Fiddledeedee

(Originally posted November, 2007)

I’ve been trapped indoors with 3 sick children for going on 6 days now. My sense of humor has taken quite a hit. And my sanity is nowhere to be found.

Last week, Emme woke up complaining of a scratchy throat. We never know when to really believe that she is truly sick. Sometimes a scratchy throat is her feeble attempt to score a cup of crushed ice. Something her dentist has recommended she not eat. Since she dearly loves crushed ice, she has been known to play the sore throat card.

But I wasn’t playing.

“No, Emme you cannot have any ice.” She clutched her throat, gargled a pitiful moan, and fell to the floor. This scene was replayed a couple more times during the day, and each time Fiddledaddy walked past me with, “I hope you see yourself.”

What. Ever.

By days end, I came to the realization that she was really getting sick. And then Jensen had joined in on the action. He had physical evidence. His nose was running like an open faucet. Which became a exciting and fun game for him. The rules were something like, quick, stick your tongue out to slurp up the boogers and run like mad when Mommy chases you with the kleenex. Most rounds, he won. Honestly, I think all of his brain cells were running out of his nose as well.

But then, I was a notorious booger consumer in my youth. Or so I’ve been told.

Anyhoo.

By the next day, all three of them were hacking, coughing, and spewing snot all over the place. I placed us all in quarantine to end the suffering as soon as possible. Well, the suffering of those outside of our home. Socially, we have a very busy Thanksgiving week, and I’m squirting X-Clear into everyone to aid in the process of healing.

Fiddledaddy was not immune to the contamination. He came down with this plague on Friday. But he’s out of the mix since he had to work over the weekend. But he’s no trouble since he actually wipes his own nose.

The same cannot be said for the rest of the family. I’ve become nothing more than a human kleenex. Which makes no sense really. I mean, I go the extra mile to purchase the really good soft tissues. With added lotion. The anti-viral ones even. Those have to be softer than my grungy old t-shirt.

My favorite moment in this whole debacle happened Sunday morning. My alarm clock was a very dramatic Emme, waking me out of a wonderfully sound sleep with, “MOM! COME QUICK! CAILEY’S CHOKING.” Using the same tone she would use if she were saying, “MOM! CAILEY’S ON FIRE!.” I flew out of bed and down the hall in three bounds, fully prepared to perform the Heimlich Maneuver, a tracheotomy, or last rites. Whatever the situation called for. Cailey was fine. Just coughing up a lung. She has two.

Really, it’s a small miracle that I haven’t caught this thing. Yet. But I don’t look any better than the rest of them. I caught sight of myself in the mirror. Evidently, when quarantined, I forget how to use mascara, and haven’t seen a tube of lipstick in days. Also, my beloved Chi has sat unused, collecting dust, under the bathroom counter. In other words, I have witches hair.

Pitiful.

The only thing that has saved me has been the children’s stash of Halloween candy that they’ve completely forgotten about. Out of sight. Out of mind. Sometimes their pea sized attention span works in my favor.

Mommys can’t get sick, it’s in the by-laws. If I go down, the whole ship sinks. So, I’m off to pop a few Vitamin Cs. Followed with a Hershys Kiss chaser.

Never underestimate the healing properties of chocolate, I always say.

I remember growing up, that my mother often bragged about how, as a child, she had to be hospitalized one Thanksgiving for eating too much.

Let’s hope that is one trait that hasn’t been passed down through the generations.

I’m going to take some quality time to count my many blessings. Have a wonderful Thanksgiving everyone!

Earlier in the week, I posted about my hair woes. And I mentioned in passing that I color and highlight my own hair.

Since then, my inbox has been filled with questions concerning this stunning confession. Questions like “What the heck do you use”

Before I spill my guts (a term I hesitate to use since I’ve spent a portion of my evening cleaning up puke), I wanted to alert you to what NOT to use.

Sun-In, my friends. If they even still make it. As a teenager, I spent my days slathering baby oil on my pale skin, and spritzing Sun-In on my dishwater blonde hair.

The result was carrot colored hair, cascading over decidedly pink skin.

And everyone knows that orange and pink should never share a color palate.

The product I now use to cover the well earned gray hairs, and subtly highlight a few others is Loreal Couleur Experte.

The shade I gravitate towards is 8.2 (Medium Iridescent Blonde). This shade is in the “cooler” category. Right on.

The kit comes with the all over color, which I leave on for the maximum 35 minutes. Because my gray hairs, like me, are stubborn.

Then I shampoo the dye out. Even though the instructions say not to shampoo. Just rinse. But, I’m a rebel.

Then, while my hair is towel dried, I mix up the highlights that come with the kit. Again, the instructions say to highlight on dry hair, but again, pffffffft on the instructions.

Actually, I started applying the highlights on my damp hair by accident because I neglected to read the instructions in their entirety. A trait that drives Fiddledaddy insane.

But the results were fantastic, and I saved a lot of time that way.

The kit comes with a little wand to use, oh, and latex gloves. But I don’t use the gloves. I simply use my old rat tail comb, pick up thin strands, and apply the bleach. (Which face it, that’s what highlights really are.) Then I wash my hands about a hundred times.

I do as little or as much as I feel like. I’ve never screwed this process up. And I’ve been doing my own hair for a few years.

I leave the highlighter on for the full 25 minutes, then shampoo, and apply the conditioner that comes with the kit. And I LOVE this conditioner.

The price of this coloring kit by Loreal usually runs around $15.00 (at Wal•Mart). But, I’ve found it on sale at other drugstores and have been able to use coupons. So, generally I don’t spend more than $11.00 for it.

And it lasts until my roots start to peek through at about 6 to 8 weeks.

I have REALLY dry hair, so I keep it well conditioned. And I use a color enhancing shampoo and conditioner by Avon.

So there you have it. It’s Loreal. And I’m worth it.

For more Works For Me Wednesday tips, head over to Rocks In My Dryer.

When Fiddledaddy first began campaigning for us to move from Los Angeles to Florida, he used any and all tactics at his disposal.

At the top of the list was simply, Walt Disney World.

Sold.

That was easy.

And since then, our collective shadows have graced the tree lined streets of the Magic Kingdom right up until I became pregnant with Jensen.

So, it has been 4 years since we’ve been back.

Sunday was the big day. Anticipation was high, and the excitement of three children had reached a fever pitch.

Well, 5 children, if you count the parents.

When we entered the gates (now flanked by security guards whose job it is to pilfer through your bags in search of contraband, or worse, bombs) it was easy to spot the tourists from colder climates.

They were the patrons wearing bermuda shorts and tank tops. The native Floridians were bundled up in parkas and caps.

We piled all of our winter blizzard wear on top of the stroller, and sat Jensen at the peak. As though he were the grand marshall in our little rag tag parade.

Strolling down Main Street, we turned the corner and pointed, “LOOK JENSEN, CINDERELLA’S CASTLE.”

And at about that time, Mickey, Donald, and their friends were putting on a little stage show in front of said castle. And as we neared, A WITCH WITH A REALLY SCARY VOICE APPEARED. LAUGHING MANIACALLY AND THREATENING MICKEY MOUSE AND HIS LITTLE FRIENDS WITH CERTAIN DEATH.

What luck.

Tears began shooting from Jensen’s eyes, “I don’t wike dat squarey voice.’” Which he kept repeating, through sobs while clutching his beloved stuffed Mickey Mouse doll, until we could careen the stroller through crowded sidewalks in an attempt to get him as far from the squarey voice as possible.

The tears subsided when we entered Mickey’s Toon Town.

Nothing scary there.

In fact, there’s even a roller coaster, made just for the ankle biters. Cailey rode it when she was 3, and looked forward to the experience again. Jensen simply could not wait for his very first roller coaster experience.

Emme wanted nothing to do with it.

But, I decided it was high time for Emme to face her fears head on. I mean, we’re a roller coaster riding family. And what better roller coaster to cut your teeth on than one intended for the preschool set.

For the entire 50 minutes that we stood in line, I tried to sell her on the merits of roller coaster riding. She was dubious. Finally, I told her I would give her a dollar if she tried it.

My parenting prowess, at its finest.

Our turn finally came. Cailey, who does not have a fearful bone in her little body, sat in a seat to herself. Jensen and Fiddledaddy took up residence behind her. And bringing up the rear was Emme and me.

I felt sure that once she rode it, she would LOVE the experience, and then want to ride THE REALLY BIG SCARY ONES THAT FLIP YOU UPSIDE-DOWN.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

She screamed and cried as though she were being murdered for the entire 23 second ride.

TWENTY THREE SECONDS.

We stood in line for 50 minutes to ride a TWENTY THREE SECOND ride.

And now my daughter is requesting therapy.

As she was shakily walking with her daddy to the nice safe playground 20 feet away, she took note of a child throwing up into their mother’s hands.

“Look Dad, I bet her mother made her ride the roller coaster, too.”

We finished up our day by riding the Merry-go-round. There were no tears to report, happily. We all named our respective horses. Mine was “Trigger”, Cailey named her horse “Angel”, Emme dubbed hers “Thunder” and Jensen christened his horse “Walmart.” But then immediately recanted and his horse was thereafter known as “Target.”

Fiddledaddy was horse free, and captured the happy ending on camera.

All things considered, and emotional scarring aside, it was a good day at the happiest place on earth.

If you were to ask me what my natural hair color is, I would have to tell you in all honesty that I have no clue.

In other words, there is nothing natural about my hair color.

I started having my hair highlighted somewhere way back in the early 80’s, after a particularly atrocious hair cut.

Like the highlights would disguise the fact that my hair looked like someone placed a bowl on my head, spun me around in the chair, closed their eyes, and cut at random.

My money would have been better spent purchasing a sombrero.

And because I’m never one to rock the boat, I paid for it. And even added the requisite tip.

The highlighting continued (at a different salon), because once you highlight your hair, you are really powerless to stop on your own. It becomes an addiction. Something about the aluminum foil and all that bleach.

And how attractive you look sitting there under the hair dryer, while picking up all manor of radio frequencies.

I visited a salon about every 8 weeks from the early 80’s until after I gave birth to Emme. Which was 9 years ago. Do the math. And then tell me how much I’ve spent on my hair in the last 20 years.

While I cry.

Then when I became a mother of two, trips to the beauty parlor came to an abrupt end.

Along with my sanity.

I no longer could justify the time or expense. This is when Loreal became my friend.

Because Loreal covers the gray, my friends. And the addition of the third child brought out a whole lot of gray. And happily, the box of Loreal comes with a highlighting kit. Which is easy enough for even me to use.

So, when anyone now asks me where I get my hair done, I tell them “my bathroom.”

I’m just never certain whether the question means, “Wow, your hair looks terrific!” Or “mental note: never get your hair done there.

The only stumbling block now, is the haircut. And yes, I’ve tried doing it myself.

But that just never ends well.

On a whim this last summer, I went to The Hair Cuttery, right next to the grocery store. I figured that it is a blunt cut, how hard can that be. And the price was right.

I loved it. And it only took 15 minutes.

It takes me that long to decide, “one column of Oreos, or two?”

Fast forward to Friday, when I blissfully had two unexpected hours to myself. Thanks to my sweet SIL and partner in crime, Trish.

I thought I’d just swing by for a quick trim. Since it had been 14 years.

Not really, just looked like it.

My regular gal wasn’t working, so I took a chance on someone new. I knew instinctively within 3 minutes that she had no idea what she was doing. Yet, I lacked the courage to get up, uncape, and run like the wind.

I noticed the manager of the joint walk by behind me. I could see her face in the mirror. As she walked past, she looked right at the back of my head as Morticia (not real name) was cutting. I saw her furrow her brow and give a look like, “what the……”

Again. Stand. Run.

But, I didn’t. I sat there and endured the torture of this haircut for ONE HOUR. And during that time, she admitted that she just started on Tuesday.

Tuesday.

“Really?”

She told me that she came from another salon. But I suspect that salon had nothing to do with the cutting of hair.

At the hour mark, she told me that she could blow dry it. “How long will that take?”

“Another 15 to 20 minutes.”

No thanks. Check please.

I paid, and yes, left a small tip.

It was hard to tell how bad it was whilst wet and unstyled. When I arrived at home, I noted that it was indeed bad. Yes. Very bad, indeed.

Awesome. And what luck. Just in time for the annual Fiddle Christmas portrait.

I’ll be the one in the sombrero.