Forget the Family Doctor...We're Going Medieval on This Disease and Calling The Barber!

A year into our marriage (2002) my husband Matt and I were faced with the first of many trials to shake the foundations of our marriage. Matt was diagnosed with a Butt Cut. To this day I blame myself. I should have known. He was displaying all the classic symptoms. His mom expressed concern the Thanksgiving before his January diagnosis. (Apparently this is genetic. Matt's uncle also suffers from this disorder, but on his back...) I noticed that his condition only worsened over the holidays. It was time to seek help when one weekend he was talking to me and I said "Stop bending over and show me your face when you talk to me " and he replied, "This is my face." I knew then that only an intervention could stop this cycle. So I called Stewart, he was licensed by the state for this type of thing. And Stewart came through for us. Stewart sat him down in a chair and asked, "What are we going to do today?" He was assessing the level of Matt's denial by seeing how Matt would answer. Would Matt enthusiastically show him a picture of then-popular Russell Crowe that he had clipped out of People magazine? Or would he shrug his shoulders and just say "Trim around the baseball cap"? Instead, my overwhelmed darling looked to me for help. He remained speechless. Stewart picked up on his hesitancy and decided to work the steps with my afflicted husband.

1) I must recognize and admit I am powerless to a bad haircut.

2) I must realize that a Power (Stewart) greater than myself can restore me from a bad haircut.

3) I must decide to turn over my desire for a Butt Cut over to the care of Stewart.

4)I must wear a smock while turning over my Butt Cut to Stewart.

5) I must admit to Stewart, to myself, and to another human being the exact nature of my wrongful Butt Cut.

6) I must ask Stewart to remove the Butt Cut

7) I must make a list of all persons who have been harmed by looking directly at my Butt Cut and become willing to make amends to those persons.

8) I must have my scalp massaged and cleansed with aromatic concoctions.

9) I must call my sponsor if I am ever tempted to grow a Butt Cut.

10) I must regularly(every 5 weeks) visit Stewart for maintenance.

11) I must daily wear hair gel and hair wax as Butt Cut prevention

12) Having had a Hair Style awakening as the result of these steps, I must carry my message to others sporting a Butt Cut and to practice a life free of Butt Cuts.

Matt has been Butt Cut sober for the last 9 years. But it wasn't all easy. Matt experienced a setback in his progression of the Steps. Particularly Step 10. Five weeks into his newly manscaped head, Matt returned for his first maintenance appointment. In his effort to show his earnestness in recovering from this disease, he agreed to Stewart's suggestion of highlights, also known as a "shoe shine". Stewart deposited Matt into Erma's chair. Between Erma talking on the cell phone and possibly inhaling too many fumes from the colorant, Erma bleached the entirety of Matt's head. He looked absolutely ridiculous. Boy Band ridiculous. If he had busted out into a rendition of Bye Bye Bye I might have sued.

And a couple of years ago things became tense. He decided to shave his head. I suspected that maybe he was fighting a Butt Cut relapse. "Shaving your head isn't the answer", I cried while he set his clippers to 1 and his lovely (sparse, but lovely nonetheless) locks fell on his shoulders. He never did admit to any Butt Cut cravings. And maybe shaving his head was the answer. But it was such an unorthodox move in treating this disease. I would call it radical. But those dark days are behind us now. He's allowed his hair to grow in, sporting a mid-level management style. And his new stylist/barber in New York has taken his recovery to the next step and performed a uni-brow dissection. That's right, folks. My husband now has two eyebrows. Thanks, Vinny!

Worst. Guest. Ever.

OBITUARIES

Flat Stanley
circa 2011

Beloved friend of Colton Griffin and family, professional grifter and free-loader. Lured his victims using Kindergartners as bait to get into the homes of their families and friends across the country. He entered these homes under the guise of looking for photo opps during a "family-friendly" adventure. But once lodging was secured he was prone to late night binges and swearing. His last day on this earth was spent doing what he loved: GTL. His body was recovered from the paper shredder. Authorities suspect foul play. Services TBD.

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{2:08 am Flat Stanley is well into his late-night binge of Canadian Beer and The Jersey Shore Marathon}

{4:38 am Flat Stanley loses his bearings and in his confusion ends up in the Study}

{4:55 am Flat Stanely decides to operate heavy machinery for amusement.}

{4:56 am Flat Stanley...errrr... Shredded Stanley's remains.}

Images are a dramatization of events. No Flat Stanleys were harmed in the making of this blog.

Blast from the Past

I ran across an old essay I had written. Matt would LOVE for you to read this excerpt...

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My day began with a dream. My unconscious state would not step aside for the breaking of a new day. My dream was filled with the sound of my cell phone ringing. Shrill double ring, then pause. Shrill double ring, then pause. Meanwhile, Dream Matt was handing me the cell phone, but my attention shifted to the noises produced by my baby daughter. I could hear her babbling: dadadada…hakhakhakhak (a noise imitating a cough). Suddenly, I was brought out of my dream by the sound of air breaking when the door is opened to a soundless room. My eyes slightly opened and adjusted quickly to the blue tinted room. The aquatic ambience was because of a blue velum blanket that was covering the window. I was restricted to the right side of the queen size bed. A giant cardboard box of baby clothes sat on the left hand side. The legs from a pink pair of overalls with red and yellow flowers embroidered on the ankles peeked over the edge. I was cocooned under layers of bed linens: a slate blue sheet, a slate blue thermal blanket, a denim comforter, and a hunter green fur-like blanket. My mop-haired Yorkshire terrier bounded into the room with just 2 steps and landed on my right shoulder and began sniffing my ear. My husband stood halfway in the doorway. His wooly body was greasy from a night of fever and vomiting. His right hand was on the door handle. He wore only his red and olive green plaid boxers from Abercrombie & Fitch. He mumbled that the baby was awake. The ringing of the cell phone floated in from the kitchen. No one made an attempt to answer it. He stumbled out of the doorway and went two feet down the hallway into the master bedroom. I could hear his body hitting the sheets of our bed. My very heavy eyes that had managed to only get half way open fell closed again. Time passed. Two minutes maybe. My husband moaned, “Jaime. Jaime. The baby.” I groaned in response. I scooted to the right bottom corner of the bed. I could not roll off the side of the bed because a KitchenAid Mixer box donning a gift receipt, blocked my exit. A sea green baby swing carrying two king size pillows, sans pillowcases, in its seat was to the left of the appliance and also prevented me from getting out of the bed from the right side. Directly south of the bed was a disassembled gray recliner. The recliner back laid face up in the rocker seat. The right corner was my only feasible route. My eyes were still half shut. Until I entered the master bedroom. Bleach stains on the light beige carpet jolted my eyes wide open. There was a trail from the left side of the bed, snaking in front of the dresser, and ending at the door way of the bathroom where the tile began. I looked over at my sickly husband. He was eggrolled under the quilt. His lips were parted. It appeared that he was asleep. The corners of my eyes took in the clutter that permanently resided on our dresser: a white with orange rim ceramic change bowl, a change can picturing dolphins and other sea life, a square jewelry box with a stack of mail on it, a silver picture frame holding the happy mugs of a honeymooning couple in snow-covered mountains, a slew of white ankle socks without mates, a prescription bottle, a purple tube of lanolin, a wire basket with intermittent beads woven throughout. The room was freshly painted Silver Sage and the blue tape at the seams of the wall and ceiling still lingered. I gingerly stepped across the room, careful to avoid the mini-warzones of carpet cleaner and vomit. I stepped into the light pinkish tiled with grey grout bathroom. The silver sage with cream ticking shower curtain that hung from metal rings blocked out the rising sun. On the right hand side of the door and in front of the linen closet was a plastic blue pail filled with dingy water. A mop was soaking in it and leaned against the closet door. I began my morning ritual by reaching for my pink Oral-B toothbrush and adding a layer of Colgate Total toothpaste to the bristles. I spritzed it with water from the tap and began brushing. As I brushed my teeth, I turned around to inspect the state of the bathroom. I turned counterclockwise 90 degrees. I gasped as I saw traces of my husband’s dinner on the door frame to our closet. I slowly turned another 90 degrees towards the cubby area that houses the toilet. I ceased brushing momentarily as my eyes scanned the orange-red mess on the wall behind the toilet, on the wall in front of the toilet, on the outside of the toilet, on the baseboards, on the tiny white step trashcan a foot in front of the toilet. My husband must have heard my gasp of disgust and called from bed, “I cleaned most of it up. I mopped and cleaned the toilet.” I tuned him out at that point and eyes returned to the toilet. All I could think was, “Did he clean it with his eyes shut?” I immediately felt guilty since he was so sick. My eyes scanned the tile floor. I needed to assess the damage so I could estimate the amount of cleaning products and time I would need to return to the bathroom to its disinfected state. I returned to the sink to finish brushing my teeth.

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This Post is Rated PG-13 for Language

So some of you may want proof that my babies are indeed geniuses. When Autumn was 15 months old she spelled her first word. (see below)



{STD}

Lorelai has followed in her big sisters footsteps:

{Shat}

Jealous?

Lorelai's Birthday

My second daughter, Lorelai, just celebrated her 6th birthday this past week. I think my friends would agree when I describe her as magical. (This should not be confused with Charlie Sheen's self-description of being from another terrestrial realm.) I'm almost certain she is an angel sent from heaven to study the human race...and maybe to share a little light from above? She seems mystified of the world around her, and likewise, she mystifies me. Even her speech pattern is eccentric. For example, the other morning Matt said that there wasn't a lot of Honey Puff cereal left. Lorelai asked, "is there enough for a human?"

Don't get me wrong. The last six years have NOT been magical. She spent the first 2 years of life miserable in her skin. She cried a lot. At one point her pediatrician asked me if I liked her (as she sat wailing in my arms). That seemed like a trick question.

I came up with a game as she got older to help calm her down during those times the world felt like too much for her. I would ask her, "What am I going to do with you? Am I going to sprinkle you with water and grow you like a flower?" or "Am I going to put a ribbon on your head and stick you under the Christmas tree?" This silly game would replace her meltdown with bubbly laughter. However, in the hands of the wrong person, bubbly laughter might not be achieved. One night, my husband was on his own for managing one of her meltdowns. He decided to employ my tactic. But his execution left something to be desired. "What am I going to do with you? Am I going to put you in a pot and cook you like soup on the stove?"..."Am I going to stick you in the oven and cook you like a turkey?"...I am pretty sure she was thinking she had just stumbled into a real-life Hansel & Gretel situation. Matt quickly got a tutorial on how to play the game. 1) Do not make like you are going to cook her on the BBQ pit. 2) Do not make like you are going to cook her in the microwave. 3) Do not make like you are going to put her in the dryer. (That may seem random to you. But I saw a horrifying CSI episode where 2 kids were playing with a dryer and one of the boys ended up dying. Lorelai takes things very literally. I did not want to risk having one of my daughters Permanent Pressed.) 4) Do not make like you are going to mow or weed eat her. While Lorelai is magical, Matt is practical. I think he may have missed the spirit of the game. After learning all the "do nots" of the game, he decided he'd rather not play. Can I get an Hallelujah?!

But regardless, we made it to her 6th birthday. Here are some of my favorite Lorelai quotes:
"Christmas decorates my heart."

Lorelai, with big fat tears, asked me to "talk to God because [she] reaaaally wants to fly like a fairy".

Lorelai (referring to her newborn cousin), "Why is that breakable crying?"

Lorelai to Autumn: Let's play Simon Says. Autumn: OK, I'll be Simon. Lorelai: I'll be Says.

I love you with all my heart, LaLa. Happy 6th Birthday!

Freak of Nature

I recently had a conversation with my husband, Matt, that triggered an epiphany. He insists that he is "tall". I am nearly 5'9. For a woman, that is TALL. I tower over most of my friends...maybe even some of their husbands. And my husband is certainly taller than I am. But when I think TALL (for a man), I think 6 foot 2 or 3. Anyway, we were having one of our routine debates over his tallness. Was he actually tall or merely above average? He was adamantly pushing for "Tall". I tried for middle ground: Freakishly Above Average.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

I'm married to a genius. And we made little genius babies. I don't think at the time my husband and I got married that I fully realized how intelligent he was/is. (He's pretty good at hiding it.) One day at work he was awarded a patent. And then another. And another. Now ten years later, and 13 patents under his belt, I've got a pretty strong inkling he's not just "smart". These aren't patents that you will see at 2 am on an infomercial. They're patents that you need an encyclopedia wikipedia, to translate the jargon. I used to brag (kinda like I'm doing now), whenever we received a letter in the mail about a new patent being awarded. But then friends or family would ask what the patent was for and I couldn't tell them. It's not that I'm dumb. I'm a pretty smart cookie. I was in the top 7% of my HS graduating class. I had a decent GPA in college (better than Matt's, even!), and went on to graduate school (yeah, so did he). But the point is, I worked hard, got good grades, had a good job as a statistician with Motorola. And I've always picked things up quickly. I was confident early on in our marriage that Matt and I were on equal playing fields when it came to intelligence.  But ten years later, I've had to come to terms  with the fact that I'm an imposter.   The evidence speaks for itself...  

• {Math} I was a statistician for crying out loud! But maybe not a very good one. There might be a reason why some of you in the late nineties may have switched from Motorola to a Primeco phone. (Where my ballers at?!) But I am exceptional at Pop Culture. Final verdict...above average.
• {Science} Meh. Astronomers even goofed and called Pluto a planet. Final Verdict..above average.
• {Reading/English/Spelling} Yeah, I am pretty exceptional here. Unless I'm reading one of Matt's patents. But doesn't that go back to science? Final verdict...above average.
• {Common Sense} Check. Lots of it here. Final verdict...above average.
• {Technology} Quick Learner. I had to teach myself html while I was a statistician at Motorola (they were understaffed. layoffs and whatnot). So, technology doesn't scare me. You hear that, technology? I ain't skeered of you. Final verdict...above average.
• {Cooking} I love to cook. I love food. AND I loathe mediocre food. It will ruin my day. However. You will not find me on the Food Network. My oldest daughter once suggested that I go on the cooking competition show Chopped. My husband asked her if she thought I would win. She delicately answered, "I think she would be C-H-O-P-P-E-D." But the point is she thought I was a good enough cook to compete, but not quite good enough to win. Final verdict...above average.

Do you see a pattern here? I am freakishly above average. I can make my peace with that. I may never patent anything. I may never qualify for MENSA. But I will make you a freakishly above average meal that doesn't come out of a box, serenade you with some hip-hop or TMZ factoids, and show off my husband's patents or my daughters' latest report cards.