The Relative Permanence of Mohawks

Sam had been begging for a mohawk for months (years?) when Brian finally gave in.  Normally I would have stepped in and ended this dream for him, but I was heavily involved in a grading frenzy of essays with titles such as, "My All in Love with Mathematics" and "My Testes Anxiety" (yes, really -- the plural of the word "test" proves to be quite difficult for non-native speakers, as it turns out).  So, I was a bit distracted when the shaver came out.

At first, it was a mohawk version that went all the way to the nape of his neck.  Now y'all.  I am from Mississippi, but I'm sorry, I couldn't do it.  It was just too much.  I encouraged them to edit it a bit ... suggesting that perhaps a more "army-guy flat-top approach" might be better.  They bought it.  So, this is what we ended up with:

If only you could see the difference where his beach-brown skin meets his hairline.

They actually eat all the time and haven't been in a concentration camp, but the main point of this is the distinct hair qualities.

So, the day after the mohawk was complete, we decided to go to Radnor.  The boys were going to scooter and I was going to exercise by keeping up with them.  Sam wakes up that morning and runs into the kitchen, looks at me seriously, and says, "Do I still have my mohawk?"

"Yes," I say, surprised that he thought it might go away in the night.  "It's a haircut, so it's not going to go away."

With much conviction, he snaps at me, "It's not a HAIRCUT!  It's a MOHAWK!"

Right.

So, we're getting ready to go to Radnor, and Sam comes up to me and whispers, "Can I take my mohawk to Radnor?"

"Um..... of course!" I reply, thinking that something is really wrong with his understanding of object permanence.

"YESSSSSSsssssssss!" he says, and runs out of the room to tell John the exciting news.

Now when we go somewhere and people admire his "haircut," they are met with a very curt response:

IT IS NOT A HAIRCUT.  IT'S A MOHAWK.

Indeed.  And, for now, it's still there.

ous,
k

He has always had good hair.

In the Battle Between Napkins and Squirrels ...

First of all, congrats to our boys, both of whose teams were runner ups in their leagues' silver division championship games!  Here they both are receiving their trophies:

And after all that was said and done, I finally made time to take my car in to get an oil change.  What is it about taking your car in for any one little thing?  It's like they can't wait to take the whole thing apart looking for other problems that you might not know about.  This doesn't happen when I go to the doctor or when my students submit papers.  I just get checked out for whatever I came in for, and my students get feedback from me that reflects the objectives of the lesson from which the submission came.  And yet mechanics ... those conniving know-it-alls.  (Gracie, if you're reading this, I'm sure Chris is not like this at all, and would actually like to meet him -- would he consider becoming my PCM (primary care mechanic?)

See, back in 2010 I went in for normal maintenance and discovered that Chick-fil-A napkins had gotten lodged in the "blower door" (a lovely name that one cannot forget once discovering), and because of this, the AC, when on "recirculated air" made an incessant clicking sound that would've cost a grandish to fix.  That prompted this blog post.

And then this week I went in for an oil change, and 30 minutes later, a young man came out with what looked like a filthy old, dust-covered wash board with rodent droppings and acorn shells lodged in it.  It was my AC's filter.  A squirrel had apparently used it to make a lovely home for him/herself.  I had wondered why there were acorns in the vents and on the floorboard, but of course with boys, one never bothers to ask questions about things such as this.  This mechanic encouraged me to take a picture, "so that your husband will believe you," and so I did:

You can see acorn halves, poop, an eaten-out part, etc.  Good stuff, y'all, Crazy, exciting stuff that just doesn't happen to you in your 20s.

So, in other news, Brian and I went to Arizona for our 13th anniversary.  And below are some of my favorite shots from our trip:

We flew Southwest and got "C" boarding passes, which basically meant that I was out on the wing and Brian was co-pilot.  So, he told them it was our 13th anniversary and VOILA, we got to sit together.  At the end of the flight, they announced our anniversary and gave us a bottle (yes, bottle) of champagne, which we left in the hotel as a gratuity for the the housekeeper.  During the time they were announcing us, people were exiting the airplane.  We could not exit because my original seat (where my luggage was located) was behind us.  So Brian weaved his way back there amongst the passengers, and I meanwhile took up with a child who was flying unaccompanied.  He had heard the announcement, and asked me if I was proud of my 13th husband.  So, I explained to him the differences between marriages and anniversaries.  He then started singing a song featuring the books of the Bible (which I knew), so I joined in.  When I got to Ecclesiastes, he stopped me an dsaid, "Jehovah's witness?" I replied that no, indeed, I had grown up Baptist, at which point he informed me that the Bible said I was a JW.  Kids these days.

Driving north from Phoenix, this was our view of the desert.

Ah, Flagstaff in June.  It's always 70 or below and breezy.

We went to our favorite hiking spot and did a morning hike overlooking Mt. Humphreys.

Brian's breakfast.

Mine.

On the way back to Phoenix, we stopped in Sedona for a hike.  The scenery wasn't bad.

Oh Phoenix.  You hot mess.

There is much more to say about June, but unfortunately I am writing this in July.  I'm trying to keep a once per month posting schedule, but working 3 days/week is proving to be too much of a burden.

Perhaps in the fall I can do better ...

ous,
k