Until last week I’d never been to Hawaii. Most of our vacations had
been to visit grandmas and grandpas, all the Texas relatives and that
one time I almost pushed a Huffman teenager into the Grand Canyon.
But
thanks to my husband, he and I got invited to this fancy schmancy wine
festival at this fancy schmancy resort on Maui. At the Ritz-Carlton.
I’d
never actually set foot in a Ritz. The only Ritz I knew was the
crackers in my pantry. When we go on vacation we usually end up at a
Hampton Inn or an aunt’s spare bedroom. There is no “staying at the
Ritz” for the Huffmans.
You know the wine festival is only four
days, my husband reminded me. We might have to leave the Ritz and move
to a cheaper hotel after that, he said.
I looked at him.
Yes, I’ll leave the Ritz to go stay in a budget hotel, said no woman ever.
Luckily,
the Ritz took pity on our formerly Ritz-free lives and gave us a very
un-Ritz discount to stay a few extra days. Perhaps they wanted to avoid
the ugly scene of me being dragged from their hotel kicking and
screaming. Also crying.
Good thinking, Ritz people.
Wine
people are usually pretty happy, but take 1,000 wine people, send them
to the Ritz on Maui to drink wine, and you get a whole lot of wine
people in a really good mood. In fact, everyone on Maui was in a really
good mood. It must be the flowered shirts, leis and all that Aloha-ing.
Aloha
hello, Aloha goodbye, Aloha peace, Aloha spirit. You can add “Aloha” to
almost anything and the more you say it, the better you feel. I can see
why people visit Hawaii and never leave. It’s Aloha-gotcha.
Besides
someone making the bed every day for me, I liked the Ritz pool the
best. They give you not one but two towels, one for covering the lounge
chair and one for drying off. The pool guy/gal comes over to take your
drink order and then personally delivers your pineapple juice. At one
point, a Ritz pool guy carrying a tray of fruit walked to the edge of
the pool, put down the tray, dived into the water, uniform and all, and
then picked up the tray and carried it around to reach those of us
floating in the pool. As if we Ritz guests couldn’t possibly swim five
feet to meet him at the edge of the pool. But the best part was when
another Ritz pool guy came over with a little cloth and offered to clean
my sunglasses for me.
I have arrived, I told the woman sitting next to me. I am never ever ever leaving the Ritz.
Of
course, then I had to leave the Ritz. It was time to go home. A home
where there is no pool with endless piles of freshly folded towels, I
clean my own sunglasses and the pineapple comes in a can.
Aloha Maui. Aloha Ritz. I miss you already.
Sunday, June 22, 2014
Sunday, June 08, 2014
Grad girl
I’ve spent the past 17 years dropping off and picking up Huffman girls at our same elementary/middle school, but it’s all over.
The youngest Huffman has graduated from eighth grade.
I graduated too — I’m now the parent of only high school students. No more K-8 for me. I’ve mom-triculated.
Over the past school year, I’d been keeping track of each “last.” Last back to school night. Last Halloween carnival. Last Spuds with Buds lunch. Last jogathon. Last science fair.
As the mom of two older girls, I know what happens next. They go on to high school, and mom and dad are definitely not invited. High school doesn’t have room parents, Chinatown trip chaperones and Spaghetti with Your Sweetheart.
I saw it coming. Since the youngest Huffman started eighth grade, she made it clear that mom should not linger on the playground. I should also not: take any photos with my iPhone during morning assembly, talk to any of her friends or ask any questions upon picking her up after school. I should just drive. And immediately change the radio to Hits 1.
All the lasts left me feeling ridiculously nostalgic about anything to do with our school.
The other day, I stayed for one last morning assembly. I got all choked up during the Pledge of Allegiance. I’ll never say the Pledge at our school again!
I looked at the girls wearing their matching red plaid skirts. No Huffman girl will ever wear the plaid again!
I listened to our principal’s daily announcements, all of which seemed especially poignant. I’ll never hear the morning announcements again!
I took one last walk down the main hallway in the school. There were the dozens of graduating class photos lining the walls, the statue of Mary, Jenny, the school secretary and the little first-grader desks. I’ll never see them again!
Of course you will, I said. Snap out of it. The school isn’t going anywhere. But our girl definitely is.
The actual graduation ceremony distracted me from more moping about all the “lasts.” The eighth-graders were all dressed up in their Sunday best and looking very much like the 14- and almost-15-year-olds they are. The girls tottered down the aisle in their heels and new dresses, and the boys wore ties and new dress shirts.
Grandmas and grandpas, sisters and brothers, grads from years past and grads to come filled the church pews, hooting loudly for their favorites. The eighth-graders had prepared a song they’d spent weeks rehearsing. As they began to sing, our school’s music director moved her hands and arms, coaxing harmony from even the most reluctant teen singers.
Later, each grad gave their parents a flower and little note. “Thank you for the gift of love each day,” it read. “I don’t say it enough,” but “I love you.”
Are you crying? asked our middle daughter.
No, I said, as I wiped away my tears.
The youngest Huffman has graduated from eighth grade.
I graduated too — I’m now the parent of only high school students. No more K-8 for me. I’ve mom-triculated.
Over the past school year, I’d been keeping track of each “last.” Last back to school night. Last Halloween carnival. Last Spuds with Buds lunch. Last jogathon. Last science fair.
As the mom of two older girls, I know what happens next. They go on to high school, and mom and dad are definitely not invited. High school doesn’t have room parents, Chinatown trip chaperones and Spaghetti with Your Sweetheart.
I saw it coming. Since the youngest Huffman started eighth grade, she made it clear that mom should not linger on the playground. I should also not: take any photos with my iPhone during morning assembly, talk to any of her friends or ask any questions upon picking her up after school. I should just drive. And immediately change the radio to Hits 1.
All the lasts left me feeling ridiculously nostalgic about anything to do with our school.
The other day, I stayed for one last morning assembly. I got all choked up during the Pledge of Allegiance. I’ll never say the Pledge at our school again!
I looked at the girls wearing their matching red plaid skirts. No Huffman girl will ever wear the plaid again!
I listened to our principal’s daily announcements, all of which seemed especially poignant. I’ll never hear the morning announcements again!
I took one last walk down the main hallway in the school. There were the dozens of graduating class photos lining the walls, the statue of Mary, Jenny, the school secretary and the little first-grader desks. I’ll never see them again!
Of course you will, I said. Snap out of it. The school isn’t going anywhere. But our girl definitely is.
The actual graduation ceremony distracted me from more moping about all the “lasts.” The eighth-graders were all dressed up in their Sunday best and looking very much like the 14- and almost-15-year-olds they are. The girls tottered down the aisle in their heels and new dresses, and the boys wore ties and new dress shirts.
Grandmas and grandpas, sisters and brothers, grads from years past and grads to come filled the church pews, hooting loudly for their favorites. The eighth-graders had prepared a song they’d spent weeks rehearsing. As they began to sing, our school’s music director moved her hands and arms, coaxing harmony from even the most reluctant teen singers.
Later, each grad gave their parents a flower and little note. “Thank you for the gift of love each day,” it read. “I don’t say it enough,” but “I love you.”
Are you crying? asked our middle daughter.
No, I said, as I wiped away my tears.
Sunday, May 25, 2014
Got your goat
About a month ago, the youngest Huffman announced her news.
“I’m getting two goats,” she said.
Not being in charge of Huffman animals, I looked at my husband, who nodded to confirm.
Where exactly are we putting these two goats? I asked.
Down the street at the 4-H farm, she said.
All of my problems with the goats instantly evaporated. I don’t care how many goats we own just as long as they aren’t pooping in my backyard.
Apparently this is what happens in 4-H. The kids start with something small and portable like a bunny and next thing you know, you’re a goat farmer.
4-H goats work like this:
You get the goats. You feed the goats. You train the goats to walk around on a leash-type thing. You take the goats to the fair where you sell the goats.
You make a few bucks and someone else makes goat stew.
I like how goat ownership has a speedy beginning, middle and end including dollar signs.
After the goat delivery, we headed over to the farm to check them out. There they were, about 20 brown and white goats, along with a few sheep.
We visited before they’d been fed. Big mistake.
Do not visit goats that are expecting dinner. If you do not bring the dinner, the goats get m-a-d. The sheep will also be mad. And they will make a lot of noise to let you know just how mad they are.
Don’t try and explain to the mad goats/sheep that you are very sorry about not bringing food because you are only visiting. This will only make them madder.
There was a cute little cow in another pen next to the goats. She was not mad. She was frisky and practically pranced along next to the fence when we walked by. Who knew a cow could act like a puppy?
Later my husband corrected me.
That’s not a cow, he said. That’s a steer.
Gotcha, Mr. I Grew Up On A Farm.
I discovered that the goats aren’t like a puppy. They don’t want to be petted. They don’t even want to be touched. When our girl got into their pen, they ran to one corner. When she walked over to them, they ran to the other corner. It was like a game of chase, which is not how you train a goat, my husband informed us. Do not chase the goats, he said.
In the middle of the pen was a tree stump. I assumed it was for the goat owner to sit and pet her goats, a la “Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm,” but instead, the goats used it as a scouting platform, probably for a better view of who is bringing them dinner.
The goats warily eyed our girl while she tried to entice them over for a snack of some Wheat Thins. Eventually the bravest of the two, now named Caramel, managed a quick nibble before running away. The not-so-brave goat, named Snickers, kept his distance.
I think someone must have told him about the goat stew.
“I’m getting two goats,” she said.
Not being in charge of Huffman animals, I looked at my husband, who nodded to confirm.
Where exactly are we putting these two goats? I asked.
Down the street at the 4-H farm, she said.
All of my problems with the goats instantly evaporated. I don’t care how many goats we own just as long as they aren’t pooping in my backyard.
Apparently this is what happens in 4-H. The kids start with something small and portable like a bunny and next thing you know, you’re a goat farmer.
4-H goats work like this:
You get the goats. You feed the goats. You train the goats to walk around on a leash-type thing. You take the goats to the fair where you sell the goats.
You make a few bucks and someone else makes goat stew.
I like how goat ownership has a speedy beginning, middle and end including dollar signs.
After the goat delivery, we headed over to the farm to check them out. There they were, about 20 brown and white goats, along with a few sheep.
We visited before they’d been fed. Big mistake.
Do not visit goats that are expecting dinner. If you do not bring the dinner, the goats get m-a-d. The sheep will also be mad. And they will make a lot of noise to let you know just how mad they are.
Don’t try and explain to the mad goats/sheep that you are very sorry about not bringing food because you are only visiting. This will only make them madder.
There was a cute little cow in another pen next to the goats. She was not mad. She was frisky and practically pranced along next to the fence when we walked by. Who knew a cow could act like a puppy?
Later my husband corrected me.
That’s not a cow, he said. That’s a steer.
Gotcha, Mr. I Grew Up On A Farm.
I discovered that the goats aren’t like a puppy. They don’t want to be petted. They don’t even want to be touched. When our girl got into their pen, they ran to one corner. When she walked over to them, they ran to the other corner. It was like a game of chase, which is not how you train a goat, my husband informed us. Do not chase the goats, he said.
In the middle of the pen was a tree stump. I assumed it was for the goat owner to sit and pet her goats, a la “Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm,” but instead, the goats used it as a scouting platform, probably for a better view of who is bringing them dinner.
The goats warily eyed our girl while she tried to entice them over for a snack of some Wheat Thins. Eventually the bravest of the two, now named Caramel, managed a quick nibble before running away. The not-so-brave goat, named Snickers, kept his distance.
I think someone must have told him about the goat stew.
Sunday, May 11, 2014
Jury Mom
Some people are afraid of spiders, clowns or horror movies.
I used to fear jury duty.
This was back when our three girls were single digits and my day was a nonstop marathon of waking, dressing, feeding, napping, making dinner, supervising three baths and pretty much dropping dead at about 8 p.m. each night.
How would I manage all that and a jury? Sure, you get some piddly amount for a stipend but that definitely wouldn’t pay for a baby sitter for three kids. My husband could take over mommy duty but who would do his job?
Whenever I got the dreaded red jury notice, I immediately checked the box for the 90-day extension and then usually a second 90-day extension, praying that the jury choosers would eventually forget about me and my three kids. The few times I had to call in for jury selection the night before, I’d cross my fingers. Please don’t pick me. Please, please, please.
Even before kids, I hated getting called because my employer didn’t pay for jury duty. That didn’t stop me from getting summoned for a jury in San Francisco when I lived in the city. It was an attempted murder trial, but all I heard was “murder.”
It was a novelty for about two hours but then I realized that being on a jury would seriously cut into my single-girl lifestyle. The attorneys eyeing potential jurors probably saw a spacey 20-something who could barely concentrate on what she was doing in the next two hours let alone the next two days. I was excused.
Smart move, Judge. I was in no condition to be serving up justice on attempted murderers or anyone else.
I once got called for jury duty in Napa while I was still nursing one baby. I panicked. How was I going to feed my baby every three hours if I got seated on a jury? Whip out a breast pump during cross examination? Smuggle her in under an XL maternity blouse? Or just wear her in a Baby Bjorn and let the defense get an earful of hungry baby? Luckily for me and the entire criminal justice system, I was dismissed early on.
The other day, a co-worker got called for jury duty. But instead of my usual thankgoodnessitsnotme, I realized that I actually wouldn’t mind being on a jury.
Our girls are pretty much self-sustainable these days. My job pays me for jury duty. It’d be like a vacation but without using any vacation days. I’m a naturally curious person – I think it would be cool to be part of a trial. In the jury box, I mean.
And what if I was on a jury trial where I had to be sequestered?
No TV, no Internet, no cellphone. After jury duty, I’d have to sit around all by myself and read books. All meals would be provided. I’d get maid service and stay in a hotel room.
Napa attorneys: Give me a call. I’m all yours.
I used to fear jury duty.
This was back when our three girls were single digits and my day was a nonstop marathon of waking, dressing, feeding, napping, making dinner, supervising three baths and pretty much dropping dead at about 8 p.m. each night.
How would I manage all that and a jury? Sure, you get some piddly amount for a stipend but that definitely wouldn’t pay for a baby sitter for three kids. My husband could take over mommy duty but who would do his job?
Whenever I got the dreaded red jury notice, I immediately checked the box for the 90-day extension and then usually a second 90-day extension, praying that the jury choosers would eventually forget about me and my three kids. The few times I had to call in for jury selection the night before, I’d cross my fingers. Please don’t pick me. Please, please, please.
Even before kids, I hated getting called because my employer didn’t pay for jury duty. That didn’t stop me from getting summoned for a jury in San Francisco when I lived in the city. It was an attempted murder trial, but all I heard was “murder.”
It was a novelty for about two hours but then I realized that being on a jury would seriously cut into my single-girl lifestyle. The attorneys eyeing potential jurors probably saw a spacey 20-something who could barely concentrate on what she was doing in the next two hours let alone the next two days. I was excused.
Smart move, Judge. I was in no condition to be serving up justice on attempted murderers or anyone else.
I once got called for jury duty in Napa while I was still nursing one baby. I panicked. How was I going to feed my baby every three hours if I got seated on a jury? Whip out a breast pump during cross examination? Smuggle her in under an XL maternity blouse? Or just wear her in a Baby Bjorn and let the defense get an earful of hungry baby? Luckily for me and the entire criminal justice system, I was dismissed early on.
The other day, a co-worker got called for jury duty. But instead of my usual thankgoodnessitsnotme, I realized that I actually wouldn’t mind being on a jury.
Our girls are pretty much self-sustainable these days. My job pays me for jury duty. It’d be like a vacation but without using any vacation days. I’m a naturally curious person – I think it would be cool to be part of a trial. In the jury box, I mean.
And what if I was on a jury trial where I had to be sequestered?
No TV, no Internet, no cellphone. After jury duty, I’d have to sit around all by myself and read books. All meals would be provided. I’d get maid service and stay in a hotel room.
Napa attorneys: Give me a call. I’m all yours.
Monday, April 28, 2014
The VIP
It had been four months since we’d seen College Girl, so of course
everyone wanted maximum face time with the family VIP when she came to
Napa for Easter.
Let’s go shopping together for an Easter outfit, said mom.
Check out my cactus garden, said Grandpa.
Come with me to my boyfriend’s track meet, said one sister.
Watch me breed my rabbits, said the other sister.
After a few suspicious sniffs, even the dog wanted to hang out with her.
I was in a good mood all weekend. College Girl’s sisters were probably wondering what had come over mom. I said yes to almost everything. I took the girls to the mall and out to dinner almost every night. At Target, I let them talk me into buying both the new Hobbit movie and “Frozen.”
At Starbucks, instead of our usual $2 rule, my husband turned into Daddy Warbucks and told everyone to get whatever they wanted.
College kids, if you haven’t visited home lately, you should definitely reconsider. Us mom and dads miss you and want to buy you all the Frappuccinos and hot panini sandwiches you can eat.
The teenager who comes home from college is really something.
They’ve got swagger. Attitude. Chutzpah. They’ve lived away from mom and dad long enough to appreciate in-house laundry service, free food and a full tank of gas, but they’ve also got that new almost-20-something confidence.
They have been thrust out into the wilderness and survived. Kind of like Tom Hanks in “Cast Away”: “I have made fire. I. Have made fire.”
College Girl even surprised mom a couple of times over the weekend.
When one Huffman daughter complained about not having any spending money, College Girl laid it out for her.
You need to get a job, she told her sister.
When another Huffman daughter warned her sister about saying anything that might make for good column material, College Girl shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “So what?”
That’s not to say the oldest Huffman is all that. Mom had to put the kibosh on the swearing.
I don’t care how old you are, your mother doesn’t want to hear four-letter words coming out of your mouth.
By the time we sat down to Easter dinner, I started getting sad feelings.
College Girl had to go back to college. Mom and Dad had to go back to work. There would be no more spoiling. No more shopping.
She left early on Monday morning to catch a 6:30 a.m. flight.
I looked inside her room after she left. I’d gotten used to seeing her in there again, sitting on her bed with her laptop, clothes spilling out of her suitcase on the floor, blankets and pillows thrown around.
But that morning, the room was empty. Her pile of clothes and the suitcase were gone. She had even made her bed.
Let’s go shopping together for an Easter outfit, said mom.
Check out my cactus garden, said Grandpa.
Come with me to my boyfriend’s track meet, said one sister.
Watch me breed my rabbits, said the other sister.
After a few suspicious sniffs, even the dog wanted to hang out with her.
I was in a good mood all weekend. College Girl’s sisters were probably wondering what had come over mom. I said yes to almost everything. I took the girls to the mall and out to dinner almost every night. At Target, I let them talk me into buying both the new Hobbit movie and “Frozen.”
At Starbucks, instead of our usual $2 rule, my husband turned into Daddy Warbucks and told everyone to get whatever they wanted.
College kids, if you haven’t visited home lately, you should definitely reconsider. Us mom and dads miss you and want to buy you all the Frappuccinos and hot panini sandwiches you can eat.
The teenager who comes home from college is really something.
They’ve got swagger. Attitude. Chutzpah. They’ve lived away from mom and dad long enough to appreciate in-house laundry service, free food and a full tank of gas, but they’ve also got that new almost-20-something confidence.
They have been thrust out into the wilderness and survived. Kind of like Tom Hanks in “Cast Away”: “I have made fire. I. Have made fire.”
College Girl even surprised mom a couple of times over the weekend.
When one Huffman daughter complained about not having any spending money, College Girl laid it out for her.
You need to get a job, she told her sister.
When another Huffman daughter warned her sister about saying anything that might make for good column material, College Girl shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “So what?”
That’s not to say the oldest Huffman is all that. Mom had to put the kibosh on the swearing.
I don’t care how old you are, your mother doesn’t want to hear four-letter words coming out of your mouth.
By the time we sat down to Easter dinner, I started getting sad feelings.
College Girl had to go back to college. Mom and Dad had to go back to work. There would be no more spoiling. No more shopping.
She left early on Monday morning to catch a 6:30 a.m. flight.
I looked inside her room after she left. I’d gotten used to seeing her in there again, sitting on her bed with her laptop, clothes spilling out of her suitcase on the floor, blankets and pillows thrown around.
But that morning, the room was empty. Her pile of clothes and the suitcase were gone. She had even made her bed.
Sunday, April 13, 2014
Mom, the review
Does anyone actually enjoy doing an employee “self-evaluation”?
Not me.
Talk about what I could have done better? Improved on? Actually did well?
Do I have to? I have a deadline and an interview and I really need to go to the bathroom. Plus I am very busy with a bunch of other very important random stuff.
It doesn’t matter. About once a year, my computer tells me it’s time to do my so-called “review.”
As I was answering the questions last week I wondered what it’d be like to do a mom review instead of a work review.
Of course we moms don’t actually get reviewed, except by our teenagers and usually starting with the words “You’re so mean …”
Reviews are typically tied to rewards, the best being a raise of actual money. But we moms definitely don’t get yearly raises or bonuses.
Heck, if I get two loads of laundry washed and folded and put away in less than 24 hours, that’s a bonus. If I can finish all my daily chores before 8 p.m., bonus!
My main goal each night is to get some form of dinner on the table and make sure no one is flunking any subjects required to graduate from high school.
I don’t worry about “contributing skills that complement other team members” while I’m simultaneously cooking dinner, sorting the mail, feeding the cat and emptying the dishwasher.
Employee self-evaluation talk includes a lot of phrases such as: “Fulfills commitments to team members,” “Demonstrates genuine value of others” and “Communicates effectively.”
It’s so much easier to concentrate on these at work, where I am being paid to do so. The “work” is spread among many at work. And boy we are on it at work. We’re focused. We’re determined. We’re caffeinated.
At home, it’s just me and my husband. We are also very focused and determined — usually about figuring out who’s taking whom to school tomorrow, why the rain is leaking into my car and if anyone scooped the dog poop lately.
At work I’m supposed to “persist in overcoming obstacles.”
As moms, we’ve got that covered. We parents do an awful lot of persisting. Teenagers do an awful lot of resisting. If they would just stop all the resisting we’d all get along so much better and peace and harmony would reign in the family and the world. Everyone make a circle now and let’s sing a folk song. Come on teenagers, hold hands with your mom and dad. We don’t have cooties.
My review also included a bunch of examples of “STOPetencies” or “Contrary Behaviors” to beware of.
According to the review form, contrary behaviors are things like relying on others to decide what to do, resisting change and using words like “That’s not my job.”
Hello teenagers? My employee self-review is calling and it wants you to stop resisting and persisting and being all contrary all the time.
Also could you please scoop the dog poop?
Not me.
Talk about what I could have done better? Improved on? Actually did well?
Do I have to? I have a deadline and an interview and I really need to go to the bathroom. Plus I am very busy with a bunch of other very important random stuff.
It doesn’t matter. About once a year, my computer tells me it’s time to do my so-called “review.”
As I was answering the questions last week I wondered what it’d be like to do a mom review instead of a work review.
Of course we moms don’t actually get reviewed, except by our teenagers and usually starting with the words “You’re so mean …”
Reviews are typically tied to rewards, the best being a raise of actual money. But we moms definitely don’t get yearly raises or bonuses.
Heck, if I get two loads of laundry washed and folded and put away in less than 24 hours, that’s a bonus. If I can finish all my daily chores before 8 p.m., bonus!
My main goal each night is to get some form of dinner on the table and make sure no one is flunking any subjects required to graduate from high school.
I don’t worry about “contributing skills that complement other team members” while I’m simultaneously cooking dinner, sorting the mail, feeding the cat and emptying the dishwasher.
Employee self-evaluation talk includes a lot of phrases such as: “Fulfills commitments to team members,” “Demonstrates genuine value of others” and “Communicates effectively.”
It’s so much easier to concentrate on these at work, where I am being paid to do so. The “work” is spread among many at work. And boy we are on it at work. We’re focused. We’re determined. We’re caffeinated.
At home, it’s just me and my husband. We are also very focused and determined — usually about figuring out who’s taking whom to school tomorrow, why the rain is leaking into my car and if anyone scooped the dog poop lately.
At work I’m supposed to “persist in overcoming obstacles.”
As moms, we’ve got that covered. We parents do an awful lot of persisting. Teenagers do an awful lot of resisting. If they would just stop all the resisting we’d all get along so much better and peace and harmony would reign in the family and the world. Everyone make a circle now and let’s sing a folk song. Come on teenagers, hold hands with your mom and dad. We don’t have cooties.
My review also included a bunch of examples of “STOPetencies” or “Contrary Behaviors” to beware of.
According to the review form, contrary behaviors are things like relying on others to decide what to do, resisting change and using words like “That’s not my job.”
Hello teenagers? My employee self-review is calling and it wants you to stop resisting and persisting and being all contrary all the time.
Also could you please scoop the dog poop?
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Fear the beard
A funny thing started to happen to my husband’s face a few weeks ago.
Hair kept growing on the bottom of it. And growing.
It’s a beard, he said, when I asked him what was going on.
I’m growing a beard.
My husband has been known to grow a goatee or mustache/chin hair combo. Even a short, trimmed up beard. But this was definitely Beard 2.0. And it was getting longer by the day.
Here’s the thing about beards. They don’t just arrive full grown. They kind of sneak up on the people you live with. If the man of the house stops shaving, it takes about a week before the rest of us catch wind of this new creation. And then one day there it is.
A beard.
What’s the inspiration for the beard? I asked.
He reminded me about the upcoming wine competitions he’ll be judging at. I guess most wine judge types go for the clean-shaved look.
A beard might be one way of differentiating himself amidst the other oenophiles sniffing inside their wine glasses.
Or maybe the beard will help capture the wine “bouquet” more effectively.
Either way, he’ll definitely stand out.
The girls were a little dubious about Dad’s new look.
How long are you going to let it grow? they asked.
Is it hot?
Is it itchy?
Is that all gray hair?
The reporter in me was also curious. What kind of beard are you going for?
Former Giant Brian Wilson? Merlin Olsen from “Little House on the Prairie”? “Duck Dynasty”?
None of the above, apparently. After some consideration, he texted me his beard inspirations: sailor Sven Yrvind, castaway Tom Hanks and Zach Galifianakis.
I had to Google the first guy. Sure enough, he’s a sailor who possesses some mighty facial hair. And all white, I should note.
Tom Hanks’ beard in “Cast Away” was quite magnificent, too.
I don’t know about the third reference. Maybe I’ve got the “Hangover” movies on my mind but I kind of wonder how clean Zach Galifianakis keeps his beard.
Turns out that once you have a beard, it’s like joining a new club.
My husband has reported that beard wearers like to acknowledge each other.
Kind of like when a woman sees another woman wearing a really cute pair of shoes. Only beard guys just nod in a manly way at each other. They don’t ask where the other guy got his beard and if it was on sale.
After Googling Sven Yrvind, I came across this Australian guy by the name of Jimmy Niggles. In honor of a good friend who passed away, he’s been growing a beard for years.
And it really is some beard — thick, reddish brown and very long. He claims it’s worth a million bucks, but I think we might have a contender right here in Napa.
Our beard is definitely worth at least half that.
Hair kept growing on the bottom of it. And growing.
It’s a beard, he said, when I asked him what was going on.
I’m growing a beard.
My husband has been known to grow a goatee or mustache/chin hair combo. Even a short, trimmed up beard. But this was definitely Beard 2.0. And it was getting longer by the day.
Here’s the thing about beards. They don’t just arrive full grown. They kind of sneak up on the people you live with. If the man of the house stops shaving, it takes about a week before the rest of us catch wind of this new creation. And then one day there it is.
A beard.
What’s the inspiration for the beard? I asked.
He reminded me about the upcoming wine competitions he’ll be judging at. I guess most wine judge types go for the clean-shaved look.
A beard might be one way of differentiating himself amidst the other oenophiles sniffing inside their wine glasses.
Or maybe the beard will help capture the wine “bouquet” more effectively.
Either way, he’ll definitely stand out.
The girls were a little dubious about Dad’s new look.
How long are you going to let it grow? they asked.
Is it hot?
Is it itchy?
Is that all gray hair?
The reporter in me was also curious. What kind of beard are you going for?
Former Giant Brian Wilson? Merlin Olsen from “Little House on the Prairie”? “Duck Dynasty”?
None of the above, apparently. After some consideration, he texted me his beard inspirations: sailor Sven Yrvind, castaway Tom Hanks and Zach Galifianakis.
I had to Google the first guy. Sure enough, he’s a sailor who possesses some mighty facial hair. And all white, I should note.
Tom Hanks’ beard in “Cast Away” was quite magnificent, too.
I don’t know about the third reference. Maybe I’ve got the “Hangover” movies on my mind but I kind of wonder how clean Zach Galifianakis keeps his beard.
Turns out that once you have a beard, it’s like joining a new club.
My husband has reported that beard wearers like to acknowledge each other.
Kind of like when a woman sees another woman wearing a really cute pair of shoes. Only beard guys just nod in a manly way at each other. They don’t ask where the other guy got his beard and if it was on sale.
After Googling Sven Yrvind, I came across this Australian guy by the name of Jimmy Niggles. In honor of a good friend who passed away, he’s been growing a beard for years.
And it really is some beard — thick, reddish brown and very long. He claims it’s worth a million bucks, but I think we might have a contender right here in Napa.
Our beard is definitely worth at least half that.
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