Picture Day

I got up late this morning...as in 6:15, which is exactly an hour and 15 minutes late.  Considering the drive and the possibility of a train, this meant I had 15 minutes to get ready for work.  AND, I had a fairly important meeting this afternoon, so  jeans and a sweatshirt were a little below the little bit showing on my give-a-shit-o-meter.  Plus, it totally meant a hat and the Chacos were a definite "NO."

Of course, this didn't stop me from walking into the kitchen and taking the normal 15 minutes to become coherent enough to brew a pot of coffee.  Then I decided the 'stache is a little out of control (think Gallagher) and that I should probably shave the normally shaved parts of my body that have been left to Mother Nature like the mightiest of old growth forests in the Pacific Northwest. The shaving of the legs is no small task when you are the owner of a 36" inseam, not to mention the normal contortion associated with getting those not so easy places.

Probably TMI, but I basically had one leg wrapped behind my head when there was a knock on the door reminding me that it was picture day at school and "I know you're late and probably forgot, but you have to do Schmoo's hair."

Of course, this gave me a legitimate excuse for tardiness, but let's be honest here.  Half the week, I work in the middle of nowhere...which is hippie granola girl speak for "I don't really give a shit," and I don't even do my OWN hair.  People that run into me in town, when I actually have to get dressed in the morning, usually ask if I had an interview.

Anyway, Ive ALWAYS hated picture day.

1) It meant my mother was going to torture me with a luffa, as if Okra isn't bad enough, we have to throw in the bones of the Chinese version.

2) It meant my mother was going to send me to bed, late, with wet hair she spent hours wrapping in barbed wire. 

3) It meant I was going to have wear THAT dress, purchased by my Italian Grandmother for $900,000 that had 75,000,000 layers of lace that made that Randy kid from "A Christmas Story" look like a total loser for even questioning the ability to be able to put your arms down.  To top it off, that motherfucker had bells sewn into the seams, so I jingled when I walked...until I was 13.

4) It reminds me of second grade when I threw a fit about afore mentioned frew-frew girlie shit, and fell down the stairs....the WHOLE way--scratching my nose and leaving my ankle the size of a Hagerman Watermelon.  To which my mother answered in her typical manner, "Serves ya right.  Walk your ass to school, and smile REAL pretty!"

Ms. Solemn had pity on me and actually called my mother to take me for x-rays...after she patched my scratched nose with some foundation from her purse and hobbled me to the picture stool in the library to get my picture taken....looking like every other second grade girl--a pasty white version of Dr. J, because the barbed wire you were sure Jesus had in all those Sunday School pictures was what you had slept on all night just wasn't enough.  You had to look like someone did something time consuming to your hair...as in with an egg beater.

Well, like so many things I have failed at as a mother, I totally forgot the curlers last night.  Be easy on me, this whole shutdown bullshit is taking a toll.  So, I did what all good mothers do in this day and age (I assume).  I went to Pinterest.

It took me a good hour and three re-tries to master a crown of a "waterfall" braid, followed by another good 45 minutes of curling tiny strands of hair into ringlets after totally destroying the ozone layer hairspraying that shit to stay.

I had enough time to throw on the church clothes in the closet and do my best rendition of that Jenna Marbles Youtube video where she shows you how to put on makeup after daydrinking--all damn day (look it up, I'm tired of doing ALL the work around here ;-)).

I still made it to work only 30-minutes late and the kid was on time, but lets be honest.  My kid looks like that, lets say...oh....NEVER.

Probably needless to say to all the moms out there, but by the time I got to pick up the Schmoo at 5:30, there wasn't a curl on her head, and she looked more like a drowned rat than Dr. J.

She swears her hair was still curled when they had pictures, but to be honest, after this morning and my mom guilt and anxiety, I'm just glad she made it to pictures, and I didn't have to make a trip to the emergency room.

If she looks like a drowned rat in those pictures, its not that Mom doesn't care.  Mom is tired.  Mom thinks she's beautiful covered in mud and spaghetti sauce. 

Mom hates picture day.