Tell Me Mirror, Mirror

Oh there is work to be done and I have no idea what I am doing. Maybe Scott does.

And magically, he calls me from the road on his way to my house one Saturday about this very thing. He says the forecast is for rain and would I be able, in my travels with Hil, hither and yon on a Saturday morning while Pat sleeps, to stop into a nursery and pick out a few shrubs. Preferably those that a) won't grow to a height that makes them visible from space, and b) are ble to stand 6-8 hours of direct, scorching, punishing sunlight. He'd like to get them in the ground and let the rain give them a good soak.

I agree to do just that after Hil and I have gone and done the all important business of opening a bank account for our new summer babysitter, and getting my drivers license picture taken.

This is a special license. The last license I had made was just days before my divorce was final. Had I known, I would have waited. My lawyer was so excited about the judge's ruling, she broke her own tradition and called me rather than let me get the joyful news in the mail. Truly, I'd felt like celebrating, though most people aren't quite sure how to respond when you fill them in on that big news.(However everyone in my office practically turned cartwheels they were so overjoyed at my unburdening). But my one disappointment was in the timing. My license was due to expire any day, and had I known I'd be free of my was-band AND my heinous, boring last name, I'd have held out. The judge had been kind enough to grant my lawyer one last motion and had relieved me of 180 ugly pounds and the bitter reminder last name in the same stroke of the pen. Yay me.

But for 4 years I walked around with a license, and, as we do in Pennsylvania, a little typed yellow and white flimsy, folding card that indicates a name change. Which wouldn't be half bad if it said something explanatory and validating above where your name is like: "Divorced the ugly old asswipe and will now and forever be known as Miss Fabulous Blahblahblah, Saint."

But no. You were this and now you are that. No indication about how much time, money, blood, sweat and tears you expended becoming THAT again.

I got up early. I washed my hair. I artfully applied makeup. Hil checked it before I sealed the deal by curling my lashes and applying stage amounts of mascara so the camera will love me.

I used high end products in my hair and tousled it just so, drying it at a glacial pace on low heat. I chose a flattering photo-friendly ensemble that would coordinate nicely with my hair and makeup. I whitened my teeth. I ditched my Invisalign for the morning.

Hil and I are the first ones in the lot of the Driver Photo ID place. Before we step out of the car I check my hair and face and then double check that there is no lipstick on my teeth. That would suck.

Hil picks up on the fact that I am more concerned than usual about my appearance and gets my attention as we walk around the car to the door of the place. "Mom," she says. "Even if you had a live monkey on your head, Scott would still say you are beautiful."

My child. Better than any mirror I could buy. She is the fairest of them all.