First, I have to have the place cleaned.
Please note that I didn’t say I would do it.
Sorry not sorry.
You can’t write three books a year and do it all yourself.
I have to get cleaners to come in, but I’ll clean before they get here and after they leave, too. Because you have no idea how much dog hair is produced in my household in one day.
Welcome to our home, America!
Francesca and I with the great Deborah Roberts of ABC-TV’s Good Morning America And all of a sudden I’m noticing that there’s dog damage around the bottom of the door and windowsills, where their nails dig into the wood, so I have to get busy doing something about that.
And the rugs smell rank from you-know-what and you-know-who, and that will have to be dealt with.
Also there are snakes in the garden.
But nobody has to know that except for us.
Well you get the idea. It’s very exciting that Good Morning America is going to come to the house, but it’s also terrifying that they’re going to come to the house.
I mean, when was the last time I had anyone over?
And when was the last time I had America over?
Anyway, they’re coming in two days and I barely have the time to finish writing this because I have to start gathering books, magazines, and other essential clutter, then hiding it all in my bedroom closet, where ABC-TV presumably won’t go.
I have to start rearranging the furniture, so the house looks bigger.
And I have to jump on a bicycle, so that I look smaller.
I’ll need hair, makeup, and a miracle.
I’ll be getting the house, myself, and the tristate area ready until the very last minute, when I open the front door and say: Good morning, America!
Blond and Blonder
Francesca
I’ve always hated the phrase, “dumb blonde.”
I hate it even more when it applies to me.
I recently got my hair highlighted and one, little section got overbleached. It’s toward the back, but it shows when I pull my hair over my shoulder, which I do often.
And I can’t stop thinking about it.
I know it’s dumb, I know. I feel dumb writing this now.
The modern woman faces many real challenges. We also face some made-up ones. Obsessing over your hair is the latter.
Sometimes, as women, we’re prisoners of our own making. Though we can give some credit to centuries of patriarchal oppression, too. We’ve internalized these sexist beauty standards, and it’s a battle not to let them rule our lives. Concerns about our hair, nails, and weight occupy way more mental space than they deserve.
I know better, I try to rise above, and yet …
Turns out I’m only “woke” enough to feel guilty for being vain and superficial.
I’ve been getting the same, barely there blond highlights about twice a year for the last decade. I keep the look “natural” because I tell myself I’m fooling people, and because I can’t afford to do it more often.
Highlighter’s remorse
It costs a lot of money to look like you did nothing.
This last time, I had to see a new colorist. Trusting a stranger sent my preappointment anxiety into overdrive. And where do nervous women go?
Pinterest.
Because if there’s one way to make yourself feel better, it’s comparing yourself to others.
Soon, I had a full board of pinned images of the same three models, Gisele Bundchen, Gigi Hadid, and Rosie Huntington-Whitely, photographed with their heads at slightly different angles.
Had such a photo collection been on a real corkboard, you would alert the authorities.
Serial killer? No, just my search for killer hair.
But when I got to my appointment, I was too embarrassed to show any of the pictures to my colorist. I couldn’t admit I had devoted this much time and research to my hair goals.
Oh God, I have “hair goals.”
Not to mention that pointing to pictures of supermodels and demanding, “Make me look like this,” feels far-fetched.
There’s only bleach in that bottle, not a genie.
So instead I gestured vaguely, said words like “warm” and “summery,” and pretended to be chill.
When we were all done, the reflection in the mirror was brighter and lighter than I had expected, but she did a beautiful job. I looked like a bombshell.
Yet, immediately I zeroed in on that too-bright patch.
Because that’s another thing women are great at: focusing on the flaw.
Passing every shop window on the way home, and catching myself in every mirror in my apartment, my eyes darted to that bleach splotch. And when I couldn’t see it, I could feel it, mocking me with its trashy fakeness.
While the rest of my head was pulling off a plausible I-just-got-back-from-vacation blond, this lemon-yellow stripe was calling my bluff.
But another part of my brain, the part with a college degree and the right to vote, hated that this bothered me. I decided I would just get over it. It would be good for me, at best, a growing experience.
At worst, a growing-out experience.
I made it three days.
Then I went back to the salon, full of apologies and rehearsed explanations, and asked if she could tone that one section down.
“Oh sure. I can fix it no problem.”
Twenty minutes later, the offending swath had been corrected and blended perfectly into the rest.
The fog of beauty angst lifted. I was returned to myself again.
Maybe the lesson is that true empowerment is asking for what you want without fear of judgment. Maybe empowerment is being less self-critical, even of our more superficial desires. Maybe empowerment is the perfect shade of blond.
Nah, it’s really only hair.
And someday I’ll grow out of caring so much.
Potted
Lisa
Many things are harder than they look.
The best example of this is marriage.
The second best is houseplants.
As we all know, I’m divorced twice.
But we may not know that I cannot grow a houseplant to save my life.
Guess which thing I regret.
Heh heh.
Our houseplant drama begins last summer, after I had started a garden in front of the house, which I’m completely in love with. It has all sorts of pretty perennials like black-eyed Susan, lavender, coneflower, and a whole bunch of other flowers that I secretly take credit for growing.
Never mind the fact that it’s the perfect location, on a hill protected from wind, nurtured by full-day sun, with excellent soil, since this used to be a dairy farm.
Still, I take credit.
I mean, why not?
I bought the plants, which should count for something.
And I pay somebody to weed, which should also count for something.
Okay, all I do with this garden is look at it, smell the roses, and avoid the snakes.