Hot pink, cropped pants.
Purple socks.
Brown sandals.

I can only ask myself, “Did I choose wisely?”

I’m heading off on Vacation on Saturday. And, between now and then? The wicker chickens will be running around with their heads cut off. Crazy, a bit.

I need a little vacation from this blog, too. The combination of embarrassment and sadness over the quality of my writing — not from a strictly academic assessment, but from a “is it serving my purpose?” point of view — has me feeling the need to take a step back and really ask myself a few pointed questions about it all. I want to take the time to get those answers right.

I’ll see you in a few weeks.

I lit a match last night — to clear out the smell of a fart in my bedroom.

I lit a match last night — to clear out the smell of my dog’s fart in my bedroom.

If anything were to illustrate the dynamics of my relationship with my dog, this would be it. Clearly, this warrants a hmmmm.

I shudder to think how long it actually took. We’re not talking new fixtures. We’re not talking a new floor or a reconfiguration of walls. Folks, it’s just wallpaper removal, paint, a shower curtain, some hardware and a little custom art. That’s what we call a cosmetic update. Maybelline, at that — not the Bobbi Brown stuff. I haven’t the kind of house you attempt a full-scale bathroom remodel on. That’s for the next house, presumably. Then again, I don’t think I should be buying a house that requires any sort of updates to the bathroom after this experience.

In any event, it’s done. I’ll share pictures. Although, upon inspection, the pictures give off a odd 1970’s feel to the bathroom. I promise — really – it’s quite modern and fun, despite any appearances otherwise. And, if you think differently — please keep your opinions to yourself. I only want oooohhs and ahhhhs from the peanut gallery.

Take note of the custom artwork! And the fancy-shmancy shower curtain! I really outdid myself on that one, going far beyond a border and actually introducing piping! Piping, folks! And the walls — not just one color of blue, not just two colors of blue — but THREE. COLORS. OF. BLUE. All in one room! I’ve been watching too much HGTV, apparently. When it’s the only cable channel that bleeds in on your basic service, this can happen.

Again, I say she’s done. I might even have to throw the second “Come Pee in my Potty Party” of my lifetime. Yes, I’ve already had one of those. It’s really quite a blast. You’re invited.

But, despite having said otherwise no less than three times in this post, I must confess. She’s not really done. In true Hansen tradition, there’s one very small remaining task: caulking the nail holes in the crown moulding and touching up the paint. I figure we’ll get to that by December. The devil’s in the details, remember.

Yoga. In a time in my life when things are getting decidedly out of control, I’m grateful for Yoga. Tell me, folks, what other form of exercise includes arriving in flip-flops and finishing with a nap — separated by a good ass-kicking in between?

The alarm went off exactly one hour after I finally got to sleep (damn insomnia!) and less than thirty-seconds later my son woke up which meant I wouldn’t get a shower in peace and then my hair wouldn’t “do” right and I got deodorant on my t-shirt. Evan didn’t like the breakfast he requested and Zoe wouldn’t get out of bed and Tim had to leave for work early, and my coffee, when I got to it, was cold. I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Evan hated the shorts I put on him so he pitched a fit and then when I tried to put his new sandals on he freaked out entirely giving me a big kick in protest. Zoe’s hair was all in tangles which meant the world was going to end as I combed her hair and then she hated the shorts I picked out for her. I was lucky to put on matching clothes and rush out the door to get them to school on time.

I think I’ll move to Australia.

On the way to the car, Zoe wanted to pick flowers for her teacher and I had to tell her no because you’re not supposed to pick mommy’s flowers and then she pitched a fit and I had to decide if it was a battle I really wanted to fight. In the meantime, Evan decided he didn’t want to go to school and started crying uncontrollably. At school? He clung to my leg as if I was about to drop him off in Hell.

I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

The kids brought home Easter candy and begged and begged to eat it all and then when I said they couldn’t have it they both disintegrated into puddles of tears.

At ballet class, Zoe slammed the door on her friend and then lied to me insisting that she didn’t do it and then when I talked to her sternly about fibbing and slamming doors, she melted into a puddle of tears and said I was hurting her feelings. The moms in the waiting room were simply talking too loud and giving me a headache, so when I went into the back room to just get some peace and quiet, Evan pitched a fit and fell and hurt himself on the floor.

I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

I could tell alright because when I took the kids to lunch after ballet class, I turned around a moment to order lunch and I heard a scream and then I turned around again to see Evan crying and holding his hand which he’d just placed on the fireplace. Who needs a fireplace in April? So then everyone was staring at the worst mommy in the world, the one who lets her child run free in a restaurant, neglects basic safety precautions, and allows her child to scream bloody murder and disturb the peace of the establishment. We’re going home, I said. And then Zoe let out a scream in disappointment of being denied a lunch date with her ballet friends. I think she said something about wanting me to go away to Australia.

When I got home, Evan cried for three hours straight and wouldn’t let me leave his side and then Zoe cried because I wouldn’t come to her side. The dog started barking, someone was at the door and the phone started ringing.

It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Only three people showed up for my book club, and my dog ate the brownies. Zoe didn’t like her hot dog, the lady at the gym nursery was a bitch, and Evan refused to keep his burn dressed. The kids cried for more Easter candy and I said I was mailing the candy to Australia.

At bedtime, Evan wanted lots and lots and lots of toothpaste and I had to be the meany and tell him no. He told me to leave him alone. I wanted to tell him to leave me alone, but I couldn’t. Then he discovered Monsters. Great. Monsters.

It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

I’m home alone this evening, the laundry has piled up, my bathroom still isn’t finished, and I’m watching Howie Mandel on TV. Howie Mandel, folks. Howie Mandel.

It has been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

My mom says some days are like that. Even in Australia.

(Of course, she’s in Africa.)

I wanted to pick up the phone and call her. I reached for the phone and then stopped.

An inescapable sadness gripped me when I realized I wouldn’t be reaching her today. Not today, or for the next three weeks. Travelling, she is, with little or no access to modern communications.

I was sad that I simply couldn’t share. Something mundane, but important all the same.

The matter of great importance? That the t-shirt I’d bought with her — the one that had an irresponsible price tag — turned out to be one of the best fitting shirts I’d worn in ages. She would be thrilled to know this. Then again, she probably already knew.

This? Is me and my mom.

Miss you!

Approved at the National Organization for Women’s most recent Board Meeting:

OPPOSING BANS ON VAGINAL BIRTH AFTER CESAREAN (VBAC)

WHEREAS, the National Organization for Women (NOW) has a long history of supporting a woman’s right to make reproductive choices; and

WHEREAS, Vaginal Birth After Cesarean (VBAC) has repeatedly been shown to be a safe and reasonable choice for women; and

WHEREAS, VBAC labors that are not induced or augmented with drugs proceed without the need for emergency surgical intervention 99.6% of the time; and

WHEREAS, unnecessary cesareans pose serious risks to mothers, including two to four times a greater chance of maternal death; increased risk of emergency hysterectomy; injury to blood vessels and other organs; chronic pain due to internal scar tissue; increased chance of re-hospitalization; complications involving the placenta in subsequent pregnancies; and

WHEREAS, unnecessary cesareans pose risks to the infant, including an increased risk of respiratory distress syndrome; prematurity; the development of childhood asthma; and a 1-9% chance the baby will be cut during surgery; and

WHEREAS, over 300 hospitals within the United States have banned VBAC, including at least one hospital in every state; and

WHEREAS, it has been reported that some women seeking care in hospitals that ban VBAC have been forcibly anesthetized and C-sectioned when they try to withhold consent to surgery; and

WHEREAS, the right to refuse unwanted and unnecessary medical treatment is a fundamental right; and

WHEREAS, the right to bodily integrity is a fundamental right,

THEREFORE BE IT RESOLVED, that NOW oppose institutional and healthcare policies that deny women’s access to VBAC; and

BE IT FURTHER RESOLVED, that NOW’s policy statements, brochures, and fact sheets concerning reproductive freedom include information on VBAC; and

BE IT FINALLY RESOLVED, that NOW and its chapters work with national and state health care organizations and providers to oppose legislation and public policy that would restrict women’s access to VBAC and to medically accurate and comprehensive information on childbirth and the right to choose VBAC.

It’s about choice, my friends. Choice.

A propos of nothing in particular the other day, I said to my husband, “We need to get rid of the board books in Evan’s room.”

This had nothing to do with needing more space on his bookshelf.

This had everything to do with temptation. It’s just too easy to grab a short board book — two if it’s been a really bad day — to hasten the bed-time routine. Far too often, the hand reaches for Boynton over the Bard. So shameful. In my book, denying my son the pleasures of reading is nothing short of a cardinal sin.

Without a word of further explanation from me, my husband smiled at me in complete recognition. “Guilty too, huh?”

Years ago, while shopping for our first home, I bird-dogged a home without my husband and instantly fell in love.

“I’ve found our home,” I said immediately upon leaving the home and calling him for an update. “It’s perfect.”

I was already decorating the home in my imagination when my husband burst my bubble. Upon his tour of the home, he reported “That place is a cosmetic nightmare. Every wall has to be painted or stripped of wallpaper — a cosmetic nightmare.”

Which was exactly my point: “That’s it — it’s only cosmetic. We can handle that. A little bit of elbow grease will work wonders on that house.”

Ultimately, he wasn’t swayed by my pleas and that perfect house went into the hands of some other handy family. We did, however, end up purchasing our own set of cosmetic projects with the purchase of the 1920’s bungalow that we called home for five years. During that time, we painted, refinished floors, installed a garden, and entirely updated the only bathroom in the home.

(This, in and of itself, was quite the feat. Our only commode was out of commission for several days. Let’s just say we got to know our neighbors very well during this time. And when our other neighbors — who had only lived in their house for a month — approached us about using our bathroom to shower for several weeks while they renovated their bathroom, we didn’t think twice about handing over our house key to them for said purpose. Talk about a special neighborhood.)

All of these projects were carried out with efficiency and purpose by our own two hands. We were the epitome of the do-it-yourself couple — right down to the authentic bruise atop my husband’s head at the hands of yours truly and a rogue 2×4. We did it so well and so enjoyably, that we even signed on for another cosmetic challenge with our present house. Surely we could bring out the beauty within this beast.

In Gretchen’s words: We were completely fucking mental.

That wallpaper I stripped weeks ago? The resulting bare walls sat untouched for weeks on end. The bathroom itself was out of operation for much of that time, as we’d had to remove the toilet tank to strip the paper behind it and were unwilling to replace it in the interim. Six weeks later, we’re still not done, although I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. Sad thing is, I’m keenly aware that it’s the details that are remaining, and therein lies the devil, for sure. Clearly, though, our do-it-yourself spirit has been bested by the realities of, well, life.

Just cosmetic? Ahh, how I shall eat my words. These days, it’s still a nightmare, if not all the more.