Almost Famous

You know, if I were famous, I could say that I was off shooting an artsy indie flick, and you’d all cock an eyebrow and nod politely while secretly thinking I’ve spent the past ten days in a “spa” that either a.)de-toxed/super cleansed my colon in yet another effort to drop these dreaded last few pregnancy pounds (not that I’m bitter…much); b.) specialized in tasteful cosmetic surgery and allowed me to lay low while I fully recovered from any residual swelling before I made my public appearance where everyone would remark on how “well rested” I now look; c.) got off my back whatever the current prescription drug monkey is de rigueur in Hollywood these days while I rubbed elbows with Britney, Lindsay, and Paris.

Sadly, I am not famous. (Though I really should be. And not in that “girls gone wild/fifteen minutes of fame” way. More like the “home town girl bravely discards the baggage of her past and makes good by setting positive goals for herself and, along the way, making the world a better place” kind of way because I’ve really been trying to rekindle some spark of personal passion that I’ve been lacking since my last pregnancy swallowed a lot of my energy. But I digress.) This means that I, as one of the nameless rabble, have to own up to my as-yet-un-famous whereabouts.

I shall now commence my owning up. The past ten days have brought about quite a few vaguely surprising twists in the life of this working mother. My three year old contracted rotavirus, which taught me that the human body is, indeed, over seventy percent water--only not the purified drinking kind one gets in an Evian bottle. I saw liquids of various shades and hues liberated from my son's bodily confines at speeds I thought only space shuttles could attain. This lasted for the first five days, when he appeared to be getting better, only to fall back into a tummy clenching fit of despair after a well-meaning grandmother offered to sit with said child and thought two glasses of orange juice might make a nice addition to his recently drain-o-ed and irritable gastrointestinal tract. (“But I thought vitamin C was good for fighting off illness!”) This landed us in the emergency room where said child was rehydrated, and I was encouraged (in the tones that kindergarten teachers reserve for the students who repeatedly forget to stop playing on the monkey bars to use the potty when the urge to relieve oneself hits) to give said child bland foods, rather than fresh squeezed citrus, as though it was I who needed this reminder. (Thanks, mom.)

Dovetailing the three year old’s bout with unintentional bulimia was my step-father’s heart attack. What appeared to be “trouble breathing” turned out to be a full-fledged heart attack requiring triple bypass surgery—which he flatly refused, against three cardiac doctors’ recommendations, for as yet undisclosed reasons, which probably have more than a little something to do with his fear of having his heart cut into. I can’t blame him for his fear, but the end result is that we all stare at him every time he burps wondering if this is the moment when the 90% blocked artery goes for the full monty. Naturally, my mother, who at the best of times is neurotic, has gone fully phobic. She keeps experiencing sympathy heart palpitations and strange, vague infirmities, which she relates to me over the phone in a wheezing oh-how-will-I-ever-make-it-through-the-day voice. This would not be nearly as big an issue if she were not one of our child care providers (see: “grandmother, orange juice” described above).

(Note: Before you feel too terribly bad for my step-father and mother, let me assure you that this sort of melodrama is fairly typical of them. My step-father will eventually agree to the surgery, but not before my mother fully freaks and takes to her bed, moaning about life’s injustices and her sudden spastic colon. It’s this thing they do. It may have something to do with their Catholic/Jewish backgrounds.)

Anyway, while all this drama was unfolding, I found myself in the middle of applying to grad school for a second masters, because –hey!—why not go for a tension trifecta??

So, what is a puking preschooler/cardiac crisis/moaning mother/grad school guffawing girl to do, you ask?

I’ll tell you what I did. I followed Cheryl’s massage lead (Thank you, Cheryl!) and headed over to a swanky spa for a hair cut to achieve a whole new look. I said a resounding yes to bangs—they’re apparently “in” again-- but not before I got a peppermint hot oil scalp massage and mango-lime moisturizer hand rub down. Then, I did a little shopping-- where I apparently channeled Audry Hepburn because I walked out with a tea length crisp cotton sundress cinched with a wide belt (a la Paris When It Sizzles), a chiffon scarf, and ridiculously oversized sunglasses. I took my new look, my new outfit, and my new book (Good In Bed, generously given to me by dear, dear Saint Karla. Thank you, Karla!) and spent the last two days of my ten day hiatus allowing my messy house to get a shade messier, picnicking in the park with my husband and boys, and gorging myself on Jen Weiner’s novel while snacking on leftover foil wrapped chocolate Easter eggs.

Moral: When life hands you lemons (or perhaps two glasses of orange juice on your son’s dicey digestive system), toss those citrusy fruits in a blender with some ice and make margaritas. Who's with me?? Yee haw!

By the way, a big shout out to all the well wishers who wondered where I snuck off to! And did you see how far the Six Degrees of Un-Seperation Project has taken us?? Universe, you do amaze me!