The Pink-Haired Republican

Spring quarter, my senior year of college, a little group of us girls completed what we dubbed the “Too Much Princess for One Boy Shuffle.”

This would be the last of our collegiate bar-crawls, so it had to include all the bells and whistles;   including crowns and customized t-shirts.

The back of each t-shirt had a moniker that the other shufflers had crafted.  You know, something personal, funny and endearing.  The description for the back of my shirt?

“I’m not boring, I’m just conservative!”

Obviously this didn’t make me sound like the life of the party, but for someone that made it through Ohio University in 4 years, with a whistle-clean academic record, no arrests to my name and a body free of ink and piercings, well, it wasn’t entirely off-base.

Oh, and my membership to the Young Republican Party.  I guess that alone could have justified the t-shirt.

Soon after college, I became employed with a pharmaceutical company, and enjoyed a great 7-year career before becoming a home girl.  But working in corporate America with 2 very conservative companies left little room for creative expression through fashion and accessories.

Polished make-up, pantyhose with a skirted suit (black-or-brown-or-grey-oh my!) and a pair of pumps:  this pretty much sums up my “uniform” for the duration of my 20’s.  I took a chance one winter and polished my nails with “Lincoln Park After Dark.” (Soo risky, right?!?)  I still remember one physician giving the head nod toward my hands and remarking “Black nails are for Halloween.”

Because let’s face it – when you’re dealing with the white coats, settling on the boring side is a bit better than being gossiped about once you’ve walked out of that waiting room.

Which all leads me to this.

As I was planning Lake’s birthday party, I realized: holy cow – I’ve been unemployed (well except for working for the [little] man) for 2 years. . .and I’ve had to answer to absolutely no one.

I can wear "Lincoln Park After Dark" any damn day I please.  And I can wear skirts, sans pantyhose!  And I can do this with my hair!

But come on, I’m a republican, remember?  I would never do that!  But I did do this:

Yes, my friends, those are pink streaks you see.   Call it a quarter-life crisis if you want. (Because yes, I do plan on living to be 124 years old, duh!)  Bottom line is I did it simply because I could!

So the t-shirt was correct!  I’m NOT boring!!

And considering what I could have done with my hair, looks like - in true Ashlea fashion-  I executed the pink highlights in the most conservative way possible . 

A Girl Can Change Her Mind. . .

I was just a little girl when my mom first told me she hated Texas.

To be fair, she had only lived here for a short time after my dad was drafted, just before he was being shipped-off to Vietnam.  So her brief stay in the Lone Star State was anything but a happy time, I’m sure.

My entire life, I imagined Texas as a tumbleweed infested, gun wielding, sweaty upper-lip kinda place. 

The taste in my mouth was so bad that shortly after we got married, I went to the extent of telling Mark, “The only place I absolutely won’t live is Texas.”

[*Visualize me eating my own words here.]

So after almost a year of living in downtown Dallas, in an urban little apartment with an amazing view, drinking some of the best margaritas I could ever imagine and meeting some wonderful people who have become great friends, I have learned to love it here. 

And I’ve learned that there is no tumbleweed in Dallas, and not everyone carries a weapon.  As for the sweaty upper-lip. . .well, in 110 degree summer days, it simply cannot be avoided.

Bottom line – I’ve learned to love Texas so much, that we went ahead and did this:

We purchased our first HOME in Texas!  Turns out we’re here to stay.

Looks like my mom’s gonna have to learn to love it now, too.

The North Park Santa Saga

Sleep.  For those of you who know me, I mean really know me, you know how important my (at least) 8 hours are to my mental well-being.  That being said, there is only 1 thing I am willing to give that up for, and it’s - you guessed it - my little man.

And that would explain why I was lined-up at North Park Mall, at 8 am, to secure a ticket for Lake to see Santa.  Yes, you read correctly, a ticket to see Santa.

This story actually beings 1 week ago, when I got up (at my usual 9am) and got Lake all dressed-up for our (now) annual trip to Santa Clause.  I was feeling good about our timing, and hoping that arriving a half-hour before Santa actually began taking photos with the kids would secure us a decent spot in line.  My guesstimate?  Forty-five minute wait to see the big guy.

As we strolled through the mall, there seemed to be an unusually large amount of children already in the corridor listening to Santa’s story-time.  I asked a security guard where to line up for photos, and she pointed in the direction of a young man wearing a red hat.   “Red Hat Guy” handed me a ticket and explained that I should return around 11:30 for Lake’s turn with Santa. 

“Uh, ok.”  I sighed.

A full hour to keep Lake entertained.

I looked at my watch. “I guess I’ll see you around 11:30 then.”

“No, you misunderstood,” explained Red Hat Guy.  “I said 1:30.”

“Are you being serious?”  I stammered.  My hopeful 45-minute wait just turned into a full 3 hours. . .

Red Hat Guy points to the top of my ticket. 

“You’re #127,” he said politely.

I suddenly felt myself having flashbacks to the DMV. 

It was as if someone had stuck a pin in me – I was totally deflated.  I was just thankful that Lake wasn’t old enough to completely grasp the nature of our mall trip; otherwise, he would’ve been pretty devastated, too.

Ok, then.  No Santa today.

Fast-forward 1 week. 

In an effort to make sure Lake’s Santa experience was successful the second time around, I found myself rushing to the mall a full hour before it officially opened for the day.  I hadn’t even had my morning cup of Joe.  And when I walked in, this is what I saw:

Did I just get transported to the Bon Jovi ticket-line circa 1989?  No joke, people must have started lining up while it was still dark outside!  The only thing that would cause this kind of parental insanity is if this guy were the actual Santa Clause, right?!?

One hour later, Red Hat Guy handed me my new ticket.  Seventeen.  I was told to return to the mall and be in line by 11:15.  Two hours later, Mark, Lake and I arrive for the big event.  Red Hat Guy should have actually said 12:15, because that’s when Santa (by the way, he was not the actual Santa Clause) was finally ready for Lake to take a seat on his infamous lap.

This was the result.

Three separate trips to the mall, 2 attempts to see Santa, 3 hours of total wait-time and this was how it ended.   Priceless!

At least when we got home, Lake and I both took a well-deserved afternoon nap.

Merry Christmas!

Whoa, whoa, whoa Miss Lippy. . .

Do you ever wonder if you could’ve been a rock star?

Ok, maybe not a rock star, but just something different from what you have become.  You know, if you would have grown up in a different city, attended a different college or been exposed to just one more sport?

Sometimes I do.  Wonder, I mean.

It’s not that my parents didn’t let me try out a million different things.  In fact, I would like to publicly thank my Mom and Dad for the thousands of dollars spent on piano, swimming, tennis and dancing lessons, in addition to providing me with all the sporting gear needed for basketball, track and cheerleading over my adolescent years.  But sometimes I wonder. . .if I had been given ice skating lessons, could I have been the next Kristi Yamaguchi?

So fast forward and I am now a 31-year-old mom.  No real exceptional talents, just a normal parent hoping to expose my child to just the right thing to give him some self-confidence. 

So at the ripe old age of 18 months, cue the first exposure.

Art class.

My grandfather was an insanely talented artist (that gene was unfortunately not passed on to his youngest grandchild) and Mark has some pretty amazing artistic skills himself, so it seemed to be a good fit for Lakes first “classroom” activity.

I might have been wrong.

Over the course of this 10-week art class, the sequence of events typically unfolded like this:

• Arrival.

• A Miss Lippy-esque teacher gives directions for each project to be completed for the day.  Meanwhile, Lake has meltdown #1 because he’s itching to get into the paint sitting on each of the tables and I’m desperately trying to sit him quietly in my lap like all the other parents have successfully done.

• Start our projects. Lake eats blue paint.

• Meltdown #2 when Lake realizes he has paint all over his hands.

• Lake spends 5 minutes splashing his hands in a tub of soap and water.  Dry.  Repeat.

• Easel time.  Lake finally starts enjoying himself as he moves from easel to easel painting on every piece of paper he can find, regardless of if another child is already painting there.

• Meltdown #3 occurs as “Miss Lippy” calls us over for music time. His hands need washed.  Again.

• And then, this happens.

Seems I inadvertently exposed him to just the right thing.  Next up:  music class.  Maybe he will be a rock star after all. 

My 5-Hour Broken Heart

Traditionally, the day after Labor Day is when many children experience their first day of school.  And for me, the day after Labor Day 2011 will always be the day my baby had his first day of school, too.

I will be the first to admit that the term “school” is somewhat of a stretch.  It’s more like a daycare.  Part-time.  Appropriately named “Mother’s Day Out,” since it’s basically a child-care program for stay-at-home moms that need a mere 5 (or in some cases 10) hours a week in order to keep a hold on their sanity.  For me, it’s going to take 10, but that’s neither here nor there. . .

I had such high hopes for how this day would begin.

I imagined Mark and I walking Lake down the hall at the church, only to have Lake overcome with excitement.  He would point at the other kids, and skip down toward his classroom.  When he noticed his name stenciled on a jumbo, construction paper pencil taped to the door, he would run in and give the teacher a high-five.  Realizing he had forgotten to say good-bye, he would run back out, hug and kiss us, stand smiling for our “first-day of school family photo-op,” and wave bye-bye.   And Mark and I would meander back to the car, smiling and holding hands, wondering how in the world we ended up with such a well-adjusted kid.

Reality check.  Actually went a ‘lil something like this:

I carried Lake all the way down the hall to his classroom, because the sight of all the kids and parents going in every direction was a bit too much for him to handle.  There was no skipping, but to be fair, he doesn’t know how to skip yet.  Then when we got to his classroom, where I noticed his name on the door (because he can’t read, obviously) and we were not overcome with the feeling of excitement, but the feeling some would call fear.   I swear you would’ve thought that the 6 children who had been dropped off before Lake were being tortured alive behind that oak door.  The screaming, oh the screaming. . .I tried to keep my cool but if I could read Lake’s mind, he would’ve said: “What in the hell is going on in that room, and please explain why you are leaving me here!”

Just before Mark and I were ready to make a run for it (with Lake in tow!) Lake's teacher, Debra, slithered out the door. 

“I’ll take him now,” she said anxiously.

But, but. . .we’d hadn’t even taken our family photo!

By this time, Lake had a total death grip on my neck, and was unwilling to unlock his legs from around my waist.  Screaming with crocodile tears streaming down his little face, I turn to my husband for direction.  He was now tearing-up with a look of horror on his face.

“I really need to shut the door now,” Debra said impatiently.   I looked down and noticed a little guy trying to make a prison break from behind her.

Using all my might, I peeled Lake off my body and dropped him into Debra’s arms.  Fighting back tears of my own, I reassured him he would do great and I would see him in just a few hours.

The door shut.

I lost it.  Mark lost it.  And instead of talking about how great our kid was, we cried silently all the way back to the car, broken-hearted.

That was 9 o’clock.  By 10 o’clock, I was back in the quiet apartment by myself doing the only thing that could possibly make me feel better about being a selfish mother that just scarred her child for life.  I sat in front of the computer and engaged in a little retail therapy.

Now to be fair, I did leave the apartment around 11 and made a Starbucks run and a quick stop at GapKids.  Then I wandered through Central Market to pick up dinner for the week.  While I should’ve deciding between chicken breasts and short-ribs, I found myself shamelessly smiling at every toddler-sized human being in sight and wishing I had Lake in the buggy laughing at the lobsters in the case.  He loves the lobsters.

By 1 o’clock, I couldn’t stand the anticipation.  I had butterflies in my stomach, and could not get to the church fast enough.

I arrived for the 2 o’clock pick-up at 1:45.

Debra opened the door, and through the crowd ahead, Lake spotted me.  He shrieked with delight, and grinning from ear to ear, ran into my arms. My day may not have started as I imagined, but it sure did end like it.

 

And for those of you wondering. . .

Lake had only cried for a few minutes after we left and had a near-perfect first-day of school.  Turns out we really do have a pretty well-adjusted kid :)

It's Raining, It's Pouring, Visitors Are Snoring!

 It’s no secret that Texas is in a bit of a drought. . .

And earlier this summer, Mark, Lake and I were having a drought of our own – a visitor drought!  Now, don’t get me wrong, I understand that summertime presents the best opportunity for family reunions and vacations, but after 3 months without a single visitor, well,  were getting pretty lonely down here!

And as they say, when it rains, it pours.

It all began in late July with a lovely visit from my mother-in-law, Diane.  The quick 3-day trip seemed to fly by, but we all got to spend some quality time together.  And BONUS:  Mark and I were granted a much-needed date night!  Thanks, Diane!

Shortly after Diane’s departure back to Columbus, my sister, Shana and my nephew, Will made their first trip to Dallas.  It was wonderful spending time with them and Lake just adores his Aunt and Cousin.  We spent a significant amount of time just playing, but also did some sightseeing, which included my first-time to the Dallas World Aquarium.

Now, before Shana and Will could even unpack their bags back in Florida, I was leaving on a jet plane of my own. . .to Vegas, baby!  It only took me 17 months (post Lake, of course) to take a girl’s-trip, and it was just what the doctor ordered!   Poolside drinks, nights out on the town, and the best part?  The company of 4 college friends that had simply let too many years go by since our last get-together :)

*Note- while I was gossiping, shopping and gambling, my amazing husband was back at home taking care of Lake.  And even cuter?  My father-in-law, Dick, flew to Dallas to have a “boy’s weekend” with his son and grandbaby. 

Unfortunately, Dick left Dallas just hours before I landed, but there was no time to dwell on missing him, because my old friend Rachel was in New Mexico, en-route to D-town!

 While I would have loved to show her everything that Dallas has to offer, the 105 degree weather put a slight damper on that. . .but the heat did not slow us down in the 2 most important departments:  shopping and eating!  Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do on vacation anyhow?  We did, however, visit the 1 cannot-miss (indoor) Dallas attraction – The 6^th Floor Museum.  And, all right, we ventured outside to see the grassy knoll. . .but it was hot!

Rachel was still in-town when we began a much-overdue visit with my parents, Russ and Marlene.  The Monday thru Thursday trip always seems like it will be plenty of time, but in the end, I felt like I blinked and the week was over.  Every time my parents come to town, I try to introduce them to a new part of Dallas.  With this trip came a jaunt over to Fort Worth to see the Stock Yards and cattle drive.  There’s something about seeing giant cattle just cruising down the brick road that really makes you feel like you’re in Texas!

Whew!  I told ya, the universe didn’t just rain visitors on us, it poured and ended our summertime visitor drought!

And as this crazy month of visitors comes full circle with a Labor Day weekend visit from Diane (and her new husband, Dan) I can only hope that, along with it, comes some real, bona fide rain. 

Steak or Chicken? I choose Chicken.

I keenly recall people warning me that life would never be the same after kids.  Skeptics, I thought. 

I don’t mean to brag, but Mark and I had a pretty fantastic life before little Lake graced us with his presence.  Impromptu weekend trips to Chicago, dinners at great steakhouses followed by evenings at wine bars, frequent concerts and movies – we basically did whatever we wanted to do, including a Mediterranean Cruise through Italy, the Greek Isles and Croatia.

Even during the pregnancy, we vowed not to let our soon-to-be-infant slow us down.  No little guy was gonna change our lives, we would change his.  We would drag him along to wherever we wanted, whenever we wanted and it would be great.  

And in truth, we pretty much do.  Roundhouse Bar at PIB with Lake in a sling-carrier?  Yes, I had a baby. . .in a bar! Dinner at a French bistro with 2 other (childless) couples?  Lake was there!  Drinks at a work-related happy hour with a 12-month-old running about?  Yep, we were those people (with a baby, in a bar, again!!).

The nice steakhouse dinners, though, seemed to have dwindled in frequency.

That’s not to say we don’t go out to dinner, we just go to more, do you say “family-friendly” establishments.

Friday night, we went out in search of some size 2-T Old Navy t-shirts  (they were on sale for $4!) and some grub.  We were successful in the clothing department, and after much deliberation, found ourselves at Chic-Fil-A.

Mmm, hmm.

We sat eating our chicken sandwiches, watching the big kids tear through the play area and parents scramble to keep their children from running around the restaurant in bare-feet. 

Then a couple, with 3 little boys ranging in age from, I’d say 6 months to 5 years, walked by.  She wrestled with her purse to find keys while managing the older kids, and he awkwardly clutched the baby on his left hip while a Coach diaper bag hung across his body.

“That’s totally gonna be us in a few years,” I realized. “Friday nights at Chic-Fil-A from here-on-out, huh?”

“Yep! You know what’s crazy, though?” Mark replied. “I’m really enjoying this.”

I smiled.  “Me too.”

Those skeptics were right, indeed.