Hair and There

I have no idea why I spend so much time and energy ironing the backs of my pants. Let’s face it, by the time I drive anywhere, they’re so wrinkled, I might as well have spent that time drinking. Unless I’m dressing to have people over at my own house, I hereby vow to stop wasting time ironing the backs of my pants. Until the guilt gets me. It got me. I’ll iron ‘em, I promise.

But it’s a lot like combing the back of my hair, or more specifically, the hair on the back of my head. I twirl my round brush with one hand, wave the hair dryer over it with the other hand, and then I check it in the hand mirror, to make sure I don’t look like a wacko. Well, at least not like a wacko who doesn’t know enough to fix the back of her hair. Then I get in the car to go where I’m going, and the headrest makes the back of my hair look like Woody Allen. From the front. Seriously, it ends up looking like a matted and misshapen stuffed animal is perched on the back of my head. It’s gross.

This brings me to a question that’s been bothering me for years. Now I’ll bring it up here and it can bother you, too. Or perhaps you’ll have an answer for me, and I can start sleeping through the night.

We –that is my husband, the Center of the Universe (CoTU) and I --will go out on a Saturday night with friends. In preparation, we shower, shampoo, rinse and repeat. I fix my hair, he shaves, we dress, I put on makeup, not necessarily in that order. But close. I frequently iron my pants, his pants, and God knows whatever else happens to need ironing.

I’m pretty sure the other couple we’re going out with goes through the same rigmarole. Except for one thing. At least half the time, we see other adult men in a restaurant or at the theatre who, while nicely dressed, and driving nice cars, don’t seem to own a comb or a hairbrush. Or if they do, they don’t know what it’s supposed to be used for.

Now I understand that men of a certain age (though I’m uncertain as to what the ‘certain’ actually means here) are no longer trying to attract a mate, having already accomplished that feat. Same thing can be said for women. But I never see women who go out (except on the way home from the gym) without at least trying to make their hair look decent. Women may not always curl, straighten, flat iron, or spray their hair, but I’ve yet to see a woman on a Saturday night at a restaurant who hadn’t at least COMBED her hair. Men? –not so much. I’ve seen hair that looked as if it hadn’t even been combed when the barber cut it. It’s scary.

Again, I can even comprehend that it slips a guy’s mind, and he’s more interested in who won the Big 12 game that afternoon, and what dinner’s going to cost him. The real mystery is how his wife doesn’t pleasantly suggest that he comb his hair before they leave home. You know, a simple, “Mortimer, your hair looked so nice when you combed it last month. Would you like to try that again tonight?” Unless his name isn’t Mortimer, and then it just wouldn’t make any sense at all.

Maybe she was busy ironing her pants.

As promised, Part III of Grandma Visits the Boys: Zach and Sam and their betrothed!


Yes, it was a rich and full visit to Zachramento last week. I got a nice span of time with each of the boys (Zachary, age 3 ½, and Sam, 2 ½ months.)

Zach and I went to the circus, the boys, their parents and I went to Train Town in Sonoma, and one lovely afternoon we went to the home of their good friends, A & A.

A & A would be enough of a gift, just for their friendship, intelligence, loyalty, big hearts and loving spirit. But in addition to all that, they have given birth to the lovely Miss J., who’s unofficially engaged to Zach, and the Cupcake herself, Miss M., who will just have to save herself for Sam. Since she helped Sam’s mommy give him a little bottle when we were there, we can officially plan for her to rob the cradle. Of course, it’s understood that this will only take place if Sam and Zach’s daddy insists upon staying married to my daughter, because Miss M. seems to think he is actually meant for her. Time will tell. (Does a 33-year difference in age seem like a lot to you? I mean, outside of Mississippi?)

Anyway, when we were invited over, Daddy A. suggested that Zach bring a swimsuit so the kids could play on the Slip ‘n’ Slide. We asked if he really thought it would be warm enough for the Slip ‘n’ Slide, and Daddy A. assured us that anything over 30° was appropriate for the Slip ‘n’ Slide.

Turned out to be in the 70s, so the kids wore their swim suits and Slipped and Slid to their hearts’ delight. They also rode scooters and kiddie coupes, ate apple wedges dipped in honey, and ran around like small children having a ball. Go figure. All except Sam, however, who stayed in my lap except when his selfish loving mommy demanded him back, and when Mommy A. wheedled us into giving her a turn to hold him.

While I was relaxing and reveling in the sight of such unselfconscious and innocent play, Mommy A. was making a wonderful dinner for everyone. We had brought salad and all the pre-measured ingredients for chocolate chip cookies. Miss J. helped Rachel make the cookies, and when both daddies arrived we had a terrific dinner!

Hats off to Mommy A. for her wonderful brisket and roasted carrots, to Rachel for the salad and the cookies, and to all the vintners in Napa Valley who made the beverages so memorable!

Here are some photos of kids having fun!

Kids at play!

Miss M. a.k.a. The Cupcake

The lovely Miss J., my future granddaughter-in-law!

Is this fun, or what?

Driver Zach!

Happiness!

    

Color me Grandma!  --and happy!