A bunch of you have asked how the apartment sale is going. It would be nicer if you just made an offer on the place, but I’m not going to give you a hard time about it.

So here are the BIG developments…

We ditched the “Vanilla Citrus Zest” candle and are now trying “Cinnamon Apple.”  Thank you to Blognut for frankly commenting that citrus smells tend to call up memories of the air fresheners in public restrooms.

Since I’m currently not selling a urinal, I’ve switched to the allure of cinnamon as recommended by  Kristin K. and Chris. If I find out those two are lobbyists for the cinnamon cartel, I’m going to demand they refund my $4.99 Glade candle.

Our neighbors are still letting us bring a bunch of stuff over whenever we show the apartment. Unfortunately, they also have dogs. So far, we’ve lost 2 Elmo plastic cups, 2 pieces of dollhouse furniture, and we had a very close call with a baby doll, all courtesy of the 5th floor canine population.

But honestly, it’s just less stuff we have to bring back to our place.

By the way, what the heck is up with everyone owning a dog in New York City? Do they all think…Yes, I live in 900 square feet. I know! I’ll get a newfoundlander. That will absolutely make the place feel bigger.

Can’t they just find happiness with a cat?

And final apartment update…

Rick and I now get to have conversations like this:

“Honey, can you show the apartment in an hour? A broker wants to bring someone by,” Rick asks.

“IN AN HOUR?!!! How am I supposed to do that? I’m on my way right now to go to the grocery store. We have nothing to eat. There is no preschool this week so I have both girls with me. And Summer has this new thing where she REFUSES to sit in the shopping cart so it won’t be a quick trip. The apartment is a mess. And how am I supposed to get it ready while Dylan and Summer run around like princess-fueled maniacs, pulling out every toy they can find? And seriously, IN AN HOUR? I’m not a god damn superhero!”

“Maybe they could come by a little later in the day?” Rick offers.

“Yeah, sure, that sounds fine.”

mama bird notes:

I won some awesome, earth friendly cleaning products from Ecostore USA on The Chronicles of a SAHM. Thank you!

And have you ever wondered whether your kid needs a helmet when ice skating? Contributing mama Daphne Biener is very grateful her daughter Kira was wearing one when she took a fall on the ice. Click on her blog, A Greener Biener, to read more.

So Mayberry Mom and I were recently emailing about which Presidents we’d be willing to hook up with.  No, not sex. Do we look like that easy?!

Just like first or second base.

It all started because Mayberry Mom commented on my last post that she’d had a Monica Lewinsky sighting and well, you understand how we quickly got to the issue of presidential hook-ups.

I always felt a little sorry for Monica Lewinsky because if given the chance to mug down with a President, would you really say no?

Mayberry Mom and I both agreed that we would go for it with Obama.

But George W. Bush? Absolutely not.

I mean, if given the opportunity, I’d probably try to make myself kiss W. just so I could casually mention, “I made out with the President,” in conversations with other moms at preschool pickup.  But honestly, I know in the end I couldn’t stomach it.  I just can’t kiss a guy with such poor syntax.

The first George Bush? Hell no.

Bill Clinton? I don’t think so. That guy is too easy.

Jimmy Carter? Too peanuty.

Back in 1992, never-going-to-be-president Al Gore might have been worthy of a hook-up. I worked on the Clinton-Gore campaign and Gore had a tendency to wear his pants kind of snug, which isn’t exactly my thing but I’m sure it was a real crowd pleaser and he looked pretty good for a politician.

As for my husband Rick, he would totally make out with 2012 presidential-wannabe  Sarah Palin. He wouldn’t fly to Alaska for the chance.  But but you know, if she was out hunting or fishing or turkey killing in the West Village and they just happened to run into each other…

Hillary Clinton? Well, depends on the pantsuit.

While I’m writing this, my husband is vehemently shaking his head no to Hillary but I’m telling you, he shouldn’t be so closed minded. A make out session with a Secretary of State is something you can really brag about on your Facebook profile.

By Contributing Mama Diane LeBleu

I remember when my best friend Holly first called me earthy. All because I refused to find out the gender of my 2nd child, in utero, waiting instead for the big day. When she was pregnant with her first child and living in the San Francisco Bay Area, only earthy girls waited to be surprised.

“I am NOT earthy!” I protested huffily. Earthy girls wore Birkenstocks and clothing woven out of hemp. They were Gender Studies majors. They carried canvas shopping bags, ate soy and hummus, and purchased organic, antibiotic and hormone-free long before it became the hip thing to do. They don’t wear make-up or color their hair – in fact, they don’t care much about how they look and they certainly don’t give a flip about what anyone else thinks of them.

How could I be mistaken for earthy? I was a Business and Communications major. I drive a minivan and vote Republican. I am a breeder, with four children, a big house and a nasty carbon footprint. I was a cheerleader for crying out loud! And I invested a lot of time and money to find just the right hair colorist to apply the chemically perfected highlights to my locks every ten to twelve weeks.

At least I used to. Now I’m waiting for it to all fall out. I had been warned about what signs to expect from my twin and my new girlfriends who have walked this pink path before me.  I have been thoroughly preparing myself mentally and stocking up on the essential accessories. Scarves? Check! Hats in multiple styles and colors and seasonal weights? Check! Soft knit cap for sleeping? Check! 2 wigs in different shades of warm blonde, cut and styled? Check! Bring it on, baby!

Yesterday morning, I was gently brushing through my hair, the bristles only just grazing the tops of my locks to tidy my above-the-shoulder length do. My head was a little tender (imagine a sunburned scalp) and I was trying to be as careful as possible when the end of the brush caught a snag and pulled free a massive clump. Holy cow!

As prepared as I was, the first time it happens, it is a little horrifying. “What’s the big deal?” I console myself. It’s only hair, it will grow back.  My roots have become a mousy shade of rust and dirt anyway – they don’t match at all the ashy blonde sides and bottom. I’ll be glad to see it go!

Then a quiet, sly, little voice whispers “Everyone can tell it’s a wig. Who are you trying to fool?” “You have always looked ridiculous in hats!” “Hey Aunt Jemima – where are my hotcakes?”

A number of breast cancer survivors I have come to know have told me that the loss of hair is one of the most dramatic parts of their battle with the disease. Not that it is painful or messy, just that it is the most public part of having breast cancer. You can hide a scar, cover up newly reconstructed (or no) breasts under a shirt. In most cases, it is hard to effectively keep hair loss under wraps.

My husband, who has been a rock of strength, support, kindness and humor throughout this ordeal, doesn’t get the hair part. It’s a girl thing. Look around – Hair America is where we live and it is big business, especially in Texas where I live. I know it’s shallow, silly, and sentimental but it’s been covering my head for the past 39 years so I’ve gotten a bit attached to this old mop of mine.

And why do I care at all? Because I just don’t want people looking at me. Not my network of friends, family and neighbors. It’s everyone else I encounter in daily life – taking the kids to school, going to the grocery store, walking to the park. You know the feeling when you encounter someone that has clearly undergone some chemical therapy – Do I look? Do I not look? Am I staring?

I have never liked being the center of attention. Even on my wedding day, I hustled my dad down to the front of the church as fast as my heavy gown would allow. These days, I am a big enough public spectacle trying to corral and wrangle my four children along that I don’t need to add CANCER PATIENT to the exhibition as well.

My first day of chemotherapy, I sat in my recliner in the great infusion lounge watching all the other patients get their noxious doses over the course of a very long day. A young woman was there when I arrived, relaxing and watching one of the many ceiling mounted televisions as a bag of chemicals slowly dripped through the lines into her arm. She was alone – quiet, calm, self-assured and completely, unapologetically bald as a flesh-colored billiard ball shining under the fluorescent lights.

Bold. Beautiful. Earthy.

My friend Cici reminded me over lunch last week, as I lamented the loss of my hair, that it’s not the outward trappings that make one beautiful. It’s what’s in the heart.

I really believe that to be true. It’s what we tell our kids, isn’t it? Now I get to walk that talk. I’m looking to take a cue from some of the earthy girls I so easily dismissed with my quick judgments and unfair stereotypes. They do seem to have some great wisdom in their approach to things from which I could readily benefit. I have four children, three of them girls, who will be watching every move I make over the next week and coming months. I want to be brave and bald and beautiful. I want them to know – it’s what’s on the inside that counts.

So I’m having a hair buzzing party next Friday at my house with a few girlfriends and we’ll be embracing the earthy in me. The invitation reads:

No more tears! Join me for shears and champagne on Friday at 7PM. Serving appetizers of edamame, hummus, and goat cheese. Stay late for bra burning! Pink attire optional.

One reason I’m hesitant to leave Manhattan is that I’ve never seen Sarah Jessica Parker in person. It’s just ridiculous because we both live in the West Village, we both have long hair and we are both HUGE movie stars.

How have we not connected?

But it has just not happened. I’ve seen the actor Oliver Platt about 47 times and no disrespect to Oliver Platt, but who the hell cares?

So while I try to come to grips with that fact that SJP and I are star crossed, my husband is having no problem getting chummy with HUGH JACKMAN.

Yes… People’s Sexiest Man Alive. I don’t completely agree. Like if I went out on a blind date with Hugh, I would think, “Not my favorite name but hey this guy is pretty cute. Maybe we’ll do dinner and drinks and then make-out,” but I would not be thinking, “Oh totally sexiest, hottest, smokin’ guy alive. He’s never going to call me.”

But I know some of you really dig him. So for this piece, any references to Sexiest Man Alive pertain to Hugh Jackman.

So anyway…

My husband has been between jobs (that’s a fancy way to say laid off).  Thankfully, he rejoins Fox News Channel on Monday.  But in the meantime, he’s had time to meander around the neighborhood. Yesterday, he was sitting outside a local coffee shop, next to another couple, just relaxing and reading news articles on his phone.  It was unseasonably warm.

Then Hugh Jackman and his wife walk by and they happen to know the couple next to Rick.  So they sit down too.

So there is Sexiest Man Alive and Mrs. Sexiest Man Alive chatting it up with this couple… and Rick manages to effortlessly work himself into the conversation when topics like children and local schools come up. All of this is happening while the paparazzi is snapping away.

So Rick will probably end up in the background of some photo in People magazine.

And then today, Rick CASUALLY mentions to me that he just saw Sarah Jessica Parker.  A couple of weeks ago.  During his lay off.  While taking Summer to the doctor’s office.

Seriously?

Ok fine. But has Mr. Celeb Magnet had the chance to see Oliver Platt 47 times? I don’t think so.

Dylan’s hair has grown incredibly long.

But she’s not so keen on getting a trim. So I gave her my best pitch…

“Honey, you need a little trim. Let’s go down to Doodle Doo’s and you can pick out a video and watch TV while they just shape your hair a little bit. You can sit in my lap if you want. Then you’ll get a lolly pop and I’ll even let you pick out a small toy there. Does that sound good?”

“No,” Dylan replies defiantly.

“Well, then I’ll just have to cut it myself at home. No video. No candy. Nothing. Is that what you REALLY want?” I ask.

“Yes. Cut my hair at home.”

It’s settled.

Fabulous.

Except for my complete lack of beautician skills.

So fine. I’ll learn how to cut hair. Sure, my Tim Gunn inspired mission to learn how to sew somehow veered off the runway.  My sewing machine and half finished plaid skirt form 2002 are now packed in storage. But it’s hard to become a budding fashion designer when Tim and Heidi and Michael aren’t around.

This time will be different. So I pull out “The Learning Annex” which is where New Yorkers go to become experts on ANYTHING in one night.

I find tons of awesome courses for just $45 like “How to Be a People Magnet.” Except I don’t really love people. However, my husband will chat with you (really, all of you) endlessly and actually enjoy it. It’s like he’s constantly auditioning to be the official ambassador of New York City. I wonder if he teaches the class.

Wait, this sounds like an interesting class… “How to Talk to Your Cat.” But I don’t have a cat. And if I did, she couldn’t possibly teach me how to cut hair.

I keep looking and find, “How to Mary a Millionaire: The Rich Are Going to Marry Someone… Why Not You?” How brilliant! I’ll be so rich that I can hire someone to teach me how to cut hair. Oh right. I’m already married. Well, that’s suddenly inconvenient.

I hate millionaires.

The Learning Annex sucks. Not one damn beauty class.

And my kid’s hair is eventually going to turn into sticky, golden dreadlocks.