I haven’t had much positive to say about MJ over the past decade or so. He was so, well, strange, and whenever it seemed like he might finally fade into the background and raise his kids, he would do something creepy or bizarre that confirmed how troubled he was and that he was passing that trouble along to his children. And as much as I love to dance around my living room to Beat It, all the available evidence suggested that the plastic surgery and the financial and legal problems and the rumored drug use had combined to sap his health and his talent. I wasn’t even that sad when he died because the part of him I loved, his magic, appeared to have evaporated years ago.

But I did love him once upon a time, and I’d heard “This is It” was worth seeing. So I saw it.

And it made me sad and happy. It was the closest I’ll ever get to seeing a Michael Jackson concert. It reminded what a genius he was. It made me question the news reports about his health. It made me think of him as a man and a professional, not just an over-the-hill singer who had had way too much plastic surgery and dangled his baby over a balcony.

If Michael Jackson had allowed the world a glimpse of his life like the one I saw in “This is It,” things might have been different for him. He seemed capable, physically healthy, in tune, and professional. I’ve read that he wished he could live his whole life onstage, and I can see why. He was skinny and his nose looked weird, but he knew exactly how to act up there, and exactly what he wanted, and he was humble but directive. He danced and sang like a gracefully aging pop star, not like the slightly crippled and over-dubbed skeleton he seemed in the press. It’s true, he couldn’t move like he did in 1983, but neither can I, and neither can Madonna.

Unfortunately it seems like he was incapable of living a happy or normal offstage life. He hated the press so he became a recluse, which only made him seem incapacitated and strange. He made his kids wear masks and he left the country and then held cryptic press conferences. He spent a lot of time with “spiritual advisors” who then sold their stories to the tabloids. His relationships with women were, well, inexplicable, and his relationships with young children were, at the very least, suspicious. His family and his upbringing were probably partially to blame.

But it seems to me that he had one main problem, which was also his gift: he was simply a vessel for his art, and outside that art, he absolutely couldn’t figure out how to function. (Bear with me here for the artsy fartsy section. I just can’t think of this in any other way.) Michael Jackson’s body and his life offstage were seriously flawed, but his art was close to perfect. And when I say his art, I mean the whole package – the songwriting, the charisma, the singing, and of course the dancing. The film makes clear that it was all of a piece for him. He didn’t write a song, then learn to sing it, then choreograph a dance. It all came to him at one time, and when he sang, it appeared that he had to move; he couldn’t imagine music without song, without dance. And I can only imagine if he lived his whole life knowing the perfection of that feeling, he was flummoxed by the imperfection of every other aspect of his existence.

I wonder if that’s why he was enamored with the innocence of children, and why he kept searching for spiritual fulfillment, and why he took drugs to help him sleep, and why he couldn’t stop shaving off parts of his nose.

So “This is It” was great fun because it reminded me how much I love to listen to Michael Jackson and to watch him dance. And it was sad, not because there was a big tragic ending where his dancers wept over his death (though I’m sure that happened, they kept it tastefully off camera), but because it seems like reports of his demise had been greatly exaggerated.

I wonder if he was poised for something magic once again.

In fact, as long as we’re talking about how much hair I had, here’s what I looked like when I wore all of it in a bun.

It’s not so much a BAD hair day, but it does look very much like I’ve grown a second skull. I don’t even want to think about the additional weight created by all the bobby pins in there, along with the hole in the Ozone layer created by the Woolworth’s brand aerosol hairspray required to keep it shellacked up like that. Incidentally, I was performing a ballet solo on a flatbed hay truck.

To atone for abandoning you, Internet, I’m going to post a series of photos of my worst ever hair days. This is serious stuff, people. As you’ll soon see, I have difficult-to-manage hair. I’ve always had way too much of it, and it’s coarse and sort of wavy and, well, I’d rather have this hair than be bald but some days I wonder. It’s something I must confess I am still working on today.

Let’s start slowly, with a photo from second grade. My mom and dad went to the state fair and my dad won at the horseraces. They used the money to take me to Disneyland for four days and I got to miss two days of school. It was a Very Big Deal. Such a big deal that we forgot I was missing picture day, the day for which I usually prepared by sleeping in spongy curlers. And then we forgot when re-take day was, and so I was shuffled off unexpectedly to the library and the photographer with his flimsy little dime-store combs.

This was definitely not my Picture Day outfit and it certainly wasn’t my Picture Day hairdo. I vaguely recall that this was taken just after noon recess, when I’d been playing kickball. My mom had recently cut my bangs. Those sad little plastic barrettes are hanging on for dear life. I’m not sure what is going on with that piece of hair that’s longer than everything else. Perhaps I had foreseen the rat tail trend to come? And, in case you’re wondering, most of my childhood winter wardrobe consisted of a turtleneck under something else (in this case, a souvenir t-shirt from the famous Disneyland trip). When I moved out of Montana I practically went into turtleneck withdrawal.

There you go, Internet. The beginning of the end of my dignity. There are perms and mullets and even a prom picture in our future. Away we go.

I got home late Sunday evening after starting my trip with a canceled flight (and an exchange with an airline employee that was really just unrivaled in its rudenes. And the rudness was not mine, for once). But I was happy to have made it home and fell into bed, got up and went to work, and just about collapsed in a heap at 10am when I realized it was only MONDAY and OMG THERE ARE FOUR MORE DAYS OF THIS.

When I’m in my little routine, I spend Sunday evenings getting my clothes ready (I almost typed “ironing my clothes” but who am I fooling), figuring out lunches and dinners for the week, and going over the day care pick-up and drop-off schedule with Jeff. So without that structural safety net I found myself eating BBQ potato chips and Twizzlers I found in my desk drawer at lunchtime while sweating through an inappropriately-wintry turtleneck. But the turtleneck was clean at least, because I chose clean over seasonal.

All three of us have some version of a cough/runny nose/day care pestilence, so I’ve also been contending with fearful looks from bystanders as I hack up a lung. I feel like I should hand out anti-bacterial wipes everywhere I go. I’ll admit, sometimes I cough right into my hand instead of into my elbow, and sometimes I don’t wash my hands immediately after wiping my nose. It’s hard when you’re sitting in the middle seat on an airplane. But I am sick and tired of and, well, getting downright pissed off about, people’s reactions to my condition. Let’s be clear here: I do not have a fever. I do not have chills. I am not oinking. I just have a cold and a cough and when I get a cough it tends to last for a long time. And I’m not sure exactly what I’m supposed to do about that besides politely stuff my face into my elbow when I feel a cough coming on. Stay in my house for the six weeks it takes for me to stop coughing? Wear a surgical mask?

I am too lazy to expand this little rant into a well-constructed argument about the media and “news” and how the public has been not-subtly convinced to fear illness over the years and now we’re all judging one another for our germs. But you get my drift. On the other hand, I am sympathetic to health concerns, I have a freaking toddler for goodness’ sake. I have allergy-induced asthma. I know we have to take a health threat like H1N1 seriously.

But let’s just all calm down, please. Please. Deep breath.

I feel much better now.

And as long as I’m going on and on about whatever is on the top of my head, let me send you to a couple of things I’ve been enjoying lately:

Penelope Trunk is always interesting and I’m finding her latest series on Asperger’s Syndrome in the workplace really fascinating. She also just angered a whole lot of people, using 140 characters or less, and in a way that is sparking all kinds of conversations. Check her out.

Have you read The Unlikely Disciple? Speaking of controversy, it’s a book about religion and sex and Jerry Falwell and college. I’m only about 1/3 through and I can’t put it down.

Yes and No.

The Good:
Mya and Donny both did well. And Mark was all right. If he can get over the Kung Fu poses he’ll do well.

The Bad:
Chuck Liddell was not good, but he has that sincerity of purpose that it’s hard not to love. I practically had to turn off the TV when Tom DeLay came on, if only due to his practice wardrobe. And what can you say about Macy Gray? It almost feels mean to criticize her – she seems like she’s living in some far-off wonderland.

The Surprising:
Kelly Osbourne was very good! And she’ll get even better with practice. I guess Louis really is a genius teacher. She’s also got the personality lacking in everyone else but the snowboarder hobbit. He’s charming but I’m not sure he has anything in his bag of tricks besides those backflips.

Aaron Carter was even more annoying than I thought he’d be. Ick. I also had hope for Ashley Hamilton and there’s no denying he’s attractive but man, he hasn’t an ounce of rhythm.

Joanna Krupa could be the next Brooke Burke. Unfortunately that means we’ll also being seeing Derek again, week after week.

Who knew Kathy Ireland was so tall? And poor Tony, he really deserves to win, but this is not going to be his season.

I felt an overall lack of pizzazz. Even in the glare of the sequins. It’s why Kelly Osbourne stood out so clearly and why Donny did well. Where is the sex appeal? Where is the passion? WHERE IS GILLES? (Excuse me, I’ve started channeling Bruno.)

For a long time, I’ve taken care of my to-do list on the weekdays. I grocery shopped, I made dentist appointments, I called the insurance company. I found a baby shower gift. I searched online for a recipe for that applesauce cake I was going to try to make. When weekends came, they were devoted to sleeping and eating waffles and having fun.

I anticipated the exhaustion I’d feel on weekday evenings after I started working, and it arrived right on schedule. By Thursday night last week my eyes were droopy at 6:30pm and Theo was singing his “Wake up, Mama!” song and reminding me that the sun wasn’t down yet. But I remembered that feeling, and I kind of sunk right back into it, my throat scratchy from talking all day and my feet hurting from wearing stiff shoes. For me, it’s a little of what accomplishment feels like. I like it.

But I’d forgotten about cramming the rest of my life into the weekends. Now we’re trying to do the fun stuff on Saturdays and Sundays – seeing friends and playing with cousins and going to the library and eating out – and then doing laundry and buying diapers and packing lunches after the kid goes to bed. No more lazy weekends for us.

I’m tempted to become a weekend hermit, holing up with my little guy and my big guy and eating Cheerios and watching America’s Funniest Home Videos for two days straight. In fact, I’m sure there will be weekends when that happens. However we’ll run out of cereal eventually so there will be a trip to the store on the agenda at some point.

Party on.

From her ex-boyfriend. Her first love. Who broke her heart and to whom she hasn’t spoken in fifteen years. She glances furtively over her computer at the guy on the couch, her mouse hovering between “accept” and “ignore.”

END SCENE

I fully expect to see this on my television soon, either as an intro to a Dr. Phil segment or an ad for anti-anxiety meds. Because the drama du jour, besides who’s really writing celebrity Twitter updates, is What To Do With The Ex on Facebook. Do we ignore and wonder and worry that the ex will think he’s won? Do we accept and keep it a secret from our current flames? Do we accept for politeness’s sake then de-friend when no one is looking? Do we accept, write “CHEATING ASSHOLE” on his wall, and then de-friend? Do we accept with the knowledge that there’s still a little bit of feeling there, and what happens then?

What we do right now, if the people I know are any indication, is let it sit in the in-box and then dish with our girlfriends about it. We talk way too much about what “friend” really means, and motives, and what would I do if I knew my husband were Facebook friends with that hussy he dumped when he met me, ad nauseum. And then we go off and stew a little more.

A few weeks ago, a very wise friend of mine got just such a request. He was a significant person in her life for several years in her early twenties, but it ended in a difficult way. She had always wondered about him and where he’d ended up, but she moved on. She now has a happy family and a successful career and hadn’t really thought about him in a while. But still, when she got the friend request, on her wedding anniversary no less, she sent an email to us, her faithful girlfriend sounding board, with Subject: OMG OMG OMG. As one does.

We, her bumbling band of advisors, hemmed and hawed and said wow, that’s crazy timing, I wonder what he’s doing now, that’s so wild! And gave her no useful advice at all. So she took matters into her own hands. And she put on her grown-up shoes (mine are red patent peep-toe heels) and wrote this reply to her ex:

Hey there! I hope you and your family are doing well. Thank you for the
friend request. Unfortunately, I will have to decline. My husband and I
have a deal, no exes. Especially significant ones. I really hope you are
doing well and wish you all the best. Today is my 10yr wedding anniversary
and we have a beautiful 3yo daughter and 17mo old son. I would love a quick
note hearing about how you are doing. And I hope you understand and respect
the decision about the request.

And then, of course, she practically lost her mind as she wondered what he would write back.

Later in the day, she got a reply. It was extremely kind. It included the kind of apology that every person wants from an ex who has broken her heart. It gave her a nutshell description of his life since they were together. And it ended with sincere respect for her choice to honor a promise to her husband.

I’m not sure why I was so surprised at the happy ending here. My friend just did the responsible thing, the thing that most people would do outside Facebook. But for better or worse (better being the fact that I can officially count myself as a fan of Bacon and put up an avatar of Molly Ringwald in memoriam to John Hughes, worse being the “friend-ing” and “de-friending” drama), Facebook pulls some of us into junior high school mentality even though we all swore we would NEVER go back to junior high, given the choice.

So although I can’t promise that you’ll get as gracious a response as she did, my friend and I both give you permission to cut and paste her message into your Facebook reply box when the ex-boyfriend from 1998 who moved out of your apartment in the middle of the night and who you later saw sucking face with the receptionist from his office tries to friend you.

You’re welcome for that memory.

Every stage in his life is interesting to me, but now that the physical growth has slowed down a bit and his intellectual progress is faster, I am more fascinated by him than ever. He’s started making jokes, and remembering directions (”We going left?”), and trying to figure out what day it is (”Today Tuesday?”). Of course he’s also bossier than I ever imagined he could be, and he has a real problem remembering that everyone deserves a turn on the slide and that blocking it with his body and just hanging out at the top really isn’t acceptable playground behavior.

So isn’t it just my luck that, just when he’s at his most charming, I’ve up and got myself a full-time job? It’s true. I start next week. I’m excited about it. I’ve really missed the intellectual stimulation of working. I always liked my work and now that I’ve had a four year break, I know for sure that it really was the right field for me. So I’m going back.

Before I had a child I suspected I was not stay-at-home-mom material, and although I am beyond grateful that I could hang out with Theo for as long as I have, I still believe I’m happier when I’m working. I do not do well with unstructured days and hours alone with my toddler. I do not enjoy housework, and I just feel guilty that it’s not getting done while I’m trying to re-assemble a broken dump truck. I am terrible at arts and crafts. My patience for whining is severely limited.

Of course this new plan is kind of breaking my heart too. I am savoring our sleepy mornings this week, eating breakfast in our PJs and wandering over to the library and the park. I don’t like thinking about the post-nap cuddles I will miss, or the quiet weekday visits to the zoo.

But it still feels like the right thing. I’m happy with our child care situation. Jeff and I are both looking forward to caring for Theo in a more balanced partnership. And it’s a financially responsible decision for all of us.

But I’m not looking forward to giving up our play days either.

Did you see the new cast of Dancing with the Stars has been announced? And, according to the headlines, its most exciting member is Tom DeLay. Wha? I can’t wait to see what John Stewart has to say about this development (don’t tell me, we don’t get to watch him until a day later).

My predictions:
-Final three = Mya, Marc Dacascos, Donny Osmond.
Mya and Donny both have dance/performance backgrounds. She was in the move musical Chicago, he was in Joseph & The Amazingly White Teeth (or something). Somehow it doesn’t seem fair to pit a professional dancer against, say a snowboarder or a rodeo cowboy but then again, Lil Kim didn’t get voted off because she was a bad dancer. I’m most excited about Marc Dacascos who plays the Chairman on Iron Chef America. He is a martial artist and I really hope they pair him with someone besides Karina because she scares me.

-Possible spoiler = Aaron Carter
Also has a performance background. But, based on his bizarre family reality TV show, might be kind of a jerk. Which could hurt him. He’s no Cody Linley in the wide-eyed ingenue department, is all I’m saying.

-First to go = Macy Gray or Chuck Liddell
Have you seen Macy Gray move? Yikes. And I just don’t have much hope for the Ultimate Fighting Champion. I’d say DeLay might get kicked off early but the Republicans are fired up and like to get out the vote.

-Other possible nightmares: Joanna Krupa and Kathy Ireland
Models seem to have a hard time with rhythm and movement on this show. Except for Brooke Burke, of course. Because she was BORN TO BE A DANCER!!! according to the judges.

Now I’m on pins and needles, wondering which professional dancers will be cast with the celebs. Any predictions? Hopes? Dreams?