Ten Things That Make Me Happy

1. Sunshine. It's out there, people, and I like it.
2. Caramel Syrup. Recipe on demand.
3. Good books. Try "The Chosen One" by Carol Lynch Williams. It's gripping.
4. Nearly-toothless six-year-old boys. Honestly, how does he eat?
5. Relaxing Sundays with yummy food in the company of good friends.
6. Yoga on wii Fit.
7. Homemade bread - made by someone else (thanks, Kim!)
8. Drainage. Dripping. Melting noises. Mmmm.
9. Blue-painted toenails.
10. Knowing by morning what's for dinner.

More Writing?

Do you know what this is? This? Right here? It's Post # 300. I know. Stunning, right? To think that only two hundred and seventy-five of them have been meaningless drivel! It makes a girl so proud!

So I'm hanging in the lobby (because someone's cleaning my room, perhaps, and also because here is the internet) and I'm watching the pretty waves roll in to the little cove, and I'm sure, certain, positive that I should be writing something other than this blog post, momentous as it may be.

But here's the thing for me about writing.

I need to feel it.

I brought one of those little memory sticks with me. It's purple. It allows me to carry all my drafts over the ocean to Hawaii. It allows me to add to the drafts. Of whatever I brought. Lots of options. And I'm honestly not feeling it at all.

The writing, although good exercise, frankly stinks. It's dry and unfunny and pedestrian and prosaic. (that's different from Prozac - at least that would seem funny, right?)

Side note: There is a man standing at the window looking very much like a late-middle-aged Kip from Napoleon Dynamite. He has on Khaki shorts and a grayish wide-sleeved tank, almost a t-shirt, but not quite. He's wearing square, wire-rimmed glasses and standing with his fists balled on his hips, fingers pointing back up toward his skinny arms. His hair is thin, and his stomach isn't. If I hadn't seen that movie (seventy times) would I have thought that guy was funny? Would I have thought him mentionable? Duh. Of course not. Because it's only the reflection of comedy that makes him comical. Okay, and the outfit. And the fists on hips. But it's the whole picture that makes him -- wait. He just turned his head, and he has the mustache. A skinny one. I'm trying not to giggle, because someone passing by might currently be thinking what a hard-working grownup I am right now. I'd hate to disabuse anyone of that notion.

So the point? I forget. Let's keep talking about that Kip guy. Having something relatable makes stories better.

Never fear: this is not a tirade.

Once I did a school visit where I talked to the kids about Truth and Fiction. Someday I'll write it all up without the "Yeah" and the "Um" and the "Seriously, kid? Is that what you think?" parts. But my point (about that) is that Fiction isn't the opposite of truth. Fiction is the rearrangement of truth. What we love about fiction is the truth that speaks to us underneath the story. We talked, the school kids and I, about Harry Potter. About the true parts (Everyone wants to go home to a safe place. It's valiant to fight against Evil. We want to be connected, especially when we feel different than everyone around us. It's hard to be in the middle of a fight between best friends. Sometimes it's hard to tell who's a bad guy. Good intentions aren't enough. Like that.) and about the clearly made-up parts. We talked about Twilight, about the true parts (teenage girls are attracted to dangerous guys) and the not true parts (it's totally okay for a girl to have her ice-cold undead boyfriend sleep with her in her bed, because nothing's going to happen).

And that's where I like to go when I'm writing. I like to know something true (a family can be built, it's not something that's just going to happen) or something that I hope is true (I am okay, even if I'm not feeling it right now) or even something that I want to be true (love wins) and work it in with things that are not necessarily real. Words become relatable. It creates a reaction - sometimes an explosion (usually just laughter, though) and suddenly it's more than it was. Heads nod. Maybe there are giggles. Maybe frustration. Maybe tears.

It's Fiction. It's Truth. It's Story. It's Real. It's Fun.

Okay, enough. Time to write.

My Little Life in Bullets

Today is The Day!

(*) I have a few hours of getting-ready time, and then I spend the day on airplanes. And read books. And end up on Oahu. I must let it escape: WHEE! WOOT! WAHOO!

(*) In other news, Kid 2 received an iPod for Christmas, because her Daddy is good to her. She named this iPod "The Ship" and it tickles her fancy to plug it in to the computer and see these words: "The Ship is Synching."

(*) And this: My little Mama came to hang out yesterday, and she gave me a perm. It looks great. Mostly just wavy, and now I won't have to do my hair in Hawaii. Just shake and scrunch, you know? But. It stinks, and I am going to be in very close quarters to strangers all day. How 'bout that? Not very neighborly of me, was it?

(*) Does anyone remember how to do Algebra 2? Factoring is causing Kid 1 and me to bond over tears. If we were drinkers.... But we're not. Just criers, apparently.

(*) Got a call from the school. Among others, these words, "just wanted to warn you... when the boy comes home with his head a bloddy mess... he's fine, went back to class... no sign of concussion." Okay, then. Good news.

(*) And: "The Magician's Elephant" (by Ms. DiCamillo) only brought tears from me, because I was reading aloud*, and Kid 3, who regularly cries in pretty much any book.** Find it. You won't be disappointed. And I want to write a book with a kid named something as wonderful as Peter Augustus Duchene. Just saying.

(*) I found out that I get to play a narrator*** in "Joseph and the Amazing Techincolor Dreamcoat" in community theatre (yes. you do have to spell it that way. it's rules.) this spring. There will be 3 narrators. I (at 5'6'') will be the short one. Also the alto. I am very delighted to get to do this, and all four Kids are in the children's chorus. Fun family bonding, right? If I were a bookie (the betting kind) I would put the odds of us getting Husband near the stage at about seventeen trillion to one. Any takers?

And you? How was YOUR day?

*Don't you think it's harder to keep it all in control when you're reading aloud? I had to practice long and hard before I could read "The Polar Express" aloud on the train excursion my Kids and I volunteer on every Christmas. Years of practice. Now I'm a stone-cold emotionless Machine.

**Calvin and Hobbes, Series of Unfortunate Events, the Refrigerator Manual. (Yes. I'm lying. She hates the refrigerator manual and refuses to read it. Ever again.)

***If you're going to get a "leading" role in any theatre production, and you're not really interested in kissing someone who isn't your Husband, this is the role to get.

Who Knew?

Blog O' Random, coming at you.

* Bathrooms don't actually clean themselves. However, the amount of time you spend in your house in inversely proportional to the number of times someone says, "Hey, what's that smell?"

* 2500 words in a day is a lot to write. But dialog makes those words come faster.

* Sick little boys who would rather be coughing in Kindergarten than watching "Newsies" in my bed = Massive Cuteness.

* It would be cool to have Personal Assistants/ Vice-Beccas / Counselors for every aspect of my life.

* The community theater production of "Annie, Get Your Gun" premiers tonight. I have to put some curlers in my hair.

* Husband is emailing occasional photos of handsome Islander men from his work trip to Hawaii. The photos are not directed to me. But I still manage to find them. Because I routinely read the Kids' email.

* I haven't had a professional haircut in more than 19 months. This should probably be remedied.

* Contrary to popular opinion, I am not addicted to edamame. I could quit any time I wanted to.

* My dad's birthday (64) is later this month. I have no good ideas for gifts, and only partly because he's not a "things" kind of guy.

* NaNoWriMo is not conducive to exercise. Or maybe it's just the valid excuse I've been looking for.

*Okay, time to tackle those bathrooms. And those 2500 words. (And go read some blogs - later. Maybe.)

"What Are They DOING?"

Last night, after a few family board games, Husband and I snuck into the office* so he could show me some photos he's been working on. Have I mentioned that he's brilliant, photo-wise? He also started blogging **recently, but it's mostly pretty, pretty photos (the words come, too, though). Anyway, so the Kids were playing Christmas music on the iPod and dancing around the family room. Vigorously.

Very vigorously.

After a few minutes I wandered into the kitchen to pack lunches for today, and the dancing had morphed into an impossible-to-describe game of "leap over the rolling logs" at which point, Husband came through and whispered to me, "What are they DOING?"

I shook my head, shrugged my shoulders, and said, "I think they're exercising. But be quiet, they don't know it." The game continued until I started reading them "Midnight Magic" by Avi, at which point they all lay their sweaty selves on the floor and drew illustrations of the castello.

To my sistas of the small children, who feel discouraged by the daily-daily: This Too Shall Pass. It gets easier. And it's really a whole lot of fun.

*It wasn't quite as romantic as it sounds.

**Scroll down for some cuteness of our own.

Let it Go? Go Where?

Sometimes there's a lot to say. And sometimes there's nothing to say. And sometimes, there's so much I want to say that it gets caught in that place in the back of my throat and threatens to choke me, so I don't want to let it out, and it seems like maybe there's nothing to say after all.

Today I'm thinking a little about letting go. Do you ever worry that if you let go a little, you'll lose your grip entirely? That is rawther* terrifying to me. And sometimes I think I can do it, the loosening up, and then I can actually see things slipping away.

I work and struggle and fight to keep grips on the things that matter. Every day. And maybe I hold on too tight, and maybe I pinch and choke a little. But better to pinch a little than to see it all float away.

*Remember Eloise? The picture book, not the cleaning-advice lady.

Thirty-Five

Thirty-five was a very good year. (Frank Sinatra is singing in my head right now. Yes. I am a huge nerd.) Here are some of the things that I did, learned, or experienced when I was thirty-five:

I did my own hair. I never got a professional haircut or any kind of color. I'm looking forward to remedying that situation sometime in the near future.

I achieved the goal of jogging (I almost said "running" but let's not get carried away) 4 miles at a shot.

I had a book published.

I had many prayers answered with calming peace. This is not necessarily exclusive to 35, but nice anyway.

I went on a great family vacation.

I bought leather couches.

I submitted a new manuscript.

I got a speeding ticket.

I sent my oldest baby to high school and my youngest baby to kindergarten.

I wrote many thousands of words.

I got really tan by hanging out in my own backyard.

I went to a few good writing conferences.

I came to be at peace with my body. Not in love with it, you understand. Just grateful for its capabilities rather than angry at its unwillingness to look a certain way.

I let go some things that needed to be let go.

I held on tight to some friendships that I really, really value.

I fell in love with Husband again. This is also a regular occurrence. And fun.

I tried writing a book in reading order: from the beginning to the end.*

I saw my appliances, at the verge of death, resurrect and perform all their functions well.

I read a great deal of YA literature, some great, some terrible, some: meh.

I had people come to my book signings (and yes, I knew almost all of them. So what?)

And today, thirty-five is over. I wonder what's in store for thirty-six?

*It's not very good yet. Revision time!

New Here?

Really, what is with my children?

We have company coming tomorrow (my Clean sister and her beautiful kids) and I've asked my kids to help clean up the house. Now let's be fair. I'm doing the hard stuff. And the gross stuff. I'm merely asking them to do the (gasp) normal stuff that they should be doing every day anyway.

They seem very surprised. Are they new here? Why is it such a shocker for me to ask a little of them?

Like?

Cleaning bedrooms: hanging clothes on hangers, making sure drawers can close, exorcising under the beds, getting vacuum-ready, changing sheets.

Cleaning their bathroom: locating the counter, finding a home for the towels (alas, the note that made them laugh didn't stay effective very long), wiping down the shower curtain, and the usual bathroom cleaning business.

Straightening the basement. Not too hard, since they've mostly outgrown playing with toys and dress-ups, so everything that's been used lately has been used by small visitors.

And me? I have been working for 2 days, but still have to mow the lawn, clean the top of the fridge (it's not her, it's me), prepare the chicken parts I bought yesterday (cut off all the gooey parts and slice in filets), bake a birthday cake (did I mention that we're going to Grandma's Annual Summer Camp-out and Birthday Extravaganza tonight?) wrap 4 gifts, go to the grocery store for Hummus-dipping veggies (want my fantastic Hummus recipe?), vacuum the house (we have an unfortunate amount of wall-to-wall here), and clean my bathroom. Before 4:00.

What am I doing in front of the computer? Maybe I'm new here, too.

Love to Hate

So here are a few things that I don't like, and I'm totally okay with that.

I love to hate:

1. Television. Ick. If you love "reality TV" that is totally okay with me, but don't expect me to watch it with you, or even be able to take part in a conversation about it. I have never watched American Idol. Or The Biggest Loser. Or, for that matter, The Office (except once, and it was funny, but not change-my-schedule funny, or buy-TiVo funny) or 30 Rock. I just don't do it.

2. Chocolate cake. Husband has threatened to have me tested for serious genetic disorders, but I'm totally going with it. I can bake one, and frost it, and serve it on pretty plates, but I'm not eating that. I'll save my calories for something smothered in butter, thanks.

3. Twangy Country Music. I probably don't even need to explain this, but I had a friend in High School - we called him Bonzo. As in Bonzo Beans. That wasn't his name. But he was this absolutely magnetic guy. People loved him, and cops didn't give him tickets (ever) and he was just the kind of guy you wanted to give money to, you know? And he loved country music. The twangier, the better. For him (because I was not-so-secretly harboring a mighty crush) I listened to, learned, and sang many, many of the twangiest songs in the history of music. You and me going fishing in the dark, lying on our backs and counting the stars, where the cool grass grows. Barbecue chicken in aluminum foil, just enough money for my gas and oil. (Those sound like they could be from the same song. Maybe they are - I've forgotten the finer points after all these years.) I'll start walking your way, you start walking mine - we'll meet in the middle 'neath that old Georgia pine; we'll gain a lot of ground when we both give a little, ain't no road too long when we meet in the middle. Now the race is on and here comes Pride in the backstretch, Heartache coming to the inside... And, lest we forget, Lord, it's hard to be humble when you're perfect in every way - I can't wait to look in the mirror, cause I get better looking each day. Oh, and I've got friends in low places where the whiskey drowns and the beer chases the blues away. But wait - there's more. Here's a quarter, call someone who cares. See? I gave a goodly portion of my soul to that boy and his music, and after all these years, I can do all that with no help from a single internet search engine. Yikes. Bonzo, still love ya, man, but your music bites. That's alls I'm sayin'.

4. The picture book "Love You Forever" by Robert Munsch. Do I need to tell you why? Let's just leave it at Stalker Mommy scaling a wall to peek in the window at her middle aged son and his wife, sleeping in their bed. (*Shudder*)

5. My favorite picture books made into mediocre movies. 'Nuff said? But hey, if anyone wants to make a horror movie out of "love you forever" I'll be there for auditions.

Love to Love

Here are some things that I love, and I'm totally happy about that. I'll follow this up with some things that I love, but I'm not really proud of. And maybe some things I hate, but wish I liked, and maybe even some things I like to hate.

I Love to Love:

1. Taking walks. In the summer, I love to walk in the morning when the sun is just coming over the hills and the moon is still up. In the winter I love to snowshoe, which is just like walking but better on the thighs. And squeakier.

2. Eating. I have a talent for cooking, and that implies that God wants me to enjoy food. And I do. Enjoy it, I mean.

3. Reading to my kids. I know that they can all read on their own, but I love to read out loud to them, especially on dark winter nights after dinner when it feels like bedtime at 7:30. And I love when they ask for me to "do the voices" especially.

4. Showtunes. I'm not even embarrassed about this (any more). I think there are few pleasures more pleasant and pleasurable than belting out a good (and aren't they all good?) Broadway number at the top of my lungs. Husband and kids may disagree, but they're gentle about it.

5. Reading good books (just for me). I inhale books I enjoy, reading fast and long and eager. Then I read them again, to see what I missed the first time around. Usually not much, because I've trained myself to soak it all in, even in warp speed.

6. Having a good laugh. I love to laugh hard enough to show teeth. Hard enough to feel a little stomach-sick about it. Hard enough to damage the makeup.

7. Carrots. Real ones, not those "baby cut" monstrosities. I like my carrots long and sweet and peeled and sliced in rounds. Mmmm.

8. Holding newborns. Mine or someone else's. I love that smell, that mixture of wipes and umbilical-care alcohol and warm skin. I love bald heads and curled toes and eyes searching for the angels in the corners.

9. Watching kids learn to read. I can't really take credit for my kids learning to read, because I don't think I've really taught them(Kid 1 learned in Kindergarten, Kid 2 learned from Sesame Street, Kid 3 just sort of started reading one day, and Kid 4 - SuperWhy and Word World - Yay PBS!), but I love to watch them master it. I love to see how the world opens up to them once they understand language.

10. Making Husband laugh. He's become something of a serious guy (but always pleasant, just not giddy, you know?), and it thrills me to get a chuckle out of him. Especially in manuscript form: When he's reading over my shoulder and laughs at something I've written, the Day is Made.

11. Waking up early. I love to get up before the kids at school time and have accomplished something before they get up - exercise, shower, writing, whatever. I love to have some minutes or even hours alone to create or fulfil or examine, and since it's a rare night that I see eleven, mornings are my time.

12. Swimming in the ocean. It doesn't happen much, but I adore it. The taste of salt and the buoyancy and the rocking floatiness. Um, Hawaii, preferably.

13. Being Pregnant. I'm not. And I don't plan to be. But it's the thing I love most where I'm required to vomit a lot.

14. Listening to the rain. Best sleep ever comes during a drenching downpour.

15. Snuggles. I asked Kid 4 if he'd still sit on my lap and hug me when he's bigger than I am. He said yes. I wrote it down so he can't deny it later.

What do you love to love?

That Sound

You know that sound, somewhere between exasperation and disgust? That huffy, "uhnnnngh" sound that can be drawn out for several seconds?

Yeah, that.

I called someone this weekend to check if she was still okay to do something she'd agreed to do. Her husband answered the phone.

He called her to the phone, and I heard this:

Him: It's Becca Wilhite.

Her: Uhnnnnngh.

I had to pull the phone up around my head so he wouldn't hear me laughing.

See, the thing is, I always think people are doing that noise about me. I assume they're rolling their eyes, wondering "really, what does she want now?" I have numbers to prove, since the advent of callerID, many of my acquaintances have stopped answering my calls. Proof. Fact. And I am thrilled to report that the latest incident of huffy-angst made me laugh.

Because I'm okay with that. I'm all right with the fact that she was disgruntled, knowing that I was asking her to do something she already committed to, and didn't want to do anymore. It was not my bad. And it was funny.

Husband thinks it's funny, too, and has followed me around this weekend, doing "uhnngh" noises at me whenever I ask him to a) close a window b) grab me a glass c) tuck in a kid d) turn off a light. He's hilarious.

And I'm making HUGE strides. Because weeks ago, that would have hurt my feelings (the phone conversation, not Husband - I'm totally past letting his comedy hurt my feelings). A year ago, it would have made me cry. But now I laugh.

Because, really? That's funny.

Kid 2 is Awesome

I just kicked Kid 2 and her violin out of here so I could write about her. Do you think that could cause anxiety?*

What I want to say is that this is a great kid. She got her 11-year-old (for 3 more weeks) self out of bed and on her bike to work before either of her sleep-in-till-6:30 parents were even awake. **

Then she grabbed her violin and practiced her songs (she's learning Vibrato, and it's not killing anyone). If you are a mother of a violinist, here's a hug for you: OOO. It gets better. Or they take up archery or something.

She borders on idolizing her older sister. She takes good care of her younger sibs. She rarely talks back. She gets good grades. She loves shoes. (Who doesn't?) She likes to cook - alone or with me. She reads the books I love, and the books I write.

This is a great kid. Who is turning into a great young lady.***

*Answer: In this kid, who has her father's and her Grandmothers' Ulcer genes, anything could cause anxiety.

**She cleans at a restaurant, and I recently discovered that they feed her and the other employees pancakes (white!) with butter (!!) if she's there at a certain hour.

***Maybe someday I'll tell you about her first 18 months. Let us just say that if I could have read this post ten years ago, agony may have been spared. A little.

Serious Silliness

Netflix delivery came - and it brought a barrage of ridiculous 80s comedy.

Spies Like Us, anyone? "I have no feeling whatsoever in my left hand." "Doctor." "Doctor." "Doctor." "Doctor." "Doctor." "Doctor." "Doctor." "Doctor." "Doctor." "Doctor." "Doctor." "Doctor." "Doctor." "Doctor." Am I the only one who loves, loves Chevy Chase still? He can make me laugh delivering the stupidest lines ("we're just a couple of wild and crazy guys!"). And I love the scene in Three Amigos where he sings Ned to sleep. And Dan Ackroyd is just funny. Crazy. Weird. Ghostbusters is a longstanding favorite, and I can usually win that game where you give a line from the movie, and I tell you the next line. Because I've seen it that many times.

Netflix also delivered Scrooged. I saw this once (Bill Murray - okay, I love him, too), but all I can remember is the fabulous Carol Kane and the ghost of Christmas something-or-other saying, "Frank, we're fighting. Let's not fight anymore!" and then cold-clocks him with a toaster.

So just in case life gets too tame and boring around here, nights will light right up with all the finest 80s comedy. And I will feel old, because I'll flinch at every curse (and in 80s movies there is SO MUCH CURSING) and cringe at all the innuendo.

But I'll still laugh. Because that's the kind of girl I am.

The kind who will still laugh.

Who, Me? I'm Flattered, Honestly.

My bloggy-friend L.T. Elliot over at Dreams of Quill and Ink sent me my very first blog award. Would you like to know that I didn't know blog awards existed until a month ago? Wasn't that an honest statement?

This award has 4 requirements:

1. Thank the person who gave you the award, list her blog (or his) and link.

2. List 10 honest things about yourself and post a copy of the Honest Scrap Logo on your blog.

3. Pass the award on to seven (7) other people whose blogs you find brilliant in content or design.

4. Notify the bloggers you choose for the award and hopefully they will join in.

Okay, first for the Seven. I have another Very Honest thing to say here: I don't really know seven bloggers. (By "know" I mean "comment occasionally on blogs" - I don't actually know-know more than two. I'm not friendless, people, I'm just saying, I don't know a lot of people who blog.)

But.

Melanie J of Write Stuff

Ally Condie

Annie Valentine of Regarding Annie

Lisa Mangum of Leo's Dungeon

Amber Lynae of Seriously Amber Lynae

These are women of charm and grace and wit and writerliness. My computer doesn't think that's a word. I disagree. I do "know" a few other charming bloggers, but what with their tendencies to post photos of their gorgeous children, I feel good about keeping them under wraps, know what I mean?

Okay. On to honesty (as if I've been lying to you all day so far):

1. I need outside validation on almost everything. From several sources, in case someone I love might be lying to me in order to pet my ego. For instance, I am never totally sure (but I'm sometimes pretty sure) something I write is good until at least one publishing professional tells me so. See Lisa, above.

2. Even considering my startling tendency toward list-making, I still like to consider myself a "type B" personality - you know, laid back and going with the flow.

3. I hate to dust.

4. I cried when Dobby died. Actually, I still cry every time I read that scene (at least 4).

5. I would like to lose 14 pounds. This will not qualify me as skinny, just more healthy.

6. In order to do that, I am working a sugar-intake prohibition. This is not a diet. Just a change for a while (seven weeks) to get me where I need to be - you know, in order to be more healthy. Because healthy is good.

7. I do not love sunblock. I think brown fat is prettier than white fat. And deep down, under all that American Cancer Society propaganda, I bet you agree with me.

8. I am not only lazy, but clever enough to hide that fact from many, many people.

9. I am often guilty of making my children perform for strangers (like my pre-Kindergarten Kid 4 regularly has to read in public).

10. I'm not fond of being in charge (outside this house). I'm a much more proficient vice-president than president, and I don't delegate well.

So now you know altogether too many true things about me. Not to mention what you may have gleaned in the past. Maybe you can love me anyway, right? And now you can run right over to visit all your new bloggy friends, linked above, and love them too. XO

Strange Thing

I love in a little neighborhood, in a cul-de-sac*. There are nice neighbors here. It's quiet, usually. But sometimes people do strange things. For instance? Once I saw my neighbor, let's call her Natalie** standing next to her car - on her lawn. I was, naturally, worried - what had happened? Oh, nothing. As it turns out, Natalie washes her car when it's parked on the lawn. That's her way of saving water, or something. Still, it surprises me to come around the corner and see a car in her front yard.

And then.

I looked out the window, and my next-door neighbor girl is washing a horse in her front yard.

Did you just wonder if you read that right? Well, you may not have, so I'll tell you again. She is washing a horse in her front yard.

A real horse, of a chestnutty reddish-brown color, all currently covered in suds. In her front yard.

Where am I?

*which I entirely recommend. It's good.

**cause that's her name

(This all really happened on Tuesday. Just, you know, in the interest of honesty and all that.)

Mini-Trauma

It's the hair.

Like every other girl who grew up in the 80s, I wanted The Hair. The big, teased, permed, peroxided*, enormous hair. Bangs, feathers, frizz - it was all good.

And I couldn't get it, not really.

I have this really thin, straight hair** that was damaged beyond all reason by nearly a decade of chemical and heat-appliance assistance.

Like many other of my imperfect qualities that I have come to accept***, I'm more okay with my hair these days than I ever have been. It doesn't hurt that the wispy, straight look has been fashionable for a few years.

But I have occasional issues (surprised?) with hair product. For instance: Why does the mousse stop coming out of the bottle all cloudy and soft when it's still three-quarters full? Why, instead, does it land in my hand with a splat like heavy cream? And why, why, do I keep buying hair product that promises "thickening"? Seriously? Do I still, after all these years, believe it? And why, for the love, do I think a product for sale in a grocery store is better than a product sold in a salon? Oh, wait - I know this one. Because cheap = beautiful. Right.

All told, though, I'd rather have some bad hair than none at all. But to those of you who have the step-out-of-the-shower-and-onto-the-runway hair, I hope you know how lucky you are.

*Remember Sun-In? Ack.

**My niece with lots of luscious hair calls mine "paintbrush hair" because of my piddly ponytail.

*** I love being in my 30s!