Reminders of a Road Warrior Life

It feels like a lifetime ago, but at one point in time I was a Change Consultant that specialized in major ERP integrations. In other words, I was a know-it-all consultant that went into companies and assisted with the implementation of multi-million dollar software packages. I was paid crazy money to develop and deliver training, and to work with managers to strategize plans for an effective and cost-efficient accounting or human resources systems integration.

Along with that crazy money came the need for crazy travel. There just aren’t that many companies spending upwards of $20 million for new software in any one city, so to really make a living at it, I was frequently on the road. I was, in fact, a Road Warrior, traveling to as many as three cities in a week, forever flying out on Sundays and returning home on Friday evenings. I liked it.

Then came September 11 and with it came new complications with travel and a downturn in the ERP market. Those factors coupled with the stress of constantly seeking a “next project” started to get to Mr. Husband and I, so I finally sought out and accepted “typical” full-time employment. For a while I still traveled, at times as much as 25% of the time.

Then came Alexis, and I halted all travel. Until recently. In my current role, a little travel is required. Rarely is it more than a quick run to a city and back in the same day. In fact, tonight is the very first time in Alexis’ entire life that I will have to spend the night away from home without her. Mr. Husband is on his own with the Toddler, while I am thrust back into the world of airports and travel.

Somewhere along the way, I had forgotten that airports are a people watcher’s dream. In the brief time I spent in Atlanta for a layover, I chuckled at an older gentleman as he carefully waddled, trying to not spill his coffee. He donned brown loafers, knee-high athletic socks, wrinkled linen shorts, an expensive looking hounds tooth sports jacket, and atop his balding head was a black Indiana Jones style hat, with the strings tied tightly below his jiggly chin. As I exited the ladies room, I grinned at a man as he stared in disbelief, trying to reconcile whether he was walking into the ladies room or I was walking out of the mens room. I think he might still be standing in that short hallway, trying to work through his confusion. There were the usual Obvious Tourists weighted down by bag after bag as they stop to read every. single. sign. trying to figure out which way is up. Then there was my favorite, a proud papa who bragged to a total stranger that his 15 years 4 month old son was destined for the NFL, having already reached 240 pounds and 6’ 4”. I may have teased him that I thought only women tracked their childrens ages down to the month, if I hadn't just been a eavesdropper to the conversation.

I had forgotten just how fun it is to sit back in an airport, laugh, and watch the world go by.

It’s more fun to sit back, laugh, and watch her go by.

At Least Dora Is Nowhere to be Found

For the first time ever, I am finding myself having trouble locating suitable clothes for the Toddler. There is the minor issue that she seems to think she has a say in what she wears, which is not entirely correct since she basically gets her choice of two items carefully pre-screened by the Momma Who Hates the Latina Whore. However, the major issue is that I refuse to pay full price for anything. I usually buy the kid's clothes a full season in advance, or more. Right now I'm mostly buying things for next summer because that would be the stuff that is buried on the clearance rack at the Gap Outlet. ($5 sundress for the win!) I was absolutely successful in my quest to purchase quite a few Fall pieces months ago, but that was all before a certain short person decided that her precious little legs were too hawt for pants. She wants to show a little leg, dangnabit, and I had best play along.

The net result of me not being adequately prepared for Fall with an extensive collection of appropriately weighted dresses, and being too cheap to buy the stuff that is in stores now, is that the kid is severely lacking in attire options. I long ago packed up the most summery of her summery dresses because I couldn't continue to have the morning conversation that involved me telling her she was going to be cold, her tell me she didn't want to be cold, me suggesting she wear pants, her suggesting I go to hell, then us repeating the whole freaking conversation all over again. And again. And again.

So it was like Mother Nature herself opened up the skies, pointed the warm sun down on me, and forced the angels to sing the hallelujah chorus when Indian Summer hit last week. It is a BEAUTIFUL thing to have a brief respite from fight, fight, fight, bicker, bicker, bicker. And fight. The kid can wear the few sundresses I kept accessible and we are both so very happy.

The kid was especially happy this morning when I pulled out The Dress. The Dress that she loved more than any other dress this summer. It's The Dress that can stand up all by itself because she has worn it approximately 847 times in the past three months. Without actually getting it washed in between wearings. Because that would require someone prying it off her cold, dead body. And we really didn't want to take things quite that far.

Ahhh, The Dress. I'm glad you were able to get one last hurrah, but now I'll be escorting you to the door. Or the trash. I would actually burn you in effigy, but I'm concerned that a summer's worth of constant wearing has left you a bit more combustible than I can handle.

(Don't even tell me she could keep wearing that awful thing if I just slapped a sweatshirt or sweater over it and invested in some matching leggings because NOOOOOOOOOO! That dress is going to die a painful death. Now.)

The Only Time I Won't Be Ticked About Being Called a Princess

I don't do hair drama. Really. You pretty much have to care about hair in order to create drama about it, and I don't. I was given the straightest most do whatever it wants hair on planet Earth, and I'm OK with that. In fact, I embrace it.

Several years ago someone managed to convince me that I should highlight my very average brown hair. I figured "whatever" and went with it. Then I just kept on doing it because a certain person I promised to love and cherish forever liked it. For eight years I paid insane money to maintain it every three or four months, and felt dirty for it every. single. time. Recently, the sheer expense and hassle of it all got to me and I decided it was time to go back to dark so that I can be done with messing with it.

I was a wee bit concerned that the Toddler might just freak out. She is OBSESSED with my hair. She can't keep her grubby little fingers out of it. Ever. At all. Sometimes I think I should cut it all off and have it made into a blanket so that she can carry it everywhere. Not only would that mean she wouldn't be yanking on those little hairs at the nape of my neck until tears come to my eyes, I would also get the bonus of watching people freak out as she pets her Hairy Blanket.

So it was with a bit of trepidation that I dyed it back to brown last Saturday. Fortunately, Alexis couldn't have cared less. That might have had a little bit to do with the fact that it didn't "take," though. In fact, as the hairdresser was rinsing the shampoo out, she said, "We can fix this now or you can come back." For what it's worth, that's totally a feel good statement when you don't have a mirror in front of you.

It turned out that the brown had come out very, um, splotchy. Like, I looked like a blond cow with brown spots under good light. In crappy light, it wasn't all that noticeable, but I'm sure with time it would have faded to AWFUL. So I went back on Wednesday to get it fixed. The only problem was that instead of just FIXING it, the girl actually dyed it even darker. Like, way darker. (So much for eliminating the need to pay for color maintenance.) I guess because I got in late and the sun had already set, Alexis didn't notice that evening.

I know she didn't notice because the next day when I picked her up from daycare, she was FULL of notice. As she went through her ceremonious slow-motion run to the love of her life (me), she froze in her tracks.

"Momma, your hair!" she said hesitantly.

She slowly closed the short distance between us, reached up, and began lightly twirling my hair.

"Momma, it's black," she said.

I slowly asked, "Do you like it?"

The Toddler thought for a moment, one eyebrow cocked, then said, "Yes! You look like Snow White!"

I'm going to take that as the ultimate compliment.