Posts Tagged ‘Double Happiness’
Blanket Fort Zuzu
Got up this morning to the sound of rain. I love my house in a down pour. The closeness of the walls, the colors a little dimmed. On days like this Margaret and I leave the house just so that we can have the joy of returning to it. Running for the front door dripping wet. Trading jackets and shoes for blankets and a book. Water from the sky is a wonder, our warm 900 square feet are a gift and for just a minute she and I are the same age. Happy.
Found Grace Potter and the Nocturnals today. I know, I know. How 2007 of me. Listen, I am a mom. I am proud of myself when I hear anything other than the Sleeping Beauty soundtrack. About the only thing Miss Beauty and Miss Potter have in common is the color of their hair. I might want to be Grace Potter when I grow up. She is swaggering, soulful and unapologetic. She can probably hold her drink and her man. Yeah, I can get behind that.
My favorite song so far? Big White Gate. Holy cow, this four minutes of notes and lyrics hit me. Margaret and I have been singing our southern rock hearts out to it all day. You can talk to me about choice and circumstance. I understand the arguments and can see some of the logic. However, when all is said and done, every single one of us leaves this life stained and in need of redemption. Maybe all we have to do is ask for it.
Happy rainy day.
Honey, Let’s get rich and replace the broken platters with these.
Today I felt a little overwhelmed. The air seemed a bit thinner and myself a bit heavier. Just a mild attack of anxiety. There was no good reason for all this thin air, leaden body business. The house was clean (almost), dinner already in the oven and I am currently wearing jeans that almost-barely-just-one-more-centimeter zip up. As far as 18 weeks pregnant me goes, it is a banner day. And yet the nervousness was here, illogical, unmoving. Annoying.
Some people sleep through their anxiety, others walk it away, heavens knows there are times when I ice-cream-eat-it to oblivion. However, I was not tired, it looked like rain so a walk seemed ill-advised and there was not one, NOT ONE, sweet in this entire house. What is a girl to do?
This girl plans vacations.
Beautiful, exotic, butter filled confections of vacations. Itineraries that stretch for days and have morsels of culture, cuisine and, well, more cuisine. I can tell you exactly where I would eat on an April night in Paris. Precisely what hotel demonstrates elegance and locality just perfectly in Cairo. The most beautiful horse properties in Kentucky and the best places to shop in Tokyo. I know what streets I want to wander in China and how to find the loveliest sunset in Hawaii. (A fair number of trips. Nervous, much?) Star encrusted journeys that only exist in my head and savedtripadvisor links.
Today, while Margaret napped, I planned a trip to Sante Fe. I know, I know. A little touristy, a smidge new agey, so many smiling white people wearing birkenstocks. This girl does not care. Someday she will stay here and eat here. I think I can blame my fixation with Sante Fe on the movie, Newsies. If it moves Christian Bale to song, then it must be good.
The trip was researched and arranged and put away. The air was no better to breathe and I didn’t feel any lighter. Margaret had started to gibber away in her room. She was sitting up, “reading” to herself. I watched until she got to the last page with a hearty, “THE END!” She saw me standing at the door, held out her book and shouted, “READ IT, READ IT, MOMMY!”
And so I did. We read about bunnies with golden shoes, fairies, dinosaurs and little boys. We read about meadows and mountains and a house underground. And the letters became the words and the words became their meaning. Writing was a kind of magic and I cast the spells. She and I traveled to places that don’t exist, or maybe places that we just haven’t seen yet. We left her room, right out the window and went where ever the story took us. At the end of each adventure we slammed the book, “THE END” and moved onto the next. A lovely escape.
I can breathe again.
I should be writing about something spiritual or uplifting. Some act of kindness I witnessed or an insight gained. I should take this time, on this fabulous Monday, to better the world.
I really should.
Instead I am going to write about my haircut. Is there anything more magical, more relieving, more woman making than 45 minutes in a salon chair? (ok, probably. But let’s pretend the answer is no…just for the sake of my happy post haircut mood.) I always wait too long in between cuts. By my appointment, drastic measures had been taken. Bobby pins, headbands, clips….all stuck together, the last defense against the beast my hair had become. Every woman needs a dress with good twirl, red lipstick and a hairstylist/confidant. I have the dress, the lipstick and Danine. (find her here!) She is a miracle worker, a slayer of ugly, the best, the brightest, the perfect.
I L.O.V.E. love her.
It may seem frivolous. This haircut bliss in a world that aches. Spending (grocery!) money on something that I could have lived without. Women are well acquainted with that peculiar ache that can accompany life on earth. We bear and raise babies, sometimes losing them along the way. We see what life could be and are too hard on themselves when reality just isn’t quite what was envisioned. We cry, pray and act for those that are hurt, alone, in need. Women create homes for our men and children, dream their dreams and hurt their hurts. We change the course of history one dinner at a time, even when that dinner is burnt chicken…again. Once in a while, in the midst of all that world changing, we get tired. We are mother, wife, confidant and friend. Sometimes, we need a little boost, a little reminder that we are also, women! Feminine, lovely, soft and hella sexy.
The visit with the magical Danine was just the reminder this (faux) red head needed. I am a woman! Oh my goodness. That means there is nothing that I cannot do.
This pixie/bob cut fusion and I are ready to conquer the world, one dinner, one diaper change, one scraped knee at a time.