kellementology – Page 29 – life according to me

life according to me

Just another Friday

His large feet shush across the carpet toward my bed in the dim rainy day light. I can hear his hesitancy as he approaches and know he must be wondering if I’m awake, or even alive. I’m tangled in and out of covers and sheets after another restless night. It must be time for him to leave for school and he’s come to check on me since I’m not downstairs. For a second I wonder if he thinks I’ve forgotten carpool duty on my one day off.

“Morning, Doog,” I mumble to him before he turns around to leave, trying to sound more awake than I am.

“G’ morning, Mom,” he responds in a voice with a Friday lilt. I can sense that he has drawn closer to the edge of the bed and is standing there, most likely trying to decide just how he might give me a hug. But I’m not perched on my usual edge. Instead, I am sprawled across the middle and not quite reachable for a 15-year-old who more and more seems to find the business of hugging awkward. I find myself wanting to erase his discomfort.

“Are you ready for school? Do you have all your things together?” I ask even though I asked last night before bed, and even earlier after his homework was complete.

“Yes. I’m ready.”

“Do well on your tests today, okay?”

“‘Kay. And I just wanted to remind you that I won’t be there to pick up after school ’cause I’m going with W,” he tells me, already headed out of the room.

“It’s not my day, Doog. Don’t forget your book for English so you can read today,” I add unnecessarily, as that, too had been discussed last night.

“I won’t, Mom.”

I hear the weight of his still growing body on the stairs as he heads down, and a few muffled words with his father as he clicks the lock on the front door to leave, his backpack banging against its frame. It’s 7am and his car pool is most likely waiting outside. “Bye, Mom,” he calls.

“Bye, Doog,” I say, never quite loud enough.

“See-yah-later.”

“See you later, too,” I finish.

I wait to hear the car pull away before I drag myself from bed and shuffle down stairs to take care of the animals.

It only takes a second to notice that he has left the book I reminded him about. It’s on the floor right where he drops his backpack each day.

I sigh and am glad that I have resisted learning how to text message. What good would it do to remind him of what he’s forgotten unless I plan to drive the book to him? It would just remind him that he just can’t seem to get the details of school right. Besides, when it’s time for him to need his book, he’ll remember that I reminded him, and that yet again, he has forgotten. He hates it. But he also seems fairly incapable of fixing the problem.

I head into the kitchen and tell the MoH. Annoyed, he tells me it isn’t too late to call the RT to let him know he can’t go to his friend’s after school. I make a mental note to not tattle on the RT unless it’s important, because it doesn’t solve the problem. It just sends the MoH off to work on a Friday morning with a less than buoyant attitude about his son. It all feels a bit Ward and June-ish to me.

It isn’t that important. What is important is that he takes the time to say good morning to me before he leaves for school on a Friday.

I’m left wondering when the last time was that I told him I loved him. I pick up his forgotten book and place it near his calculator which he has also not taken to school today.

September 29, 2007
Thoughtfully synthesizing statistics, dreams, and spiders

As another month draws to a close, I am left wondering why, oh why this particular post has been viewed so many times this month. As of two minutes ago, it has been “viewed” 1,004 times. When I scan down the statistics presented about this site to the key phrases and words used for searching, “spider” is far and away the greatest one that this site is connected with. At one point or another, someone was looking for information about spiders, photos of spiders, ground spiders, pictures of spiders, etc… You get the idea. Spiders. Nine-hundred-thirty-three times. It has to be the time of year. People see their webs, their gorgeous plump orange bodies and want to know if the creature will eat their Yorkshire Terrier. People are curious.

So back to my stats — of course I know that “viewed” doesn’t necessarily mean they’ve actually visited my page. But I have accumulated nearly 2,000 unique visitors this month — nearly 300 more than last month. I’m not sure why. Perhaps people are simply trying to figure out what to do about those short hairs. But if they have viewed that post, I doubt they stopped long enough read what I had written. That’s too bad, because I truly like that post. It’s about dreams. Not spiders. I had recently had a dream about a tarantula, so the post was my attempt to analyze it. The whole experience was rather strange and fascinating. Okay, so it was fun, too. I’ll admit it. And since nearly four months have passed, I’ve decided that it’s a good time to revisit some of what I deciphered about what spiders in dreams mean — and show you my latest photos of my resident orb weaver, Clyde (who is probably a female…), and his – er, her buddies.

(Clyde appears to be small here…)

With respect to “staying away from an alluring and tempting situation,” clearly that would be blogging. I’m hooked. But it isn’t just about the writing, or the social network that blogging has created for me, there’s a technical side I truly enjoy and want to learn more about. I’m annoyed that lately, I have to put that curiosity aside to be more constructive about the project I’ve been working on which will actually earn money if I ever remember to turn in my time sheets. Every situation is tempting at this point, with the first deadline looming on October 15th and the second November 1st. Laundry is enticing. Toilets aren’t yet tantalizing, however.

“…a powerful force protecting [me] against [my] self-destructive behavior” again has to refer to blogging. Exhibit A would be this post. But to be fair, it’s Thursday. I have mentioned before that Thursday is my favorite day of the week and to celebrate that, I’ve instituted for myself Thoughtful Thursday. Ironically, I hadn’t remembered that until just now. That confirms that I’m simply basking in something I’ve always enjoyed, that my spirits are high, and that I’m…well…being thoughtful about what I want to be thoughtful about instead of what I have to be thoughtful about. You know. That project. I’ll get around to it when I’m finished being thoughtful about dreams and spiders.

(This guy is so much smaller than Clyde. Just wait…)

So what other kind of self-destructive behavior could there be? Hmmm…that isn’t the kind of thing I want to think about right now, but it could be a great discussion for later. Suffice it to say that the topic would include Food + Wine, and no, I’m not talking about the magazine.

Okay, moving right along…Just a note that the spider searchers have already given up on me because I haven’t provided any information about spiders in this post yet. That’s too bad, because I have a huge spider treat saved for later. And yes, it will be just about as Hallo-weenie as I get. Dreams…where was I?

“…energetic in my labors and fortune will be amassed…domestic happiness.” I truly can pat myself on my back for being a diligent, avid member of Bloggsville. Hell, I could be mayor. As far as the fortune goes, I believe that’s relative, and that I feel fortunate for what I have. It’s not about the cash — it’s about gratitude. And that extends to domestic bliss as well — um, except for when the Yack Star barfs up her breakfast on the rug immediately after leaving her bowl twice in two days. No, she’s not sick. She has binge and purge problem because she’s a plus size feline. It’s a problem that rates fairly low on the domestic bliss meter.

(This guy is half the size of Clyde…)

With regard to “an aspect of myself that is vulnerable and helpless…” er, um…I think you know that I’ve really been struggling with some physiological changes that are kicking my butt. I’m about as far from helpless as Bush is from being an elocutionist, but do feel a bit as though I’m just not what or whom I used to be. It’s unsettling, but I refuse to get depressed over it. I’ve got my stuff lined up on the counter, and am trying very hard to stick with it day and night so I don’t end up being helpless from neglect. Sad, but true. Take care of your bodies, or you will regret it.

And finally, “maintain a balance…everything [I] do now is weaving what [I] will encounter in the future.” Yes, I know. As much as I harangue on myself about avoidance and slovenliness, I am a fairly deliberate person. No, an extremely deliberate person. I have fun magnifying my idiosyncrasies because it’s healthy and allows me to examine my faults. Although I’d enjoy sweeping a few of the under the carpet, it wouldn’t be productive. I’d still know they’re there, and at some point would have to deal with them. They sit around in all their glory for me to think about each time one surfaces. The more I work on them, the better the future will be. See how that works? I know. Write a book.

“I am the keeper and writer of my destiny, weaving it like a web by my thoughts, feelings, and actions.” Future, destiny…I was born with a steering wheel in my hands. It doesn’t quite work the way the one in my car works. It’s more of blowing the seeds of a dandelion into the wind and choosing one to follow until it’s time to choose another, and another, and so on…It keeps everything interesting. It’s a bit painful at times because I wait too long to change directions, and then there’s a huge upheaval that affects others in a way that I’d love to avoid. Yes, this is quite nebulous and I realize you are scratching your head about now, but I don’t want my thoughts to drift too far down that path today.
(

Clyde the Spider has grown…)

And to get down to the clencher, “enemies are about to overwhelm you with loss…” My immediate reaction in revisiting these words was that I don’t have enemies. Or if I do, I don’t know who they are. (Don’t care who they are if they exist?) And then I read what my original response was — I was so right! Doubting voices, indeed. Especially when I consider the project I’ve been working on. In fact, this morning on my walk, I told my VBF that what I was working on completely sucked. That I’ve worked on the words and they all just sound like jargon — meaningless and inane. But I also know it’s normal and so I just keep plugging along. I’m not enjoying the work, however. News flash. It doesn’t feel as if it belongs to me, and I am very undisciplined in engaging in anything that my heart and soul are not invested in. It’s a problem and I seriously doubt I’ll outgrow it at this point in my life.

No, I’ve just decided to embrace it, fists clenched, teeth bared.

Balls to the wind, as my mother would say.

Which is why I’m being so thoughtful today.

September 28, 2007
Ahhh…moisture.

Yes, another Nearly Wordless Wednesday has arrived. Where does time go? I can tell you it seriously left while I was “working” yesterday because I achieved very little and have now successfully blamed it on Bach and Brahms who were more for meditating and gardening, not grind-stoning. They contributed to my delinquency.

Not today. It’s 8:42 am and I’m raring to go by celebrating something I’ve been waiting for. See it? You aren’t sure what it is? Â Oh come on. How many clues do you need? Or is it just glasses? It’s condensation!

Yes, that bit of atmospheric wonder that lets me know officially that the weather has changed. The plumeria that took so long to bloom will soon drop its last flowers, its leaves, and return to what the MoH refers to as “The Stick.”
Â Our windows will soon need to be closed during the night. The precious moisture in the air will help us breathe more easily, and keep me from feeling like a prune.

Okay, so I’ll be a juicy prune. Plump and juicy.

9:09

Gotta go. But with no Bach or Brahms.

September 26, 2007
Work, Beethoven, and Bad Drivers

I have a treat for you, but before I get to that, thanks to those of you who took the time to offer your suggestions about staying focused yesterday. I didn’t have a list as some of you mentioned, and which I’ve used in the past when work had me by the short hairs, but grabbed a few cds to keep me anchored to the monitor instead. Thanks to Essential Beethoven (especially the “Piano Concerto No. 5 in E-Flat Major’s Adagio un poco mosso“), and Rachmaninoff (“Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini”), I managed to stay focused with little or no distraction.

And today will be the same. Somehow, my iTunes playlist doesn’t quite work. It is distracting. And it’s not about my being able to sing along. I can actually “sing” to the classical music as well. I do a mean Beethoven’s 5th Symphony Allegro con brio nearly all the way through. You know, the Dat-Dat-Dat- Duhhhhhhhhhhh…Yes, that one. It’s quite entertaining without being distracting. The walkers outside my window now know I’m a complete goner, however.

So, it’s 8:59 and I have to work. But I heard about LA CANT DRIVE on CNN this morning and thought I’d share if you haven’t seen it. This guy is totally my hero and I’m so sad he beat me to the punch on blogging about drivers who have their heads where the sun doesn’t shine. It seems that L.A. traffic is so bad (OH REALLY?) that one has a double chance of dying in a car crash there as opposed to New York City. The only place that one’s chances are higher? San Diego. True. Sheesh.

And I’m sure it’s because of all those Urban Attack Vehicles that crowd the road each morning dropping off their future superior court justices and combinatorial chemistry specialists for school each day. The blonde and ponied Audi driver who cut me off THREE TIMES and then took on a school bus to situate herself before it at the red light wins the a**hole driver award for the day from my neck of the world. Too bad I don’t have more time, or I’d send in her photo. Wait. No, come to think of it, she probably has a few attorneys on retainer for her little problems in life. Come to think of it, I just might invite that blogger down to Paradise. His dislike for Mustangs and Escalades will immediately dissapate after he sees our UAV Babe-n-steins in action.

Kay. Have a splendiferous day, but don’t put your nose too close to that grindstone or you’ll end up with a big scab on your nose.

Disgusting.

September 25, 2007
Begging for tips on how to stay focused…

There are things I’d like to write about today, but can’t…

1.) Mahmoud Ahmadinejad at Columbia: Wow.

2.) Ruben Navarette of the San Diego Union-Tribune & Clarence Page of the Chicago Tribune on the Jena 6: Interesting subtle differences of opinion — or are they?

3.) Bush’s comment on Hilary having the Democratic nomination wrapped up: Um, could he just not say anything, please? Ever?

4.) The UAW strike: They’re kidding, right?

5.) The public’s skewed perspective on public education: I’m getting ready to just let it rip. But not quite yet.

6.) People who are resistant to change (newspaper vs. Internet): Yes, Dorothy, there are these things called computers. And yes, you can actually “read” whatever you want and more with your coffee in the morning just like you do with the paper. And no, they’re not going to make the sports section smaller.Â Get over it.

7.) The MoH and football season: Oh the hilarity of it all. Even if the Chargers suck.

8.) Those little racing planes we saw Saturday on the bay: Unbelievable. What will they think of next?

9.) Exercising at Oh-Dark-Thirty: When is the time change?

10.) Brunch: food, champagne, and plenty o’ smack: How many people can talk all at once while changing the subject of discussion five times within a single minute?

I know. You all work and are quite capable of writing as well. In fact, lots of you work, are raising young children AND write. Pat yourself on the back, smile and count yourself as special. Truly. In my next life, I will long to be just like you.

But now, I’m just wondering how you manage to do both. Let me know, okay? Seriously. I’m already busted because I’ve written this much and I promised to not even read my e-mail. What a complete loser. Can someone please put me out of my unfocused misery?

In the meantime, be very glad I didn’t bore you with most of what I wanted to write today since I’m full of piss and vinegar. Nothing pleasant would have come of it.

Have a totally lovely day.

Like, you know.

Totally.

And I’m waiting for your free tips on how to stay focused. 9:01 — gotta go.

September 24, 2007
A Day of Whimsey and Frolicking Cavortingness

Today, my horror-scope read, “Something may be important without having to be serious. Today, the roles whimsy, mischief and laughter play can’t be under-estimated. Something wonderful comes out of all your clowning around.” Oh. My. Permission to be a bad girl.

But laughter play? Is that a thing one does? What does it look like? *images of people too old to be engaged in this particular type of activity are conjured frolicking and cavorting in a woodland scene with ribbons and wearing their birthday suits* Hey…I recognize those glutes!

Whimsy and mischief indeed.

Okay, twist my arm. I had already put on my rubber suit to tackle the RT’s bathroom since I put a serious dent in detoxifying it last week and could see that if I gave it another go today, I might actually come out ahead for the first time in months. The last time my middle son was here he quietly informed me that the RT must have gotten a bit wild with the toilet bowl cleaner because the lid was stained blue. I told him that, “No, I did that just to keep a safe distance” and still have a prayer of getting it clean without having to put a bomb in it. I reminded him of what his bathroom used to look like. End of ratting on his little brother.

But I tell you, the possibility of whimsy instead of scrubbing the RT’s toilet? Now that’s a pretty tough decision. Moot at this point, however, as I could tell that he’d already given the porcelain bowl a swish or two. *Okay, so he’s actually figured out that there are tools one uses to clean things.* I’m detecting progress here.

I will have to talk to him about leaving his toilet bowl scrubber next to his toothbrush on the counter, however… *Don rubber gloves and scrape all articles into black plastic bag…* *Hmmm…I know I’ve mentioned to him that the paper goes ON the roller a few thousand times…*

What does one do when one practices whimsey? *Remove one’s pants with never a care as to where they land, or who finds them…*

I could eat bon-bons and watch old movies all day? How much different would that be on the whimsey meter than blogging? I could paint my toes blue or purple and the dog’s red. I could play hookey, but that’s what I do every day. If that isn’t whimsical I don’t know what is.

With respect to mischief, I’d need to hire a tutor for that. I’ve never been very good at it. Well, there was that one time a few friends and I went into the surf one evening outside the Ritz Carlton sans some of our clothing. That wasn’t really mischief as much as it was group unwinding after a grueling period at work. And I would never have done it without the evil influence of my friends. I’m seriously out of mischief these days. I’m so ~~boring and put out to pasture~~ relaxed.

As far as the “laughter play” is concerned, I think snarking is on the agenda this afternoon. So that would be more of a “snark-n-laugh” activity, with absolutely nothing playful about it at all. That has to count for something, doesn’t it? I’ve been called to an emergency get together with some very good friends who are celebrating the announcement of their boss’s premature exit. It seems he wasn’t up to the task expected of him and people had begun to question whether he was all he was purported to be. Pity.

They’re heart-broken and will be suspending all clowning around out of respect for the dire situation.

September 22, 2007
Thoughts, Clouds, & Billy Collins

I’m not very good at “Wordless Wednesday” because I’ve never been wordless at any point in my life. As an infant, I most likely had the noisiest brain, making observations and collecting ideas and opinions for a lifetime of blathering. Therefore, I propose Thoughtful Thursday instead, and offer a bit of Billy Collins on the English artist, John Constable and being a “Student of Clouds” from his book of poems Questions About Angels which I truly enjoy.

The emotion is to be found in the clouds,

not in the green solids of the sloping hills

or even in the gray signatures of rivers,

according to Constable, who was a student of clouds

and filled shelves of sketchbooks with their motion,

their lofty gesturing and sudden implication of weather.

Outdoors, he must have looked up thousands of times,

his pencil trying to keep pace with their high voyaging

and the silent commotion of their eddying and flow.

Clouds would move beyond the outlines he would draw

as they moved within themselves, tumbling into their centers

and swirling off at the burning edges in vapors

to dissipate into the universal blue of the sky.

In photographs we can stop all this movement now

long enough to tag them with their Latin names.

Cirrus, nimbus, stratocumulus —

dizzying, romantic, authoritarian —

they bear their titles over the schoolhouses below

where their shapes and meanings are memorized.

High on the soft blue canvases of Constable

they are stuck in pigment but his clouds appear

to be moving still in the wind of his brush,

inching out of England and the nineteenth century

and sailing over these meadows where I am walking,

bareheaded beneath this cupola of motion,

my thoughts arranged like paint on a high blue ceiling.

The photographs here were taken today at different points between 6am and noon.

Add a soundtrack of “Blue and White” by Beth Waters, “Storm” by Lifehouse, and “Ocean Size Love” by Leigh Nash, and I can’t think of a better way to spend a Thursday morning after working on my patio trimming and repotting. Nice.

September 21, 2007
On Quitting
For some reason I’ve had the concept of “quitting” on my mind. It’s most likely because it’s September and there was one very large goal I had set for myself to accomplish by now. Remember that song called Dust in the Wind by Kansas? That would be my theme song with the exception that my goal is now dust in the wind.

So I’ve begun a tally of sorts, as calorie-less food for thought on just how much I’ve said kapoots to in my life. I’m more inclined to consider that it’s all about revision instead of quitting. That’s a more constructive way to think ~~dupe myself~~ about it. Regardless, once I’ve said I’m going to do something, and then decide not to do it, that’s quitting, isn’t it? At what point might I begin to consider that it’s a problem? And to whom? Does it matter? And if it does, what might the underlying reasons be? I know there are people out there who never quit anything because they believe it exhibits weakness. Who’s to say they’re correct and that people like me are in the wrong? Sticking with something you’d rather not is more of a problem than throwing in the towel, but it’s only my opinion.

The Business of Quitting:
1. The Phoodplan: This was doomed from the start. My buddy bailed almost immediately, and I set too lofty a goal. I must not think I’m all that fat, or I’d do something about it. I’ve been lulled into thinking that all those women painted in impressionistic art are not thin, so there must be some degree of beauty in adipose tissue, right? Actually, health would be the central issue here. Weight loss was to have been a perk on the side. It hasn’t left my mind. So did I quit?
2. My commitment to not purchase new books: You’ve forgotten and/or it doesn’t matter to you, correct? Just the same, I’m confessing that I have read some books on my list, left others I have around the house off the list, and have purchased new books I’ve not quite added to that list. Is quitting and not keeping a commitment the same?
3. My job: More than once. It’s not funny, but it’s truly a relief I think about every single day first thing in the morning. Other people may think that this is not a big deal. In my profession, it rarely happens. It’s all about making it to the magic retirement date. I didn’t make that date which will cost me quite a bit o’ moolah (50%) when I begin to draw my retirement in 10 years. I savor the idea of all the great things I can learn and do in those 10 years that I wouldn’t have been able to do had I kept that job.
4. A boy I was engaged to: I knew him six years and I can’t imagine not having the life I now have which wouldn’t exist if I’d married him. My children.Â My husband.Â Our shared experiences.Â No thanks.
5. A different marriage: No comment.
6. Drinking white zinfandel: Thankfully. What was I thinking outside of “where’s my straw?”
7. Once upon a time good friends: They’ve sort of disappeared into their own lives and I into mine. When I’ve tried to get back in touch, it hasn’t worked. I always feel like this is my fault. I deserve to be talked about at their parties.
8. Piano Lessons and all those songs I learned to play half way through: At some point, I was done. I hadn’t set out to be famous, so…what does that mean? It brings new meaning to “plays a little.”
9. Rowing: I liked the idea of this sport, but it was too time consuming and difficult. Yes, I quit after about two months. With my tongue hanging out and a lot of respect for those who do it.
10. A Business: It never got off the ground because the timing wasn’t right, it was scary, and others were uncomfortable about the effect it would have on them. What a bunch of excuses.
11. Drinking Light Beer: How do you spell swill?
12. Using Margarine: How can people eat “partially hydrogenated” anything and not know it’s seriously bad for their bodies?
13. Drinking Diet Soda: “Formaldehyde is formed in the body from the methanol released during aspartame digestion. It is a poison that has been proved to cause gradual neurological damage, immunological damage, and irreversible genetic damage at extremely low-dose, long-term exposure. Internal damage and changes occur long before poisoning symptoms become clinically evident.” If that’s not disgusting, I don’t know what is. Go ahead. Do a Google search yourself.
14. Network Television: Is there really anything on? I dislike the commercials, the phony audience laughter they insist in retaining, the commitment it takes to watch whether it’s DVR’d or not. It just isn’t any good.
15. Countless projects I was enthused about when I began them: This is the bane of my existence. I don’t understand it. Truly. Projects I’d love to dig back into. They’re like sad little reminders of change.
As far as going out of my way to quit something I truly enjoy as Edgar Albert Guest advocates in his poem “On Quitting,” that hasn’t happened yet.

And it’s not on my calendar.

What about you?
September 20, 2007
You, too, can own brown hair.
I’ve never been able to understand people’s fears about their hair. Truly. In some cases, it seems the individual believes she is her hair — that without it, she wouldn’t be the same person. That she wouldn’t look attractive, or worse, that others wouldn’t find her so. In particular, their husbands. It’s interesting. And to be the ever present fair individual that is the bane of my existence, I’ll admit that it would concern me if the MoH showed up with purple hair and his head shaved on one side and sporting curls on the other. It isn’t that I would no longer find him to be the crazy intelligent and enticing person he is. It’d be more that I’d expect him to be fired, and then I’d have to get a real job. Okay?

I can remember being very anxious when I was young if my hair wasn’t symmetrically curled. It’s a wonder my mother didn’t whack me upside the head with the hair brush while admonishing me to get a grip. (Perhaps she did, and because I sustained brain damage, I lack the memory to recall the event…) God forbid that someone notice that things weren’t perfectly aligned. You know. Things. I can remember being being obsessed about my clothes then as well, hating a particular skirt because the pleats wouldn’t lie straight, or a collar was flat on one side. Everything had to be just right. This affliction wasn’t about hoping to gain attention from anyone. Absolutely not. The absolute horror of someone noticing me was something I never wanted. If I saw someone looking at me, I just knew that something had to be wrong. That things were not as they should be. My immediate reaction was one of intense embarrassment. The horror of it all. It was semi- debilitating for a very long time. Well, not quite. But I just don’t care anymore. Yes, I care about my appearance, I just choose to be free of the stifling restrictions I put on myself to appease everyone else (as if they actually had anything to do with it to begin with). Okay, I actually got a grip and deal with these less than earth-shattering issues in a realistic fashion.

So what does this all have to do with brown hair? Well…

Recently, my sister in law asked whether I’d be interested in being a model for a hair stylist class for a particular product line. I’d get free hair color out of it, and maybe a trim. Since it had already been a few months since I had my color done, I was sans gift certificate, and I’d thrashed my hair this summer in the sun and water, I told her I was game. Somehow, it slipped my mind. So I was surprised when she called to remind me that I said I was interested, and that two days would be involved: Sunday morning to do the hair color; and Monday to do the show. Two days. Two. And both in L.A. No hotel. Driving two days in a row.

Now, if you’ve been taking notes on my on-going blatherings (a redundancy, as the concept of blathering has evolved into a pastime denoting incessant verbosity…) you are completely aware that I not only less than love driving, but driving to L.A.? Well. But it was for free hair. And not only free hair, but free brown hair. Brown. Not blonde like everyone else in Paradise. B-R-O-W-N. Woot! I was sooooooo there.

But I had forgotten, so her reminder caused a bit of anxiety last week as the days approached. Anxiety about my hair? Are you kidding? Hell, no. I just don’t like having things on my calendar (I so do not own a calendar anymore…). Having items on my calendar disrupts the chaotic ebb and flow of life around here because I have to think about something concrete. I’m sort of out of practice, so then I have to apply myself in a more than unfocused way. Quite the challenge.

So, yes. Free brown hair.

You might be wondering why I bother? Well, I’ve wondered that a bit myself. The main reason is that growing out one’s hair is a less than attractive activity. One wanders around looking a bit like she’s sat in water up to here eyeballs for a while with one color emerging slowly on top as the other, older color fades and changes. Yes, one might schedule regular trims to speed the process. Or, one might even cut one’s hair very short, mightn’t one? One?

Okay, I have thought of cutting my hair very short to get to the root of things…Bwhahahahahaha...but have you ever seen a guinea pig’s hair? The type of guinea pig that has all the cowlicks with its hair going every which way? That would be me. Yes, I could get some Dep or something and swish things around a bit, then it would look intentional, but I doubt it. I will think on this, however. One never knows with me.

So until I figure all that out, I’m going for the free brown hair.

Besides, I got quite the education while on this little adventure:
1. I really can drive to L.A. by myself and be sane when I get there. I cannot, however, drive 65 or 70 m.p.h. because everyone else is driving 85-90 m.p.h. even on a Sunday morning at 7am. Who knew? What is the big freaking hurry?
2. People who work in the “hair business” are in a completely different world than I have ever been. I suspected this and have had hairdressers I love tell me. So now I believe them. It’s fascinating to observe. They talk. A lot. They’re sort of bubbly, are completely unabashed about anything having to do with their bodies — starting with their hair, and eat, think, speak, and wax prolifically about hair. Okay? Hair. (It’s a bit like me and food…) And they love tattoos in interesting places… High-heeled shoes and platforms in zebra stripes and leopard patterns that cost $7 a pair, and do I want to know where the shop is so I, too, can stop before returning home.
3. It is possible to have hair that was maybe brown once upon a time, and then black, then white, then with rainbow colors all at the same time. And, it is possible to “lift” those colors if you use the correct sequence of products. Lift as in make them more intense. “Like, insanely intense.” And shiny. Like, you know?
4. It is possible to do all of that to your hair and still have it feel like hair. Not synthetic. Or have it stretch when it’s wet in the bowl. Stretch? Oh. My. Goodness.
5. A hairdresser’s scissors — a good pair — cost $750. Really. I was amazed. They are sharp enough to cut off a finger.
6. The owner of the company whose products were being featured clearly enjoys what he is doing (what a concept, huh?) really wants people in the business to understand the science behind the products they use every day (you know — actually think instead of just following directions), and was fascinating to listen to. Very.
7. There’s a conspiracy going on out there. The big skin and hair companies are buying up all the smaller brands (this is new information?) and the result is that most products are now all the same. Plus, they’re being marketed in the grocery stores now, so people can actually purchase them while buying groceries instead of having to purchase products at a salon. Okay, so maybe not a conspiracy, but clearly a problem for those in the industry who are told that selling products they use in their salons can pay for their overhead. Very interesting.
8. I have retained more than I thought I had about chemistry. High fives, anyone? Who knew that the reason you hair turns orange when you try to bleach it (remember Sun-In?) is because of iron oxide. And that the reason you have to use products in a particular order (facial care and hair care) is because of the size of the molecules (small first, working to large.) I could keep going, but I detect snoring in the room, so I’ll stop.
9. Being a hairdresser is a hard job. Hard. I’d have difficulty standing in one place all day (Wait. I forgot. That’s how I put myself through college.) and then having to do what they tell you to do instead of being able to create. It might be interesting, though. But without the tattoos and shoes. I don’t understand how they can work in those heels.
10. I still have big hair. You know, like in the ’80’s? Yes, that big. I thought I’d never see it again, but no. It’s still possible. Big. With curls.
When I got home Sunday, the MoH said he liked my brown hair several times throughout the evening. I’m thinking he was making some visual adjustments and the commentary was just processing exhaust. The RT reaction was more succinct. Interesting, was his only evaluation. Kind of like what I think about his hair, so that makes us even.

Monday, was a bit different, however. We had our hair styled (do you know how long it’s been since I had hairspray in my hair?) and make-up done for the show. Lots of make up — like as in, I had eyebrows. I had to get on the stage with all the other “models” and allow ourselves to be talked about under the bright lights and examined. Now, it was mentioned that we weren’t exactly the type of models they’d have on the runway. (Oh really?) No, we were the “you’d see these types of real people with real problems in your shops” set of models. We had our formulas pinned to our chests while sporting logo-bearing Tees that were quite a bit tighter than anything I’ve worn since birth. At least mine wasn’t a tube top, see-through, or one that said, “Enjoy your blow.” Ahem. We had to carry a “before” photo around, allowing professionals in the audience to touch our hair and take notes on our color. Very interesting.

As much as I can say that it’s easy to be in the spirit of things while at the show, at some point, I had to go out in the sunlight. My hair is a lovely color with barely a blonde streak in sight. But I had to see my made up face in my own bathroom mirror. I had to see the RT look at me and then look elsewhere just to be polite. At least he didn’t call me Groucho.

But I did take a photo. Of course. I had to.

Last Week’s Drudgery

Sunday’s Work

Monday’s Effects

Sadly, the fairy dust only lasts so long (my big hair deflated a bit on the way home…) But at least I now am the proud owner of brown hair.
September 19, 2007
Just call me Ansel.

My husband and I went for a long hike yesterday. In high weekend gear, as usual, he stated that he wanted to go because I had been with a couple of friends the week before, and he thought it sounded fun. So, in the brilliant late afternoon sun, that’s just what we did.

It felt good to get out and move around, enjoy the fresh air and be less than pleasantly reminded that I am horrible when it comes to hiking—that is, hiking when hills are involved. Yes, I know that hiking isn’t really hiking unless one has donned large boots with thick treaded soles to trudge up and down hills, climb rocks, and perhaps swing from trees.

You’d think I’d been a smoker all my life for all the gasping I did. My husband barely worked up a sweat the entire time. How is that even possible? The guy is a desk jockey who doesn’t exercise—unless I count the times he jumps off the couch and rushes the television when he thinks there’s been a bad call made against a player who’s on his Fantasy Football Team. Pushing the buttons on the remote absolutely does not count.

It’s not fair with all the walking and swimming and stretching and complaining (jaw exercise…?) I do. One would think that I’d be the athlete in the house.

The determination behind this particular hike is that once you’ve dragged yourself up the enormous hill, wandered off the main road and down through the winding paths, then schlepped back up the crude steps built into the hillside, you get to trek down, down, down to the ocean. At least someone figured out that there should be some redemption for people who think looking at indigenous scrub on eroding bluffs after months with no rain is not beautiful. “Oh, look honey…A black sage. I wonder if its twigs ever have leaves on them?” Or aren’t too thrilled by the concept of waiting for a rattler to spring out and chomp on your ankle for interrupting his afternoon nap.

Sarcasm aside, I do think the landscape is quite interesting in all its unique beauty, but it definitely falls into the acquired taste category—at least at this time of year. Now, I would be interested in coming again when it rains. If it rains. I could also be convinced to think differently about returning if I didn’t have to concentrate on how to keep air in my lungs. It sort of takes the fun out of trying to remember all the botanical names.

Yes, thankfully, there’s an ocean at the end of it all. You get to rip off your shoes, peel off your sweaty socks, and walk through the refreshingly clear surf. Very nice, and more than motivating.

It’s such a stark looking reserve at this time of year; most of the native plants look quite dead. The occasional pine’s long needles add a bit of green to the scenery, and termites busy digesting fallen trees uncover rich shades of gold within the trunk. But dust covers everything, and I can’t help but wonder how anyone would have wanted to settle here like they did hundreds of years ago. You know. The people who anchored their sailing vessels off the coast and decided to call this home. Not a palm tree in sight. Just the torrey pines, wild sumac and other plants that magically eke out an existence in the arid environment that is Torrey Pines State Reserve.

I did seize the opportunity to look a bit through Ansel Adams’ eyes and examine the contrasts of light and dark created by the sun. I know little about photography, so can’t tell if any of my photos “work,” but it was a pleasant change of pace and I do like a few of them.

As we approached the shore, the saltiness of the air refreshed our dusty nostrils, and my attention was directed to the interesting striations of color in the bluffs. As much as erosion is rarely a good thing, the effects of it can certainly be beautiful.

The tide was nearly at its lowest by the time we ventured down the stairs, so we knew we could hike back to our car from the beach. Good thing or my husband would have had to call for an air lift. I was exhausted.

The beach is firm and flat, and the waves push gently toward the shore, so it’s easy to walk in the water and cool down. Smooth rocks and shells lie here and there. Birds with long beaks search for a briny morsel to eat.

A man and a woman walked toward us in their bathing suits, eyes averted as they passed, no doubt wondering about the layer of dirt on my upper lip stuck to my sweat. Or maybe it was that I’d thrown myself belly first into the water, kissing the sand much like Kevin Costner did as Robin Hood after setting foot in England once again.

It must have been the dirt mustache.

No matter. At least I got my exercise in for the day, and I’m thankful for my husband who is ever so tolerant in more ways than I can count.

And this is what it looks like in color. How could I change it to black and white, Ansel? Tell me what you would have done.

September 17, 2007