A few evenings ago I had fallen asleep on the couch for about 20 minutes. This fleeting power nap had left me a tad disoriented, but I still managed to go through our pre-bed routine of getting the kids settled in for the night. After I came downstairs and returned to the living room, I noticed something peculiar on the floor by the couch where I had been laying. My heart began to hammer and I physically felt my stomach churn as I ran to inspect what I feared was the worst.
This is what I found spread all over the rug.
The best way I can describe my reaction is to give you what I recall to be my inner monologue as I knelt to the floor for a closer inspection:
What the fuck is that? Is that…hair? Is that MY hair??? *clutches at head as if the mere tactile experience of finger tips on the still attached strands would indicate anything amiss* Did one of them actually cut my hair while I was sleeping? It looks like my hair; it can’t be anyone else’s. What the fuck! I fell asleep for 20 minutes and this is what I get for it? Tony was right there! Did he not notice someone giving me a goddam hair cut? This is bullshit.
I snatched up the hair and took it into the kitchen, and stood there actually holding it up to the light, comparing it to my own curls. With a sigh of relief I found that though the locks were nearly identical to my own hair in color, there was definitely a synthetic feel to it.
And then in an instant light dawned over Marblehead, and I knew whose hair it was.
Poor Belle. Someone has been watching way too much Tangled.
I would like to start off by thanking myself for the dream I had last night. It was kind of awesome, but I do have to say, Subconscious? You can do better:
I’m sitting in the driver’s seat of a car at a gas station, when none other than Tom Brady opens the passenger side door and climbs in. I am surprisingly nonplussed by the fact that, hello, that just happened. He is well groomed; we’re talking pre-Giselle but post GQ front-cover quality.
He shuts the door, glances over at me and says, “Would you hold these for me, please?” He hands me a pair of swim trunks. While I should be sitting there all Anastasia-like, a dumbstruck deer in headlights with eyes bulging and no idea what to say or do with the presence of Adonis before me, instead I get all sarcastic.
I furrow my eyebrows at him, turn up the right side of my lips in my usual I’m about to be an ass to you smirk and say, “Another swim trunk?”
Because of course he’s already wearing swim trunks. And a shirt. What the hell, subconscious? This is exactly what I’m talking about. Do better.
Unaffected, he proceeds to give me an explanation of why he has brought an additional pair of swim trunks:
“Well, I always bring a second pair to wear on the beach (We’re going to the beach? NOW WE’RE TALKING). There’s always too much paparazzi hanging around trying to get a nut shot. It happened to Vince once and really, it’s just not worth it. So I always wear two just in case.”
So in my few minutes with Tom Brady, this is the best I could dream up. Instead of grabbing me by the hair at the back of my neck and crushing me to him over the shift stick because he MUST HAVE ME NOW, we have a conversation about Vince Wilfork’s testicles.
To which I reply to him, “Oh. That makes sense.”
I start to drive away, and the alarm goes off. SON OF A…
July 20th, 2012 | Category: Post | Comments are closed
She started playing the piano in September and had been practicing for her June recital for months. She could play the music in her sleep. As I stood behind her curling her hair on the big day, I watched as her tiny fingers tapped in time on the table. She hummed the tunes to herself quietly as she played the imaginary keys, just like I used to do.
She is only six and I was so nervous for her. What if she was scared when she got up there? What if she froze with all those eyes on her? How could I help her from my place in a sea people? I remember well that butterfly feeling, that anxious anticipation whenever I performed on stage. Was she feeling it? I sure was.
“Are you nervous?” I asked her.
“No.” she answered matter of fact without skipping a beat.
When it was time to leave she was jumping up and down, a ball of excitement. She was ready.
Before the show started I found myself whispering words of encouragement, desperate to show my support. “You’re going to be great, just do your best, keep going if you make a mistake, and enjoy yourself up there.”
I’m not even sure if she heard me; she exuded confidence and strolled right past me, head high as if to say, “I so got this, Mom.”
And she did. She was wonderful. I’m not sure if I breathed the entire endless minute that she was on stage. She was so happy, so proud of herself. I sat back and wondered in awe of my little girl, so self assured, so knowing, so comfortable in her own skin. I’ve seen glimpses of it before, but in that moment I sat blinking at the undeniable proof that she is so much braver than I ever was, and my fears are not hers; never have been.
The force is strong with this one, and in that knowledge I take great comfort.
You would think in the Big Apple that you might have yourself a celebrity sighting. Well, I guess I did but first it happened right in Providence. My coworker and I were standing outside the Providence train station, waiting to head off for a week of training, when Martin Sheen stepped out of a car. My friend and I looked at each other slightly bug-eyed; small whispers passed between us as we marveled at our moment in the presence of greatness. I would love to say that I said something profound to the man. I would love say that while my friend blurted out “Mr. Sheen, love your work”, that I said something mildly close to equally so, or made some sort of joke about Big Block of Cheese Day, or even was totally obnoxious and said something like, Yo POTUS! How you doin, Man? But I pretty much just smiled at him widely like a mute school girl. Of course, when I texted some friends moments later, I totally toted that off as me say hello.
Oh, but there are such things as second chances! For after we got off the train at Penn Station and headed up the escalator, I turned to say something to my friend about the insanely dressed and ridiculously jubilant Knicks fans that had just emerged from Madison Square Garden, when lo and behold, Mr. Sheen was standing right behind me. This time I only giggled like a school girl before stammering out, “Oh, hello again!” He smiled and said hello, and what followed as I continued to stare at him was complete and utter awkward silence. I suck.
So that is what I will probably use as my takeaway when I blather on about my trip to New York, but truly what I will remember most are the two most beautiful words that I have heard in a very long time: Quiet Car.
“Would you like to sit in the Quiet Car?” the ticket checking dude asked me as I boarded the train. Uh, sure. I had no idea at the time that what I should have said was HELL TO THE YEAH, TICKET MAN!!!
What followed was three hours of glorious silence. Perhaps a few clicking of laptop keys, a few muted coughs from a scratchy throat, a whisper here or there of someone announcing their departure to the beverage cart; that was all that could be heard. No talking. No crying. No I want to play angry birds. No I’m hungry. No I have to potty. No are we there yet. Just silence.
Oh, except for the time when some idiot behind us was prattling on about his life and the ticket checking dude promptly bitched him out even louder: THIS IS A QUIET CAR! THERE IS NO TALKING!!!
Bitch on, ticket checking dude. Bitch on.
We sat and read, we watched the east coast scenery passing by at 150 miles per hour, and we closed our eyes and drifted into a waking sleep. It was the kind of sleep where you are somewhere else, but still quite aware of all that is around you. And all that was around me was the sweet sound of silence.