Screaming My Head Off

Oh, puhleeze! According to The New York Times Style section, we are a generation that yells at our children. That’s right, yells. We wouldn’t even think of spanking their behinds (some of us, anyway), but we sure do yell.

So, why are we yelling our heads off, New York Times Style section? Do tell! Even though it is kind of hard to picture any of you as parents. I mean, you’re just soooooo BUSY covering all those parties and writing in-depth stories about $5,000 handbags and such. Not exactly the kind of subject matter that lends itself to being a parenting expert but, whatever.

Seems as though we resort to yelling when all those other “positive” disciplinary techniques fly out the window. You know –reminding, role playing, three chances, timeouts, etc.

In the house I grew up in, yelling was an art form. I didn’t realize that people could actually communicate in a normal tone of voice until after I left for college. Once I had children of my own, I vowed I would NEVER yell. I would speak firmly, yet kindly. I would be fair-minded. I would take the time to explain.

Fifteen years later and counting, you’ll never guess what I learned. Sometimes those strategies work and sometimes they don’t. And sometimes, yes sometimes, you just gotta yell.

Like when Big Man’s been asked three times (firmly, but nicely) to turn off the television, peel his teenage body off the couch and set the table for dinner.

Here’s what I shout: “I’ve asked you THREE times to come help!!!! I'm working hard making dinner and all you can do is stare at Sponge Bob stupid shit!!!! Now I’ve HAD it!!!! I am PISSED!!!!

Guess what Big Man does? Scurries to switch off the tube and more likely than not, yes gentle readers, offers me an apology.

Damn straight!

What is so wrong with letting my kids know, that once they cross a certain line, I get mad? That I can get mad, let them know about it, and after the emotions clear, we can come back together and probably even have a good laugh over me calling Sponge Bob a stupid shit?

When I do yell, I really try to make sure I don't blurt out something that's going to scar them for life (which can be quite a feat during a certain time of the month).

And I'm pretty sure I don’t go screaming my head off on a regular basis. In fact, Little Man tells me I’m an “occasional yeller.”

“It’s only when you want to make a point,” Little Man explains, “Like when we’re doing something really bad.”

“So, you think I’m justified when I yell?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he nods.

The way I see it, there are worse things you can do to a kid. Like have him pretend to be launched in a homemade weather balloon and set him up to lie about it on national television.

At the mall the other day PB and I were behind a mom with her five-year-old. The boy was working hard to pull down a store display and the mom was going, “Buddy??? Buddy??? Put that down…okay??? You know…you really can’t do that. Buddy??? Okay???”

PB nudged me and said, “Should we break the news that that really doesn’t work.”

No need. She’ll figure it out soon enough.

Sex In The Suburbs (And Other Secrets From My Neighborhood Hair Stylist)

Warren Beatty and Julie Christie in the film Shampoo.
Once every couple months, more or less, I spend two hours at the beauty salon. My stylist, Amoro, brushes foul-smelling chemicals onto tiny strands of my hair and then folds each bleach-coated piece into its own, individual foil pocket.

By the time he sits me under the dryer, I have about fifty squares of silver paper sticking out of my head and I look like a cross between an electrocuted, tinseled-up Christmas tree and the Tin Man’s girlfriend.

I’ve been getting my hair highlighted for so long now that I don’t even mind the time it takes or what I look like during the process. The way I see it, what better opportunity to catch up on Brad, Angie and the twins? It’s the only time, aside from the supermarket check-out line, when I get to binge on gossip rags until I make myself sick.

The seeds of this “beauty” ritual were planted way back at the beginning of my life when what little hair I was born with, was golden blond. Unfortunately, by the time I reached my early teens, it started to cross over to a darker ash that looked suspiciously like dish-water or mousy brown. Which basically means, in the hair color continuum of blond bombshells, sexy redheads, chestnut browns and sultry blacks, your hair is no color. So you might as well just go ahead and fade into the background RIGHT NOW.

Thank God it was the 70s and “Sun In” was popular at the time. A couple quick squirts and a day at the beach or “lying out” on my parents’ front lawn, yes, slathered in baby oil (it was the 70s!) was enough to restore my locks to their original brilliance and rescue me from life as a wallflower.

But the thing is, because I’ve been enhancing the color of my hair from a very young age, at this point in my life, I’m not really sure what my natural color is. Periodically I point to my roots and wail to Amoro, its black! And he’s always like, is not black. And I’m all, you’re just saying that to make me feel better.

And to prove he isn’t, he pulls out one of those big cardboard color charts with loops of synthetic hair attached, squints closely at the stiff little locks, and shows me my shade.

Okay, so it isn’t black (not that there’s anything wrong with black). But it is the darkest hue of ash blond. Which means if you go one shade over. Yes, just one. You’re in the brown category. Of the mousy variety.

A few months ago I got it into my head that perhaps my natural hair color wasn’t so horribly boring after all. Maybe, in these hard economic times, I should embrace a color that didn’t need such expensive upkeep. And after all, I was now a fully-formed adult. I was more than my hair color, right?

Amoro tried to talk me out of it but I was adamant. So against his better judgment, he pulled the big gun from his stylist’s holster. The highlighting cap. With what looked like a crochet needle, he pulled big chunks of my hair through the cap’s holes then drenched them with my darker, natural color.

When he finished I looked in the mirror. Staring back at me was a woman I barely recognized. A bad version of Sarah Jessica Parker, post Sex In The City. The hair shade she sported should have been called No Sex In the City (or, in this case, the suburbs). It was so mousy and dish-watery, she was all but invisible.

Long story short, I realized the error of my ways and about every six to eight weeks, I’m back spending a couple hours with Amoro. I’ve been with him pretty much since I moved into town ten years ago.

At the beginning, we really didn’t talk much. I have to admit, I was a little intimidated by his tough-guy persona. His shaved, shiny head, the earring, his fondness for wearing all black. He barely looked up from the soccer scores in his Italian newspaper when it was time for him to wave me over to the shampoo station.

But in the decade we’ve spent together, I’ve come to see that underneath his macho exterior, he’s really just a pussycat. We’ve gotten to know each other pretty well and, among other things, I’ve learned a lot from Amoro about hair care.

Just during my last appointment I asked him if there was really any difference between “professional” and drugstore hair care products. And he was like, what? Pantene? How good could a gallon of shampoo for $5 be? You might as well flush it down the toilet. Not only does he enlighten me, he makes me laugh while he does it.

He went on to talk about misinformed shampooing habits. He was all, people use a big GLOP (coming down hard on the "p" and shaking his cupped hand for emphasis like he was in a Ragu commercial). You only need a little bit!

Excellent, Amoro! I get it now. If I splurge on the good shampoo, I’ll eventually get my money’s worth. Because instead of a handful, I need only a little dab to get the job done.

Amoro shares other secrets with me. Ones that don’t have anything to do with hair. Like the no-strings-attached relationship he has with one of his married clients. Seems she fancies Amoro for more than his hair styling expertise. He's quite happy to oblige.

He even shares secrets that some of his clients have shared with him. NEVER naming names, of course! Like the time one of his clients had a girls' night out that ended up in a hot tub. When things got a little too intimate for her taste and hands started to roam under the bubbles, she decided to call it a night. Amoro told her if it ever happened again, to make certain she called him. He would gladly take her place.

So not only does Amoro keep me looking sexy in the suburbs, he fills me in on all the sex that's happening here too. And on top of that, there are the hair styling tips. Like this one: Rub a drop of hair conditioner into your palms (yep, straight from the bottle) then smooth your ends with it. Works like a CHARM, Amoro! No more frizz! What would I do without you?

Lowering The Superwoman Bar

My Faithful Followers,

You may have noticed you haven’t heard from me in a while. Thing is, I got this killer cold. Or, should I say, colds.

You know when you’ve reached that point in a cold where you’re so grateful you’re finally getting better after days of hacking up God-knows-what from the bowels of your esophagus (Little Man calls them loogies) and rubbing your nose raw from blowing it 500 times every hour?

When you’re finally feeling a glimmer of good humor returning to your cranky self and you dare to think, “Hey, this shitty cold just might be on its way out!” And you actually get down on your knees to thank God, Allah, Vishnu, Buddha and the makers of Musinex because you’re so beside yourself that this runny nose/hacking cough/drowning in your own mucous state of affairs is starting to subside?

And then, if like me, you’re an ardent practitioner of canceling out positive thoughts with negative ones, you remember back to that time ten years ago. A time that’s etched permanently in your brain because it was so cruel and traumatizing.

When.

After finally making it through one cold.

You were bitch slapped with another.

Let me introduce you to cold #2. The ten-ton weight strapped to your forehead, oxygen-depriving, sinus infection version. Because certainly the Universe, in its confounding wisdom, must have decreed, “If she was up to the challenge of cold # 1, let’s send another her way. After all, it’s been years since she got a two-stager. It’s time for another life-lesson.”

So, as I slogged through my second cold with the sound of ocean waves crashing and popping in my ears, dizzy from lack of oxygen because my nasal passages were so blocked they were no longer taking in air, I got to thinking. Just keeping up with the day-to-day when I’m healthy is challenging enough. But doing it sick? I was so on the verge of a break-down that a padded hospital room was looking like a spa get-away to me.

“Universe,” I pleaded nasally, “Please. What are you trying to tell me? To re-evaluate the responsibilities I constantly heap on my plate? The self-induced pressure to make sure Big Man and Little Man eat right, take their vitamins, stay on top of their school work, get enough fresh air and sunshine, aren’t brain-dead from endless amounts of TV, computer and video games, say no to drugs, read the Classics in their free time and get to bed at a reasonable hour?

My Sisyphean attempt to get the clutter cleared, the laundry done, the dog walked, the plastic recycled, the oil changed, the lawn weeded, the garden watered?

My inability to say no to just one more volunteer project?

The demands I put on myself to have a successful career, earn more money and at the same time, write the great American novel.

The time I don’t have for PB?

Is that what you want me to look at, Universe? Because if it is, you’re right! Cold or no cold. This is killing me!”

Then, in its infinite wisdom, the Universe had one more thing in store to make sure I was really paying attention. It was at a “welcome to our nationally-ranked high school, here’s what’s expected of your child now that he's a freshman” meeting.

I swear to you, this was supposed to be a presentation about high school. Except, most of the evening was spent talking about college. “Highly competitive” colleges to be exact. And the golden ticket into a “highly competitive” college? A very shiny HIGH SCHOOL TRANSCRIPT.

We parents were told that, in addition to stellar grades, the road to such colleges was paved with honors and advanced placement classes. And soon, our children would have the option of taking these courses.

As a wave of fear and confusion broke over the room, one parent raised a hand in an effort to try to wrap her head around the all-mighty HIGH SCHOOL TRANSCRIPT. “In the long run, is it better to get an ‘A’ in a regular English class or a 'B' in an honors English class?” she ventured.

The counselor’s response caused me to dig frantically in my purse for a cough drop. Because if I didn’t get one in my mouth immediately, I was going to choke. Not on a loogie. On her answer.

“What’s best," she paused for dramatic effect and smiled ever so sweetly, "Is to get an ‘A’ (drum roll, please) in an honors class.”

Holy shit.

Was I hearing that right? Does that mean if Big Man chooses to take an honors class, one that challenges his intellect above and beyond a "regular" class, causes him to analyze complex concepts and do extra reading and research, if he gets a 'B', as far as "highly competitive colleges" are concerned, that's NOT GOOD ENOUGH??!!!

And mind you, this (spat!) 'B' (spat, spat!), this inferior specimen of a grade, is coming from a high school that's been written up as one of the top 100 in the country. I'm talking the entire freaking U.S.A.!

Then and there I knew. At that parent's meeting it became crystal clear. If it isn't good enough for a fourteen-year-old kid (fourteen!!!) to get a 'B' in an honors class, then I (yes, this is also about me after all) was screwed.

Because whether you're fourteen or forty-something, the "what it takes to 'achieve' in life" bar is set so ridiculously heavenward, I might as well be attempting to high-jump the Empire State building. Those endless demands and responsibilities I incessantly harangue myself with had grown into insurmountable skyscrapers.

And with this realization, I felt the pressure to be super-woman loosen. My compulsive need to bang my head against the cinder block cell of my unrealistic expectations was gone! Even with my stuffy nose, I could breath again!

So, with a bow to the Universe, here's what I’ve decided. Being "good enough" is alright by me. It may not get Big Man into a "highly competitive college." And it may not cause me to get fewer colds. But at least when I do get one, it won't be the end of my world. I'll make myself a cup of tea with lemon and honey, get comfy on the couch and maybe, just maybe, do something completely unheard of. Like take the day off.