Cats, Haircuts, Bad Husbands, and Vacations

Lots to blog about today: one of our “marriage cats” died this morning, Eily got her first haircut and I cry foul on the stylists, betrayal from the one I love, and Zane goes on his first vacation sans mama and papa tomorrow.

So, let’s get to it, shall we?

RIP Marriage Cat

Scott and I got two kittens 5 days after we were married. The smaller one, Lenny, was very sick with an eye infection when we picked him out, but I couldn’t resist his Russian Blue fur and the sweet look in his eyes. Fast forward 6 years, Zane had visited the ER 3 times in 3 months for severe asthma attacks and the allergist said the cats had to go. So with much wailing and gnashing of teeth, we gave our beloved “marriage cats” to SRH’s parents.

They said they would take good care of them. They said they were happy to help us out. They even said that our skittish Lenny (who was always that nervous kind of skinny cat that never let folks touch him) had become a fat lapcat. Whatever their story, here we are 6 years later, and our beloved Lenny is dead.

I’m sure it was something my mother-in-law did.

I jest. I jest.

Maybe.

So, we’re very sad here in CASA RH. Well, two of the four of us are sad. The little people have no recollection of cats in this house. But I do, and my heart is heavy today.

Eily’s Haircut

Crazy, curly-headed Eily got her hair cut for the first time yesterday. And it was fine - one of those kid-friendly places where they take a picture, make a certificate, and give a balloon for the first haircut.

I say it was fine, but the stylists (there were two because now I have two kids and we made simultaneous appointments) actually kind of honked me off during the hair cut. In what I’m sure was supposed to be helpful advice-giving, they said that I needed to start “doing” her hair up in ponytails and such. To get her used to it.

Oh, and I should leave on the conditioner after washing her hair. And I shouldn’t wash it more than 2 times per week so that it doesn’t get frizzy. And I should use some sort of moisturizing product to tame the frizzies as well. (And since we’re being ever so helpful, I should probably leave the conditioner on Zane’s hair, too.)

Exhibit A is below. Eily’s hair is about 3 inches long when you straighten out the curls. It is very rarely frizzy and never dry. She looked like she was sucking on a lemon the entire time they were putting their little rubber bands in it, and she kept trying to pull the pig tails out after they had them in.

She’s a baby for goodness sakes. Can we not - at 14 months - start with the “girls should look this way” bullshit?

Exhibit A - Eily in Pig Tails

That being said, those darn pigtails were so cute that Zane kept asking me to put her hair in the “tails” today. Oy vey.

Betrayal

In college, SRH and I were in an honor’s fraternity. (Perhaps I should have saved that information for my “Chronicles of the Uncool - Episode 2” post?) Anyhoo...we were in this fraternity. It’s where we met. We made lifelong friends, blah, blah, blah...

But I don’t really care about the fraternity anymore. I rarely think of it, truth be told.

But through the magic of Facebook, it’s popped its head back into our lives. Now, I’m not on Facebook, being a person who doesn’t care about people in general - and specifically those from my past. But SRH is on - and he totally sold me out today.

They wanted updated info, but since I have dropped off their email list, they only contacted SRH. Who promptly gave them my email and address! And not even my crappy, secondary gmail account, but my real-deal, work email.

First one of the marriage cats dies. Now my partner has sold me out. This relationship can’t last that much longer, I think.

(On the other hand, I don’t relish the idea of starting off my match.com ad with “must love kids”, so perhaps I’ll keep him around.)

Zane Vacation

As a last “hoorah” before school starts, Zane is leaving tomorrow with my mother for a three-day vacation. It will be his first time away from the two of us for that long of a time. I’ve been away that long. SRH has been away that long, but the kids have never been away from us that long.

He’s completely looking forward to it. I feel a little sick - and yes a little giddy, too - every time I think of it.

We’ll see how we all do...

Unexpected Gathering

It is part of human nature to try to figure things out, so I try not to be too disconcerted when I get the dreaded, What are you? question.

I know, I know. I could answer, I’m human. What are you? or Well, my mom was hoping for a kitten, but I came out a person, so there you go. But really, I know what they’re asking, and they know what they’re asking, and I have found that being snide doesn’t make either one of us feel any better, so I typically do my best to make a gracious response while gently challenging their right to ask.

Them: What are you?

Me: Well, if you are speaking about what race I am, I am Black/White Biracial. What makes you ask?

Them: I don’t know. I just wondered what you were.

(Typically, they start to look a little sheepish at this point. Well, unless I’m in the Deep South, then they just peer at me a little closer and ask, “So was your mom white and your dad black?) Yep.

Me: Hmmm…well, that’s it. No big story here.

(Then I try to move the conversation on to other things, or I just keep walking down the grocery aisle).

This conversation in no way upsets me. Most of the time it makes me smile a little bit. I have been asked What are you? in some way, shape, or form many times for a lot of years. I have been spoken to in languages other than English when someone mistakes my identity and have been given extra courteous treatment at particular restaurants before people figure out that I’m not quite what they think I am.

Perhaps the only thing that causes me a bit of angst is the use of the term “mixed”. I find this particular term quite annoying. I tend to think of it as a similar characterization as oreo or twist cone – not hateful, but not especially humanizing, either. (For purposes of fairness and full disclosure, many multiracial people have no trouble with the term “mixed” at all).

Please, please do not read the above and begin to believe in the myth of the tragic mulatto – you know the tortured soul, who doesn’t fit in with either group and would have been better off not being born. I am really firm and happy in my identity, and I was really pleased when the last census forms allowed me to check every single category that I belong to.

And more recently, I had a really fabulous experience as a biracial woman. Oh sure, it came during the dreaded trip to Chicago, but it was still a stellar experience.

Me and Zane in Chicago – Breathing Treatment #764

While at a conference, I decided to go to a workshop entitled, “Straight Talk About Multi-Racial People”, which was described as a space to come together to talk about the concerns and needs of multiracial people in higher education.

Anyway, I walked into the workshop to find a room full of multiracial people – an experience I have never had in my entire life. I cannot tell you how singularly cool this was for me. I was in a room of people like me – a veritable Benetton ad of multiracialism. A plethora of folks who were not “either/or” but were “both/and”. It was totally, completely delightful.

We talked. We laughed. We disagreed. We laughed some more. We shared our experiences, and we nodded as each person told pieces of their story. It was so flippin’ beautiful I can’t describe it. It made me feel great. It made me feel so excited for my son and what his experience as a biracial person will be, and it made my god-awful trip to Chicago bearable.

And what do you know, but as the session was nearing its end, the workshop facilitator happens to say as an aside, “…well, I don’t care for that term, mixed, so I don’t use it, but I understand that it is okay with some people…”

I thought I might die of validation nirvana.