Under the Rug

Last night I saw a commercial for the new Hugh Grant movie (who stole my heart with "About a Boy" and gave it back with "Music and Lyrics").  I was horrified by the brunette astroturf on his head.  I admit, I'm obsessed with the scalps of all actors.  If you can see the scalp through the part, you know for sure the hair is real.  Compare the parts of actors and actresses in any movie.  With the women, you can see their scalps 98% of the time.  With the men, I'd say about 40%.  I've lost track of many a movie plot because of my rug obsession.  (But seriously, who could not be distracted by that dead squirrel on Robert Redford's head?)  (To a lesser extent, I'm also obsessed with seeing if an actress can pull her eyebrows together.)  To be fair, sometimes an overzealous hair stylist can fluff around the part so much that you can't see through it.  In "All the President's Men," the young Dustin Hoffman in quite a few scenes sports a bouffant which obscures his part.  In other scenes, though, you can clearly see his scalp.  I try to keep this in mind, especially when I examine George Clooney's head.  My sister's friend reminded that George's dad still has a full head of hair.  Still, I worry.     

Words to the Wise

The three best bits of advice I've heard (so far):

1)  From my younger daughter, then in the second grade:
I had volunteered in her classroom, and I was my regular, slightly impatient self.  Afterwards, she said to me, "Mommy, you have to try to be nice to everybody or else they won't be excited to see you."  The next time I went in, I made a point of saying something nice (and sincere) to every kid and calling each by name.  Sure enough, in a matter of weeks, they loved me. 

2)  From a long-haul trucker I heard on the radio:
After Hurricane Katrina, I was listening to NPR's coverage of the clean-up efforts.  A bunch of truckers had volunteered to shovel out the debris.  The reporter was discussing this with one of the truck drivers, a salt-of-the-earth kind of guy, and she asked him how one actually goes about cleaning up a mess of such huge proportions.  He paused a moment, then answered, "You start at the front, and you work toward the back."  Yes, you do.

3)  From my mother:
"Never underestimate the male ego."

The Cowardice of My Convictions

I cringe when I think about how many times when I was younger I let a man make me do something I really didn't want to.  Yes, I know, no one can make me do anything.  But in my twenties, I just didn't have the confidence or the gumption or maybe the self-respect to say, "No, that's not happening."  I assumed that, these years later, since I like and trust myself more now, I would easily be able to stand up for myself.  More so, I would have bet the farm that I would stand up for my daughters.  And yesterday I didn't.

I am not an anti-vaccine zealot, nor do I believe it causes autism.  My (almost) nine- and (just now) eleven-year old girls have been vaccinated up the wazoo (actually, just in the upper arms).  Yesterday, at my older daughter's checkup, the pediatrician told her she'd be getting four shots:  the H1N1 (at my request), the tetanus booster, the bacterial meningococcal booster, and the first of three doses of  Gardasil.   Gardasil, of course, protects against HPV and cervical cancer.  Having dealt with HPV myself, I certainly would love to eliminate that risk for my kids.  But I've spoken with a lot of friends about Gardasil (which I admit doesn't exactly count as research), and I have several reservations.  My first concern is long-term effects.  I don't want to be like those mothers who took DES during their pregnancy and consigned their daughters to adult cancers because the longitudinal research wasn't in.  Further, a friend whose daughter has some neurological issues said that her neurologist said "absolutely not" to Gardasil, because of seizure and migraine possibilities.  I had pretty much decided to wait on the Gardasil vaccine until my daughters were older, giving the research time to progress.  Since my one girl is just eleven (and still very child-like), I'm certain she has some time before she'd really need it. 

When I told their pediatrician that I had some concerns about Gardasil he said, "I have a concern about Gardasil, too.  I'm concerned about parents who are concerned about it."  He then told me that it's been successfully used in Europe for twenty years and that plenty of research backs it up.  He added that his daughters had been vaccinated.  Then he gave me a look that said, "Gotta problem with that?"  And I gave in. 

I haven't told anyone about the Gardasil, because I'm so ashamed that I didn't say no.  I had made a decision that I thought to be in her best interest, and I allowed myself to be bullied out of it.  Now, since she's had the first of three doses, I figure that I have to proceed.  If I've hurt her, at least she should have the immunological protection.   Almost as much as I worry about her future health, I worry about her having a mother who can't (or won't) stand up for her.

Dieting for 8 Year-Olds

My 8 year-old daughter has put herself on a diet.  She is a big girl, tall and sturdy and strong.  She's the fastest runner on her softball team (and I have the times to prove it).  The pediatrician said her weight is fine and that people just come in different shapes.  But her friends are those tiny wraiths with toothpick arms and countable ribs.  So she put herself on a diet, which scares me to death.  She said she wants to eat healthier, and who could complain about that?  She's been chosing to forego her evening snack, and certainly nobody really needs one.   A few days ago, she said, "Mommy, look at my belly.  When I was chubby, it was out to here, and now I'm skinny.  I'm so happy!"  I gulped and said, "Honey, you know I don't care about that.  I just want you to be healthy and strong.  I always think you're beautiful."  But I know how I feel when I'm skinny (and I know how I feel right now when I'm not).    What am I supposed to do?

Last night was Halloween, and my husband and a few neighborhood dads took their daughters trick-or-treating.  One of the dads mentioned to my husband (in I assume a congratulatory tone, though I didn't ask because I didn't want to get even more pissed) that he could tell that our 8 year-old had lost weight.  Fuck him.

My Girl Crushes

My Girl Crushes:

1.  Allison Janney:  Loved her in "The West Wing," loved her in "Juno," loved her in "Away We Go."
She's so candid and tall. 
2.  Diane Sawyer:  I think she's wearing her original face.  In this age of pillow cheeks and duck lips, to see    a woman age so beautifully makes me love her.  And that's beside the fact that she's brilliant and funny.
3.  Terry  Gross:  Honestly, I was shocked to learn that she's not a lesbian.  Or a brunette.  I was listening to her being interviewed (for a change) and she laughed about how widespread the notion is that she's a lesbian.   She told of her mother-in-law being at a party where another guest, in cocktail chatter, said, "I so enjoy that radio show 'Fresh Air' with that Terry Gross.  She's a lesbian, you know."  I must admit, I was disappointed to find out she wasn't a brunette.
4.  Christina Hendricks:  As Joan Holloway on "Mad Men."  I think she might be the most womanly woman I've ever seen.
5.  Laurie Partridge : (Not Susan Dey.)  She was the girl I always wanted to grow up to be.  For a while, I'd set my jaw and purse my lips just because she did it so well. 

Women I Thought I Would Love, But Actually Grew to Dislike the More I Heard Them Talk:
1.  Ayelet Waldman:  Author of "Bad Mom."  I thought I'd feel simpatico with anyone who considers herself a bad mom.  But when you cite such evidence as, "I knew I should get the kids to bed at a reasonable hour, but we were all having such fun composing sonnets and sharing them with each other, " I don't like you so much.
2.  Ellen Burstyn:  She's one of the most beautful older women around, and she seems so elegant and strong.  Turns out, as I listened to her read her autobiography on CD, she's rather selfish and not so nice.
3.  Carrie Fisher:  She drank too much!  She eats too much!  She's had bad luck with men!  What's not to love?  How could I not adore her?  Well, after reading her memoir "Wishful Drinking," I figured that she considers herself so crazily madcap and fabulous that I really don't have to.

Too Fat for My Earrings

I've gotten so fat, my earrings don't fit.  Okay, I don't even think that's technically possible, but I've certainly gotten too fat for my earrings.  I hadn't worn earrings in about fifteen years because of a nickel allergy, but I decided to try to get back in the game.  I so used to love my huge, funky earrings.  My husband's nickname for me was "Chima," because my earrings were like windchimes.  At this stage of the game, I had no desire to go quite so flashy, but I did want earrings with a bit of pizazz.  I found some pretty amethyst-colored dangles that my eight year-old daughter adored and I liked too.  I started wearing them and putting on mascara and even wearing real shoes (instead of my raggedy Lands' End clogs of six years).  I've always put on eye makeup pretty much every day.  (And since I've copped to my propensity for being furry and fat, it's fair for me to admit that I do have beautiful eyes - big, green, and well-lashed.)  Because my lashes are naturally lush (the only good part of furry), I only use mascara when I'm being fancy, and I was trying to bring a little fancy to my life.  And then my jeans got tight (these being my fat jeans).  And stayed tight.  Without invoking the Sarah Palin/lipstick debacle, let's just say I didn't feel in a position to hang ornaments from myself. 

I realize I have several options here.  First, I could slim down to my earring size.  Second, I could embrace the beauty of who I am now and celebrate it (I'm making that cat-with-a-hairball noise).  Third, I could get over myself and wear earrings or not, without the sturm und drang.   I envy the attitude of Kristin, my daughter's piano teacher.  Kristin is about twenty-seven and a pretty girl with a bit of extra poundage.  She dresses her age, wears makeup, has cute hair, blah blah.  She gives lessons from her parents' gorgeous home.  While my daughter takes her lesson, I sit on the couch and read.  Last week, I noticed a coffee table book of Kristin's wedding photographs.  I told her she was a beautiful bride (and she was).  She thanked me and mentioned that she's lost about a hundred pounds since then.  I honestly hadn't noticed.  The photos in the book were of a lovely girl on a happy day.  More important, she was still proud of her wedding pictures and didn't hide them away because they were of the fat Kristin. 

Yesterday, I was sorting through cartons of old family slides to be transferred to DVD as a Christmas gift for my mother.  Going through the slides from the time of my parents' wedding and my and my sister's early childhood (til about the age of 8, when the photograph took place of the slide), I made of pile of stuff for  my mom's DVD, including her wedding, Christmases, vacations, first-day-of-school/birthdays/etc., with just enough inclusion of my dad to acknowledge his presence without making the whole thing a big downer.  The pile for my dad included all the pictures I'd excluded from my mom's pile, plus a few representing us girls in our early years.  (To stem complaints of short-shrifting him:  when my dad left my mom, he apparently took the slide projector and all the slides from his year in Vietnam.  I'm guessing that if he'd wanted the memories of us as little kids, he'd have taken some of those as well.)  My third pile, and a large one at that, I simply labeled "Yuck."  These were mostly fat pictures, often of my mom, but sometimes of me and my sister.  None of us were fat all the time, with my mom winning the award for greatest pendulum swing, and my sister and I were never fully fat, just off-and-on chubby.  Even though I was as young as seven in some of those pictures, I felt such shame looking at them.  More pathetic, I was mortified by the thought of my husband seeing them. 

I don't need to worry about ruining the surprise of my mom's Christmas gift, because while I post this, she's just arrived in Bhutan, the first stop of her trip to Tibet (her first time in Tibet, second time in Bhutan), and she's not likely to scroll backwards through this blog.  My mom, at 73, is traveling with a group of strangers halfway across the world.  The only reason she's traveling alone is because Art (her boyfriend/partner/whatever) can't handle the altitude.   Since my dad left, my mother has continued to gain and lose weight, but she's also traveled to the five continents she hadn't yet been to (and now can say she's hit all seven), and found a man who acts as though he's the president of her fan club.   Somehow, my mom and I have been conditioned to consider just the first of those to define her.  It stands to reason that I define myself with those same parameters (though my mom has always thought me beautiful).  I just don't really want to anymore.

Breaking Up is Hard to Do

I've been trying to break up with a friend of mine (we've gone in different directions; we have nothing in common anymore; it's not you, it's me), and I've been going about it the way the men in my life have: half-assed and cowardly. The old, "I've got a big project right now but I'll call you," type thing. And because I haven't seen this friend in over a year anyway, it's more a break-up-by-attrition, which doesn't bring many tears. I just don't enjoy our times together so much, since she's so often judgmental and didactic.

Yesterday, I realized a friend of mine is breaking up with me. I haven't seen her in over a year. My overtures of coffee and chat are put off until after the holidays or the semester or the equinox. I'm heartbroken (and embarrassed that it took me so long to figure out). I'm pretty sure why she might want to call it a day on our friendship, though. It's my tendency to be a bit judgmental and didactic. Dammit.