write that!  Whew, I feel better.

But isn’t it an awesome thought?

So the next time someone asks me what I am, I’m going to simply say, “I’m brilliant.”   And if they say, “No, I mean what do you DO?”  I’m going to say, “Brilliant things.”  And then when they say, “No, I mean how do you make your living?”  I’m going to say, “Brilliantly.”   I figure they’ll drop it after a while.

It’s brilliant.

I had a couple of hours to myself today, and decided to use it to wash the good ol’ Chevy Equinox.  You see, it’s supposed to be red, but lately it’s looked brownish-greyish-blackish red. It doesn’t bother me until I keep finding car dirt on my clothes.  That’s when I know it’s time to wash it.

I started with the inside, and while vacuuming, I found:

Broken bits of blue glass in Critter’s door pocket.  (He collects the darndest things.)

Broken toy bits in Critter’s Seat Pocket

Broken Pen pieces.

Broken DVD case pieces.

Bits of: Pretzels, cookies, goldfish crackers, Poptarts, McDonald’s French Fries, biscuits, and a couple of raisins.  Or at least, I think they were raisins.

Drinking Straw Wrappers.

Gloves.

A yellow Crayon.

2 Mind-Bender games.

Several pennies.

Copius dirty kleenex.

Here’s the funny part of all of this.  I vacuumed the car two weeks ago.  All of this was accumulated in only two weeks.

Apparently, we are total pigs.

Then I started on the outside of the car.  That part I had not washed in a long time.  Maybe months, even.  While I was scrubbing, I began to notice little dings that had not been there before.  Maybe they were from inept shopping cart steering, maybe they were from stray gravel thrown from the road.  I don’t know.  But with each new ding, I began to get more and more upset.

Like, is it REALLY that hard to miss someone’s car with a shopping cart?  Do you REALLY have to open your car door so wide that you have to scratch my door?  DOES ANYONE CARE ABOUT OTHER PEOPLE’S PROPERTY??!!! (yelled with Charlie Brown voice)

And after I wound myself up nice and tight, I took a deep breath and remembered all the times I’ve accidentally dinged someone else’s door because the wind caught mine as I was opening it.  And I remembered the times my kids had been unable to control the shopping carts when they were trying to “help” like a big boy and girl.

I rubbed one of the nicks in the door.  It went all the way down through the paint to the base of the metal.  It must have been quite an impact.

I remembered barking at my kids when they did that to someone’s car.  I remembered how they felt so badly about it, they cried. I remembered they haven’t made the same mistake ever since. They learned.

And I started unwinding.

***sigh***

It’s just a car.  It’s just a thing.   It can be fixed.

I guess when when my family and I are perfect, I can be peeved at other people’s accidents.  Until then, I’m just going to leave my car unwashed.

Ignorance is bliss.

My daughter so wanted to get chosen for a solo in her school music concert that I ached for her as she waited to hear whether or not she got it.

And she got it!

And then I dutifully commenced the Mother-MUST-worry thing.

Varmint was cool as a cucumber about it, but I just knew this had to mean a great deal to her.  So I encouraged and petted and cajoled and tried my best to Mary-Poppins the hell out of her whether she needed it or not.  (It’s a verb I made up on my own. Do you like it?)  For weeks.  Very maternally draining weeks.

I listened to her practice, felt she did a very good job, and knew in my own heart that she would be fine.

My son also was in the concert (hence the “all-school” part of the concert title).  The third graders had their own song to learn.  Bobby McFarrin’s “Don’t Worry, Be Happy”.  Great song.  I love it.

And Critter knew the words (it’s not like the lyrics are complicated) by heart so early on in the process, he didn’t practice.  Not that he would have practiced in front of me anyways.  He a guy.  Guys don’t ask for directions, and they don’t practice choir songs.  It’s written somewhere.

The day of the concert came.  All cameras were charged and ready to go.

Varmint’s solo was not until near the end of the concert.

Critter’s class’s song was mid way through…and I loved it.  I love the song.  Critter sang his heart out.  And then, holy cow…is that my boy going to the microphone?  He had a solo?  WHAT????  It was the part towards the end of the song where McFarrin spoke instead of sang “Don’t worry, be happy.  If you are worried, pick up the phone and call me.  I’ll make you happy.” And my critter NAILED IT.  HOLY GUACAMOLE!!!  And it was so funny!  That’s my funny guy!

So, here for weeks I’d been sweating my Varmint’s solo, and we’d been talking about it ad nauseam, and lo and behold, my Critter had one too, and he didn’t even tell his own mother???!!!

After the concert, I asked him why he didn’t tell me.   His answer?

“Mom, you didn’t need to know.”

I fear this is just the beginning of hearing that particular phrase from my youngest offspring.

My kids had an All-School music concert this week.

I arrived in time to see everything, but not in time to actually get a decent seat.

Rather than sit in the back where even my trusty camera zoom would do me no good, I decided to sit on the floor of the gymnasium and watch from a good camera angle.  After all, it is my Varmint’s last year at this school, and it’s a poignant thing for me to see.  AND both she AND my critter had solos (though I didn’t know Critter had one until the moment it happened…but that is for another story).  I had to have a good camera angle.  I had to get ‘the shot’.

So I plunked myself down on the floor on the side of a center aisle, ignoring any raised eyebrows which may have come my direction.  When you are as big and loud and clutzy as I am, you learn to ignore raised eyebrows.  It’s a talent that comes in handy.

One thing you ought to know about me.  I creak.  I have crunchy knees.  I snap, crackle, and pop.  I’ve got joint issues that make arthritis sufferers pity me.  I’m a walking orthopedic surgeon’s annuity.

Oh, and I’m dramatic.

So when I went down on the floor, I sat indian-style for a couple of minutes until that got excruciating.  Then I sat on my knees for a couple of minutes before my feet went numb.  Then I sat on my rear with my feet straight out until my back couldn’t take it anymore.  Then I cycled back to the indian style again.  Each time I did this, I made different bone/joint sounds, accented by occasional grunts because, well, I’m old and fat.  It’s what we do.

There was a sweet man behind me…the father of one of my daughter’s classmates…he got up and moved to stand at the back of the gym and told me as he did so to take his seat.   I was like, “No No! I’m fine!  Stay!”  and he insisted.  Chivalry is not dead my friends!  It was in between songs and the kids were moving around on the risers, so it was a good time to move.  He was so very kind to offer me his spot.

I felt bad, for an entire nano-second.  And then I moved to get up to take the seat.

To do this, I had to roll over onto my side, and then up onto my hands and knees, then kind of give myself a push up, then use that empty chair for balance and leverage.  No problem.  I’ve done it hundreds of other times.

But this time, as I rolled over onto my side, it pushed a fart out.

An audible fart.

An audible fart that surprised me as much as it did the people around me who heard it.

Remember that part about me ignoring raised eyebrows?

Yeah….It’s a good talent to have.

For most of my life I kept my hair long.  Not because I’m vain.  Not because they were gloriously shiny, beautiful tresses.  Not because I am cool and know how to style hair.

But because I’m lazy.

And careful with my money (read: cheap).

The beauty of long hair is that it requires no drying, no curling, no nothing.  Just a brush, a hair band, and you’re ready to go.  Sure, you would need to keep your ends and bangs trimmed.   At least, most people would.

Not me.

“Bah!” I would say, “I can do it myself”.   How hard could it be?  It’s not like the ‘bang-police’ will come looking to see if my lines were straight.  So that’s been my Modus Operandi my whole life and it worked just fine…

Until….

I got my hair cut earlier this year.  Cut short.  Jim Morrison short.  It’s cute as all get out. Purposefully unruly, it’s blissfully easy to take care of.  I wash it, shake it like a dog, put a little anti-frizz product in it (because it smells fruity and I’d rather smell like a grapefruit than the greasy Scottish-Italian housewife that I am) and I’m good to go.

But, it requires more frequent trims than my long hair did.  Like, every month or so.  Especially the bangs.  But you know me (lazy, cheap)…..I waited more than two months before I went in.  And even then it was only because I absolutely HAD to.

You see, my bangs were driving me nuts.  NUTS.  They had grown so long that they were constantly in my eyes and I had to keep doing the snotty teenager ‘head flick’ thing.  I felt like an old, fat, female Justin Bieber.  Ever heard the phrase “seeing the world through rose-colored glasses”?  I was seeing it through brown greasy hair.  It was time for action.

So, there I am in the bathroom looking in the mirror, and do the ol, “Bah! I can do this.”  But I didn’t have any scissors in the bathroom.  Well, not normal scissors.  I did have those little tiny curved fingernail scissors.  You know those scissors that come with any fingernail cutting kit?  The scissors that aren’t good for anything? Yeah, those scissors.

Well I found something they could do.   They could trim bangs.

And I did just that.  I trimmed my bangs with fingernail scissors.  CURVED  fingernail scissors.  It was not easy, I’ll admit.  The curvature of the blades made a straight cut impossible.  The tiny-ness of the blades made it impossible to line it up with previous cuts.  But I did what I do every day of my life in every aspect of my life….

I fudged it.

And you know what, friends?  My bangs looked like someone took a pair of fingernail scissors to them.  Someone with a skewed idea of straight.  Like, maybe, Pablo Picasso. I was going to have to go back to Images Hair Salon in Poolesville, and let them work their magic.  And I knew they would know I tried to do it myself.

Head hung low, I went and sat in the chair feeling sheepish, wishing like hell that I wouldn’t have to explain.

My stylist, God bless her, was so sweet to me.  She was cutting, trimming and clipping and when her capable, talented hands and well-trained eyes got to my bangs, she did nothing more than pause, raise an eyebrow, smile understandingly at me in the mirror, and fixed them.

She was so nice about it, I confided in her what I had done. And get this….

….she nodded knowingly.

No surprise. No shock. No amazement.

So I have to wonder….how many people use pedicure tools to try to avoid getting a professional haircut?