I'm gonna make an effort today to not be such a depressing little girl. I need a break from all the serious thoughts crammed in my head and could really go for some levity and laughter. How about you?
I've got something funny about life as a Cuban-American that will be up soon, but in the meantime, you must step up to your duties as faithful
stalkers readers and HELP ME, HELP ME PLEASE solve this problem of mine that is threatening to take over my life.
And I can't take it anymore.
I need help, people, and I need it quick. I've never had a knack for hair. Beyond telling you that I LOVE my hair long, I've got nothing else to say. I had long hair as a very little girl, and from what everyone says, I always had it in a ponytail, and I refused to let my mom take the rubber bands out and comb my hair. She handled this problem by cutting my hair short. Like a boy. An ugly little boy with crooked teeth. When my hair grew out, I brushed it all right, but no matter what I did, I always looked like shit. If I left it alone - dry, frizzy mess. If I got a perm (WTF, I got my first perm at eight, eight!) - curly, nasty poodle-head mess.
Blah, blah, blah - a lifetime of ugly hair and no clue how to style it properly. The only time I ever liked (never loved) my hair was in high school when it was loooong and deliciously curly (at around 14 it suddenly regained the curls I'd had as a toddler). In the fallout of breaking up with TFBIETL, which coincided with the time when Lilith Fair and Sarah McLachlan were all the rage, I cut it short, which I loved for one month and then hated. Still, I kept it that way for two years. From there, I let it grow long again, with sporadic moments of insanity where I've cut it into a bob. All the while, I either held it back with barrettes or kept it picked up. The times I've left it loose have been rare, if only because my hair does this thing where I look like a cocker spaniel with two big ears on the side of my face.
The last haircut was my postpartum, I'm-done-with-this-hair-shedding-bullshit moment of stupidity that I had a year ago. I cut into a chin-length bob, which is now thankfully shoulder-length hair. Behold:
I know, I totally need a trim, and therein lies problem #1: where can I get one? Where can I go and not pay the cost of a full haircut just to trim less than inch off? And where the people are not snobby assholes? But where they will retain the style? (Hard to believe, but yes, it has a style. I'd been getting my hair professionally cut all this time, but I no longer go where I used to go).
The bigger problem, though, is that while I've always had flyaways, they're crazy out of control now, like this:
And when I pick up my hair (which is, like, all the time), it's WAY worse:
So what the hell do I do, people? How do I fix this? I'm not one for hair products beyond some anti-frizz stuff, but I bought some gel and then some hairspray, and neither work. The hair pops back up. Which, I can handle some stray hair, I'm used to it, but that up there is ridiculous. I look disheveled and slightly imbalanced.
Tell me where to trim my hair. Also, tell me if I should so anything about the color. The ends still retain some color from some highlights I did soon after Max was born, but it's all mostly natural. And if I should have some color fun, what should it be? Because I now work in a creative field, I can be a little funky but not overly so. Also, I can tell you that I'm probably not going to maintain it, so I'd appreciate it if it's not something (i.e., platinum blond) that will look heinous growing out. And hey, if you have products you want to recommend, do that, too. Like I said, I just use some anti-frizz stuff on damp hair, or my absolute favorite, can't-live-without Coconut Hair Shine. Most products tend to build up on my hair and it just makes everything worse.
Please take a final look at my hair in its natural state. It's wavy (the curls from high school disappeared when the very short hair grew out), and the one nice thing about it is that it both straightens and curls very easily.
I'm charging you with a big responsibility, and I trust that you're up to this challenge. So please, please help me.
EL MOÑO VIRADO
Dudes. My life sucks this morning. I'm a wreck. My eyes hurt. I'd give anything to be able to crawl into bed and stay there for approximately 56 hours. ANYTHING.
These last two nights have been awful. Max - for whatever mysterious reason, although probably because he turned 18 months and decided it was time to go from fun baby to pain-in-the-ass baby - has not slept. At all. O.k., for a total of three hours between last night and the one before. And those hours he did sleep? Were spent with him right on top of my face.
Between no sleep, an infection in his mouth that's affected his appetite and his general desire to do the exact opposite of every single request I make, I'm a mess. These next few months are going to be just wonderful, I can already tell.
So why we've been discussing adding BOTH another dog and another child to our lives is beyond me. Must've been that wine we had on Friday night that made us think our current situation is, you know, no big deal.
Breaking Britney Spears
O.k., people, I think we've officially reached The Ridiculous when it comes to the horrific public meltdown of the creature who was once Britney Spears. You thought it was the chooch-flashing? The puking all over herself? The head shaving? The in-and-out-and-in-and-out of rehab? The beat-down she gave some paparazzi's car? Well, it wasn't. It was this: a report from a "source" in rehab that she wrote "666" on her forehead, proclaimed herself the anti-Christ, and went off to attempt suicide.
People. Are you kidding me? We're supposed to believe this? And if we do, what do we make of that information? Celebrity train-wreck aside, from a psychological perspective, this is crazy-ass, fascinating shit. So allow me, then, to break it down for you, Miami-mama style.
It's only a handful of people/pundits/gossipers who have seriously considered that Spears is suffering from postpartum depression. I think this possibility bears some heavy consideration; however, I don't think it's the root of her behavior.
Here's the deal: a few months ago, my brother-in-law (the OB/GYN) informed me (and my sister, mother of three, agreed) that I suffered from PPD when Max was born, judging by how I was describing what those first months felt like. He shocked me, because I certainly didn't feel like I had suffered from PPD; in fact, I still don't. I thought I felt what every other first-time mother feels. I remember feeling incredibly overwhelmed, but not incapacitated. I remember the extreme, awful dread I faced around bedtime because I was so horrifically exhausted and Max just would not sleep. I remember my terror of SIDS and how I'd worry if he was quiet for too long, and how most nights I just wouldn't sleep so I could keep an eye in him. I remember feeling so bored it made me feel guilty. Overall, some days were fine; others were an utter nightmare. Ultimately, I don't know what the deal with me was. Maybe I had a mild case of PPD. I mean, I remember first feeling depressed when I was 7 years old, and from there it's been a regular battle, so you know, the deck's stacked against me on this. I tell you all this to explain that while it can be argued that I suffered from PPD, I didn't identify it as such, nor did I treat it as such, and so, I can't talk from the "I've been there" platform. I know there are tons of mom bloggers out there who have had some serious, major battles with PPD, and their take on this matter would be a great read.
As I was drafting this post (in my head, where everything gets drafted), I was planning on letting you all know that Brits suffered from postpartum psychosis. Because the combination of all those insane things she's done lately just scream "psychotic!" to me. However, as I was doing some research (oh yeah, kiddies, I do homework for you guys!), I realized that clinically speaking, it doesn't seem to be PPP, mainly because it's early onset, with symptoms appearing 3 to 14 days after giving birth. Considering that the downward spiral began when her baby was about three months old, PPP seems like less of a possibility. PPD, however, tends to be at its ugliest 4-to-6 months after birth, which would put Spears and her behavior right on target.
So in my opinion, yes, Britney Spears is indeed suffering from PPD, and that would explain a lot about her behavior recently.
PPD aside, this decline was written in the stars. I mean, what we're seeing now - this sick need to display herself for the paparazzi, behavior that indicates she is incredibly immature and bratty, and erratic behavior that seems like a sick exercise in pushing boundaries - has been a long time a-commin' and is to me the direct result of being a child star/performer who was raised to be a celebrity without any discipline. I think this is rooted in her childhood. I think something went terribly wrong somewhere along the way. And while it may seem unfair of me to ask, what I'm basically wondering, people, is, where was her mama? Physically, I know she was right by her side - I've seen her Behind the Music; but I'm looking at all this crazy shit and I have to wonder if her mother ever told her "no", ever forbid her from doing or having something, ever scared the shit out of her with a good dose of tough love. Because while Lynne Spears was always described as the quintessential stage mom, there seems to be a disconnect here. I mean, what was she (or anyone in Britney's inner circle) doing or not doing that she ended up like this?
She's an adult now, so I can't hold her parents responsible for what she's been doing lately, but I can't shake the feeling that something went wrong somewhere in her childhood. Was she indulged too much? Was too much smoke blown up her ass? Did they have so tight a grip on her that when she broke free she had no clue what to do with herself? Did they not teach her basic right and wrong? Did they make her feel like she was above accepted social norms? Did they not teach her basic survival skills?
Because now that I'm a mom, I find that I'm more sensitive when other people blame someone's awfulness on their parents; and yet, I still believe there's some truth to that line of thinking. If - G-d forbid - Max ended up being a criminal, an addict, or even just an asshole, I know I will feel guilty and responsible over it. I will drive myself crazy trying to figure out where and how his father and I went wrong so that something in him broke and set him on that path. And while part of me will also argue that he's his own person with the freewill to make his own decisions, the guilt will remain, because I was charged with creating and a raising a compassionate, intelligent, good human being and I failed.
Kids are a reflection of their parents. And at some point - maybe in the middle of the teen years, maybe just before or right at the start of puberty - the lines blur, and they begin to exert their will and make their own big decisions, and they either use all their parents taught them as a conscience/moral guide, or they don't. I mean, looking back at times when I was thisclose to doing something really stupid or reckless or dangerous (REALLY), I could never stray too far from the things my parents instilled in me. And during times when I was really too far gone to care even for those, there was still something lingering inside me that prevented me from causing permanent harm. And even with that, in some cases I did.
So, back to Britney. PPD? I believe so. Indulged celebrity? Most definitely. But there's something more and something deeper. Something that's rooted in her parents.
This Post is Not About You
Someone I know is obsessed with my blogs and the fact that I'm a blogger. They have never read my blog, or any blog I contribute to (possibly have never read a blog, period), but there you have it, they're obsessed.
They seem to be perpetually concerned that I may be writing about them; but what they can't seem to understand or believe is that my favorite topic to write about is myself, so sorry, no room for other people's drama here. I kid, sort-of. My blog is not a gossip site, and within my own personal life, I try to respect other people's privacy and not write anything that might give me problems behind the scenes. Trust me, I wish I had enough balls to tell you all some of the shit that goes on in my life, but it'll all have to wait for my book deal.
Anyway. Lately, whenever I'm around, they get kinda panicky and ask me, after a conversation, if I'm going to blog about it. I always say no. But the other day I got them to admit that they WANT me to write about them. They want me to post their dirty business all up in my site.
So hey, I'm game, I'm willing to step down from my non-gossip, respect-other-people's-privacy soapbox. And face it, you guys could use a break from all things Tere.
The really interesting thing about this person so far is that their relationship with their significant other seems to be pretty full of drama. This whole "are you blogging about me?" thing actually started after they were telling me (and a few other people) about how they'd caught the SO snooping on their MySpace page. As in, they logged in and checked EVERY friend profile and EVERY e-mail message. The SO did not like a single thing they found, but what seemed to make matters worse was that they denied ever snooping. Which, in my opinion, is cowardly - and immature. This person told me the relationship got off to a bad start trust-wise, so I guess I'm not surprised. At least they were able to admit they are as bad about it as the SO; but they also panicked a bit when they realized they'd just spilled a lot of info about their relationship to the blogger, and thus I was admonished to not write about them. Heh.
(speaking of MySpace, I uploaded the picture of my son breastfeeding - let's see how long it lasts!)
I actually don't even know this person that well; we met a few months ago and haven't really spent any one-on-one, getting-to-know-you time together. I do know, though, that they have a really interesting sense of fashion and are very creative. Which is really cool; I admire that in people. Their sense of style, actually, will be covered in a whole other post. Yes, it merits its own post.
It's actually kinda hard to write about someone you barely know. All I've got now are my impressions of them, and unless I want to talk crazy shit about them, what good is that? I wish I had greater insight into the mad relationship drama or some more knowledge about their life story, but since I don't, this is as good as it gets. For now.
But they did get me wondering if other bloggers face similar situations in their lives, where people are disproportionately worried that said blogger is going to write about them and their personal life. Or rather, write about things they don't want made public, to the point that they watch their words and don't confide as much as they used to to the blogger. I don't think this is true in my life (and if it is, I'll know in like 3 minutes); but like I said, I make a conscious effort to respect my friends' and family's privacy.
I'm curious if others have any stories about this to share...