Kids

Tonight I went to a church festival with my sis and her daughter. Under protest. When they called and asked if I was up for it, I was napping. Cuz I'm a thousand years old and that's what thousand year old women do, dammit.

I digress: I had emailed my son earlier in the day and asked him if they would dare have this particular festival without him, because when he was a kid it was in our back yard and he was pretty sure they put it on every year just for his personal amusement. He responded that he told them they could go ahead with it this year without him.

So two and a half hours later, after tromping around with the sun in my eyes, I'd totally had enough. The dragon roller coaster, the fishing game, the other fishing game, the two foot beach ball in my arms, won by picking a yellow duck out of a tub of typhoid water by an amazed three year old, we bellied up to the sno cone stand and watched as a grimy carny poured ice into a blender with her bare hands and made us a couple of germcicles. Good times.

And good Lord in heaven it all brought back such memories. Wasn't it just last summer that my kid was that three year old? Thrilled to be riding the dragon coaster over and over? And over?

Another friend hooked up with us on the (excruciatingly) long walk home. Her kids are teenagers, and she thought maybe a beer later would be a good thing. And I'm like....cool. I'd kinda been hoping I could sneak off to the beer tent at the festival all evening and no one would notice. Not.

So after our walking, riding, standing around, watching, germ drinking adventure, I ditched my sis and my niece and went out for a beer.

The first place we went had karaoke. Loud karaoke. Terrible karaoke. We had one drink and left.

The second place we went was an old haunt I hadn't been to in years and years. And the owner was all like, where have you been?? Such adventures I had at that place. So stinking long ago. It's nice to be missed, you know?

And then my friend's cell phone rang. Her kids were fighting over the computer and required an intervention. So she told them to knock it off and go to their separate corners. Then her ex-husband called and told her that the fighting children had called him, and he was going to go to her house and find out what the heck the problem was, and she told him that she could handle it. And then my friend called her kids back and told them they were both in Big Trouble. And then we finished our drinks and went home.

And now I can't stop thinking of the days when my son was growing up. Of church festivals when he was tiny; and being out when he was a teenager and having him call me and want me to come home...even though as soon as I got there he would just go to bed and sleep like a little lamb, knowing his mama was home with him. Not caring that he ruined my fun...not caring that he wouldn't say anything to me except, "Good night," when I got there. And that I would be up for hours; hang time, alone, laying on the couch, wired and watching TV till I could unwind enough to go to sleep.

Like my seventy-something friend says, "It's nice when your kids have their own lives."

Raising kids is a much better thing to have done than to actually do. It's work and it's sacrifice and it's lonely and it's sweet and it's bitter...but if you do it right, the reward you get at the end is a kid you can be proud of. An adult that is interesting and funny and smart, and such a blessing to your life.

Being out with two moms tonight reminded me that having a child is the only miracle you will ever get to be a part of.

Voting

Last night I made my yearly trip to a minor league ball game and I always forget in between seasons how much fun those games are. There are always people in costumes and there are contests between innings and everything is just so stinking cheap compared to major league games. It cost two bucks to park. A big beer is four bucks. Plus I only seem to go when I have free tickets so that's a real savings right there.

I noticed right off that something weird was going on at the game. For starters, an inordinate amount of people were wearing Vote for Pedro tee shirts. I actually don't personally wear shirts with words on them, but if I did, I would totally own a Vote for Pedro shirt. My friend and I find our seats and a kid gets up a few rows in front of us wearing a brownish three piece suit, made out of like corduroy. He had a head of curly hair that didn't look real. And it was 90 degrees. At 7PM. And that kid had to be roasting in his own juices. And then some guy gets on the loudspeaker and says that they have a special on tater tots. And I still don't catch on that it's Napoleon Dynamite night. God! Can I be any more pathetic? It's only like one of my most favorite movies ever.

And it turns out that Pedro was at the dang game, for crying out loud. He signed autographs. The line went on forever and I certainly didn't want to meet Pedro, but I did want to eyeball him. He signed some kid's arm with a Sharpie while we were standing there and the kid's friend said, "What did he write?', and the kid said, "He signed his real name." And then I said to my friend, "I wish I had my camera, I'd take Pedro's picture." And she said, "Well you've got your phone...doesn't it take pictures?" I really am a dumbass sometimes.

So yeah. I have a picture of Efren Ramirez on my phone. He's a lot cuter in real life than he was in the movie. I'd post it but I don't know how to get it off my phone. I said, "Hey Pedro," and he looked up at me smiling and waved and said hi back and I took his picture. It was really quite thrilling. Ask me and I'll show it to you.

And I would totally vote for Pedro.

Dyeing

My hair is red. Well it's really a muddish brown, bordering on black. And I don't need to mention the gray, right? As of a few days ago, I'd call it magenta, which I darkened yesterday to more of a shade of burgundy.

Truthfully? I'd describe it right now as burgundy straw that smells like a campfire and needs cut very badly.

I've been dyeing my hair red forever. A lot of years ago at a family function my great-uncle told me that my red color was the same as his mother's, my great-grandmother, so I kinda felt that gave me the right to call myself a redhead. And I was vindicated when my nephew was born last year with screaming red hair. My son trotted out his college knowledge when he asked who the redhead was on our side of the family because of the whole recessive gene thing that has to come from both parents. Well, duh. Grampy's mom was a redhead. I'm nearly a redhead! It's in the family!

But lately I've been thinking it's a little much. A little too red. A little too loud. When I saw a picture of myself from June in the beautiful sunny sunshine of San Diego looking like I Love Lucy, I figured it was time to kick it back a notch.

The color I chose was called "auburn brown". The picture swatch on the box showed a nice warm medium brown with some red tendencies. Which would have been perfect except for the fact that it turned my hair a purplish reddish dark, dark....well, magenta.

"How would you feel if this was your hair?" I asked my sis.

"Horrified?" she responded.

Nice.

I went to work the next day and said to everyone who looked at me, "We all know my hair is purple and I refuse to discuss it."

Yesterday I recolored it with my normal color, medium auburn, which turned it burgundy. I went swimming and was afraid to get it too wet for fear I'd leave a big maroon cloud in the pool. My hair guy is in Punta Cana at the moment and I'm afraid to even wash it to try and lighten it up because it feels kind of....crunchy. Like it could crackle off in wiry clumps if I do anything else to make it mad. So now I've got burgundy haystack hair that smells like chlorine and last nights campfire.

Some days it's just damned hard to feel attractive.