Cheaters

Posted by Britt in Uncategorized and tagged with Cheating, Golf, Parenting August 7, 2013

Maybe the other parents aren’t cheating. I suppose there is a possibility that a ten year old can score two birdies in nine holes. Maybe he had, like, a really good golf day. And maybe keeping score for your own three children who sweep the tournament isn’t at all suspicious or disheartening. Maybe your 8 to 12 year olds have been playing golf for an untold number of years, and a par three usually sinks in two shots. Maybe your kids are lithe, natural athlete types, innate competitors, and outstanding under pressure. (And maybe a bogey to these parents is like a report card “B” to a Taiwanese mom.) Maybe.

I was lucky to have Mr. Firefighter Dad walking the course with my boys and me. Mr. Firefighter Dad wore the stereotypes as comfortably as his flip flops: manly, fit, strict but kind, competent, athletic, friendly. This is the Dad you want your kids to make eye contact with, shake hands, impress with the teeny man-in-training skills you hope they remember. Mr. Firefighter Dad and I watched our totally-not-sucking-at-golf boys hit a few over par but occasionally taking the maximum six swings as errant balls flew into gaping sand traps and ponds.

“Nice swing!”

“Hey, that one went straight down the fairway!”

“If you putt that one well, you have a chance at par!”

And also… a number of times…

“I’d rather you finish dead last than cheat.”

Mr. Firefighter Dad reminded his tiny son that the rules of golf etiquette were just as important as the game itself. We strolled the course together in perfect breezy sunshine, discouraging these polo-shirted boys against frustration, applauding each attempt, reassuring them that this sport is ridiculously difficult. How grateful we were for the day, for the luxury of time to walk a golf course on an afternoon with healthy, tanned kids. After the scorecards were signed, these boys removed their caps and shook hands. And then… there it was: the scoreboard.

A twelve-year-old boy wearing royal blue braces and look of disappointment and restrained tears told us he didn’t play well.

“Some of the holes were so fast, and some weren’t and I shot a 40.”

“That sounds good to me!”

“NO! It’s 13 over par.”

“But these are beginners. Half of the board will be 54s.”

“No… look!”

Royal Blue Braces was right. Not a single 54. Teddy came in ahead only of the small girl I had observed chipping in ten foot increments, and even her scorecard read 53. I wanted to shout, “It’s not fair” for Royal Blue Braces, and assure him that 40 is freaking awesome… and so was he for being honest.

We left the golf course before gigantic, shiny trophies were awarded to dubious “winners,” the director of Cape Cod Junior Golf muttering none too happily about needing to “check some scorecards.” But the results were posted today, with the unbelievable, unchanged, Rory McIlroy-in-2011 numbers. On the drive home we talked about all of the reasons the scores appeared athletically and mathematically improbable, that maybe some parents would rather fudge the numbers than risk no-trophy disappointment for their children, that maybe some people cheat all of the time even though it’s wrong… and that shooting a 40 in nine holes is freaking awesome.

Honestly adorable little golfers

Confessions of an Introvert, by Steve Safran

Posted by Britt in Uncategorized and tagged with Introvert, Steve Safran August 6, 2013

Steve, rather splendidly, invites you into the mind of the introvert.

Here’s what you might not know about introverts: we love to party. Man, we love a good party. Stock a room with a dozen friends, cold beer, cheese cubes and The Beatles, and we’ll have a blast.

But then we have to go. And man, do we have to go. It’s nothing personal. Introverts need to recharge.

And that is the best and most brief description of “introversion.” We’re not necessarily shy or aloof or jerks (although I’ve been called those.) Instead, we’re running our engines at a different RPM. We’re not anti-social. At least, I hope that any of my friends will tell you I more than occasionally RSVP, “oui” and leave the home. But after being social, what I need, desperately, is the opposite. My friends know this to be true: Steve needs recharging.

Here is what introverts are not:

1. Shy
2. Anti-social
3. Wallflowers
4. Hateful of large crowds
5. Unwilling to speak in public
6. Unhelpful
7. Self-centered
8. Scared to try new things
9. Lazy
10. Constantly on edge.

Here’s what introverts are:

1. Open to new ideas
2. Comfortable around friends
3. Often gifted public speakers
4. Sometimes stupid and thoughtless
5. Helpful, but needing a little reinforcement
6. In need of quiet time
7. People who get it the first time. Or don’t. But repeating won’t help.
8. Easily frustrated by people who assume them to be on the previous list
9. Loyal as all get out
10. Seriously, we’re not shy. But we like to observe.

In my days as a speaker on the topic of local television, I would often be invited to conventions or station group meetings. What I loved: doing my presentation. What I hated: the small talk before. The times I’d get in the night ahead of the talk and a group would gather were social torture for me. I’d feel obliged to chitchat, but was so awkward that I came across as aloof (possibly feeble-minded). “Who the hell is this guy? He can’t even talk while playing pool.” Give me an audience, however, and Awkward Guy disappears. It was, therefore, a great compliment when one of the station managers said to my boss “Steve comes across as this shy wallflower, but get him on stage and he’s a dynamo.” (His word.)

But when the talks were over, I’d need to go back to my hotel room. Need. Show me Vegas, and I’ll show you a guy happily entombed in room darkening drapery. Vegas is an introvert’s biggest challenge. It’s like our final exam.

The best of my friends are used to my unpredictable recharging requirements. I can’t say they love it, but they know it happens. The nights will come, and I simply can’t go out. I will happily host a small gathering, but a large room full of strangers with Solo cups is, unquestionably, my darkest hell. I don’t work rooms. They work me.

Which isn’t to say I can’t handle crowds. Take me out to the ballgame. Fenway Park is my second home. (It certainly costs a second mortgage.) It’s the context. If I’m at a function full of people I don’t know, I can be OK – and if I have a “party sherpa” who will stay with me, introduce me to people, and not leave me stranded with the closetalker, I may even enjoy this. But when I need to leave, I need to leave.

Introverts, therefore, present a conundrum to those who love them. How can someone who is so outgoing at times be so quiet? Why does he save his “Big Personality” for other people and not me? Isn’t it convenient to suddenly need to leave? The answer lies in what’s left in “the tank.” After about six or seven innings, a manager may ask a pitcher if he has anything left in the tank. If the answer is “no,” the pitcher is out – no matter how good a game he has been throwing.

Think of an introvert as a gas tank in a gigantic, earth-unfriendly SUV. We can be big and loud and charming right through the appetizers, but if used too fast, we’re going to need to fill up again. And we intend to do that. After a nap. Trying to keep us going on “empty” will be as difficult as trying to push the Land Rover to Citgo.

(Extroverts, I’ve noticed, don’t run dry. They have a tanker on standby ready to refill them in midair with high-octane jet fuel, Red Bull, another witty anecdote, and a “funny dream” to share.)

I can see why anyone involved with an introvert would find it challenging. I’m here to tell you: we’re worth it. We’re sensitive – and we’re wicked empathic. We feel. We feel like crazy. We feel our feelings and we feel yours, too. We’re friggin’ feeling machines. This isn’t plain old sympathy – “Oh, Kimmy… that’s so sad your Aunt Esther died.” It’s being sad, right there with you, going to your aunt’s funeral: “I can’t believe Aunt Esther died!” I’ll lament. People will console me.

There’s something about “coming out” as an introvert that surprises people about me. It’s right up there with telling folks I have depression. My personality type is not what people expect, and once, rather unkindly was characterized as a passive means of garnering attention: “You just want someone to sit there and hold your hand.”

But that’s exactly it. That’s how you deal with an introvert. No solutions, no cheap sentiment or chipper clichés. You hold their hand, find their coat in the pile on the bed, and then the door. Maybe you even draw them a bath, pull the shades, and leave them be. The down time passes. The battery recharges. The tank refills. And now we’re able to be your dynamo.

Time to go home.

The Juicer

Posted by Britt in Uncategorized and tagged with Breast Cancer, Juicer, Steve Safran July 26, 2013

I bought a juicer. For Bernie. For his birthday.

This was the lamest birthday present of all time since 1) it suggests we are fat and unhealthy and in need of liquid veggies we’re too lazy to chew, and 2) Bernie would never, ever go to Williams Sonoma and just buy the most expensive model, and also 3) my dear husband’s Asian sensibilities make him averse to cold veggies in a that’s-been-growing-in-compost-so-should-be-annhilated-with-heat kind of way. So, really, a lame ass birthday present all around. Couple the expensive kitchen appliance with my mother’s adorable notion that Bernie would ever pair these with his new tuxedo:

“Pumps” with bows. Yikes.

…and we have a banner birthday haul for my Yankee Doodle Bernie.

To be honest, I wanted the juicer. The near quarterly weigh-ins at routine physicals, specialty appointments, and biannual oncology checkups are an annoying reminder that if I don’t stay svelte, I’m not giving my all to the Big Cancer Fight. A recurrence would be devastating. But thinking I barbeque potato chipped my way back to chemo could possibly make it worse. So, I’m juicing and I’m skinny and feel healthy and look fabulous. But here’s another bit of honesty: it’s sort of gross, it’s a pain in touchas, and I’m fucking hungry.

All that aside, dear Stevie recently bought a juicer, too. Now that he’s a (part-time) New Yorker, this was de rigeur. Although no one thinks he’ll actually, really–like ever– use the vegetable pulverizing product (Steve being a man more commonly associated with beer and grilled meats on sticks), here’s how he summed it up:

I’m pleased about the raw food craze. At last– something I can cook.

He also admitted that it was a bit of a social pressure purchase. I mean, isn’t everyone juicing? Ginger infused kale drinks have replaced our soy mocha latte afternoons as sneakily as Macklemore lyrics have infested my 8 year old’s daily lexicon. And as long as “The Popeye” at the local juicing joint costs as much as an hour of babysitting, we’ll all find ourselves at Williams Sonoma asking ridiculous questions about pulp… and then we’ll stare at the ridiculous appliance that is now the kitchen counter equivalent of the NordicTrack. Because it’s a bitch to clean. And no matter how organic, vegan, honeybee-defending healthy you might be, at some point (if you’re like me) you will grow tired of liquefied salad… and will crave grilled meat on sticks.

But for now, I’m still juicing. Because I am vain, and drinking all of these cucumbers and spinach and parsley and carrots and celery and apples and peppers has me glowing with health and smug superiority. “Oh, me? I have a Breville. OH MY GOD, it’s life-changing. Yes, so easy to clean. Have you tried Swiss chard?” Lies… all lies. Also, completely unsustainable, because 40 years of habit and million years of evolution require that I… at least occasionally… need to eat grilled meats on sticks. Drinking all of these veggies has me skinny-fabulous, but also feeling like a huge phony… because I totally know all of the words to Macklemore songs, spend untold hours on Candy Crush Saga, and can finish a bottle of Prosecco without any help at all. The juicing, Cancer-defying,Facebook-game-addict-wino is about as congruent as Bernie in a pair of bow-adorned flats.

Bernie’s opinion of bow-adorned flats…

My adorable husband, who received no real birthday present at all, is oddly supportive of the juicer purchase. Although he has no interest in green, pulpy beverages, he is happy to imbibe fruitier options: mashed pineapple and orange and mango are met with yummy noises and great enthusiasm…

… but also the slightest suggestion that these fruity, healthy juices might be improved with Meyer’s Rum. I married the right boy.

Facebook, the healer… by Steve Safran

Posted by Britt in Uncategorized and tagged with Facebook, Friendship, migraines, Steve Safran June 25, 2013

Shhh… Steve has a headache. He doesn’t need chicken soup. But a pithy status update complaint has us rushing to his virtual, darkened room.

Here’s what it’s like to be sick in 2013: you hear from dozens of friends who wish you well, hope you get better, pray for you (well, if that’s your thing), and send you advice. All thanks to Facebook.

Here’s what it was like to be sick in 2003: A few get-well cards, emails and phone calls you didn’t want to answer.

For all the crap Facebook takes, it’s fantastic when you need it. I had a series of migraines this past week, and turned to my Facebook friends for help. I wasn’t getting the treatment I needed. My friends stepped up. And that’s the really cool part. People don’t just wish you well, they can actually have a conversation with you and others about different ways you can get help and heal.

It’s real-time health advice. Not all of it is my style, but it is sincere and based on experience. And while I’m in with the doc, I can check it to see what questions friends remind me to ask. Thankfully, I have a doctor who knows I’m a social media freak and so he indulges friends who ask such questions as “What about injecting botulism into his face?” After several of these questions he gave up and recommended it to me, just not in the form of Botox.

Of course, my little headaches don’t compare to Britt’s Boobie Disease on the severity scale. But we have this much in common– we use social media to let our friends know we’re OK. And we use it to let them know we’re not OK too, and that we could use a little help. All the days when we post jokes and silly things, aspects of our lives trivial and trite– those are warm-ups. People see you as the real person you are. So that when you need real, serious help, they are there for you as well.

For Migraine Boy, the only drawback is the computer light. Facebook really ought to read to you. And in a soothing voice, too.

Gay Wedding, an update

Posted by Britt in Uncategorized and tagged with DOMA, Gay Marriage, Weddings June 19, 2013

Facebook is a happy, rainbow-splashed place right now. I cannot recall a national moment when we all cheered this gleefully together. I’m sure there are dissenters… but at least in my social media spaces, they are letting our gay friends (and us) have the moment. Just two years ago, Johnny and Deano explained to me how anything other legal Marriage–recognized as the same for all– would never be enough. My boys are young enough to never know a world that prohibited love, and old enough to attend so many fabulous, future weddings that are just… weddings. Love wins.

This weekend I attended my first Gay Wedding… an event I highly recommend if you’re lucky enough to have lovey dovey gay friends who are willing to tie the knot, even though our Federal Government won’t recognize the pairing. These state-sanctioned unions are a fabulous step forward (in neon-soled bucks), but don’t afford the same rights and privileges I have with Bernie. And if you, like me, were wondering what those rights and privileges might be, go ahead and Google… there are over a thousand of them. Johnny and Deano–who have been together since I owned scrunchies– explained this to me with great patience: what’s the point of this piece of paper, if it’s not going to be recognized by the institution that takes 35% of their income? I’m ready to swap my swirly skirts for a sandwich board and march all over town.

It was only 46 years ago (!) that the Supreme Court decision in Loving vs. Virginia declared any ban on interracial marriage unconstitutional, obliging all 50 states to recognize marriages regardless of skin tone. In 2013, we find these not-so-ancient anti-miscegenation laws ridiculous in their assertion that any human being is somehow less, and not included when we stand hand over heart and pledge Justice for All. And yet, here we are in 2013, with our fellow human beings still fighting for basic human rights. I look at my handsome husband and adorable little half breeds and cannot help but make the comparison, no matter how strongly smarter, lawyerly types contend that these are apple-and-orange arguments. To me, it’s the same. And there is no way for us to explain DOMA to our children without sounding like the hate-mongering weirdos who tried to keep people like me and Bernie from making little Brodies and Teddies only 46 years ago.

Now I’m going to swap my sandwich board for stilettoes and tell you all about my fun evening aboard the Moshulu in Philadelphia, where Brett and James stood before a teary audience of well-wishers and promised to love and cherish each other forever. Uncle Jim, a retired minister and longstanding friend of the family was the honored celebrant, and he chose his words thoughtfully. This union, he explained, was a coupling of best friends and lovers, recognized by the District of Columbia in April, but blessed by God today. There was no doubt amongst any of the hanky-blowing witnesses that Brett and James were entering the institution with anything other than grave respect, irrepressible love, and sheer delight. And our parents, all of them striding into their eighth decade, embraced the moment in their black tie best… disproving all sorts of assumptions about a boatful of Republicans. I was proud of them, too.

Brodie and Teddy met Brett and James two years ago, and having spent all of their days in a post Will and Grace world, didn’t bat an eyelash at two handsome men who were newly engaged. They just thought their car was wicked cool. The only query was how Uncle Jim closed the ceremony on Saturday:

“Did he say, you may kiss the groom… or did he pronounce them man and… man?”

Neither. Instead, Uncle Jim reminded us of the quaint tradition of sealing these before-God-and-everyone moments with a kiss. And they did. So we blew bubbles, then drank bubbles, and then tore up the dance floor in our stilettoes and neon-soled bucks.

In ten years time, I hope all of us have a Gay Wedding story. I also hope it will be far fewer than 46 years for youngsters to cringe at any archaic “gay” designation for a union between two people who want to share everything from china patterns to children to tax forms. Weddings will be just… weddings. Love is love is love. For everyone.

Saying, “I do” before God and everyone.

Prayers and Swears

Posted by Britt in Uncategorized and tagged with Breast Cancer, Celebration of Life, Fuck Cancer, Mikveh, National Cancer Survivor's Day, Prayer June 6, 2013

On Friday, I was honored to join a particularly devout bunch of swaying, singing, lovely Jewish ladies to witness a mikveh. My friend Kathy, a newer member of the Shitty Sorority, had completed a brutal round of chemotherapy and wanted to mark the moment with this beautiful, traditional “cleansing” ceremony. There were songs (lots of dye-dye-dyes, a Hebrewish-y shoo-be-doo-be-doo), there were bagels (natch), and there was Sharing. We surrounded Kathy and offered her our wishes for health and healing and happiness. And when the prayer circle landed at me, I looked at my small friend, took a deep breath to reaffirm all of the other messages of hope and inspiration, and then just sort of dissolved into a blubbering mess of mascara.

“ENOUGH!” I wanted to shout. And not about the dye dye dyes, although those were plentiful. Kathy has been through enough. Although her neo-adjuvant course of chemotherapy has obliterated her tumor, she still has a bilateral mastectomy on the calendar, and another round of chemo after that. It’s not even close to over for my tiny, pretty friend. And looking at her in her adorable birdie scarf and lovely little shoes, I was mad at Cancer. Fuck you, Cancer. Awash with guilt for angry thoughts in a sacred space, I lamented showing up at the synagogue without even one Ativan coursing through my Christian veins. My anger/fear/PTSD was kindly interpreted as moved-to-tears, and these swaying, dye-dye-dye-ing women held me tighter. I left the mikveh thinking Kathy is going to be fine. These women invoked The Holy Spirit right there in a tangibly Fuck Cancer kind of way. It was pretty awesome. Dye dye dye dye dye dye dye!

The first Sunday in June is National Cancer Survivors Day. I didn’t know this, but suspect Hallmark and the makers of pink things will have this printed on calendars and beeping as Google alerts soon enough. We have a day. And celebrations. Very good people organize the whole scarred, damaged, wigged, but still living lot of us to assemble under tents to laugh and cry with each other, to share our stories, and to marvel at the mere fact our still-here-ness. These Celebrations of Life took place on thousands of campus lawns on Sunday. And on the Harvard Medical School quad, I joined a panel of veterans under a hot tent and spoke (out loud!) about Cancer for the first time.

You’d think after Friday’s Look At the Crying Shiksa debacle, I’d have brought an Ativan to the forum. You’d also think speaking about cancer would be easy peasy for a girl who cannot stop writing about it (and hardly shuts up in general). But it’s not. I get all boo hooey, and then blotchy, and then I’m worried about the mascara, and then I’m chastising myself for worrying about the mascara when last year I didn’t have eyelashes. I was ridiculously nervous, and when the first panelist was a no show, I was up first.

I had planned to read an excerpt from Cancerland, thinking this audience would laugh at those jokes, but at the last minute I added a preface about me, my diagnosis, and a bit of what it’s like to be Mrs. Dr. Bernie Lee. Stupid, stupid Britt. There was no chance of getting through this speech without crying. But when I said Bernie’s name, there was a scattered whoo hooing from different pockets under the tent, which made me so proud to be attached to him, that then I forgot to be nervous. I also forgot to be brief and went way over my allotted time. But this is a crowd that doesn’t care, that wants to hear your story, wants to know your odds and how you’re beating them, wants to celebrate survival, and will tolerate a few extra minutes listening to a short haired girl gush about her husband. The Holy Spirit was there under that hot tent, too… in a tangibly Fuck Cancer kind of way. And it was pretty awesome. Dye dye dye dye dye dye dye!

For those of you who think these sorts of things help (or even that they can’t hurt), please remember Kathy in your communion with The Big Guy. Although poisons are doing a bang up job killing her tumor cells, Cancer wrecks havoc on the soul. But prayer and kindness and love—from a tight circle of Jewish ladies, from hundreds of sweating strangers, from faceless blog readers—these things heal the soul in a beautiful, Fuck Cancer kind of way. If we cannot escape it, at least we can shout potty-mouthed insults at it, and kill its power with prayer and love. And the effect can be pretty awesome. Dye dye dye dye dye dye dye!

A lovely rendering of a mikveh…

Thou Shalt Buy (Crap) Gifts for Teacher

Posted by Britt in Uncategorized and tagged with End of the School year, Teacher gifts, Teachers June 3, 2013

I don’t remember bringing Mr. McCormick anything on the last day of third grade (though he really could have used a new corduroy blazer). Mr. Thacker? Not even a World’s Best Teacher mug. Mrs. Pruitt? It never occurred to my mom to buy her another chain for her glasses. On the last day of school, we showed up with flaccid backpacks, goofed off until the bell rang, and then merrily lugged home a year’s worth of forgotten sweaters and art projects. As we got older, we were too distracted obtaining yearbook signatures to think about a small token to thank Mr. Newton for making Physics fun. Maybe moms back-in-the-day (as my boys refer to anything that happened before 2005) arranged group gifts or wrote little letters of thanks. But certainly none of them delivered obnoxious Bloomingdale’s gift cards inside fancy letterpress envelopes to recognize a year of facts remembered.

I have no childhood recollection of this parent/teacher covenant: Thou Shalt Buy (Crap) Gifts For Teacher. Sometimes, this custom requires a slew of annoying emails to organize all moms into donating some pittance as a group nod to the exhaustive effort to keep our children from falling off monkey bars or eating paste. At the conservative Jewish preschool, we contributed our magical $18 toward something that was never a multiple of 18. (Only the enthusiastic, stupid Shiksa mom volunteers to buy The Gift.) My first year at the fancy private school, I offered to do the 11^th hour gift card run, but didn’t specify a donation amount. Flabbergasted by the windfall of cash mailed by moms all too happy to be relieved of the task, I bought Mrs. Bell an $800 gift card to Bloomingdale’s. $800. For Mrs. Bell with her Dansko clogs and makeup counter-less life. I realized an $800 gift card is more ridiculous than a t-shirt emblazoned with small, smeary handprints. This end of the year gift pact can be an odd dance.

Under less forced gift-giving circumstances, I am quite good at it. I also love spending money. And for the ladies who have spent the past nine months drilling factoids, feeling for fevers, encouraging excellence, drumming out gross habits, and knowing and loving my kids, I want to buy them something fabulous. In fact, I’m overjoyed to do so. To adequately thank them for a successful year, I want to give them a case of Veuve Clicquot. But a Facebook query running many comments long suggests a Starbucks gift card will suffice.

“Thanks for being patient with Brodie’s stutter, for reading his moods, for not believing the ouchies that didn’t matter, and for celebrating everything that did. Hey, go grab yourself a coffee!”

Jason (a teacher, currently deep into grading papers… and his own bottle) suggested a good Scotch with bawdy note enclosures, “Drink up, bitches!” I could have the children write these in cursive to great effect.

Ultimately, what’s bugging me is the inability of anything in a small gift bag to embody what I feel for these women, to convey how deeply these teeny milestone moments move me (still grateful to be here for them), to let them know they did well, and that I noticed. So I’ll probably write them long, overly effusive letters of thanks… which I’ll then slip next to a nice bottle of Pinot Noir.

Drink up, bitches.

Thank you to all of the (good) teachers… we’ll let you know who you are.

Hair: a Reprise

Posted by Britt in Uncategorized and tagged with Breast Cancer, hair, hair loss May 23, 2013

Is it too soon for another post about hair? I cannot avoid it. There it is atop my grateful head, making me look exactly like… a mom. I have mom hair. April, who is the sort of friend who will tell me these things, counseled me to commit: either keep growing, or abandon the effort and aim for an edgier ‘do. At this point, I’m waiting out many more months sporting too-cutesy-for-40 barrettes and headbands until my bangs reach ponytail nirvana. In the meantime, I’m your go-to girl for bake sales, playdates, orange quartering, and quinoa recipes. I’m the woman-most-likely-to-get-out-of-the-minivan. No one doubts for a soccer halftime second that I have Purell and granola bars in my purse. And unless I pledge another four inches of hair growth, I’ll be trapped under the Mommy helmet, wearing the duck boots, holding the L.L. Bean tote bag.

This isn’t entirely about hair, I suppose. Anything that incessantly reminds me of my mom-ness, robs me of a bit of Britt-ness. In my mind, I’m swinging my little skirts all over town, brightening mundane errands with witty zingers and a hair toss. When completely preoccupied with mom duties, I forget to look in the mirror. I once spent an entire day with a gummy apple affixed to the butt of my unflattering jeans. (No one told me… because dowdy mommies with small children are invisible.) When entirely–gleefully!– busy with the exhilarating and exasperating day to day doings of small boys, I am fulfilled and smart and brimming with love and gratitude. But, for me, these moments, no matter how sweet, don’t Make Me Feel Like A Natural Woman. Only a swish of long hair, a full glass of bubbly, and a child-free evening in expensive shoes has me seconding that emotion.

Back in college we used to tease Jason that he was “living his hair.” Freshman year, Jason had the cascading ringlets of a mall-lingering girl wearing neon.

Somehow, it was even wilder and redder than this.

Jason was loud and always singing and loud and playful and loud and brilliant and loud. LOUD. Even his hair was loud… all red and curly and all over the place. But by senior year, Jason had mellowed a bit, now a Phi Beta Kappa Philosophy major, New York Times tucked under one arm, a cup of black coffee, up all night in the computer center, punctuating his deep thoughts with scotch breaks. It was time for Jason’s hair to match, so he engaged a gaggle of girls to tame his mane in a pictorial that now looks a bit drunk and hedonistic… just like Jason. (In fact, I’m reluctant to post it here even with his permission. Never has a haircut looked so… naughty.)

Today, Jason is shave-it-all bald, sporting only a yarmulke as his head coordinates with the self-discipline of his Orthodox Jewish faith. Jason is the very passionate director of a theatre company, all serious and successful, and now his hair matches this.

Too busy, handsome, and important for hair

Unlike Jason, I’m not living my hair. I’m nostalgic for the locks I lost instead of embracing the evidence that I’ve made it this far. This isn’t to say my hair isn’t fabulous. Oh, it is. At the airport a few months ago, a woman sidled up sort of embarrassed with her odd request: could she take my picture? She wanted her stylist to see my hair. She wanted my haircut… as if this were a real, on purpose, not cancerous feat of fashion. I let her snap 360° iPhone images of my head, and when she left, Teddy had a theory.

“Do you think one of your friends told her we were here? And that she should say that? So you feel good? I think that’s nice.”

It was nice, but my boys couldn’t quite believe that someone wanted to look like this. Because this hair still haunts us with memories of why it’s not long. This hair, this mom hair, is blonde and adorable and ready for its close up. But I’m not loving (or living) it. I’m growing the hair that matches the girl in the swinging skirt, the one who has shelved the terror, the one who is ready for a mighty fine time. (Because we always had a mighty fine time.)

Jeremiah totally gets me.

Dating, by Steve Safran

Posted by Britt in Uncategorized and tagged with dating, Divorce, Parenting, Steve Safran, Venn diagrams May 22, 2013

Steve is dating: a process brimming with the potential for family flare-ups, justified teenager defiance, logistical scheduling difficulties, and the unmistakable solicitation of help from a Higher Power.

Oh God, dating.

Yes, the subject causes me to invoke the name of Britt’s beloved deity.

This is not another a Dating Is Hard essay. We all know that, so stop with the complaining. Dating should be hard. If dating were easy, we’d never go to work. We’d be too busy making reservations. No– dating should be difficult. You’re looking for a match, and that’s tough to find. Post-divorce dating carries the added struggle of comparing the new girl to the ex, which although unavoidable, is unfair.

I won’t whine about the difficulties of meeting single women, either. Thanks to the web, it is insanely easy to meet women. (Or men, or your same gender, or whatever inspires a 6pm shave and the good cologne.) Where was this wonderful tool when I was 20? It remains difficult as ever to find a match, but at least there’s a digital icebreaker now. Although I will say the questionnaire is a bitch, and my humor translates poorly to a Match.com profile. (Example: What are you looking for in a mate? “Someone with exceedingly low expectations.”)

Instead, this dating discussion is about the kids. When I date someone now, I date her kids; she dates mine. It’s Brady Bunch Dating. It’s speed-relationship-ing. (“The kids are at a dance. I have one hour now. Bring some popcorn and a very short film.”) If you have x kids and your date has x ± 1 kids, you have a geometric relationship with multiple variables and exponential difficulties. (Something like that. It’s a metaphor, so calm down, math majors.)

In baseball, if you can hit the ball four times out of ten, you’re a God. In the more than 125 years of professional baseball, it’s only been done once over an entire season. But even if you’re the Ted Williams of relationships, at least two of the kids are going to hate each other. Or everyone (especially if they’re teens). Or you. Probably you.

So you and the significant other (will someone please come up with a better term?) have an automatic handicap. It’s a given that some fraction of the kids is going to be displeased with the situation. That’s OK. You expected this shifting Venn diagram illustrating the get-along-ness of your brood with hers. So what do you do? Occasionally you think it might be easier to forego adult company for the next decade. But that seems lonely, if more affordable. You can live with the kids’ protestations, knowing The Divorce was bound to have repercussions past the logistics of who sleeps where. So you proceed with good intentions, encourage your mate to do the same, and hope you don’t cause more problems for the kids than you already have.

Which, of course… you will. I don’t know.

Oh, God.

An entire post could be made of Venn diagrams...

A math image seemed apropos. Drawing my own to illustrate divorced dating logistics did not.

Simple Things Are Hard for Me

Posted by Britt in Uncategorized and tagged with DP Challenge, iPhone, Pet Peeves, Rants May 16, 2013

It’s not that I’m especially stupid, or even terribly averse to new technologies, but I’ll never be that cool girl all jazzed about a new iThing. I’m the girl who inadvertently turns off the phone while it’s in GPS mode and we’re circling an unfamiliar city block with he-touched-me-stop-looking-at-me-are-we-there-yet boys in the backseat. I’m the girl who doesn’t know which icon to tap, or why the screen is black again, or why all queries lead back to iTunes. I’m the girl who asks the 8 year old how to take a screen shot and email the picture… exasperating said 8 year old in the process. So when my (first generation, I-hate-change) iPhone began to act all wonky, I attempted to hide it from the husband for as long as possible.

Him: What’s wrong with your phone?

Me: Um, it just kind of turns black if I send too many texts. Or check email.

Him: Is it the battery?

Me: (blank stare)

Him: You need a new phone.

Me: (crestfallen)

I’m assuming most people tear open a box from the Apple store rather immediately. Not me. Because I know that whatever is in there isn’t going to work. Well, it’s not going to work right away, or for me, or without a lot of cursing from the husband.

Him: Was the phone delivered yet?

Me: I think so.

Him: Did you look at it?

Me: I looked at the box.

Him: Go plug it in and follow the screen prompts to activate it.

Me: (radio silence)

Poor Bernie. After ten solid hours of surgery, husband returns to home and hearth and the ineffectual phone upgrade attempts by blonde wife. It was no surprise to either of us that my old phone did not appear anywhere on the computer after 45 minutes of spinning icon. I’ll never know where I sent all of my phone numbers, and funny texts, and fuzzy (first generation!) pictures of report cards and lost teeth. But kind, exhausted husband doesn’t balk at this, and does something with a Cloud and now the new phone looks like a shinier version of the old one and so, yay!, new phone, right?

Him: Now, just follow the instructions on the screen to activate the phone.

Me: It won’t let me type letters.

Him: There aren’t any letters in the activation code.

Me: There’s a “K.”

Him: Oh my God.

Ultimately letter-free codes are found and new phone is all spinny icon and the computer promises me that it will send me a chipper email when it’s all done. Alas, no email. After 8 hours the shiny phone is still all spinny icon. Husband, racing for airport in the wee hours, tells me to I’ll have to talk to customer service people. Because current strategies of haphazard icon clicking and magical thinking aren’t working. Dread. Customer service people have questions I cannot answer. I know how it’s going to go already.

Them: Hi, how can I help you?

Me: The new phone looks like the old phone, but it’s still all spinny icon and I didn’t get the email.

Them: Let’s start with your order number.

Me: The one that starts with a “K?”

Them: Could you put your husband on the phone?

They start fielding calls from dolts like me in fifteen minutes. I feel bad for them already.

Fantasizing about bygone days and corded electronics that don’t make me feel stupid… but glamorous.

*weekly writing challenge

Blooms and Bubbles

(it's still East Meets Breast…)

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