Toodles, summer. I only say, “Toodles,” because we watch so much Mickey around here. What I really want to say is:
NOOOO. DON’T LEAVE ME. MY LOVE.
But, Ashton, you say. It’s almost boot weather, and nothing tickles you like seasonal shoe rotations!
I know. Is this an identity crisis? I am usually itching for fall, but because I have no one in school to keep me on a schedule, September snuck up on me. I am panicking. (Just pencil me in as “yes” on that identity crisis.)
I LOVED this summer so much more than usual. That could be due to this being my first “normal-ish” summer experience in a long time. (Summer is so much more pleasant and carefree when I’m not nursing or pregnant.) However, after really thinking about it, I think the problem in years past was that I’d forgotten how to do it.
I forgot how to summer.
Thankfully, my little guys jogged my memory. This year:
I rememberered how water from the hose tasted.
I remembered how welcoming and warm cement feels after running in sprinklers.
I remembered the melody of creaky swing chains.
I remembered how Otterpop juice is July’s liquid gold.
It was magical. Thank you, my little guys. Having young children truly makes every season so much more vibrant. So exciting. So beautiful.
As the sun sets on this season, I want to savor every last bit of extended warmth we get in Las Vegas, as well as every minute of precious, unscheduled, “no one is in school yet so I’m not wearing pants” time.
Summer, it hurts me to have let you you slip my mind for a few years while I was adulting. I’ll try my best to cut that out.
First and foremost, my soul’s deepest suppressed dream is now a reality…for at least another week.
I’ve debated about pastel hair for over a year, which is pathetic considering I do hair. I know I can change the color the next day, but as a blonde who once turned a room into a snow globe after a blow dry, you understand my concern about keeping hair attached to my head.
Anyway, I love it.
(This is when the saying, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” comes to mind.)
Brian/the voice of reason left Saturday night with his friends. I had some friends come over to bring a special delivery of pink dye…for animals. The girls helped dye my parents’ dog while they were out of town. My mom has never been all that encouraging of my cotton candy hair, and for some reason, that instilled in me a deep desire to boost her pink appreciation by dipping her dog in some doggy dye.
Did you know dying a dog’s fur in a bathtub is a mess? Yes, you did, because you have common sense.
The bathtub imprisoned dog failed to understand beauty takes time, and kept shaking her fur while she was processing. The tile, the shower curtain, the tub, the toilet, the walls, the poor girl rinsing the dog…PINK.
That concludes Bad Decision 1: Not clean up the bathroom right away. I’m going to be repainting my walls soon, because I can’t get Barbie pink splatters off the paint. Whoops. Maybe Brian won’t notice.
I know I didn’t notice the walls at the time, because I was busy coloring my friend Aly’s hair pastel blue. Let me introduce Bad Decision 2: Coloring hair in a bathroom at 11PM, with limited necessities. We didn’t have gloves, but Ziploc bags seemed similar enough.
Sure, we were a little reckless with color, because it’s our own hair instead of a client AND we were being F-U-N. A lack of ventilation in a small bathroom may have contributed, but I like to think it’s because we are so, so wild. I bet Aly even California-rolled through a couple stop signs on the way over.
We were a little over eager to get her hair done right then and there, so we skipped a major process that we both acknowledged, but ehhh. Maybe that’s why her color didn’t turn out blue. Does this color even have a name?
Because we were dying cracking up, we didn’t rinse out my hair that I was “freshening up.” (Do you feel another bad decision coming on?) After the girls left and the pink dog was dry, I washed mine to find it a neon maroon color instead of the light pastel pink it had previously been. I looked like Avril Lavigne’s gothic sister.
Unfortunately, this color wasn’t documented because I was busy washing my hair 5x with dish soap from 12:30-1AM. Oh, if you get dish soap in your eyes multiple times, your eyes will turn pink, too.
Bad Decision 3: Just. I know.
Needless to say, the early beginning of our Easter morning was spent running into our salon with bleach so we wouldn’t look like Easter colored crack heads at church.
Update: Aly is a beautiful purple…head? Purple-ette? Purple?
The goth rocker has been taken out of my pink, so it’s back to it’s unicorn, My Little Pony glory.
Zoe has never felt more beautiful.
Maybe I’ll regret this color in a couple years, but I’m going to take a million selfies while it lasts so in 2025, Gus can remember when Mom (thought she) was cool.
A compilation of rules to becoming a trophy wife, from the Ashton Hawker diary archives. I always question this being especially applicable to Las Vegas residents around March when the weather gets warmer and women in their 40s forget they’re not Kardashians.
A COMPLETE IDIOT’S GUIDE TO BECOMING A TROPHY WIFE “She don’t believe in shooting stars
But she believes in shoes and cars…”
Avoid sitting too close to your children in public as not to reveal your age. If you must speak to them directly, let the words fly off of your lips with the same sharpness as the needle that has just injected them. Think that sounds harsh? We’re trophy wives, not soccer moms.
Never show signs of emotion, specifically on your face. Trophy wives everywhere look to Victoria Beckham for inspiration. Not only will this poker face keep you mysterious, it will also keep you from getting wrinkles (Botox will help you better achieve this impassiveness).
Although some may interpret this unexpressive attitude as heartlessness, it’s better than being considered sweet. Trophy wives should never like anything sweet, unless it’s Splenda-based. Anything made without this sugar substitute will later be carved off by a surgeon.
In the rare and unfortunate event that this should happen, clothe yourself as little as possible to distract eyes from any healing scars. Make sure that any couture that is absolutely necessary to cover up has at least one giant designer logo, preferably in rhinestones. This is a typical trophy wife defensive maneuver used to blind those that seek proof of plasticity.
Let me clarify: there is a difference, a big, big difference, between filling in eyebrows and DRAWING them on. Our pleather-clad female society has lost a little dignity as the latter has become more prevalent. As a former New Mexican citizen, I am concerned. I have a deeply rooted, psychological aversion to all things gangster chola, and…ahem…
January is probably Bad Eyebrow Awareness Month, anyway.
WHO? Crazy brows don’t discriminate against any one group and can be found across the whole ladies room, regardless of age, ethnicity, or number of Facebook friends. Anyone from the Burger King Whopper wrapper to the high school “OMG you’re literally perfect, literally! (teary emoji)” Instagram commenter can fall victim.
WHEN? About 30 minutes before leaving the house*. A little extra time must be allotted to ensure both brows are even, or unnoticeably uneven. Make sure you begin this project after your contacts are in for optimal vision. As this is a freehand art endeavor, each day is a risk. A gamble. A roll of the dice on your reputation.
*The “when” factor isn’t specific to just mornings, as touch ups will be necessary in high heat. You’ll also want to re-trace with a heavy hand just before you go out for the night so they won’t be downplayed by your flash in selfies.
WHERE? Preferably your own bathroom, but the fluorescent lighting in the 7/11 bathroom will work if necessary.
HOW? A sharpie or an angled paint brush tipped in tar, I think. Define the lines using a q-tip, more foundation, or just press harder so any smudges are less noticeable. Lighting is key when applying pressure to the pencil/pen/Sharpie. Over the age of 50 should press hard, really hard, and give those brows ample dry time. Don’t let those brows get lost or smudge in forehead wrinkles. Alternatively, just don’t move your forehead. Ever.
At my Albuquerque middle school in the 90s, the girls would slick what was left of their own brows back with a glue stick, put foundation on top, and then use the marker method. This observation later gave me a running start to excelling beyond anyone’s wildest DREAMS in my cosmetology school’s costume makeup unit! Boo-yah.
WHY? I don’t know how we could blame Obama for this one, so I’ll let you come to your own conclusion.
The following may be some exaggerations, but not by much. Sadly, I was unable to find the “tadpole” brow method, so picture that in your mind…