Hairy Situation (NOT About Genitals, Relax)

Awhile back before I got pregnant, Jeff and I found ourselves with a lazy weekend afternoon. We put our heads together and decided on three goals: get high, have sex, and cut Jeff's hair.

The sticking point was: what order to do them in? It was the very definition of a high class problem. Or, OK, maybe a low class problem. Certainly the problem of a childless person who didn't know how good she had it. But a problem nonetheless.

It seemed unwise to get high first and then take a pair of scissors to my husband's head. But then, who wants to have sex with little hair cuttings falling all over the place? Luckily, once we were high we were too lazy to do the haircut. Pot has a way of making everything seem less important than watching YouTube videos and eating Wheat Thins.

Even though his mop remained shaggy, Jeff dodged a bullet. The one and only time I had ever cut human hair I accidentally snipped off a piece of my friend Charlie's scalp. In my defense, I think I was high at the time. (Oh, college.) And my Jem doll's circa-1991 buzz cut did little to recommend my styling skills.

So you can imagine my abject horror when last week, Jeff grabbed S.'s rattail and demanded that I snip it off.

See, our son came out of the womb with locks to rival Liberace's, a trait he gets from his dad:

Jeff at 2 months; S. at 3 months (in his badass passport photo--hey TSA, someone doesn't give enough of a fuck to sit up straight. Or to sit up, like, at all.)

But after a few weeks, it became clear that our S. was not only probably the president of the Hair Club For Babies, but that he was cultivating what could only be described as an Extreme Mullet.

I feel confident in classifying it as "Extreme" because the traditional mullet, as everyone knows, is "business in the front, party in the back," while S.'s was decidedly a party at every angle.

I blanched at cutting my son's hair for three reasons, aside from the aforementioned sucking at cutting hair in general:

1. Since S. is uncircumcised, it would be the first thing anyone snipped off of him, ever.
2. (Okay, except for his fingernails, which will soon be Edward Scissorhand-ian seeing as I cringe every time I wield the baby nail clippers. It's like playing Operation, except that if you miss, instead of getting that freaky buzzing sound you chop off one of your progeny's digits.)
3. I always want Jeff to keep his hair shaggy and he ALWAYS cuts it against my wishes, and S.'s is the only head of hair in the household I have any control over (mine doesn't count, due to its fondness for settling into a triangle shape and, lately, falling out in clumps).

Still, no one wants a baby who looks like 80s-era Richard Dean Anderson (KIDDING, obviously--everyone secretly wants that), and so I amputated the rattail. Based on my handiwork I expect Frederic Fekkai should be contacting me shortly...

Before and after. Bald spot not my doing.

... maybe to cut the ribbon on his next salon opening with a pair of oversize gardening shears.

Hairy Situation (NOT About Genitals, Relax)

My New Boss

I don't know about this job, you guys. My boss just farted and grinned, and then demanded that I feed him instead of continuing my Lost marathon on Hulu Plus. (I'm picking up a lot on my second viewing of the series, like: Why doesn't Kate have a mustache? I know they had food and water and a shower in the hatch, but unless the Dharma Initiative air-dropped some Jolen bleach into the jungle, homegirl should have some facial hair by season two. Also, that the best way to tell someone you would like them to stop talking is to hit them in the face with the butt of a gun.)

Anyway, back to this boss of mine:

He has vomited into my cleavage. More than once. He passes out all the time, often on top of me. The other day he licked my shoulder. He grabs my boobs whenever he gets the chance--other people's boobs, too; like Honey Badger, he don't care. He soils himself constantly and expects me to clean it up. He insists that I carry him everywhere. In the middle of a conversation he'll start crying. When he's not drinking or sleeping, he spends most of his time staring at lamps.

You know, I'm starting to think that he doesn't have much experience in upper management.

P. to the S., y'all: Any readers in the Brooklyn area should check out Momma C's art show at the 440 Gallery!It's called Imagined Light: Memories of Rome, and is on display through February 19.

It should be noted that in all of my 31 years she has not once pooped through her onesie and onto her bouncy seat. Some people are classy. Ahem.

My New Boss

Does This Baby Make Me Look Fat?

So, we all know that it's a bad idea to pose for a photo with a supermodel or Tropical Miko, Beautiful Island Friend of Barbie. If we do that, we are basically asking to look trollish in comparison.

But nobody ever warned me not to pose next to a baby.

Last weekend we gave S. a bath, and then I took a shower, which is the real shocker. Feeling impossibly fresh and clean and pure, I allowed Jeff to capture the Precious Moment on camera.

Even his tits are bigger. Sigh.

Little did I know that by posing with my son I was essentially stepping in front of a funhouse mirror. Here is how you will look through baby-colored lenses:

Baby: Skin as creamy, unblemished and soft as top-shelf Brie.
You: The discolored leather used to make knockoff handbags at Payless.

Baby: Clear, piercing eyes.
You: Rheumy, pink orbs speckled with dust and--probably--Oreo crumbs.

Baby: Adorable button nose.
You: Lumpy, sun-stained and blood vessel-blossomed schnoz that is at least twice as big as when you last checked.

Baby: No teeth.*
You: Crumbling, wine-splashed reminders that it's been a year since your last cleaning.

Baby: Chubby little hands with dents for knuckles.
You: Horrifying geriatric hands with pulsating veins and giant, arthtritic joints.

Baby: Smooth temples.
You: Crow's feet that NASCAR could use for its next superspeedway track.

I've learned my lesson. When you look back through your albums, son, this is why Mommy isn't in them. Don't let Daddy claim she was too busy pooping.

*Actually, S. ALREADY HAS A TOOTH. And another breaking through. At THREE MONTHS. This is what my bagel-stealing** hath wrought. Also I just found out I have hyperthyroidism, so I didn't actually lose the baby weight because I am genetically blessed, or because Jesus loves me and wants me to have more cheeseburgers.

**Yes, I am going back today to give them the money. I don't need this on my conscience, or on my karma. DO YOU HEAR ME, BAGEL GODS? I AM SORRY, OKAY???

Also, yes, I know this photo is fairly adorable. I just have to be self-deprecating; it's my spirit animal. You understand.

Does This Baby Make Me Look Fat?

The Bagel & Schmear That Ruined My Year

I'm pretty sure 2012 is doomed for me, and not just because of the End of Days as predicted by the Mayans (way to be a bummer, Mayans, ending things on December 21, just before Christmas but not until AFTER I will have bought everyone's presents--can I redeem my AmEx points from hell?) and potentially saved by receding-hairline Lloyd Dobler (I never saw that movie--what happens?)

No, my year has been karmically fucked by a bagel with a schmear.

See, yesterday Jeff and I went for a jaunty New Year's Stroll, accompanied by our Adorable Spawn. I'm sure we looked like a slightly downmarket J. Crew ad--something you would find in a crumpled Sears catalog your dad keeps in the bathroom next to the toilet. Anyway. The world was our oyster, and then we went to Bageltique Cafe.

I know. I KNOW. I had no business eating a mound of dough that puts on such ridiculous airs. BagelTIQUE? Are we en France? Are we wearing striped boater shirts and carrying baguettes and putting curly little penises on our lowercase c's? (Incidentally, my neighborhood also has a restaurant called La Bagel Delight). So that was my first mistake.

My next mistake was thinking that the universe owed me a free bagel. It was around noon the morning after the annual holiday most likely to end in excess drunkenness, ill-advised make-out sessions and ugly crying, and so even though Bageltique was out of everything bagels (it really IS the end times, y'all) the line was long with bleary-eyed twentysomethings eager to gulp down weak coffee and danish in the hopes of filling the pits of their stomachs with something other than regret. The guy behind the counter was taking orders at lightning speed. I think he thought someone else was ringing up customers. But no one was. So a team of three (no doubt hungover) guys were killing themselves to make food that no one was paying for.

I know. I KNOW. I'm an asshole.

I thought they would take my money when they handed me our breakfast. But no one did. And at first I thought, Free bagels! What a good omen for the new year! Sure, it's no everything bagel. But it's something!

But then it dawned on me as we continued our walk, noshing on our Euro-chic boiled rings: That was not a good omen. That was my test.

If I had given the harried Korean man my $5, I would have had a good year. If I had been a good Samaritan and told them they were giving all of their food away for free, then I would be writing this post from the deck of my yacht, to inform you all of my book deal and unseasonably good hair.

But as soon as I realized my misdeed, the baby woke up and started crying, I spilled coffee on my coat, and I'm pretty sure I felt a chin hair sprout.

There's no hope for me; save yourselves.

Happy New Year.

The Bagel & Schmear That Ruined My Year