Purple hair and Tardis tights

A couple of days before my 20th high school reunion, I dyed my hair purple.

In high school, I was the girl who wore velvet leggings and torn jean shorts, oxblood Doc Martens, pig tails. I wore 7 Seconds t-shirts and listened to Warlock Pincers and the Grateful Dead. To say that I wasn't your typical Ogden High School student is probably putting it mildly. I had purple hair and blue hair. I was once "arrested" by the JROTC for refusing to go along with a school-wide activity where we pretended to be under military rule. The principal was my friend.

I missed weeks of school because of depression.

I went to raves and clubs. I dropped acid and then wrote a senior portfolio called, "What a long strange trip it's been."

I had a varied group of friends, and some days it felt like none at all. Because, high school.

We all feel like we don't fit in, like people don't get us. I probably took that to extremes. A non-Mormon in a state with, at the time, an LDS population of 80%. I was in an advanced academic program - we were the Krelboynes (Malcolm in the Middle, represent) from 3rd to 8th grade, and my one foray back into mainstream 6th grade ended poorly. (Why, yes, I was essentially kicked out of a middle school.) I had open knee surgery when I was 12 and spent 6 weeks with a fully-immobilized leg. That, paired with my last name, led to the "Pogostick" nickname. Imagine that chanted across the gym during a school field day. Somehow, bullying seems funny in retrospect, and it killed me then.

So fuck it, if I wasn't going to fit in, because I didn't wear the same clothes or believe the same things or act the same way as everyone else, then I was going to be myself. An early, "Haters to the left" attitude, perhaps. I wrote poetry during Geometry, smoked cigarettes in my car during breaks, and existed on coffee and angst.

Eventually, high school ended, as it does, and I moved on and away. By any account, I've kicked life in the ass. Went to college on scholarship, immediately found a job in my field after graduation (and got to move the hell out of Utah for Austin). Married, children, pets, friends. Microsoft.

And then the reunion. And my hair. For some reason, it felt important to go back to that space (physical and mental) as I was then. Perhaps to show that the freak girl can make good. That there is a world outside of high school where the freak is not just accepted but can be a rock star. Where you are judged not on what ward you go to, or what you believe, or what music you listen to, or even the color of your hair, but for the skill you bring to the table. Where all that matters is what you can do. I was making a statement to everyone who I felt didn't like me or believe in me, who thought I wasn't worthy.

During our final reunion activity, a tour of our remodeled school, I rocked Tardis tights, a jean skirt, and a Microsoft t-shirt. And probably I was the only one who noticed. Who got the intention behind the outfit. And, in the end, who was meant to get the message.

I didn't get where I am because I was like everyone else. And no one does. We each make our own way and have to figure out what drives us, protects us, pushes us forward. We all have our own shit to work through, and the tools we use are as varied as we are. Those Tardis tights reminded me, as I greeted, and hugged, and joked with people that I hadn't really thought of in 20 years, that I, we grew up. That what got me through high school got me to where I am now. And that is a good place.

The hair is really just tinged purple now, it doesn't last. But I'm keeping the tights. Maybe for our 30 year, I'll bust them out again, this time with blue hair.

If I'd known it would be this easy, I'd have told the kids about Bigfoot years ago

Both of my children are in bed. On time for one of them, and an hour early for the other. This is rare enough that it requires comment.

You see, Rory has decided that he needs to watch the news. And since I happened to mention to him that the news starts at 5 AM, well, he decided that he needs to wake up at 5 AM. And in order to do that, he needs to go to bed early. This inspired Brigit to cooperate (for once), and she got ready at the same time.

So, teeth were brushed, kisses were done, stories were read, and I didn't have to tell either of them to do it.

That alone is amazing.

But the real question you may be asking is, "Why exactly does Rory need to watch the news"?

Because, he whispered in my ear this evening, he believes in Bigfoot. And apparently he needs to sccour the news for evidence proving to the rest of the world that Bigfoot does, in fact, exist.

Of course he does.

My parents are so glad we're visiting

Scene: The dining room, finishing dinner
Grownup: Brigit, don't pick your nose.
Rory: She always does that, she eats it too.
Me: Brigit, that's gross.
Brigit (whispered): But, mom, when I go to bed, sometimes I'm still hungry.

Innocence retained for one more year

Rory: Mom, do you buy the things on my Santa list?
Me: Why would I buy the things on Santa's List? That doesn't make sense.
Rory: I'm just trying to figure out if Santa is real.
Me: What do you think?
Rory: Touche, Mom, touche.

Dream 1/3rd achieved

Tuesday -
Brigit: Can farmers be singers?
Me: Yes.
Brigit: Can I be a farmer rock star singer when I grow up?
Me: Baby, you can be anything you want.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Today -
Rory: Brigit! I saw your face on a rock!
Brigit: I'm a rock star!!

Ayudame, ayudame, estoy en agua

My children are in the backyard, splashing in the plastic pool and playing something I can only term "drowning." As though a not so little nearly 5 year old and a lanky 8 year old could drown while standing in less than a foot of water. Yes, standing in the water. The main objective of this game seems to be screaming, "I'M DROWNING, I'M DROWNING" at the top of one's lungs while kicking the water out of the pool.

One can only hope that the neighbors, before dialing 911 or at least CPS, bother to look out the window, lest they assume that I permit my children to drown, perhaps as punishment for refusing to make mommy that margarita.

Clearly there is something wrong with me

Because this is what I think every time Brigit sings this god-forsaken song:

Where is Thumbkin?
Where is Thumbkin?
Here I am!
Here I am!
You are an asshole.
And so are you, an asshole.
Go away!
Go away!

If only they knew about the rabbi-esque recycling program

I think my company needs to work on their environmental messaging. I just picked up a printout (ok, 3 printouts) of something I need to test. The statement on the cover sheet?

"You just killed a tree..."

Really? REALLY?

Technically I killed 2 (ok, 6) because somebody (cough cough) insists on printing cover sheets with smarmy messages on them.

Whatever God wants, he keeps

Warning: The post you are about to read means nothing. In fact, you can just skip it. It's just one of those ideas that was stuck in my head and needed purging. You should save time and just go get a cup of coffee.

Do you remember the movie Short Circuit? About the robot? Back when Steve Guttenburg was a comedic genius? (Sue me, I was 10).

One of my favorite jokes comes from that movie:

There's a priest, a minister, and a rabbi. They're out playing golf. They're deciding how much to give to charity. The priest says "We'll draw a circle on the ground, throw the money in the air, and whatever lands inside the circle, we'll give to charity." The minister says "No, we'll draw a circle on the ground, throw the money in the air, and whatever lands outside of the circle, that's what we'll give to charity." The rabbi says "No no no. We'll throw the money way up in the air, and whatever God wants, he keeps!"

I like to be a little rabbi-esque (yes that is a word, I wrote it) when it comes to my office. My garbage can and recycling bin sit next to each other against the wall by my desk. Since we have one of those overly complicated recycling programs here at work (remember, we eat food with food, or now with wooden spoons that don't melt as badly in the hot food, but do flatten out, so soon you're eating soup with a paddle, and it all tastes like toothpicks), I'm never sure if the coffee cup is recylable, or if I'm supposed to carry it over to the kitchen to go in the composting bin. And the kitchen is far away.

So I instituted my rabbi rule of recycling, also known as the ricochet rule of environmental friendliness:

I simply toss whatever it is that I need to dispose of, coffee cup, corn-starch fork, balled up piece of paper, whatever, directly at the wall. It's going to land in one of the bins (am queen of trash basketball).

I expect an award from Greenpeace or the Sierra Club any day now.

Another shining example of proper cursing usage

Alternate title - my mother would be so proud.

I'm not certain, but I think I just heard Brigit say, "jackass cat."

That'll do, Pig, that'll do.

Some days I wish I were Catholic

Because then I'd have a ready answer for this.

"Mom, if you put your hands in your underpants, do you get germs?"

"No, but you will go blind."

Several posts, wrapped into one

It is somewhat telling of what life has been around here, dealing with a certain not quite 5 year old bundle of joy, that, whenever I think of her tonight, a long night indeed, this is the song that I cannot stop singing.

New Year's 2011 - Resolution #1

Resolution #1 for 2011 - Be a less sucky parent to an elementary school child.

How's that working out for you? - I forgot that today was the first day of school and subsequently did not send my son. And right this second I'm praying that he simply didn't bring his mail folder home back in December, since it cannot be located here. And surely I would never lose a piece of his precious school stuff.

Day 1 of Resolution #1 - ass surely kicked.

Dachsunds

Did you know that a 4 year old who doesn't want to go to sleep is really hard to convince otherwise? At least when that 4 year old is, apparently, related to and raised by me.

In the infamous words of Calvin's father, "I wanted to get dachsunds."

Day 3, Random post 2 - the numbers are not looking good

Thoughts for another night, when I'm not working on China time:

- True confessions of a middle-class woman and her ridiculous access to resources. Oh the guilt.
- "Sonofabitch"
- Unnatural love of ginger ale. (The barrel, the bottom is scraped.)

Wednesdays suck. Wednesdays will continue to suck for the foreseeable future. Note to self, next time you decide to reinvigorate your blog, choose to do so in a month with no Wednesdays.

What was this blog thing again?

Yesterday, I spent a good deal of time digging through old blog posts looking for something my father was quite certain that I'd written (a story about Brigit pretending to need to pee, only to yell "April Fool's!" - I'm sure she did it, because it is totally something that she'd do, but I never found it), and I was both saddened by the complete and utter dearth of writing in the previous weeks/months/shit, year, and surprised by some of the things that I have written over the past 2+ years.

It seems, from second reading, that this used to be easier. But perhaps that's because I was not rusty then, and oh am I rusty now.

And I don't want to be rusty. It is that time of year again, National Blog Posting Month, my old friend NaBloPoMo, and I have committed to (try to) post every day in November. So far, I'm batting 1000.

(Apologies for gratuitous post to post post. I choose to blame it on the midterms. Tune in tomorrow for more mindless drivel - I'll leave the light on for you.)

Rory, Age 7

"Here, Mom," Rory said, handing me a piece of red yarn. "I snuck this out of music class last year. I thought it would come in handy."
"What's it for?"
"So you can remember me when I'm grown up."

And here is the memory that will be forever contained in this piece of red string:

Me: Don't forget to put your tooth under your pillow.
Rory: I'm pretty sure there are three possibilities for the tooth fairy.
Me: [crap, crap, crap, childhood ending in 3-2-1.]
Me: Really?
Rory: Yes. One - she's real. Two - someone is sneaking into the house in the middle of the night and taking my tooth and leaving money.
Me: But not the tooth fairy?
Rory: [duh]
Me: What's the third option?
Rory: Three - magic.
Me: Isn't the tooth fairy magic?
Rory: [duh] She HAS magic, Mom.
Me: [whew]

It grows back, right? Right??

Became:

Lessons Learned, 7/4/2010

If you don't want to eat your bbq chicken and yet you still want to have the bribe dessert of ice cream, you would be better served feeding said chicken to the dog instead of dumping it in the garbage can. Because your mother is suspicious and will check. And it's not like she can check inside the dog, now is it?

Quotes from tonight

"Brigit, don't lick the cheese!"

"Brigit, don't lick that door!"

"Brigit, don't lick the doorknob!"

I sense a theme.