LITTLE PIG , LITTLE PIG, LET ME IN. NOT BY THE…AAARRGHHH! While innocently giving my face and neck a loving once over in the bathroom mirror this afternoon while i washed my hands, I was horrified to find a hair growing out of the bottom of my chinny chin chin. This was not the first, nor will it be that last hair to grace my chin. After all, I am a forty-one year old woman. I have borne three children. I have Polish ancestry. So, it was not the hair itself, nor its length (somewhere in the 3/4 inch category) that shocked me, but the fact that not a single one of my friends notified me at any time BEFORE the 3/4 inch mark that this hair was becoming unwieldly. This hair, let’s call it The Stray Einstein Hair, could have been pointed out at, say, 1/4 inch, 1/2 inch, or really at any visibla inverval. How I missed this subversive growth spurt is beyond me, but let’s be reasonable – it’s under my chin. Most of the interesting parts of my day take place…not under my chin. How all of my friends (and my husband) conspired against me, nee, continually conspire in silence every time one of these crazy things pops up is just getting out of hand. Every few days I do a chin-check. Monday: clear. Thursday: clear. Sunday: 3/4 inch Einstein Hair!

FROM THIS DAY FORWARD I propose that we (who? I don’t know. whoever is reading this and whoever you tell) form a pact to discreetly point these little things out to each other before they are blowing in the wind, curling under our chin like Colonel Sanders, catching dandelion drifts. I’m not suggesting we sink to uttering things like, “Hey, Kim, time to shave!” in crowded rooms. But maybe we could have a few key phrases that the unsuspecting listener wouldn’t pick up on, yet would let us, the hairy, know that it’s time to GO PLUCK! Some suggestions:

“The successful gardner pulls the weed from the root.”

“In a hairy situation, remember: chin up!”

“Remember Daffy Duck’s ffriend Plucky Duck?”

Kim

AQUARIUM REDUX. I made a return trip to the aquarium with my freshly four-year old son for a special mom/son day. I felt like such an expert, having just been there. Unfortunately the aquarium had set their prize great white shark free since she had started eating her tank mates; fortunately at age four a hammer head shark is much more impressive, what with the crazy shaped head and all. At age forty-one, it’s all metaphor.

WHERE DOES THE TIME GO? I hear this question asked tearfully by mothers of youngsters all the time on birthdays. Yesterday, on the fourth anniversary of my son’s birth, I found myself instead asking, “Four?! That’s it?” Instead of mass-mailed greetings from Toys ‘R Us arriving in the mailbox, I expect to find tuition invoices from the nearest university, because surely they must be in college by now. I have aged at least two decades since their birth. Why is it that they are still toddling and preschooling? Call me unsentimental or worse, but the passage of time is different when one is having a hard time mothering.

BACK TO OUR BIG DAY. After the aquarium (which contains not a single iota of Spiderman paraphernalia, believe me, we searched every tank, store and snack bar), we stopped at a small games arcade nearby to lay down many hard-earned dollars to try to win a mini roll of Smarties candies and a plastic spider ring. Our first attraction was Whack-A-Mole, or more appropriately for the Cannery Row/Aquarium location, Whack-A-Shark! My son quickly lost interest and I was left to finish the games. I felt compelled to do so, a) to get my token’s worth, b) to win my son some Smarties, c) to show that friggin’ shark who’s boss. We don’t condone violent games, but it was his birthday and those sharks really had nasty looks on their pink, purple and sunshine yellow faces. Once my little one drifted away to gaze at the Titanic pinball game (fun! drowning! distaster! tilt!) I kept my shark-whacking motivation by re-naming the game with a 1970’s cinematic beach theme, Save Roy Scheider!

SOME ‘SPLAININ’ TO DO. As we were getting ready to leave, dearest son, who can find a “shooter” anywhere (he once found a perfect replica of a handgun made of driftwood on the beach) pulled me over to his latest discovery – a strange arcade game in a dark corner. There were five air or laser rifles set up on a counter, where five people could shoot at targets simultaneously, maybe for points. I’ve seen this sort of game before at the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk where you can shoot at little red dots and make tin cans jump, a player piano start playing, etc. Now here is where I got that confused-golden-retriever look on my face: the diorama for shooting at was the back of a race car that was set up to be speeding away from the shooters. So…um…Jeff Gordon is lost in West Virginia after getting caught stealing a chicken? I don’t get it. Can someone explain this to me? (Apologies to West Virginians. It’s just that I met a guy there who was shot in the hand by his dog.)

Kim

p.s. I highly, highly recommend the cd above. I didn’t think I would approve of words being added to classical music, because I’m sort of a snob, and wish I had done it myself, but it is great. And the songs without the words are included afterward.