She wore that dress like it was a Saturday

Some people come out of the closet.

Not me, folks. I’m heading back IN. I’ve been out too long.

I was in the middle of a very important transaction at the local drugstore (Diet Coke and Greeting Cards…2 of my vices)…when a snazzy lady came waltzing in. Her shoes were perfection. Everything matched. Her make-up was flawless, and there wasn’t a hair out-of-place.

I became painfully aware of my yoga pants. The ones that have that little bleach stain on the right upper thigh. The ones that are long enough for a Lady Sasquatch to wear to the gym. The ones I have no business wearing in public. My shirt, baggy and lifeless…with stains of peanut butter that the Littlest had on his cute little mouth, and that he accidentally transferred to my left boob area in trying to climb me like a tree. I probably don’t have to tell you about the lack of makeup I had on, and the way my hair was haphazardly thrown on top of my head in a disheveled heap to give you a little taste of Lisa Out on the Town.

It’s ok, you say! Are you assuming I was sick? Up all night with a colicky baby? Or burning the midnight oil studying for a test? Some kind of extenuating circumstance that has led to me looking like a peanut butter loving homeless girl?


This has become my normal. In other words: I’ve gotten on the fast train to sloppy hag.

How did this happen?

In HighSchool, I took fashion seriously. Every spare bit of cash I came upon from babysitting, birthday cards from Aunt Dorothy, or off the floors of phone booths  went towards the most outrageously  priced jeans, shirts belts, shoes, earrings I could find. I got up almost 2 hours early every morning to primp and pluck, moisturize and conceal. My hair alone was an hour-long ordeal.

The girls from neighboring school districts usually just got up….showered..and threw on sweats.

I didn’t go to that school district.

Every day  at WC was America’s Next Top Model, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Math was a major distraction.

The years after high school weren’t quite as much fun…just because my FUN money had to be used for things like food and rent, but I was still IN on the whole fashion scene.

And then came the babies, the first two 17 months apart. I was still teaching with the Firstborn. She came along to the classroom with me, and I could write a book about that experience. I promise to tell you ALL about that later. When the Montessori School I was teaching at changed hands, I was out of job. With the Middler coming any minute, my husband and I decided it was Divine Guidance knocking on the door.

Two babies+ Husband’s growing income+The Zero chance of finding another school that would let me bring my offspring like small dogs in a designer handbag=Time to Stay home.

I had 2 very short people to keep me company, one of them bellied up to Boobybar 24/7…and the other trying to make me “put Babee DOWN!!!”. I was puked on, pooped on, slimed with grape jelly and usually had some kind of leaking situation going on. Either from me (I swear I could have breastfed a small posse of hungry babies on demand)..or from Middler, who had a lovely habit of erupting after ever meal (his little eyes were always bigger than his tummy) or from Firstborn who was potty training, which was always fun since the first few years of her life she spent naked.

My wardrobe consisted of sweats, and if I was lucky, a clean oversized t-shirt that could be whipped up at a moment’s notice. The Middler is my most patient child, and looking back I find it hard to believe the crazy little hellion he became when he was hungry. I’m quite sure after witnessing one of his startling displays of GIVE ME THAT MILK LADY OR ELSE moments, I totally scared a future mother friend of mine into never considering nursing.

My hairstyle always included a scrunchi, and cherry chapstick was the extent of my makeup. And my mood? I could go from giddy to grumpy in 2.3 seconds flat.

Family-wise: Best days of my life.

Fashion/Makeup/Hair-wise: I was featured in Don’t be Caught Dead Looking Like This Magazine.

So, I no longer have little tinies.I sleep almost every night, all the way through…and everyone is potty trained. My chest does not go off like sprinklers at the first hint of fire in a building, and it’s a rare occasion that I am pooped on.

I have no excuse for this slovenly behavior.

I am ashamed.

I want to be snazzy again.

And so I shall. I’ve been getting tickled at my friend Laura’s Posts. I adore the way she puts outfits together, and the time she spends on her appearance. Today, I went to curl my hair, and thought….I don’t even care if it takes an hour! It turns out, it took only 20 minutes!!(I’ve gotten more efficient in my old age.) I’m going casual, but not yoga pants/peanut butter casual.  And now, if I have to run to the drug store, I won’t feel the need to hide behind the cough syrup when I see that person you never want to see when you are wearing assorted condiments and healthy protein sources.

Katie Herzig sings Jack and Jill*

What? you don’t have time? Yes you do. Go back.

One Grippy to Rule Them All

I have long hair. One time, I experimented with short hair, and it went horribly bad. Never again. I will be 97 years old with hippie hair.

I put my tresses through a lot of fussing.

Because it’s super fun. I spend hideous amounts of money on it. Which has nearly driven my husband crazy. We almost broke up in 1999 over it.

I’m kidding. But he always shakes his head and rolls his eyes at my expensive shampoos, conditioners, and the hundreds of styling products and tools I have to buy to get the perfect super model look.

This look right here, might seem to be effortless.

O no. No no no. This takes much toiling and troubling.

But, I will say, when I am super busy with kids and laundry and bowling tournaments, I resort to throwing it up.

Someday, I will be crying to you over my lack of hair. Because, I think as I get older, it will most likely thin out, if history tends to repeat itself. I have watched this happen to older female family members.

But, for right now, I can say, this much hair can be a curse. Why?

Because there is only ONE kind of ponytail holder that keeps my hair up where it belongs. Everything else breaks, or doesn’t hold it, making me look like I’ve either been through a nasty hurricane and lived to tell about it, or a P90X workout. And lived to tell about it. These little gems are amazing. They are called THE GRIPPYS in our house. I watch over them with care and love. If you were dying, and needed a GRIPPY, I’d have to really think long and hard before loaning one out. You can find them in 3 locations.

1. In my purse/hobo bag (as my husband refers to it)

2. In the drawer that holds pens, tape, nail files, sometimes the stapler, and many times, chewing gum.

3. In my bathroom.

Yesterday, I went to throw my hair into a ponytail. It was 180 degrees out with 200% humidity, and I had to walk the dog.

Do you think I could find any Grippy’s?

I tore through this house like a meth addict looking for…

well, Meth.

I have no experience with meth, but I’m guessing it’s pretty addictive.

All, and I mean ALL my Grippy’s were gone.

What the heck? How could that happen?

It seems like someone is trying to break into my very soul. What’s next? My favorite straightening gel that makes my hair sleek, shiny and rock star-ish?

If you guys have any inkling about what could have happened to all my Grippys….any information at all, please contact me immediately. Yesterday, it was just the dog walking that suffered. Tomorrow, it could be my friend calling for an emergency workout session.

Then what?

Answer me that.


Toes by Zac Brown

Me with my Finger Toes. Pay no attention to the tiny foot off to the left. Although it is cute and Fred Flintstone like.

Ya’ll remember this picture? It’s from my  journey Into the Mystic. It’s the best photo I have of the time I spent with “finger toes”.


FINGER TOES. Some people call it a French Manicure. But Another…who will remain NAMELESS<<<(if you click on NAMELESS….it will take you straight to my girlfriend that so nonchalantly decided to make me feel bad about my toes in the middle of a baseball game that our sons were playing in) calls this particular nail fashion…Finger Toes.

“Lis..sorry…but, you have Finger Toes.”  announced Miss Nameless.

Finger toes? How weird is that? Who wants their toes to look like fingers?

I was devastated. Everytime I wore my beloved flip-flops, I was self-conscious. What were people thinking? There goes that girl with the toes that look like fingers. Ewwwww!


Why doesn’t she wear some flats that cover up those finger toes?

So, I went to my wonderful Kerri friend. Master of all things nails….and asked her to get rid of my Finger Toes. She did. This is what they look like now.

Pay no attention to the large black poodle snuggled up. Look at my toes.

So I ask you dear reader: Which look do you prefer? I know what some people would say. But I need your opinion. Because, of all my features..I’ve always been quite confident about my feet. I thought I could pull off any nail design.

Until. You know WHO said you know WHAT.

Please help me get my confidence back.

But be honest.

Because, if I’m walking around looking like I’m doing a handstand….that would not be cool.



I was almost a hairstylist. When I was in highschool, my friend Hollie and me were going to some big learn the art. We were going to open up a Salon that rock stars come to. Very tre’ chic. Very expensive. People would be coming from far and wide to have us make them beautiful.

And then, somehow our plans changed. I ran off to college with Edward, she fell in love, too  (has her masters in Teaching young kids)…and our dreams of cutting, highlighting, and business operator discounts on hair products went up in smoke like a cheap blow dryer.

The other day, though, as Violet’s softball team lounged in the oasis of a large tent and cold drinks, awaiting their next game, I started playing with one of the little girl’s hair as she leaned against my legs.

She had originally put it in a ponytail, but the sides were coming loose from diving to home plate, and the characteristic South Dakota winds.

I raked my fingers through her long golden highlighted strands, and started doing a classic “fishtail” plait down her back. Other little girls stopped chattering and began watching in wonder. It really did look cool, if I do say so myself.

My beautiful little victim seemed to glow as others told her how amazing her hair looked, and as she smiled at me appreciatively, I was inundated with “Lisa!! Could you please do that to MY hair? ..I’m next!! Wait your turn!”

I ended up fishtailing every last girl on the team. I laughed to myself when I remembered me and Hollie, wishing to have famous people on our waiting list.

My salon wasn’t a fancy one, in vintage downtown New York. It was a tent. I didn’t have any famous rock stars, although one of the little girls did a really great Nikki Minaj impression. But it was fun. Really fun.

Especially when my own daughter, who rarely lets me touch her long dark tresses, came up and shyly requested my services. HA! See Violet? I DO know what I’m doing!! (I didn’t say it. I wanted to. But I’m no gloater. I swear a good part of  pre-teen motherhood is the practice of biting one’s tongue)

Are you waiting for me to tell you how to do it? I won’t. But I could put you on my waiting list….let’s see..looks like I have an opening in early November. Shall I pencil you in? 🙂