Sincronicidades

I had to get a haircut this week because I was looking a little bit shaggy, and it just felt like it couldn’t wait until I moved back to Austin. This didn’t need to be a great haircut and I have pretty much given up on searching for the perfect haircut in Boston--too expensive, too difficult. (It’s not clear that anyone in this town has short hair.) Anyway, I thought I’d gamble and go to the woman who just opened up a salon half a block from our apartment. I went in there, started describing the cut that I wanted and realized that she didn’t speak English very well. I was feeling bold and decided to let her cut my hair even though it was pretty clear she was not comfortable with how short I wanted it--not a good sign. Then, she had a conversation with the other stylist, in Portuguese, not realizing that I could kind of follow what she was saying--something about deciding which one of them should do my hair, even though it was “her first day”--did I get that right? It wasn’t clear which of them was having a first day--was it my stylist? Again, not a good sign. Then she completely doused me during the shampoo. I mean, my entire collar was wet, water went down my chest and into my belly button, and I think she even got water in my ear. More signs pointing to run-the-hell-out-of-the-salon. Anyway, I don’t know why I kept on, but something compelled me to stay.

When she found out that I used to take Portuguese, she was very excited and insisted on making me practice. She pulled in the other stylist and they proceeded to have a conversation about the supermodel Giselle and periodically quizzed me on what I could understand. Then, the subject of her pregnancy came up--she was 5 months along. I told her that I was 4 months along and there was much fussing and showing of ultrasound pictures and comparing of pregnancy guides and condoling about symptoms and guessing about gender. The hilarious part was that it turns out that we have the exact same obstetrician, whom I had chosen randomly off the internet and whom she had gone to on the express recommendation of all of her Brazilian mamma-friends. I hadn’t realized this but my obstetrician is Portuguese and gets a lot of business because of all the Brazilian families that live in my neighborhood. I adore my obstetrician and this just made me love her more. Now I wish I could be around here to have her deliver my baby, and to meet my hairdresser’s baby, and to show off my baby when it is born. How quickly one feels roots plunging down into the ground when pregnant! I mean, I have never really felt like this place is home, and I’m dying to get back to Austin, but suddenly I’m feeling homesick for a life that I never planned to have.

The haircut was decent, turned out to be only $14, and I learned a new word in Portuguese.

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Meth and Taxes

Big sighs of relief for me and my clueless husband--I finally finished our taxes AND that drat high school drug chapter that I was writing. Both I completed this weekend, but not without much pushing of deadlines and tearing out of hair and gnashing of teeth. What a horrible few days!

The drug chapter involved a lot of discussions/arguments with Scott over our personal views on drug use and the (un)fairness of current drug laws and the (un)importance of drug-law history in America. (It’s hard to put the right amount of sarcasm into typed words.) It seems we completely agree and mostly disagree on the topic depending on which terms you use--the classic semantic argument. (I’ll let you guess who thinks what and how we disagree--not worth explaining because neither of us really use any illegal drugs and have no real plans to...wait, so why do we even bother arguing? Maybe it’s just to distract us from our nasty tax woes.) I did get a lovely, empathetic email from my editor who has two teenage sons who she says she knows that they use drugs but they don’t know that she knows. Great, so now I will have my own child to spy on and fret over and tick off and generally get in his or her business.

I can’t wait to go to the post office tomorrow and wait in a long line of procrastinators like myself to mail off my checks to the Feds and the state of Massachusetts. There is nothing more nightmarish to a Texan than paying state taxes, lemme tell you! But then, Massachusetts at least will protect my rights to buy health insurance for me and my baby…hmm, the jury’s still out over which place is better.

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Dare to Tell It Like It Is

Writing this high school health chapter on drug use is turning out to be a lot harder than I thought. I had this same problem a couple of years ago when I wrote a reproductive health chapter--one in which I was encouraged to write pages and pages about the importance of abstinence, but then they wouldn't let me explain exactly what it was the kids were supposed to be abstaining from. I mean, the editor didn't care that in the previous edition, it wasn't clear exactly how the sperm go into the fallopian tube. The only clear thing was that when that sperm got there, boy was that girl in trouble!

How do you tell kids to be cautious about things that you yourself experimented with at their age? My clients don't want me to write a chapter saying it is okay to try drugs or have sex in a safe, comfortable, risk-free setting. They don't want me to tell the kids how to use good judgment. They want me to empower the kids to say no and abstain from any and all risky and dangerous situations. These are also important skills, but I think they can be applied with caution and still allow for minor drug use and safe teen sexuality. In fact, I feel that your teen years are often the best time to try some of these things in moderation. Now, I don't want my kids to be strung-out junkies or disease ridden perverts before they become legal voters, but I also don't want them to miss out on the fun and the self-defining experiences that they need to become cool and wise adults. Who knows what I'll feel when my own kiddo starts growing up, but for now I'm tortured by the hypocrisy of having to write absolutes about a subject in which there are clearly no absolutes.

[Image from: http://www.bull-bear.de/werbemittel/Hanf-Nudeln_Rasta_Pasta.html]

Oh La La

I've been looking into this applying to college thing some more, and the more I think about it, I'm kind of getting excited about it. Am I crazy? (Or should I say "folle"?) I always did wish I could have finished my French degree, and I was only 6 hours away from doing so. UT has a pretty reasonable readmission policy and I am still a Texas resident...an interesting possibility!

I always do this. The minute I'm through with a major project, instead of reveling in my new-found leisure time, I start scheming to try something more ambitious. Now the scary prospect is, what if I don't get accepted? Dieu merci! It has been a while since I have conjugated anything en francais.

[Image from: http://stores.thehautehound.com/-strse-1319/Black-French-Beret/Detail.bok]