When good news is really just mediocre news in disguise

For most of life, my skin and I have been at war.

I recall having blackheads on my chin long before anyone else my age – around 2nd or 3rd grade. By the time I got to high school, I had full-blown acne. I’d get giant, painful cystic pimples that sat under the skin but grew to the size of pennies. Big, red welts covered by jawline almost constantly.

My weapons of choice ranged from everything from over-the-counter Clearasil to tetracycline and Retin A prescribed by my dermatologist. But my most-used and most-loved weapon was the sun.

Every possible sunny moment, I sat outside slathered in suntan lotion with little to no SPF. In the winter months, the tanning booth was my best friend. I visited two to three days a week – just enough to keep my skin a lovely mahogany brown. I don’t believe the sun stopped the breakouts, but it helped conceal them and that was good enough for me.

I kept right on tanning until I was in my mid-20s, never giving much thought to wrinkles, never mind skin cancer. And if I did get skin cancer? So what? Skin cancer wasn’t deadly (so I thought). It was just a funny little mole that had to be taken off and then life went on. I’d had moles taken off and it was no big deal. So I didn’t worry. And I kept right on tanning.

Until one day I saw an article about skin cancer that truly terrified me. It was graphic, showing people with parts of their noses removed or with horrible scars on every part of their body where lesions had been cut out – along with lots of surrounding skin. It talked about types of skin cancer that spread to other organs and become deadly. It scared the crap out of me and ever since I’ve been a religious user of hats, sunglasses and sunscreens with high SPFs.

Soon after, I went for my first full-body skin check by a dermatologist. I held my breath while he gave me the once over, pointing out moles I needed to watch, but in the end giving me the all clear. No cancer.

After the babies came, I did what a lot of new mothers do and neglected by own professional health care for a while. My last skin cancer check was in 2002, many months before I got pregnant with Peanut.

About six weeks ago I stepped out of the shower and began toweling off when I noticed it. On the back of my arm – a funny, irregular shaped mole that I’d never seen before. Standing close to the mirror, I ran my finger over it. It was flat, which was good, but oddly shaped, unevenly colored and kind of big. It sent me into a panic.

The very next day, I was on the phone with my doctor getting a referral to a dermatologist. It was a long wait – over a month just to get in for a check up, but today my appointment finally came.

I’m happy to say, it is nothing.

“Just an age spot,” the doctor said. “It will probably get bigger. Here’s another one starting here on your chest.”

So, PHEW. Good news. Great news, right? Right . . . ?

Sure. If you consider the fact that instead of having cancer, I’m just getting damn old and my skin has found a new way to torment me.

fanfuckingtastic



The age spot that ate New Jersey.

Damn you, Ben Franklin

So here we are on day four since the clocks went back and, just like last year, we are in hell.

Peanut woke up this morning at 4:57 a.m.

So guess what happened tonight? This:





Actual time of photograph: 6:49 p.m.

I.Am.So.Fucked.

So, I would like to take this opportunity to thank Mr. Ben "hey-let's-screw-with-the-clocks-twice-a-year" Franklin for making my life hell for six months a year (though according to Wikipedia some guy named William Willet {whoever the fuck that is} was the one who actually foisted it upon the rest of us. Jerkoff.)

I'm sure Mr. Franklin and Mr. Willet didn't intend to cause utter chaos in the Gav household when they conceived of their idea. I'm sure they had no idea that decades later some poor mother would be dealing with a small child at her bedside every morning between 4 and 5 a.m. demanding breakfast because the night before she fell asleep before dinner. I'm sure none of that crossed their minds and they were genuinely all about getting people to go out and enjoy the sunshine and feel alive and be happy and all that other bullshit.

But you know what? Right now, none of that is making me feel much better. So thank you Mr. Franklin and Mr. Willett (both MEN by the way, who probably never ONCE in their lives had to get up with a child). I wish I could wake you up tomorrow morning when my child wakes and make you drag your sorry ass out of bed before the heat has even kicked on to fetch her some cereal, but unfortunately, you are both dead and getting all the sleep you want. How convenient.

A dream I swear, I swear a dream

Last night, Loaf woke up again.

“Bad dream, Mommy! Bad dream!”

And while I initially fought bringing her into bed fearing the horror of her teeth grinding, I eventually acquiesced out of exhaustion and into bed she came. (I know I should stand my ground on this, but when it’s 3:09 a.m. and you’re so tired you can barely stand, it’s a lot more appealing to take the easy road).

So anyway, she’s in bed and not sleeping. She’s rolling and kicking and sitting up and talking to the cat (who, judging by the speed at which her tail was twitching, was just as annoyed about Loaf being there as I was). Every so often I’d hiss at her: Loaf! Go to sleep. Go to sleep now or I will bring you back to your crib!

Finally, she did sleep, but I did not. Laying awake, my brain ran endlessly through the next day’s to-do list: the work I had to do, the playdate Peanut had, the messy state of my house. I earned for sleep, but it did not seem to come.

Then, suddenly it was morning. It was 7 a.m. and Peanut was standing at my bedside. “Get up, Mom! Breakfast!”

And Loaf was equally cheerful: Good morning, Mommy!

I, however, was not. After all, I’d been up since 3 a.m. I was exhausted to the bone. I could barely think. I pulled on my robe and walked, zombie-like, out to the kitchen where Mark, who slept on the couch last night, was cheerfully brewing a pot of coffee (I don’t touch the stuff, this was solely for his own benefit).

He tried being nice, but I was completely sour and not having it.

“You realize I’ve been up since three-fucking-a.m., right?” I said in my most evil tone. And then, I could barely believe what was pouring out of my mouth. A diarrhea of curse words so foul I couldn’t believe my own ears. The children stood there, gape mouthed and dumbstruck. Mark looked at me like I’d been possessed by some f-word using demon.

But I didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. The swears just kept coming.

Fuck this and this fucking life and its fucking lack of sleep. Fuck you. Fuck it all. I just want to fucking sleep. I want to go back to fucking bed. Fuck you and stupid coffee.

And then I had a sudden, strong urge to pee. And realized I was still in bed and the room was pitch black. I looked at the clock: 4:54 a.m.

I was dreaming. I’d fallen asleep after all, and dreamed the whole thing.

The dream was so real, it took me a few minutes to process that it wasn’t. And after I’d visited the bathroom and slipped back into bed, I fell instantly into a deep, profanity-free sleep, which was a huge relief. I’m not sure what it means? Was it truly frustration over not being able to sleep? Or my mind’s response to the P.C. (parentally correct) language I have to use all the time now. I have no idea, but there is a plus side: so long as I don’t talk in my sleep, I’ve found one more safe place to swear.

The word of the day is . . .

When I came home from work on Friday, Mark was very eager to show me a new game he’d invented with the girls.

He extended his hand, index finger pointed toward Loaf and said, “Give Daddy a dink,” and she reached her little hand out and gently touched her extended index finger to his.

“Dink,” she said in the sweetest, softest voice. He then repeated the process with Peanut.

Now, I must admit, as touching as this little scene was, I was initially taken aback because where I grew up? Dink is a not a nice word. When I was a kid, a “dink” was one of two things:
1. A jerk, an asshole, or a really stupid person, or, even worse,
2. A slang term for penis.

But, I kept my mouth shut, figuring it was perfectly innocent and as long as he only played this little game within the walls of our house there was no harm, no foul.

Then we went out for lunch on Sunday.

The restaurant was crowded and we were forced to wait outside for over half an hour. The weather was nice, but the kids still started getting restless. I held Loaf in my arms while Peanut hovered around my feet holding onto one of my legs.

“Hey? Who wants to give Daddy a dink?” Mark asked, trying to occupy their attention for few minutes. “No one? No one wants to give me a dink? You’re dinkless right now?”

And that was it. Because every time I hear that word, I hear the echo of some kid on my elementary school playground screeching, “Billy, don’t be a dink,” or better yet, an unnamed 10th-grade class delinquent telling the math teacher to “suck my dink” the day he was thrown out of class for the third day running. So hearing my husband talk about getting a dink and being dinkless to our daughters in a moderately crowded place was just too much for me.

“Do you know what that that word means?” I hissed under my breath.

“No,” he said in complete shock. “What?”

“Penis. It’s a slang term for penis.”

“It is not!” he said in utter disbelief. “That has to be some stupid Massachusetts thing. No one else can possibly have ever heard of that before.”

God I love being right.

Wanted: One good wig. Or hitman to rough up hairdresser. Or both.

Alright, so here’s a story to which every woman in America (maybe every man too) can relate.

I needed a haircut. Badly. I pretty much had not had a haircut since the spring and it’s been a long summer of swimming and outdoor play. The ends of my hair were like straw.

So I started looking around at hairstyles and decided I was going to get an
inverted bob.

Shorter in the back – longer in the front. I was a bit nervous about this, because my 20-year high school reunion (ACK!) is about 3 months away and I didn’t want too drastic of a change. So I figure if I keep the ends to about collarbone length in the front, I can always grow it out by the reunion in November.

I walk into my hair salon and sitting at the reception desk is a young woman with exactly the haircut I am coveting. It’s about mid-neck in the back and sweeps down to grace her shoulders in the front. It’s adorable.

My hairdresser calls me back to his chair and I tell him what I want. He is nodding along in agreement.

“Actually,” I say, “the woman at the front desk? That’s exactly what I’m looking for.”

“Oh!” he says. “I just cut her hair two days ago. No problem.”

So I am thinking, “WOW! Excellent. He knows exactly what to do. I mean, afterall, he just did this exact cut TWO DAYS AGO. And there is a real-life model a mere 15 feet away from us.”

I get washed and return to his chair and he again confirms, mid-neck in the back, just past shoulders in the front.

“Sounds great,” I say.

And he starts to cut. And cut. And cut. And by the time he makes his way to the front of my hair, I realize that the ends in the front are just barely chin length. Barely. If I pull on them a little.

It is about this time, he realizes his mistake.

“Is the length OK in the front?” he asks.

"Hmmm. Let me see. Considering that it’s a full TWO INCHES above what we discussed, what do you think, fuckwit?!? Now start gluing all those individual hairs back onto my head, tootsweet. I don’t have all fucking day."

OK, I didn’t say that. I believe it’s in my best interest not to piss off anyone holding scissors inches from my head. And besides, what’s the point? What’s done is done. At this point, the only choice you really have to is make the best of it.

So yeah. My hairdresser somehow fucked up a haircut he himself performed on another woman—a woman who was seated only a few feet away—48 hours before. HOW???? DOES???? THIS??? HAPPEN???? TO??? ME????

This is especially upsetting because on my round pumpkin face this is just about theeeeee most unflattering length possible. It reminds of Sally Field’s “brown football helmet” hairstyle in Steel Magnolias. Not. Good.

OK. OK. I know. It’s only hair.

It will grow back.

Yes, there is at least a small chance that I’m overreacting to this. Wee. Minute. Teensy. I accept that. But come on? I don't think I know one person who does not have a "my hairdresser completely fucked up my hair" story. If one of my clients asked me for a newsletter and I delivered an intranet, I'd probably get in pretty big trouble here at work. Perhaps he was confused between "chin" and "shoulder?" Maybe next time I go I should bring a diagram of the human body? Sheesh.

And also, hello?? Twenty-year class reunion? Three months from now? People I haven’t see in two decades? Yes, vanity, thy name is Kimberly. I want to walk in there looking and feeling great. It all adds up to shit.

For the next 12 weeks, I’ll be taking lots of vitamins B and E and massaging my scalp and mediating to send energy to my hair in an effort to foster increased growth. Any other tips? Wigs? Extensions? I’m only partly joking here, people. If Britney can get away with it, so can I.



Looking really happy about my new haircut. NOT.



Does this look “shoulder length” to you? Maybe if I shrug my shoulders really high. Like to my ears. UGH.

Morning e-mails with a scowl

Yesterday I was in the office, which means I checked all my e-mail accounts first thing in the morning.

On my personal Yahoo account, I get this e-mail newsletter Ideal Bite. It usually has really great tips for living a healthier, more environmentally conscious lifestyle.

I say usually because yesterday’s tip? Notsohelpful.

Yesterday, those cheerful, supportive folks over at Ideal Bite suggested that I forgo my swimsuit and spend my days at the beach this year in the nude.

Seriously.

According to Ideal Bite, “Swimsuits require energy and transport to produce, while birthday suits require none.”

Really? Well isn’t that great. Now I’m supposed to feel guilty for covering up my nearly 38-year-old, birthed-and-nursed-two-children, ain’t-what-it-used-to-be body. Riiiight.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for saving the planet. We go to the grocery store with our canvas bags and buy EnergyStar appliances and use low energy light bulbs all over our house. We eat organic food as much as we can and recycle and try in general not to be wasteful.

But walking the beach nude? Sorry. Even I have my limits.

In addition to not being willing to expose the world to my cellulite, I’m frankly not looking to see anyone else’s either. And I’m just not convinced that my swimsuit has that great of an environmental impact. I mean, if that’s true, don’t all clothes? Is this the topic of the next Al Gore movie:

The Inconvenient Clothes: Go Nude to Save the Planet

Sheesh. I guess the tip writers at Ideal Bite were a little stretched for topics this week. Though in fairness, the newsletter went on to suggest some swimsuit manufacturers that utilize environmentally friendly processes, as well organic and even recycled materials to produce their swimsuits, which is pretty cool.

So, there I was, already feeling a little cranky when I went back to my inbox to see that Yahoo had sent me a helpful little Anniversary Reminder.

“Aw,” I thought, “someone is having an anniversary. How nice.”

Then I opened it and discovered that the anniversary in the reminder was actually that of my graduation from college, which occurred sixteen years ago today on May 19, 19FUCKING91.

After absorbing that for a moment or two, I threw my laptop onto the floor, stomped on it, and yelled something about how that will teach you to toss the mother-fucking effects of time in my face like that first thing in the morning, you stupid piece of overrated bytes and chips.

OK, I didn’t really do any of that.

But I thought about it. Oh how I thought about it.

Fair warning

To the anonymous boy who clocked my daughter on the head with a toy truck in the daycare center of the gym today leaving a huge purple welt above her eyebrow:

Touch my kid again and I will send a big, hairy, brown, sharp-toothed, clawed monster to haunt your closet every night until your college graduation. That and I will find you and rat you out and make sure your mother knows she is raising a bully so she can send your ass into time out and get you straightened out now before you wind up in Juvenile Detention.

Consider yourself warned you snot-nosed, chicken-shit, rotten brat.

Signed,

One Mama Bear You Don't Want to Fuck With

To swear or not to swear?

So my husband read my blog today and while he likes it overall, he thinks the cursing is "beneath me."

I don't completely disagree, but I also feel like this is just about the last free place I can swear. I can't swear at work, and I certainly make a real effort not to swear in front of the Short People (not that one doesn't slip out sometimes, but I certainly don't make it a habit and I feel instantly guilty for my goofs). Besides, when I'm writing on here, I try not to be too gratuitous about it. I don't swear just for the sake of swearing; I save my curse words for the times when I feel no other word truly fits the bill. I mean how can you really talk about O.J.'s book without using the F-word, or calling it a piece of shit?

And Mark sees that, but he thinks instead of saying shit I should type "sh*t" or something, which really? What's the point? You're all adults and you'll still read it as "shit" in your head, right? It seems kind of silly to censor myself that way. But I'll throw it out there. So I'll pose the question to you, to my eight or so regular readers, what do you all think? Keep the swears or edit them? I'm not promising I'll do what the majority wants, but I am curious what you all think about the issue.