Like I Blister in the Sun

We should have named him Harold. Or Frank. Frank sounds like he would be a good sleeper, right? And Harold, well--Harold would never throw his toys at your face. Tim. Tim's a nice name, a nice guy. Tim doesn't dump a bag of Goldfish crackers into your cart at Target, Tim doesn't chew his cake pop and then let it fall slowly from his mouth and onto the floor the minute a stranger says how cute he is.

But Ozzy does. All of this and then some. Which is what we get for giving him the same name as the Prince of Darkness, even if we totally didn't name him after that Ozzy at all. Whatevs. Because my Ozzy doesn't sleep lately. Like from midnight until 5am, and then during the day he is a two year old nightmare on Crocs, yadda yadda, mommyblaaaahg, it's so hard and all that. As hackneyed as ripping the heads off of bats.

Tell you what else is hackneyed--because when he gives me a hug I fucking love him so much. I love him even before he hugs me, love him even as the chewed up cake pop falls down his shirt like a wet piece of poo and the stranger backs away with that small, horrified smile. I love him.

Though I will say this, not unrelated: I have been perfecting my 80's punk Pandora station. The Clash, Suicidal Tendencies, Bad Brains, Violent Femmes with a little New Wave and Ska to soften the blow--Talking Heads, The Specials. This is what I listen to on my headphones when I am at work now, partly to keep me awake and partly because I am an emotional, exhausted mess just jonesing for a mosh pit were it not for my fear of touching sweaty people I do not know + the possibility of getting hurt divided by the square root of my ballet flats. God, how I am tired.

xo,
S

She Bangs, She Bangs (Hello 2000) UPDATED WITH PICS!

There comes a time in every women's life when she asks herself: should I get bangs? I mean, my mom passed away, my cat died, I turned 41...what better time to blatantly disregard my very round face and want what general consensus says I should not have? I even went so far as to Google "should I get bangs." FYI--Google tries to anticipate what you should get by auto-populating that sentence with "a divorce," "a tattoo" and "married." Glad I'm not the only one turning to the Magic 8 Ball of the internet for life guidance. See also: glad I am not trying to decide if I should get a tattoo of bangs because that would surely be a sign I should.

The thing is, when I asked Google if I should get bangs it did not answer me with a resounding www.DoNotGetBangs.com but instead said I could totally look like this:

To which I say sign me up. I could totally look like that (if I were a completely different person). And yet? And yet I still hear the siren call of Jane Birkin winking at me beneath a boyishly sexy fringe of perfectly cut bangs that don't poke me in the eye or get greasy or ever need trimming, really. Just so you know, in this scenario I also don't have any hips and wear cords that make me look super skinny.

I mean, right? So cute. Like this. 

So should I or shouldn't I? Too late. I am at the hair salon right now.Which means that in just a few hours I could look like this:

A wonky-eyed mid-90's Brenda Walsh doing her best Paula Poundstone impression. In which case you're going to have to straight up lie to me, tell me I look très mignonne and then put some barrettes in my Christmas stocking.

Yikes.
xo,
S

UPDATE!!!!!!
And just like that! BAM! I got bangs!
Ok, here's the Before (yes, I totally Instagram filtered the hell out of myself, and double yes, I, too, have a wonky eye, #BrendaWalsh4LifeYo):

And After:

Right now my hair is a little too soft for my liking, all blow dried and styled. But tonight I will shower and tomorrow my hair will be back to it's normal texture. Already I'm loving what it does to a ponytail or a messy knot (instant style!) which is how I wear my hair usually anyway. So? I think I'm happy.
We shall see what Bryan and the kids think later...dun dun DUN.

Earthquake Weather

The weather has been unbelievable lately, bathtub warm, still, the air smelling of leaves and salt air. Beautiful out, isn't it? the guy at Walgreens might say to you at checkout. Mm, gorgeous, and then one of you mumbles something about it being earthquake weather and the other nods and you leave the store out to the freakishly perfect afternoon.

Of course there is no truth to that. Earthquakes occur miles below weather, caused by tectonic plates shifting, something that has been happening for as long as there has been an ever, during ice ages, when the earth was a hot bubbling swamp and everything in between. Nor do they happen more in the morning; your pet probably doesn't sense them, and small earthquakes do not prevent larger ones from happening. These are all just myths created to explain things we cannot possibly understand.

All this to say that if we talk about the weather I will probably say something about it being earthquake weather. That if you casually ask me how my day is I might think for a second that the earth will open and swallow me whole, I am that close to cracking. This business of understanding that my mom is gone--it has been happening for as long as there has been an ever, and yet. That's not how it works. I cannot wrap my head around it but for a few flash seconds at a time. How is my day? If a fault could open up there would be no friction. Without friction, there is no earthquake. And yet the weather is so stunningly still and happy, as if we are all just waiting for something to happen.

Quite frankly I don't know why I am putting this image here with this post except maybe I love that whoever Lana Moonblood is she gave reason, a purpose and explanation not for, but to her one tiny hand.