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I am feeling better today. At least, I am feeling well enough to whistle, which means my mood is better. I’m one of those. Humming. Whistling. Singing to myself.

Oh, that reminds me.

One of my life’s most humiliating moments–no, two of them–come from singing to myself and thinking no one could hear, oh, but many people could hear. There is little worse (for me) than getting caught out warbling to myself. Especially when warbling twee C&W.

Thor took a fall yesterday. He said another child knocked him down accidentally, and he just ate pavement. He landed on his face, and from the skid marks on his nose, it looks like someone was trying to use him to play Angry Birds.

His skin is grated, from the top of his nose to his chin, and both upper and lower lips were busted, and the gum above his top left front tooth is bruised dark purple and black. It’s pretty awful looking.

The worst thing is that he said the fall hurt so bad, he couldn’t even get up by himself. He said another mama helped him. I have no idea who that woman is, but I want to thank her. And thank goodness for every person who helps the helpless, you know? I am grateful to the people who pick up the toppled toddlers, and–

Ending this post now because I realized I have forgotten to send a thank you/praise letter to Thor’s afterschool care. Always send thank yous to people who are good to your children!

I do not have very good hair. I never have. I don’t have bad hair, but what I do have is very thin, very fine, and very, very straight–you know, except for the weird Jan Brady curls that appear naturally at my temples. I was three years old before my mother was comfortable calling the sparse stuff on my head “hair”. She said it really just looked like fuzz. I was five before I had grown enough hair that she could put ribbons in it. Ribbons, which promptly fell out.

I was thinking about it this morning because I bought tickets to see Duran Duran in March. I was a huge Duranie in high school. Huge. Ask my father, to whose chagrin I wallpapered my room with pinups from Smash Hits, Tiger Beat, and Teen. (What is a Tiger Beat? Ever ask yourself that?) I saw them in concert when I was 16, 17, and 18. The last time being March of 1989. What I was thinking this morning was about how cute I was in 1989, except for the hair. My hair was a woe.

I had cute hair in third grade. For most of my early childhood I wore a pixie and looked exactly like my son does today. I was frequently confused for a boy, and my androgynous name did me no favors. I loved (and to this day love) my third grade school picture. I have beautiful, shiny hair, to the shoulders, just perfect and lovely. I’m sure five minutes after the photo was taken, it looked like hay.

My hair was long until 8th grade, when my mother’s posh stylist convinced me to cut it into a poofy 80s bob. I let these people fool me into believing it was cute, but the camera doesn’t lie. My head looked like an isosceles triangle. It would be the start of a long struggle against my head and geometric shapes.

For my Freshman year, I went back to the pixie, which meant I had a perfectly round head, and back to being teased for looking like a boy. So I did what any other self-respecting 80s girl would do. I grew out half of it into the shape of a right-angled triangle. And got a perm. And pretended I thought it looked cool, even though it looked nothing like the perfection of Jill Peterson’s Nordic head, which I had hoped to emulate.

Middle of my junior year, the left side of my head caught up to the right and it wasn’t so bad. Actually, by the middle of my junior year, my hair was having a moment of actual goodness. Then, I got another perm. Then, over the summer, just before Senior pictures, my family traveled to Chicago and I thought, “If I get my hair cut in Chicago, that’s something to tell people.” Oh, I didn’t have to tell anyone.

I came home looking like I was wearing a square helmet of rice crispy treat on my head. I am smiling so tightly in my Senior portraits, that I could double for that bitter beer face man.

I swore I wasn’t touching my hair again. Ever. Until Halloween, and I decided to dye my naturally blonde hair black for the holiday. I figured if I got a rinse, everything would be fine. It was not fine. In fact, my hair was varying shades of not fine until around December of my Freshman year in college.

By the time March of 1989 rolled around, my hair was just about shoulder length, showing the ends of a perm, with bangs as big as I could make them, the color of moss in a pond. In short: A hot mess.

But everyone had bad hair in the 80s.

However, I did not achieve good hair (or anything remotely aspiring to good) until somewhere around 1994. That’s because I was too poor to afford to do anything to it. Should have clued me in, huh? As long as I leave it alone…

Well, there was the great heartbreak of ’96, and I cut all that glorious hair off. I went pixie again. I have not achieved hair greatness since. Oh, I have moments of cute, but never for longer than a couple of days in a row. And there was the perm debacle of ’08 that left me with bald spots for life. But all that said, I have a hundred times better hair in 2011 than I did in 1989.

So, for my first concert in 22 years, I am looking forward to having a shiny cap of nice hair to detract from my hips. Which–wow. I do not even want talk about the geometry that comes into play there.

I have a doctor’s appointment for Monday morning. I wonder if I’ll still have a fever then? I’ve run between 100 and 101.7 for the past 3 days. While my brain is simmering at a low 100.3 today, I have written and discarded several entries. I have severe cabin fever. I have severe, “What am I doing with my life?” I have severe, “We are never going to be able to sell that house and something horrible is going to happen I just know it!” I am also suffering from “I am fat!” and “Why can’t it just be summer already?!” My tolerance for winter has grown very short. Who needs sweater weather? Not me. Go away, winter!

I’m sitting here in Thor’s bedroom, while he takes a bath. I’m not so water phobic that I stay in the bathroom with him now (he needs his privacy, you know), but I do like to be where I can hear him. Then, if it gets too quiet, I can save my bath salt from his nefarious doings. We share a bathroom, Thor and I. My marriage is good because B and I have never shared a bathroom. I really think that would be our undoing. That is the Samson’s Hair of our relationship.

Why? Because he shaves his head and doesn’t clean up the clippings, and squeezes the toothpaste from the middle, and because I have more hair appliances than Sally’s Beauty Supply, and need room for makeup.

So, when we start looking at houses (after we sell the one I am afraid we will never sell and will be forced to move back into, though I think foreclosure would be a happier option for me because I hate it there, but I am an adult and will do what I must to maintain my credit rating), we either need to look at 3 bathrooms, or B needs to decide that he will be sharing with Thor, once the child is old enough to be horrified that he is sharing with his mother. Oh, my First World problems are so First World.

Being trapped in the house makes my world very small. When my world is very small, I realize how old I am. I mean that I realize how old 14 year old me would think I am, and 14 year old me would be absolutely unimpressed with what I have accomplished. I might be able to dance around her disappointment with some well told stories, but the flu depresses me, and I think, “Dang, Loser.”

I’m not sure what I could have done differently, though. With the exception of getting engaged badly (without marrying, thank Cheezus), and working for peanuts at the ministry when I was at my prime earning age, what would I have done? I have always done exactly what I wanted to, so there aren’t any regrets. 14 year old me just measured success differently.

I cooked this Pork Schnitzel recipe today. Went over like gangbusters! I did add a 1/2 teaspoon of sugar to the dill sauce recipe, but otherwise, followed it to the T and B and Thor both loved it. I also made some from-scratch mashed potatoes. (3 baking potatoes, boiled to tender, then mashed with 2 tbs of butter, 1/4 cup of sour cream, and a teaspoon of garlic-in-a-tube.) All of those were eaten. I even ate those, and I’m not a mashed potato fan.

The recipe wasn’t difficult, and it was awfully fun to pound out the pork chops. WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHEE!

Feeling closer to good. I’m up to fine. A decent night’s sleep and I should be okay.

I caught up on Big Love last night. Episode 1 was all, “Oh, Nikki! No!” Episode 2 was all, “Oh, Barb! No!” Episode 3 was all, “Oh, Margene! No!” And then, Episode 4 was oh no to everyone, except Ben and Heather. But I know how old I am because I find no pleasure in seeing teenagers fall in love. Teenagers are too young for all that, and are only being set up for heartbreak. And by the way, get off my lawn!

This show is so great. I’m going to miss it when the season ends and it is finally over.