Summer Hiatus

Just like your favorite shows on television go on hiatus, it seems I too am on hiatus (although, I'm not sure I'm missed as much as ER).

Here's why:

1. Mike had knee surgery
2. Reilly Kate had a fever for 4 days followed by a horrible cold
3. Roman has a horrible cold
4. I have a moderate cold
5. Truman has puked every day for the last week
6. Truman is plagued by ticks
7. Alyx has another vaginal infection
8. The car is in the shop
9. We're building a lanai and deck out back and everything is all muddy
10. The dogs must be walked or washed off after being in the yard
11. Reilly Kate started school and somehow I got elected class parent leader
12. I'm also classroom parent at RK's school for the week
14. I had to run around getting shots and shot records for RK's school
15. I started RCIA classes
16. I hosted a Bunko party
17. Laundry is backed up three weeks
18. The carpet needs to be vacuumed daily due to my dogs' semiannual shedding
19. My low flow toilets require daily cleaning to get rid of skid marks
20. The Republicans have made me so angry with their despicable and erroneous accusations toward Senator Kerry who served his country well in a time of war. I'm ashamed of my president and even more so of my fellow countrymen who would believe such shite.

And lastly, because I live in Hawaii and I need to get out and enjoy my last summer here.

Hair Today, Hair Tomorrow

A few days ago, I looked in the mirror and much to my surprise the reflection I saw looked very much like a guest on the Jerry Springer show except I still have all my teeth. I was shocked. "How the hell did I let myself get so... so... so skanky?" I wondered. My hair was long, about 2 inches from my waist. It was ratty and dry and bleached out with nice, dark roots at the top. You can't get much more trailer trash than that. I looked like bloody hell. Something had to be done.

After taking a quick glance at my children's education funds, I decided to mortgage the house and called the most expensive hair salon on this tiny little Polynesian island. A sweet young thing with a voice about as thin as I imagined her size two ass to be answered.

"Would you like to make an appointment?" she asked.

"Yes, I need help with my hair. It's out of control. I think it's trying to get me on a talk show against my will. I need professional help from the likes of anyone but Dr. Phil or Sally Jesse Raphael. Who've you got?"

"Ummmm... Well, what kind of service do you need?"

"I need to be restored to my previous self. The one that didn't have baby fat but wore Baby Phat. The one without the roots longer than the book. The one that was cool and chic and sassy. Do you offer that service?"

My request was met with dead silence.

"Book me with your best coloring expert, please," I whimpered.

My appointment was tonight. Upon walking in, I felt immediately better... and worse. Kind of like going to the ER when you are sick. You know they are going to make it better, but just seeing all those white coats and IV drips suddenly makes your ailment that much more acute. My Barbie-like stylist was sweet, funny, cute and bubbly, and ultra thin and sexy. Reminded me a little of Heather BC (before children). Oh, how I miss that Heather.

All the fashionably clad, perfectly trendy and coiffed beauty experts snipping away at their stylish and wealthy, Vogue-reading clients provided a stark contrast to me, the frumpy, fat housewife in a size 16 Old Navy skort and a five dollar Hanes vee neck tshirt. I could only have been more out of place if I'd been sporting a mullet and a Van Halen concert shirt.

Anyway, she held out a little scrap of material that is intended to serve as a cover up smock. I put it on, but it didn't cover me up. My girls and my gut are just a bit too big for a cover up at a chi-chi salon. The rich tend to be thin apparently. Then we sat down and she started to work on my hair.

I tell you, there is something with the lighting in those places that makes you look so much worse while you are in the chair than you did when you came in. It's a conspiracy, I'm sure, to get you to buy all their styling products and let them transform your hair into their works of art. I know after looking at myself with that dumb cape buckled up under my triple chin I would have agreed to an orange mohawk if the stylist told me she thought it would bring out my cheekbones and shave off ten years from my face.

She didn't ask to do a mohawk, though. She did wonderful job. My hair is back to a normal, much more natural shade. My head feels so much lighter after having six inches of hair hacked off that I came home and weighed myself (no change on the scale, though, sadly). Of course, transformation of this caliber doesn't come cheaply. To the tune of 150 American dollars, my wallet lost some serious weight tonight. And my stylist (and for that price, she ain't no mere beautician or hair dresser, let me tell ya) told me I should come back to see her every three months. That's a whopping 600 bucks a year!

But as I run my fingers through my silky hair, I know it's better to look good than to send your kids to college. Hell, I'd love it if they just went to beauty school. They could keep me in blonde highlights and ash lowlights without the ridiculous capes or deceptive lighting. And with the money I save I'll get myself a tummy tuck and a subscription to Cosmo.

Here's the Poop

Roman is now a full fledged stink ass. Gone forever are those slimy pumpkin snot, breastfed baby poops that really don't smell all that bad. I'm not sure how that happened since he is still hardly ingesting any solids, but apparently the graham crackers dipped in organic turkey and barley baby food I've been shoving in his mouth are fermenting nicely within his intestines.

For those unfamiliar with the toilet habits of infants, particularly nursing infants, let me tell you, this is a milestone. It means no longer will I be able to finish eating before changing his poopies. The smell is so overpowering it can ruin even the best Shrek waffle sticks with green, maple flavored syrup. It means diapers must be stowed away in smell proofed containers decorated with Stick Up deodorizers. And look out if I forget a diaper in the minivan. The whole garage will smell like an overflowing septic tank.

This aromatic milestone has an even bigger significance for cloth diapering mamas like myself. See, breastfed baby, pumpkin snot poop rinses off in the washer. No need to do a thing with the poop. Magically, during the course of one cycle, the poop just vanishes. Not so solid food, stink bomb poop. It's more solid. It has bulk. It clings and clumps. It requires dunking. Diaper dunking is a skill. If ever there is a Mama Olympics, you can guarantee there will be a diaper dunking event. It'll be akin to the more obscure events such as biatholon or curling, but it'll be there and I'll be one of the gold medal favorites.

"Here comes Heather Peet representing the American diaper dunking team. As you know, the United States has been really lagging behind in the diaper dunking event due to widespread disposable usage. But Heather... she's a veteran of the sport. She's been dunking for almost 3 years and -- shhhh.... Let's just watch her now. There she takes hold of the corner. Notice she doesn't use any clips or holders. She says she is a traditionalist and she isn't afraid to get her hands dirty. Look at that form! That move is called "the dunk and flush" and it's her signature in this event. Followed off by a quadruple twist and wring! Wow. What a finish! Surely deserving of the gold!"

Hey, I can dream, right? It's the only way, even in my dreams, that I'd ever win a gold medal.

The worst part of this stage is that it has come to Roman while he is simultaneously also doing diaper self-removal. I cannot keep a diaper on him unless he is fully clothed, preferably in something with locks. In fact, his very first, stinky, big boy poop didn't land in his diaper, but rather all over my carpet. At first glance I thought our little dachshund, Truman, had left me a present. But then I saw him -- my beautiful baby boy and his gorgeous, teeny tiny, unblemished baby butt smeared with poop. Poop on his hands, under his finger nails, between his toes. I guess he was pretty impressed with the poop he can now produce and had to experience it, hands on so to speak.

He cleaned up nicely, but not so the stain on my carpet. If anyone has a good home remedy for baby poop on berber, let me know.

And the next time I say I had a shitty day, I mean real shit!