One of my new work duties is hosting Twitter chats every couple of weeks. Mom, Twitter is where you talk back and forth to other people in 140 characters or less. Next week’s lesson will be on hashtags.

Yesterday’s #BlogHerTalks chat was about hair. We talked about natural hair, colored hair, over-treated hair, shrimp gumbo, shrimp scampi, and cocktail shrimp. Wait…

Although I’m a woman, and I have hair, I didn’t have much to offer style-wise to the conversation, because my hair mostly looks like this:

Don’t be jealous.

The fact is, I have very fine, thin hair, so I don’t like to over-treat it. Plus, I work from home so I don’t have a need to impress people with my locks. Thank goodness.

But, occasionally I like to put some effort into it. With summer coming, I know my hair will be in a pony-tail more than ever. Can you say hot-flashes? So I searched for a way to make my plain-Jane-pony a little less boring and I found this.

I followed the advice and styled my hair in about three minutes (see aforementioned fine, thin description…I can practically fit all of my tresses in a curling iron at one time).

What do you think? I mean, besides the fact that I need a dye job.

Other bloggers are choosing their favorite hairstyle tutorial videos and asking for your opinions on which you love most. Each week, BlogHer is giving away prizes to 3 lucky winners: one grand prize viewer will receive a $250 Visa gift card and two more folks will each receive a $100 Visa gift card! Visit the Prizes and Promotions page on BlogHer.com for more info!

Hair Sweepstakes Official Rules.

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Every year, for the past 18 years, my husband has given me an Easter lily. What started out as a sweet offering from him to a (then) co-worker has turned into a tradition in our marriage and it means the world to me. It’s better than Valentine’s Day, because it’s not a romantic gesture we share with the world. It’s just ours.

Ironically, the giving of the Easter lily often follows an argument and there have been at least two years that I had to toss a hint that, hey it’s getting really close to Easter Sunday and I don’t have my plant yet. I’m pretty sure last year’s flower showed up late on Saturday evening. But, that’s okay. Life has a way of sneaking up you like that.

I won’t wax poetic on Lent, spring, renewal, marriage and how the lily symbolizes all of them to me…even though I kind of just did. Instead I’ll tell you that it smells really good and it looks pretty on my mantle.

However, I will say that this kind, little expression of affection; this nod to our shared history, makes me dust off my hands and start anew. I am a sucker for tradition. And margaritas, but that’s a different post.

It is a reminder that under this stack of bills, homework, dog fur, dishes, and my husband’s grouchy exterior, there is something sweet, gentle, and dependable. Just when I feel like I’m getting crushed under the weight of it all, a flower springs forth. It’s like hope in a clay pot. If you could sell it, I think it would be illegal.

Despite the snow on the ground (thanks for NOT listening to me Mother Nature) my hope for you is that you find warmth and kindness in something, anything, like I do my lily.

And if you can’t find either one, just make it an excuse to drink more margaritas.

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It’s long past time that we had a talk, you and I. Quite honestly, your erratic behavior is getting old.

Remember that day in January when we went for a run in the warm sunshine? That was a great day. We got along and we worked well together. You were pleasant and it made the pavement below my feet a little softer; the miles a little less long.

Since then I can’t really remember you showing me any kindness, and that hurts. I know you can be kind. I try to reason with you, but I get absolutely no response other than a cold shoulder.

I wish there was a way to fix this relationship, but I know I can’t do it alone and that I’m at your mercy. I have to go along with whatever you want, put up with your moods, and trudge through my day knowing that you may never give me what I need. I’m ready to move on and you’re stuck in the past.

And, really, Mother Nature? I’m over it.

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Here’s what I could tell you; that my job entails the reading of hundreds of blog posts and articles online every day, and all day Monday I read about the Steubenville rape case. All day. By Monday night I felt like my brain weighed a million pounds and I considered never going online again. Then I remembered that this story would have never been told if it weren’t for a blogger who fell into the roll of investigative journalist. Bloggers rule. I think I’ll stick around.

I could tell you that we spent hours worrying about our nephew yesterday when we found out his Marine unit was involved in a deadly accident in Nevada. We were not one of the families devastated by news that their Marine was killed. Ours is alive, but he will have to deal with the pain of losing his good friends.

Shamelessly stolen from his Facebook photos. I don’t care. I only care that he is alive.

Of course, if I told you about all of that, I’d have to mention that the torture of not knowing whether he was okay took me back to August, 2005 when we waited for word on another nephew who was stationed in Iraq. He, too, is still alive, but he lost even more friends.

I could tell you how I feel guilty for not being a better aunt to them. I should have sent letters and care packages, and I should tell them that we pray for them every day, that we love them, and that I understand what has happened to them means they will never be the same again. Ever. It makes my heart hurt.

I might say that I’ve been worried about my cancer-surviving sister doing well as she reenters the workforce, that I have no idea how we’re going to pay for private school tuition, and that I fell HARD off the juice-fast wagon. I blame the leprechaun.

I could mention that the first day of spring is really just another day of winter, that my husband has lost his ever-loving mind because he’s considering the purchase of a puppy, and that I don’t want to live in my house right now because it’s such a mess.

Or, I could just show you this magazine insert that my son was using as a bookmark until he told me it was “distracting” him.

Clearly, he still like arms.

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