Astute readers of Juliloquy know that we got the fetus name "Polly" from my mother's father's father. His first name was Hippolyte. He was born in the French part of Switzerland and moved to the United States when he was 27. His nickname was Polly.
HPR was hot for Hippolyte to be one of our name options. I thought we were safe from that choice when we found out that Polly is a girl. But then HPR did a bit of searching and found out that the mythical Hippolyta (also spelled Hippolyte) was the Queen of the Amazons. Since then, this is the kind of conversation you might overhear at our house.
HPR: We should name her Hippolyta.
Julie: We are NOT naming a daughter, who is likely to inherit my -um- ample hips, Hippolyta.
HPR: What could be a more awesome name than Hippolyta? Queen of the Amazons!
Julie: I don't want someone killing her for her girdle.
HPR: She'll be mad at us if we DON'T name her Hippolyta.
Julie: No one would ever regret not being named Hippolyta.
HPR: Don't be so sure.
Last night, however, we had a bit of a breakthrough.
HPR: Could we at least have Hippolyta be her middle name? Then we could still call her Polly.
Julie: But then what should her first name be?
HPR: Anything you want.
Anything I want. Now that has a nice ring to it.
It has happened. Shmoo has an imaginary friend. Allow me to introduce you. This is "Girl."
Girl is on the back of a box of Kix. Shmooie somehow felt a connection with her and he carries the box around the house. He props it up on the edge of the rug in the living room and narrates to her what he's doing. "Girl, I'm running around!" "Girl, do you see the marbles?"
He is so taken with her that he wants me to befriend her mom. "Mommy, talk to the girl's mommy." Now, I think I do pretty well with the "let's play pretend" business. I do the voices of worm families in the tackle box and Sir Topham Hatt with equal aplomb. I'm sorry, Shmoo. She looks perfectly nice and all, but an imaginary conversation with an imaginary adult takes it one step too far for me.
Shmooie and I got back Wednesday after a weeklong stay in Minnesota, where he got a cousin fix (and grandparent and uncle fix). He didn't greet Girl upon our return and hasn't yet said a word to her. But the Kix box is waiting for him the next time he feels lonely.
I am still riding my bike to and from work. It makes me feel like such a hardcore pregnant mutha: 5+ months along, cycling through the gritty urban neighborhood in my sassy maternity garb.
I fear the actual picture is somewhat more akin to a behelmeted manatee in a mu mu.
Our hairstory left off in 1987. I'll dive right in with the college shots.
Sophomore year. The perm has calmed down. But look out, she's feisty.
Departing for a semester in Lancaster, England, fall 1989. But ruh-roh, I didn't bring a blow dryer with me, so I couldn't get the tsunami effect for my 14 weeks abroad (normal looking hair: not pictured).
This must be 1990 - spring of junior year or fall of senior year. Back to the perms. I really really liked that sweater. Would you say that's 3 inches of bangs?
College graduation, 1991. The beginning of growing out the bangs.
Spiral perms of the early 1990s: Do you remember me from Twisted Sister?
One could also put it up in a barrette with a kicky side-ponytail. Oh and I used to put brown stuff on my eyebrows.
A little softer, a little nicer. This was the last of the perms.
Then I straightened it (rather than let the spiral perm grow out). Ha ha. Someone entrusted me to cut the hair of their tender offspring, 1993. (I currently cut Shmooie's and HPR's hair.)
1994 and 1995. Spider-Man encouraged me to avoid "product" for the remainder of the millennium. Talk about spider sense!
OK folks, I have a bunch of half-posts bouncing around my brain. Until I finish them or they dissolve into the mists of time, you'll have to be satisfied by a hair post. Inspired by my age-mates, Lori and Jennifer, who did their own great hair posts.
I have had my current hairstyle for nearly 15 years, although now I have long layers whereas before it had been all one length just below my shoulders. I did have a brief short-hair experiment in Bulgaria in 2001, but I grew it out since I found shorter hair to require more product and styling than I was willing to deal with. I rarely even blow it dry.
My hair has always been straight, but since having Shmooie, the hair from my ears down has come in wavy, whereas the top has stayed stick straight. Wonder what's in store for me post-partum Polly. (Photo above is from January. I'm due for my twice-yearly haircut.)
Anyway, here we go. I think these must be first, second, and third grade, although the ponytail one is marked 2nd.
With the option for an occasional bun or braid. (I didn't ask my family members' permission, but the photos tell hair side-stories of their own.)
Internet, are you ready for 1980s awkward age? Here ya go.
Gah. I can still conjure up the stench of perm solution if I think about it. I threw this one in because my siblings look so cute. (Including Michi, exchange sister from Austria who lived with my family my senior year of high school. That's a chocolate pizza she's holding.)
Prom theme song: "Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now." Not even Bo Peep in her size-too-small borrowed dress. (Sorry Brian, I guess I should have asked your permission to post, too. And I'm sorry for making you wear a pink cummerbund.)
Onto the perm and winged temples-bangs combo. Always a classic.
All right, I'm tired and need to go to bed, so the college and post-college years are going to have to have their own post. So I leave you with this hott photo of me on the mighty Pinto against a lovely North Dakota backdrop. I learned how to drive stick with the Pinto. Everything else has seemed easy since then.