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Dear Jack,

I know you’re all ‘master stylist’ and everything, but we need to talk. I’ve been seeing you for a while now, but you can’t seem to remember a single thing about me. Which, in all honesty, doesn’t offend me. But you must feel as if you should, because you keep trying to suggest things as though you do remember me, yet you’re always wrong. But I’m apparently so immemorable, you don’t even REMEMBER that you’re always wrong about what you’re desperately trying to remember about me. So in the end you just keep making mistakes each visit in an attempt to guess wildly and hope you hit on something. It’s actually kind of funny to me. Sort of.

And while we’re being honest, can we just go ahead and talk about that whole When I Was At The [famous stylist] Show In [hip city] I Ran Into [other famous stylist] blahblahblahblah spin I get each visit? I mean, I suppose if you don’t remember me, you might not realize you reference the same stories all the time. But unless I’m mistaken and you are secretly yearning for my approval – which, can’t be correct if I’m so immemorable – one could assume you tell all of your clients in an attempt to up your cred, therefore, consider it a safe bet I’ve heard the story.


More or less.

So OK. You’re a nice enough guy. I’m pretty sure you’re blowing smoke up my ass when you seem quasi-interested in our conversations, but I can’t say I wouldn’t do the same after that many years of listening to prattling idiots in my chair – so I don’t fault you that. And though I’m thoroughly irritated that I came home with The Rachel haircut, effectively lopping off nearly two-year’s worth of length, I have to admit that you are not the first stylist by far to give me that cut unasked, so I’m considering this a hint from fate to stop trying to be hip (or even early 30s, apparently) and go buy some Keds and (comfy, surely) Mom jeans.

Who knows, maybe I’ll thank you for giving me permission to shop at J. Jill so early in life.

I will say that you are the most relaxing stylist I’ve ever had. You are heavenly when you so very slowly and gently comb my hair while you cut, and because cutting seven hundred layers takes a while, I was near drooling as I watched long, long… long locks of my hair slide down the cape to the floor. And maybe that’s your barbiturate to keep me from jumping out of the chair and screaming WHY IS MY HEAD UPSIDE DOWN SO YOU CAN DENUDE THE UNDER SIDE OF MY SCALP, who knows, but it works so I can’t complain. It feels marvelous.

Until, that is, you begin to attack my head like a rabid bat.

Eh. To be fair, I guess I can’t honestly verify what a rabid bat does to one’s head. But I really imagine it has to be similar to when (right as you slyly grab the can of hairspray and commence to lacquer the shit out of me) you just start frantically poking at the top of my head, desperately trying to free the imaginary bees burrowing into my ear. Scrubbing viciously as if forgetting we’ve already done the shampoo part. Backcombing everything so it stands straight up and then combing it back down again. Tousle, comb, tousle-spray-comb, comb, tousle, comb. Spray.

Jesus, man. Make up your damned mind.

Look. Frustrated as I am, I’m still predisposed to feel affection toward you either because you’re gay or you have my son’s name, or both. But I need you to get on some meds or something. Get a little fish oil in your diet. Because I don’t care what famous stylist you run around with, giving someone whiplash AND a haircut that makes them look ten years too old ALL on top of the insult of not knowing the gender of her kids is just not wise business practice. Especially since that last one is pretty much always 50/50. You really should be getting that one half the time, buddy. Like, statistically.

And that’s all I have to say. Thank you. I’ll see you in two months.



We celebrated Christmas this weekend with the kids because by the time I get them Friday afternoon, they are going to be CRACKED OUT on events where they open eleventyfourteen gifts. (We told them Santa sent our presents early because we don’t have a fireplace.) And though Jack didn’t get his Death Star (from me, anyway), he did get a Venator-class Republic Attack Cruiser and Vader’s Tie Fighter, which took 6 and 2 hours, respectively, to build. The Attack Cruiser was only just finished at midnight, but Jack promptly woke up this morning and asked if we could dismantle it and start over.

Wherein my attachment parenting failed royally when I essentially gave him a big hell no.

So OK, look. This crappy phone picture doesn’t do justice to this beastly thing. (Click on it.)  I swear everyone would be super impressed at its largeness if you saw it in person. And at almost 1200 pieces, I can see why people put these together just to put them on a shelf – because they are a helluva lot more painstaking than I ever remembered from my Lego days of square houses and shutters on the windows.

All of which doesn’t mean that I won’t be OK with Jack dismantling it at some point; it’s soothing for him, and, after all, it’s his toy. But until he is able to do it all by himself – or until at the very least, say, a week passes, I just can’t do it.

I’ve never been wholly down with the whole Santa thing, the least of which because I think the materialism of the holiday is indoctrinated so concretely (not to mention so early) that way. I try – like most parents I know – to teach my kids to be kind, generous people. But the holidays just seem so danged commercialized, and it’s hard to keep focus. I know there are plenty of options for charity and selflessness, but it still often seems to be so, well, tax deductive, and I’m not so sure we haven’t bastardized the entire point by channeling it to a one-month period in the whole year. People need clothing in June, as well, as far as I can see. And for a year or two I tried to muster up the whole Jesus/reason/season vs Santa=satan anagram, but like I’ve since admitted, in the end that indoctrination wasn’t my bag either.

Especially because I could take Jack to church to learn about baby Jesus and then promptly go into the lobby to sit on Santa’s lap.

But I digress.

The truth is I’ve been secretly stoked in the past that Lo was too young, and Jack just never seemed to care, about Santa or the whole production of Christmas. We ran around like chickens with our heads cut off trying to appease family expectations, but overall we didn’t do nearly as much as most Americans seem to during this time. The kids got a shitton of gifts, and many hours were consequently spent donating old toys, but to date they really hadn’t totally lost their minds about wanting things. Mostly because they have no real idea of want.

But my blessedly procrastinated reprieve is over, and at four and six the kids have now fully embraced that bountiful benefactor of booty. No pretense for goodwill or good behavior, Christmas has simply and unabashedly become the ticket to the goods. Jack wants a Lego set that happens to be FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS. He has no idea of what the cost really means, he just wants it because he thinks it’s cool. But ole St. Nick (and Toys R Us) have full-on convinced my sweetly gullible -and literal- child that all he has to do is write it down on the list and voila! it will be produced.

Because that’s what SANTA DOES, RIGHT?

So what do I do when he’s upset I can’t get him a FOUR HUNDRED DOLLAR Lego set? Tell him it was because he wasn’t good enough? That there was a shortage of plastic up North? I have no idea. But we’ll figure it out because we always do.  And he’ll survive because he’s a champ.

And please don’t fully misunderstand me, I’m not really on the train to Cynicalville. I do actually like the holiday season because I get to see my family and friends more, and that always makes me happy. But it’s a hard balance for me as a mother, and I want to do better for my kids.

[I also want a law that declares Christmas music illegal until December 20th. Especially that creepy making-out-with-Santa-song. I mean really, how many confusing messages can we possibly send this time of year?! But I digress again.]

So because our ridonkulously overwhelming and draining year is over, I resolve to expand my kids’ horizons and attempt to dismantle the materialism they swim in so comfortably. Or at least temper it with some of the kindness and giving I’ve seen them possess in large quantities. I look forward to it – it will be good for all of us. And now that I’ve also purged my bah humbuggery for the season, I can happily post the letters the kids wrote today, because all other tiring issues aside, I think they’re hysterical, and the kids will never know they are skipping the mailbox and going into my treasure box.

Welcome to parenting, right?


Dear santa.

I want for chrismrs the Legos set 7627 Indiana Jones and the Temple of the Crystal Skull. I would also want the Lego Indiana Jones 2 video game. I want the Legos Star Wars Death Star I want the Ewok set.

Love Jacoby


Dear Santa,

I would like a dolly to name Lorelei please. And also cute little puppy dogs. And a baby pig for Christmas. And I want a baby giraffe and a baby puppy dog and a little baby giraffe. So I want that. Please. I want to have a baby puppy dog. And a baby ricenocerous. And a bottle for the baby rosernous.

I love you and thank you,

Lorelei Elizabeth


Happy Holidays, friends. 😉



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