Four wheels. Four doors. How are you supposed to tell them all apart?

There are people who very much identify with their cars. I am not among them.

I have a very basic silver Civic, the same one I’ve had for 10 years. And I swear to you, I will still occasionally try to open the wrong car. And then I notice that it doesn’t have a baby seat in the back.

Some of it, I think, is that I am just so in my head so much of the time. But candidly, cars just don’t interest me. There are so many other things to pay attention to in the world.

When I was dating, this car obliviousness worked against the men who try to impress you with their cars. I mean, if they had a car they were obviously proud of, I’d be all complimentary. And features like butt warmers impress me no end.

But if we were walking back to their car and there was a similar one of the same color parked nearby, I’d be just as likely to head for that one as theirs. It would immediately become clear I had no idea.

What? There are a lot of black and silver cars in this world.

You’d think I’d pay more attention.

The summer after ninth grade, we were back in the US, and in Virginia for a couple weeks. We were staying with one of our old neighbors.

Betty and I had gone out to run errands, and she’d needed to stop at the drug store – the same drug store where we bought our tremendous quantities of toilet paper – and I was hanging out in the rented car waiting for her. I was just kicking back looking out the window when I recognized an old friend of mine from junior high.

I got out and ran over to her. We chatted. And then I headed back to the car.

So I was sitting there, seat back reclined, feet up on the dashboard, enjoying the breeze from the open windows, when a very cute teenage guy got in the driver’s seat.

This shocked me into bolt uprightness. “What are you doing?”

I was all kinds of indignant. Even though he was really cute. Honestly! Who did he think he was?

He replied, “What are you doing?”

“Waiting for my mom!”

“But this is my car.”

“It is not!”

“It really is.” He held out his keys. He reached down between the seats. “These are my mother’s gloves.”

At which point I looked around the car. There was nothing actually familiar. It was just…blue. Same as our rental car.

“Oh.”

I blushed. I stammered. I wanted to explain. “I...we...live in India...”

“Do you need a ride somewhere?” He asked this very kindly.

“I’m...Our car. Is blue! Too...sorry.”

I’d like to say I got out, walked right over to our car, and got in. But the truth is, I had no idea which one it was.

I fled as coolly as possible in the direction of the drugstore to find my mama.

City living can charm your pants off

You know, it occurred to me that I've never told you about the poo in the alley.

Human poo, I mean.

It seems like the kind of thing I would tell you immediately, doesn't it?

So we have this narrow alley between the back of our house and the next one. It's where the garbage cans line up, and provides access to the back of each house.

The guy who is what I suppose you might call the caretaker of the apartments next door is this creepy little character who drags every imaginable piece of broken furniture and stuff possible back to his place. And it often winds up in the alley.

Nick's theory is that people know his propensity to collect trash, and so when they have something to get rid of, something that the garbage people won't take, they put it in our alley.

Which is how the seatless chair ended up back there.

Perhaps you know where this is going.

Now, I don't know if any of you would ever see a seatless chair sitting out in the open and think, "Toilet!"

However. It clearly occurred to someone, because Nick took the garbage out one morning and there it was.

We now have tenants in the basement. They moved in just before the poo incident.

I'm not in any way suggesting these events are related. Just introducing these people to the story.

So the very next day the boyfriend in the basement emailed Nick and asked about the protocol for garbage and recycling.

(And does "boyfriend in the basement" make you hum Girlfriend in a Coma? Or is it just me?)

Nick replied with an explanation of the green and blue bins and the garbage days and then added something along the lines of, "You may have seen me hosing out the alley this morning. Let me explain..."

He went on to tell him about the poo, except he used the word defecate. And how this happens every so often. And how, if he'd like to know more, he should come up for a drink that evening.

Nick copied me on this email.

And I was all, "Come up for a drink so I can tell you more about the defecation situation? What kind of social offer is that? He's going to forward the email to his girlfriend, who is going to say, 'Don't go upstairs.'"

And then I also thought, "Fuck. They've lived here like 10 days. And now they're going to think that we attract defecators! And that we like to talk about it!"

And then I realize that really, on that last point, they would be right.

A number of things having to do with numbers. Sort of.

So I tried to make a spreadsheet to turn into a pie chart displaying the results of my Hair poll.

By tried I mean I opened up Excel and then realized I didn't have the vaguest idea where to begin. And also, by then I was thinking "hair pole" - ew! And also, "mmmm, pie."

Recognizing that this looks more like a stubble pole...Also ew.

Although I'm not a huge pie person. Maude's mom makes an amazing pecan pie that I love. And my Gramma Lillian's rhubarb meringue pie was one of my favorite things on this green earth. But other than that, I'm kind of indifferent to pie.

One of the things I love, however, is when I get a lot of reader input. I realize that's sort of a stupid thing to say, because what blogger doesn't? The interactivity is a big part of what's amazing about blogging.

And maybe it's a duh, of course women care about their hair? Except that before I read comment after comment, I didn't have any actual evidence. Not that this is very scientific. Science, schmience.

Each of you left a little story - a window into your lives and minds. When this happens, and I read down through the comments, it feels like when you walk down a street at night around Christmas, and people have their trees and lights in the windows, and you get a glimpse of their lives and preferences.

And saying that, I realize I might sound creepy. I'm not. I swear.

(Though I must admit that Maude and I did maybe spend an inordinate amount of time peering out our bathroom window in San Diego trying to get a look at the just-purchased-by-the-totally-used-for-his-money-boyfriend boobs of our neighbor whose bathroom window was directly across from ours.)

This is really going nowhere good, is it?

I think mostly what I'm saying is, you all are so interesting. As always, you make me think, you make me laugh, you make me feel not alone in my thoughs.

Just pulling out a few:

Stevie is in front of the media regularly. If she doesn't feel good about her hair, it's hard to project the self-confidence she needs to.

VVK - one of two men who responded - would prefer to keep his head shaved. But he's a really big guy, and he's Indian, and he's well aware that how he keeps his head and facial hair affects the degree to which he's subjected to racism and bigotry.

Tia would hire her hairdresser to do her hair daily if she won the lottery.

Wendy was in the minority, in that she loves her hair and doesn't talk about it. And just pulls it back when it's getting in the way.

And moosiegoes currently has a haircut she hates, and spends maybe 25% of her day thinking about it. She fears this is a lot, but I know she's not alone in this.

Once again, thanks for being so thoughtful. And for making Kristin and me feel like we are not alone in the world of hair frets. I'm pretty sure that she's going to show G the post and be all, "See? Internet = proof!"

And he'll shake his fist at the heavens and be all, "Damn you, Al Gore!"

Birthdays, foie gras, and beets. Beat that.

Today is Betty’s birthday. Happy birthday, Mama!

We went to Cashion’s last night to celebrate, just as we did a year ago. Except last night we went at 6 pm, since Jordan has an early bedtime. Whereas last year he was only a couple weeks old and was still pretty dazed.

Hell, we all were.

I feel kind of evil admitting it, but I do sometimes miss the days when he was a confused little lump and we could just haul him out in his car seat and he'd fall asleep while we had dinner.

Now when we go out pretty much everything is about keeping him occupied and happy so that other people don't hate The People With the Annoying Screaming Kid.

I myself have historically done a lot of hating of those people. I've given a lot of stinkeye. Not anymore, though.

I forgot my camera, and I’m so sad about that. It’s one of those “what a difference a year makes” kinds of things, you know?

Jordan was in his Hugh Hefner jammies, because Betty thought it’d be best if we didn’t have to get him in his nightwear after the restaurant. The rest of us wore normal clothes.

Although now that I say that, I'd kind of like to go out for dinner with a group wearing pajamas. If anyone asked we could just say we were worried we'd be too tired to change after dinner.

I'm probably the only one who finds this idea highly amusing.

J typically goes to bed around 6:30, so even though he'd napped late, he was tired when we arrived. He was cranky and complainy and just generally NOT HAPPY to be there. Until Betty’s foie gras appetizer arrived.

We'd brought a bottle (Yes, we're trying to wean. No, he's not giving up the bottle easily.). We'd tried feeding him bread, nice, crusty bread, while we were waiting. Nothing doing.

And then, then this fancy hunk of goose liver arrived. Betty offered him a forkful, which I was sure would be spat out immediately.

Suddenly he was all, "Yum! More! NOW! MORE!"

He ate the whole damn thing. I think she got two bites.

And then, then he turned his attention to the beets in Nick’s salad. The ones Nick had been shoving to the side because, like some people, he thinks beets are evil.

Lucky for him, I've never suggested inserting them in his anus.

Anyway. The kid ate most of the beets.

And then he melted down and Nick took him outside while I asked if they could pack his main course to go. I mean, Nick had offered to take him home. I didn't just stealthily stick his meal in a box, all, OKthanksbyehoney!

I headed outside with the food and J's bottle, and they were nowhere in sight. I looked up and down the block, and then a guy said, "They went that way."

"A big guy with a baby?"

"Yes."

"Wearing monkey pajamas? The baby, I mean."

"Yes. That way."

I handed off the food, they headed home, and Betty and I stayed and enjoyed the rest of our leisurely dinner.

I think so far she's having a nice birthday.

Wednesday poll: How much time do you spend on your hair?

This is my friend Kristin. She lives with her husband and two kids in a charming apartment in Paris.

We’ve been friends since 11th grade in Delhi. I met her the first day of school. She is tall and thin and back then she had this long, glorious, blondeyblonde hair. Every single guy who met her followed her around with a dazed look on his face.

So when we met I had an asymmetrical bob that I had just had cut in London on my way back to India, and the first thing she said to me was, “I like your hair.”

It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

So it was recently called to my attention – through a forwarded email – that I spend too much time talking about my hair.

This is how it started.

Kris got this haircut that she hated. Which totally affected how she felt. She walked around feeling all ugly and old and just generally loathing her hair. Every day.

If this has ever happened to you, you tell yourself, “It’s just hair.” But every time you look in the mirror, you maybe cringe and shrivel up a little inside.

Or maybe this is just me? You know, the one who spends too much time fretting about her hair. Oh, and also Kris. The other one who does the same.

I'm going to doubt it, though.

Now, I must confess, it is true that I talk about it a lot. I get all agonizey, and I think about it and talk about it and talk talk talk about it and then I change it and then I talk about it some more.

But the truth is, I talk about everything a lot. I have my topic of the week, which could be my hair, and then I am all, oh, look, a butterfly! And then I am all, "A butterfly? Can butterflies have rabies?"

And then Nick is all, "I'll be damned if we're going back to rabies. Look! A crack in the ceiling!"

But the hair.

Yes, I talk about it a lot. But in actual fact, even when I had a bob, I would spend maybe 15 minutes on it per day, including washing and drying. Now that it’s this short, it’s probably more like seven minutes. Or maybe 10.

Very little maintenance time. Leaving me more time to talk.

OK, so. Kris, like me and every woman I have ever been friends with, lives out loud. Everything has to be processed. Out loud.

In other words, it is likely there has been a lot of hair talk in their household.

And then she got this super cute haircut, featured above.

Her husband, G, was out of town. She emailed him a photo.

He responded that he liked it. And then added - and this is the reason she forwarded his email - “In my humble opinion, this obsession about hair takes a bit too much of your/our time, Lisa (sorry, I mean Kristin).”

Now, I like G. And I know he is very much not an out-loud processy kind of person. And his topics of conversation are not frivolous. He's a doctor. He likes to talk about things like epidemiology.

Seriously. When he could be talking about highlights. And layers.

So I am sure that internally he is all, "Gah I'm going to stab myself in the ears if we have to talk about your hair one more time! And I haven't seen Lisa in years! Why do we have to talk about her hair as well? Christ!"

I responded with two questions. One, what would he rather she/we obsess about? And two, do we actually know any women who don't obsess about their hair?

So I am wondering the following.

1. How much time do you spend on your hair per day?
2. Do you think and talk about your hair regularly? Could you give some kind of time estimate?
3. Does how your hair looks affect your self esteem? Or can you just pull it back and forget about it?
4. Anything else you'd like to add? About hair. Or whatever. Except rabies.