I usually don’t write about pop culture and reality TV for two reasons. One, there is enough stuff happening in my own life to fill a blogspace. And two, I’m embarrassed to admit to some of the things I watch. But I could not let this one pass.

I was watching the Today Show a couple of weeks ago, and I saw three people in poorly-designed costumes chatting it up with the temporary hosts. “Who Wants to Be a Superhero?” chronicles the competition among a band of people who believe that they are superheros.

Their fake superpowers and their ability to change into costume behind a soda machine is judged by Stan Lee. Yes, Stan Lee. The brilliant mind behind Spiderman, The Fantastic Four, The Hulk, and Daredevil is taking these people seriously.

If these were cartoonists competing for a chance to work with Stan Lee on the next great comic series, I could halfway respect this. But these people are trying to live the life of a Peter Parker in this reality. And I can’t help but wonder who thought that this was a good idea.

I caught an episode of the series, and I don’t know what saddened me more. The fall of Stan Lee is pretty depressing, as is the sight of grown men and women (ages 20 – 40+) running through the park in bright polyester ensembles. But as an amateur comic and cartoon buff, I was stunned by the pitiful superpowers.

Monkey Woman. She is dressed like Jane of the Jungle, but her superskill is the use of high-tech weapons disguised as bananas.

Major Victory. His alter-ego is a former stripper. He has super-hearing and can levitate.

Fat Mama. Her outfit has a doughnut utility belt, and she has her own theme song. “Fat Mama, Fat Mama, I’m here to save the day. Fat mama, Fat Mama, I’ll take your food away.”

The winner will be immortalized in a made-for-television cartoon movie. If any of the aforementioned people win, Stan Lee will have to pull out every trick he has to keep this from being the tombstone of his career.

Cartoons and big-budget movies are supposed to make the plight of the superhero cool, exciting, and, with a bit of suspended disbelief, plausible for a couple of hours. Mr. Lee, please don’t take that away from us. I hope this is the first and last season of this foolishness.

How does that old saying go? You don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone?

Well, that has never been more true for me than it was this past week. If you’ve seen the news, then you may know about the storms that hit the St. Louis area. I was one of the unlucky people who lost power on Wednesday and didn’t get it back for eight days.

On that first night, I was unconcerned. Storms knock the power out for a few hours every now and then. On Thursday, the entrance to my subdivision was lit up like a Christmas tree. The smile on my face quickly faded when I turned onto my street. The left side of the street had electricity, and the right side did not. I was pissed.

A new storm front hit on Friday, and my hopes of seeing light before the end of the next week were gone.

I lived through the weekend like a hobo. The baby and I slept in the basement and stayed out all day in air-conditioned locations (Did I forget to mention that it was 95 – 100 degrees everyday?) I rode around all day with my mother, who stopped at every gas station and convenience store in a 20-mile radius looking for a bag of ice. The few gas stations with electricity had mile-long lines and empty coolers where ice had been.

I was to start a week of vacation on Monday, and there was no way that I was sitting in a dark, hot house for seven days. I packed up the baby and headed to Kansas City. My friend Bev and her dog, Taylor, were gracious hosts to a pair of blackout refugees. We sucked up their air-conditioning for five days.

By Thursday night, my power had returned. Elyse and I came home Friday. The porch light was on, and it was 2:00 in the afternoon. It looked beautiful.

I have since used almost every appliance in the house. I spent the past few hours sitting on the sofa in light and coolness. They were the best hours of my vacation.

Oh, my dear electricity, please don’t leave me again. I don’t know what I’d do without you.

When I was a girl, my mother used to comb my hair. All I remember is that it hurt. Oh, and my mom’s friend Glenda used to comb my hair for picture day. By the time I was old enough to sit still without screaming, Momma started taking me to the hairdresser every two weeks. I still go.

So I’m not sure why I thought that I would be a haircombing whiz after Elyse was born. It was fine when she was a newborn, but all I had to do was brush it down then. Now that she’s a year and a half, there are ribbons, barrettes, and a child who won’t sit still.

My efforts are decent, but curious little fingers undo all of my work by the middle of the day. Elyse’s babysitter, Mrs. Mac, usually takes pity on me and fixes it. And I love her for it. In 15 minutes Mrs. Mac braid my baby’s hair into a style that last seven days. If I had three hours, I couldn’t come close to making it look that nice.

I’ll admit that I was jealous at first; I think Supermom was trying to come out. I eventually got over it by applauding my genius in finding a childcare provider who is a hairstylist to boot.

Mrs. Mac is on vacation this month, and she deserves it. Any woman who takes care of five kids five days a week needs some time to herself. Elyse has been going to the backup daycare that my company provides.

So, I tried to step up my game. I didn’t want strangers thinking that I was a bad mother. I bought two new packs of barettes and started taking extra time braiding on haircare night (Saturday.)

I thought that I was doing great, until I picked up Elyse yesterday. She was lying in a teacher’s lap, and the lady was finishing up a set of cornrows that would give Mrs. Mac a run for her money.

“I hope you don’t mind.” She said as she picked up one of those old-school black combs (the one that has the wide teeth at one end and the little teeth on the other)

“Oh no, thank you.” But I did mind. What was wrong with what I had done? And why did Elyse stay still for a perfect stranger? She’s only known this woman for six days; she’s known me for a year and a half.

Then I remembered the book that I bought for Elyse as a desparate attempt to ease the haircombing process. It’s called “I love My Hair.” The tenderheaded girl in the story starts to cry, and her mother tells her about the beauty of black hair:

“Your hair is beautiful, Keyana, and I can style it any way you choose…I could weave it into a puffy little bun…or I could part straight rows along your scalp…”

I had changed the words, because I knew that I was inept.

“Your hair is beautiful, Elyse, and the with the right hairstylist, you can wear it anyway you choose…She can weave it into a puffy little bun…or she can part straight rows along your scalp…

I suppose I shouldn’t be mad because she was paying attention.

When it comes to dating, I feel a little sorry for the men out there. Because in a meet-and-greet environment, it is usually up to the man to make the first move. And for every woman who is amenable to an advance, I imagine that there is at least one who has said no, if not more.

So I respect the man who can get back on the horse time and time again. However, my patience wears thin when tenacity turns to foolishness. After a certain point, you need to get back on the horse and ride away.

Take for instance, The Deacon, a man who has been trying to catch a break from my hairstylist. My mother described him as “having a young face and an old body,” because he is in his late 30s and is shaped like Grimace. I have seen The Deacon try to talk to Lisa at least three times, and I only go to the salon every two or three weeks.

Here’s a recap.

Strike One. The Deacon approached Lisa and tried to get her number. He told her that he is a good man. As a matter of fact, he said, he is a deacon at a prominent church in the area. Too bad that he didn’t know that my father is a deacon, and Lisa asked my mother to check into his story. It didn’t pan out, and he got no digits.

Strike Two. The Deacon appeared one Saturday afternoon, pretending to need a haircut. He brought a doe-eyed preteen with flowing locks with him, claiming that she was his goddaughter. He’s loves the kids, he declared, putting his arm around the girl’s shoulder for emphasis. Lisa was not impressed. I don’t even think that she looked up what she was doing.

Strike Three. The Deacon showed up this past Saturday with a Bom-Pop, one of Lisa’s favorite summertime treats. He took a seat in the waiting area until a barber was ready to see him. He eventually made his way back to the shampoo area, where Lisa was washing my hair.

“So, uhm, do you still have that phone number I gave you?” He tugged on a too-tight nylon grey short set that was highly unflattering on his weeble-wobble frame.

I closed my eyes and tried to be invisible. I felt Lisa’s hands digging into my scalp. “I think so.”

“Are you going to use them?”

“I don’t know. I really can’t think about that right now.”

“What’s there to think about?”

Lisa’s rinsed my hair with too-hot water. “I’m busy with my customers, and I’ve got my real estate work.”

“Where do you live? Please don’t say it’s with a man.”

“No, I live with my sister.”

“Oh, thank goodness. So, are you going to call?”

“Maybe, I don’t know.”

“You’ve been saying maybe for months!” At this point, I opened my eyes and coughed to hold back the laughter.

“Ma’am, don’t I look like a nice guy to you?”

I coughed again. “I’m sure you’re a nice person.”

“Thank you! See,” he pointed to me. “Your customer thinks I’m nice. Don’t you think she should call me?”

“Maybe she’s not interested.”

He stuttered. “Well, see, uhm, I’ve asked her if she is interested, and…”

I held up my hand, shook my head, and whispered my message again. “She’s not interested.”

The Deacon fumbled for a few moments before asking Lisa for a hug. He blocked her path so that she couldn’t get out of between the two shampoo bowls. I don’t know what the hell she was thinking when she gave it to him. He damn near skipped out of the salon.

I don’t agree with Lisa’s soft-hearted tactics. There is a way to let a guy down easy and let him know to take a hike. It’s a tough skill to master for some, but the “maybe-let-me-think-on-it” approach will only drag out the inevitable.

On the other hand, this man needs to take the hint. He has been coming up empty for months. No phone number. No calls. No dinner invitations. She hardly looks his way when he comes into the shop.

So, Deac, if, by some miracle, you are reading this, please let it go. She is not, and will not, be interested. And even if you decide to keep trying, please do it in the presence of some other customer. I am paying good money for her time, and I would like that time to be undivided.

Don’t be surprised if you see a future entry about how I asked The Deacon for a few dollars to put on my hairstyle. I have a feeling that I haven’t seen the last of him.

When I was pregnant, the slew of unsolicited advice that came my way was relentless. People had cure-alls for pregnancy ailments, gassy babies, fussy sleepers, and picky eaters.

“If you have a happy pregnancy, then you will have a happy baby.” (That advice, by the way, is crap. If you have a happy pregnancy, then count your lucky stars and get ready for the fireworks. A happy baby is not guaranteed.)

“If your baby is full before she goes to bed, then she will sleep all night.” (For me, this too was a load of hooey. Elyse ate to her belly puffed up like a balloon, and she still woke up every two hours.

These are just examples, and I can’t remember half of what I was told. Besides, I had my own ideas. There were some things that I was certain that I would do no matter what.

I would change Elyse on the changing table. I didn’t like the idea of dirty diapers all over the house.

I would not let my child get addicted to a pacifier. I was once with a friend, who, at midnight, was driving around the city looking for an open drugstore because her son couldn’t sleep without his binky. And of course, this was a one-of-a-kind pacifier that was found only at select locations. I did not need that sort of hassle.

I would be Mrs. Clean, wiping mouths and noses faster than they could get dirty. And my kid’s clothes would be sparkling. Hair would be neat, etc.

I would never, never, ever, let her sleep in my bed. My two-year-old cousin spent the night with me a couple of years ago, and she kicked me in the back all night.

Based on this list, some would say that I had never seen a child before. Some would say that I was setting the bar too high. And others would say that I was just plain old nuts. I think I was a little of all three.

What I didn’t account for when I came up with these ideals is the sleep deprivation factor. At 2 a.m. when you are tired and confused, you will let just about anything slide.

I have changed diapers right in the middle of the bed, and woke up the next morning to see it on the floor. And of course, the baby was still in my arms, wearing a milk-stained T-shirt.

Elyse isn’t addicted to a pacifier; she sucks her thumb instead. That,as far as I am concerned, is worse. Her pediatrician says that she will stop on her own, but I’m not convinced. Everyone I know who sucked their thumb did so right up to their driver’s license exam.

Oh, and the hair? Well that’s a story in itself. I braid it once a week in the hopes that it will stay nice for seven days. Elyse’s babysitter generally has pity on me mid-week and recombs it. I still can’t figure out how her braids last so much longer.

I realized how far that I had fallen from grace a couple of days ago when I gave Elyse a little bowl of Cheerios. She spilled half of them on the floor, and I watched her pick them up one by one and pop them in her mouth. And when she offered me one, I ate it.

Most days, though, I think I do pretty well. Elyse is a healthy, happy 18-month-old who carries a purse. I’ve got to be doing something right.