Etch-A-Sketch Animator 2000: A love story

I turn 31 tomorrow. Or today, depending on when you're reading this. Or yester--okay, my birthday is now-ish. September 26th. Let's go with that.

This past year was full of good, big things. A new house. A new position/promotion I worked hard to get. Kids seamlessly adjusting to the move, and losing their minds with joy over their own rooms, their own swing set. Good, big things.

J had been asking what I wanted for my birthday, and honestly, I couldn't think of anything. ANYthing. It wasn't some Secret Lady Ploy, either. I genuinely couldn't think of anything I wanted. Which is weird, but whatever. I figured we'd just go out for a really nice dinner, and I would be -- really -- perfectly content. I have everything I need.

*  *  *  *  *

The Etch A Sketch Animator 2000 was the toy I always wanted as a kid, and never got. It was love at first sight for me, and I could think of nothing else. I imagined all the amazing things it could do, and daydreamed of having one of my own. It had come out right around the time I started losing my baby teeth, and I would pen these lengthy notes to the Tooth Fairy each time I lost a tooth, casually (and KINDLY, I thought at the time) inquiring as to how she was doing, before launching into what can best be described as plaintive, heartfelt, uh, begging for the Etch A Sketch Animator. I would carefully tuck the note into the tooth-shaped pillow my mom had sewed me, along with the tooth, and I'd burrow under my covers, wriggling like a puppy. I'd try to stay up, but at the same time, force myself to sleep, knowing full well that the Tooth Fairy wouldn't show up until I was really and truly asleep. I'd hope that this was the time, and the Animator would be MINE.


In the morning, there would be a little gift, like a Barbie, or some money, and a note, always a note, shaped like a tooth. Every time, the note told me how things were going for the Tooth Fairy, and then apologized, telling me there simply weren't any Etch A Sketch Animators in Tooth Fairy land that time, but maybe one day, if I kept being a good girl, and brushing my teeth well, I would get one. The note left out, of course, that the true Tooth Fairies couldn't really swing the expense of a $50+ toy for me at the time. I  just kept brushing well, and never stopped hoping. 


*  *  *  *  *


A while back, J and I were talking about our favorite childhood toys, and I mentioned this story. The conversation went on, turned to other topics, and I didn't give it a second thought.


For my birthday, I came home to a box, which contained this.

He found it for me.

I sat with it for a while tonight, playing (it still works perfectly, and it's everything I thought it would be, even 24 years later), and tearing up. Not for the toy, but for the effort, for the memory, for what my husband thought to do for me.

Like I said, I have everything I need.

On the Other Hand, "The Apple Thieves" Would Be A Great Band Name

The thing about children is that you sit there for at least a year or two, willing the day to arrive, that day where they can clearly communicate their wishes, their thoughts, their feelings, and then that day comes. And you don't NOTICE that day, because there's no fanfare, or anything, but it happens all the same, and you will turn around at some point, and realize your baby has turned into a sentient, articulate little person, and you will be filled with a swell of pride.

Until they do something like this.



Here's something I never thought I'd need to clarify, but all the same: I am not an apple thief, nor did my daughter and I share an ill-gotten apple at the supermarket. Fortunately, I know and love my daughter's teachers, so I will, I hope, be able to clear our previously good name.

Despite the apple-related aspersions being cast about by my daughter, we still went forward with our plan to go apple picking today. It was exactly as I had hoped it would be, putting aside the car barf extravaganza of which we shall not speak, and the loss of my beloved sunglasses somewhere in the zillion acre apple orchard. Vaya con manzanas, Ray-Ban Warriors.

 

 

It was a lovely afternoon, made even lovelier by the discovery of an apple clearly grown in Chernobyl. Something you need to do upon finding an apple this size, you see, is immediately pose for a Twilight cover. Or, frankly, ANY BOOK COVER AT ALL, given the way things appear to be trending lately:

My fake book cover also serves to providing a visual conclusion to the fascinating (ha!) question of what color I should dye my hair. I will also tell your fortune now (trying to protect the newly-colored hair from the sun, you see):

And now, I'm off to make an apple crisp. With PROPERLY PURCHASED APPLES. What the hell else am I going to do with a half bushel of apples? That wasn't rhetorical, by the way. HELP MEEEEE.

Stone v. Aniston: A Hair Quandary

Exciting news! I'm finally getting my hair cut and colored on Thursday night. This appointment is LONG OVERDUE, and I probably should've warned you about this truly thrilling AND groundbreaking development in all of our lives before just SPRINGING IT ON YOU like that. My apologies. I change up my hair so rarely that whenever I do, I become wrapped up in What I Shall Decide On, and How It Will Look, and oh, god. Now you're just going to suffer along with me, I'm afraid.

I deliberated, and settled on my plan -- Emma Stone red -- (so perfect for fall! Maybe?) when I mentioned the hair appointment to my mom earlier this evening.

Now, my mom is genuinely the kindest person I know, but she also does not mince words when it comes to my hair. ("I did not like what you did last time." -- My mom.) She then told me to make it "brown-gold," because I "don't have the skin tone for that red." And what it came down to, really, was that I should go back to my original hair color. ANYway, at first I scoffed, but then I was like, "huh, brown- gold could work...maybe?"

Credit: InStyle

(While I have sufficiently ensured that my husband is MOS DEF no longer reading this post, does anyone have any connections for Book of Mormon tickets? The show is forever sold out, and I would like for it to be a Magical Anniversary/Chanukah/Columbus Day Surprise, one which it seems near impossible to achieve, assuming I do NOT wish to part with my kidneys! Totally willing to pay full price! JUST WANT TO KEEP MY KIDNEYS.)

(I am a strategy MASTER.)

(Back to the hair!)

SO, before I ask you to weigh in (AND I WILL), here's a picture of me/my hair taken three minutes ago. (I had attempted a tousled wave thing at 5:45 this morning, which went exactly as well as you would expect for pre-dawn hair styling, and now it is nearly 15 hours later):

Now, I don't like to talk about this much, because I feel funny bragging, but I'm kind of a photo editing wizard. In order for you to have a true vision of the options here, I've taken the liberty of showing you both potential choices as realistically as I can with my (copious) skills:

 Okay, NOW you can weigh in. Auburn-ish? Or Golden-Caramel-Brown-ish? Please advise!

Hello! (Also, A Mustache Story.)

I honestly didn't realize it had been over a month since I last posted here. I wish I had some exciting news to share, or some compelling reason to explain this away, but it's truly just the thrilling trifecta of work, life, and the time it takes to get from work to home, and vice versa. And really, do you consider "an endless series of horrific commutes home via bus," something you want to hear more about? Unless Keanu Reeves figures prominently therein, I assume you do not, for hearing about someone else's commute stories is like hearing about someone else's dreams.

And lo, the rest of the summer has happened. We're settled into the house, I went for (and got!) a promotion to a new position, which I absolutely love, the kids went to camp, we went to the Poconos and came back, and yeah, great, life is a glorious orb of pure and fleeting wonder, but really, where we are is that my legacy here for over a goddamn month has been a nude man doing jumping jacks down Wall Street.

I miss writing here; it's time to dive back in, and so, we're going to talk about the elephant in the room, which is my husband's mustache problem. Obviously.

As I've mentioned before, J is MOS DEF the saner, more rational one, out of of the pair of us, which is what makes this tale -- like the Scarlet J one -- so curious. Prior to leaving for vacation, J stopped shaving, and a nice scruffy beard came in. The man looks good with a nice scruffy beard, and not at all homeless or patchy (really!), so I didn't give it a second thought. Tra la la, off we went to enjoy the Poconos; its beautiful weather, its amazing farm stands, and its preponderance of skateboarding carnies gathered in a parking lot, which is exactly what I deserve for going to a 24-hour Walmart at 11:30 PM to buy a cake for literally no reason, but I digress.

Anyway, one night, we were headed out to the movies, and I hear him shaving. "Guess he decided he was done with the beard!" I think to myself. What I SHOULD have been thinking to myself was, "Chris Hansen is probably readying his camera team in the creepy clearing behind this house right the hell now, because oh my god."

I CANNOT LOOK DIRECTLY AT THIS PICTURE. IT IS LIKE THE SUN. IF THE SUN LOOKED AS THOUGH IT WOULD LURE YOU INTO A WINDOWLESS VAN WITH SOME CANDY.

I tried everything. I told him he looked like a cop, a baseball player from 1987, and Super Mario, and frankly, it all backfired, because he thought all of those things were awesome. Then he started PREENING with it, and I wanted to die. Everyone else, obviously, found the entire situation --  including my response -- to be hilarious, but they are not married to the mustache man, who was, at that very moment, insisting we all head out, lest we be late to the movie. If you think he did not insist upon talking to literally everyone who crossed our path that evening, then truly, you do not get the scope of the horror.

A FULL DAY LATER, he finally relented, very reluctantly, and I happily shared the good news. Our (my) long (24-hour) national (just me, again) nightmare (nightmare) was over!

Then came Monday. He picked me up wearing this.

 

I'm pretty sure this means war. By all means, please feel free to weigh in with your ideas. IDEAS THAT DO NOT INVOLVE LADY 'STACHES.