Hair, Hair, Hair

I'm fairly interested in hair -- the phases and changes women go through with it (long, short, when, why), how women think about, how women think men think about it, more importantly, how they think other women think about it -- the whole thing. And for black women I get that hair is even more complicated. Which is to say I enjoyed watching these clips of Chris Rock and Oprah for a lot of reasons, though I don't think smart Chris is right -- I think men really care about hair.

Polanski

When I first heard that Roman Polanski was arrested, I was all, "What?" But, honestly, I couldn't remember exactly what he had been accused of in the first place. Now that I know it's drugging and raping a thirteen year old I think he deserves to be arrested. Here's The New Yorker on the case:

"Why is Polanski different from Alex Kelly, the Darien rapist who dodged prosecution for years by hanging out in Europe? If the answer is that Kelly was a suburban jock who skied away his time on the lam, while Polanski made lovely movies, it’s not sufficient. Talent does not afford impunity, and shouldn’t, any more than money or prettiness or a great fashion sense should—does that even need to be said? An Oscar is not a get-out-of-jail-free card (much as it looks like it belongs on a Monopoly board)."

Chicken Stories

Lately, I've grown tired of chicken. Really, really tired. I would like to go a month without the stuff, but I don't know if I can unless I just embrace being a vegetarian, which I might. Or maybe not. Maybe all I need is a good dare. In any case, apparently, there's both chicken excitement and fatigue afoot and I enjoyed reading all about it. Here's the link in case you would, too.

The Real Problem

OK. Did everyone already read Paul Krugman today? I won't sleep tonight for reading it, but, still, we all need to read what he has to say about climate change.

Smells Like Twin Spirit

Late last night I found myself on Lemondrop after following a link from Go Fug Yourself. Before I could say, "Shut Down Now," I had happened upon an article about a woman in Arkansas who got pregnant when she was already with child. In it, there's this gem: "She and her husband are now expecting two children, but they aren't twins. It's called superfetation, and it's incredibly rare. Fortunately, the difference in the two fetuses' ages is so small that there shouldn't be any developmental problems if the first one is carried to term." (Emphasis mine.)

OK. So. There are these two babies in the same uterus at the same time and the difference in their gestational ages in negligible, but they "aren't twins?" What gives? I know the line is mostly just gee-gosh -darn isn't that weird and cool. But also I'd suggest that saying these kids who will pass through their lives in developmental lock step aren't really twins speaks to some deep-seated notion of authenticity in child bearing. That is, there's this smell of something in our culture and in this time of scientific meddling with reproduction that suggests there is some greater reality in childbirth. If you've been meddled with, your conception is less than real. If your twins aren't conceived at the same time, well, then they're not really twins.

I know blogging about this is defensive on my part. After all when my twins (who measured three days apart in gestational age for the first 11 weeks of my pregnancy and who were probably conceived at different times -- one in a laboratory and one, shall we say, spontaneously) were three months old a visitor came over and said, "So, are you going to tell them that they're not really twins?"

Why are people so eager to assign a category to what makes one thing really real? What are the criteria for being real twins anyway? What makes any conception, pregnancy, birth authentic? As little medical meddling as possible in conception and birth? A certain kind of timing when it comes to twins?

What could make two children who have been together since the womb less than twins? My pregnancy was sure treated as a twin pregnancy and so will that of this woman in Arkansas. When I nursed, I have two brand new infants clamoring for my breasts -- so will she. And when we had to get our kids to sleep, there were two with two very different temperaments to try to teach at the same time. I bet if I were to talk to that Arkansas couple in a year, we'll be able to bond on that one.

All this to say I just wish we could get over the whole really real thing about making babies and families. Once the babies show up, they're pretty darn real.

A New York Moment

I was on the Eighth Avenue Local this morning. It pulls into 42nd Street and a grizzled homeless man pretty much out of central casting stood at one of the doors and said, "Would you hold the doors for me? I'm just going to run out and get a cigarette and a cup of coffee." Someone on the train answers, "No problem, we'll be here."

You gotta love this town.

So 80s

I'm not a huge fan of the 80s revival in fashion. I didn't like huge shoulder pads and neon back in the day (well, maybe the shoulder pads), and I'm not wild about them now. And skinny stretch jeans? With Reeboks? Don't even get me started. But today, I got a manicure with my daughter. She got a coat of lime green with sparkles on top. Me, I got red. Like, supa-red, cherry red, Ann Taylor 1985 red, red, red, red, red red. That red. My nails are now short and red, the veins on my hands stand up as they've done since I was pregnant (no one ever talks about how your hands change after pregnancy, but they do, at least mine did), and now my hands look something like my mom's did when I was in high school. College, too. Granted, my mom's hands are much more elegant than mine. Her fingers more tapered, her nails always longer and better cared for, but still, I got totally 80s nails clickety clacking on this keyboard and they look -- you know -- familiar. Turns out 80s nostalgia can mean more than just neon and shoulder pads.