Oh oh
It's Wednesday.
If you've been reading my blog recently, you'll understand why I'm afraid to leave my apartment today.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Nature vs. Nurture
I get cheap haircuts. I have always found getting a hair cut to be kind of a gamble to begin with, so paying outrageous prices has never been my cup of tea. I have paid $40 for a sadly disappointing massacre of my locks and, by contrast, I have also paid $12.50 and had the best cut of my life (also with some pleasant conversation). So last time I went to First Choice for a little snip-snip, I thought I’d take the money I figured I was “saving” and buy some styling tools.
My sister has the same type of hair as me. Wavy with the potential to be curly or frizzy or even poofy-von-poof-meister if the whim takes hold and the humidity is high. We were both big fans of the pony tail for a long time. She also went through a phase in which she developed a system of putting on a winter toque after she came out of the shower, in order to restrain the fly-aways (which we lovingly call “farklies”) until the hair could dry to a somewhat reasonable size. We both agree that we would rather go without than use any shampoo or hair product with the word “volumizing” on the label. Then one day, my sister declared to me that she was going to become more “grown up” about her hair. She bought a hair blower (I have not gone within 10 feet of a hair blower in decades) and a round brush and some mousse and began to tame those locks. She takes time out of her mornings to have grown up styles.
She is two years my junior. And several years later, I decided I should follow suit. SO, with my extra “savings”, I purchased a middle-of-the-road hair blower (complete with diffuser and also the other thing, I call a “concentrator” because it does the opposite) and a round brush. Now some people have said that these round brushes can volumize. HOWEVER, on the label, this brush said “For straightening without frizzing”. That is exactly what I wanted.
I practically skipped home I was so excited. I had a shower, even though I didn’t need one. And then I shut the bathroom door and put the “concentrator” nozzle onto the hair blower and began to tackle that head. I soon discovered I didn’t have enough hands. I could get the hair on the brush, but then it fell off and I had to set everything down to reposition the lock of hair onto the brush again. I tried to remember what the hairdresser at the last higher end styling salon had done – it was too long ago, I couldn’t recall. My hair began to get bigger. I took off the “concentrator” nozzle. The humidity in the bathroom rose sharply. I put on the diffuser nozzle. I even began to get the under-the-bra sweat that only happens in particularly tropical or stressful situations. The hair on top was still wet. The hair on the bottom was still wet. The hair on the sides was large and stuck directly outwards in the form of a cloud. I looked a bit like a balding clown with a fro. The panic set in. I tried to push through it. It is the panic that comes naturally when a hairdryer is near me. I thought maybe I was being irrational.
Then finally came the moment when I realized that this dream would not come to fruition – at least not that night. I pulled my hair back into a tight ponytail (it stuck out angrily from the back of my head) and opened the door to the fresh air.
Mark was sitting on the couch.
“You didn’t straighten your hair,” he noticed, inquiringly.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
I get cheap haircuts. I have always found getting a hair cut to be kind of a gamble to begin with, so paying outrageous prices has never been my cup of tea. I have paid $40 for a sadly disappointing massacre of my locks and, by contrast, I have also paid $12.50 and had the best cut of my life (also with some pleasant conversation). So last time I went to First Choice for a little snip-snip, I thought I’d take the money I figured I was “saving” and buy some styling tools.
My sister has the same type of hair as me. Wavy with the potential to be curly or frizzy or even poofy-von-poof-meister if the whim takes hold and the humidity is high. We were both big fans of the pony tail for a long time. She also went through a phase in which she developed a system of putting on a winter toque after she came out of the shower, in order to restrain the fly-aways (which we lovingly call “farklies”) until the hair could dry to a somewhat reasonable size. We both agree that we would rather go without than use any shampoo or hair product with the word “volumizing” on the label. Then one day, my sister declared to me that she was going to become more “grown up” about her hair. She bought a hair blower (I have not gone within 10 feet of a hair blower in decades) and a round brush and some mousse and began to tame those locks. She takes time out of her mornings to have grown up styles.
She is two years my junior. And several years later, I decided I should follow suit. SO, with my extra “savings”, I purchased a middle-of-the-road hair blower (complete with diffuser and also the other thing, I call a “concentrator” because it does the opposite) and a round brush. Now some people have said that these round brushes can volumize. HOWEVER, on the label, this brush said “For straightening without frizzing”. That is exactly what I wanted.
I practically skipped home I was so excited. I had a shower, even though I didn’t need one. And then I shut the bathroom door and put the “concentrator” nozzle onto the hair blower and began to tackle that head. I soon discovered I didn’t have enough hands. I could get the hair on the brush, but then it fell off and I had to set everything down to reposition the lock of hair onto the brush again. I tried to remember what the hairdresser at the last higher end styling salon had done – it was too long ago, I couldn’t recall. My hair began to get bigger. I took off the “concentrator” nozzle. The humidity in the bathroom rose sharply. I put on the diffuser nozzle. I even began to get the under-the-bra sweat that only happens in particularly tropical or stressful situations. The hair on top was still wet. The hair on the bottom was still wet. The hair on the sides was large and stuck directly outwards in the form of a cloud. I looked a bit like a balding clown with a fro. The panic set in. I tried to push through it. It is the panic that comes naturally when a hairdryer is near me. I thought maybe I was being irrational.
Then finally came the moment when I realized that this dream would not come to fruition – at least not that night. I pulled my hair back into a tight ponytail (it stuck out angrily from the back of my head) and opened the door to the fresh air.
Mark was sitting on the couch.
“You didn’t straighten your hair,” he noticed, inquiringly.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Saturday, September 23, 2006
The Quillow
Call it my Best Kept Secret. Or my Unsung Hero. The quillow I received for Christmas from my father about four or five years ago has turned out to be my favourite gift of all time.
The really fun thing about a quillow isn’t even how functional and diverse an invention it is. What’s fun is that no one KNOWS they even EXIST! Let me explain. A quillow is like a small quilt, really only big enough for one person. And at one end, it has a pocket that is about a foot squared. When you want to conserve space, say in a suitcase or in an overnight bag or in the car, you can neatly fold up the quillow into this tiny pocket and voila! You have a pillow. It’s what you get when a quilt and a pillow get a little too friendly.
My quillow is great for watching tv, that goes without saying. But it is also wonderful for taking on plane trips and car trips. You can snuggle up and be warm if you get sleepy; you can cover your legs if someone in charge of the thermostat cranks the air conditioning; you can even avoid that seemingly unavoidable I-just-fell-asleep-in-the-car-and-now-I-can’t-move-my-neck syndrome. You simply tuck up that quillow into its pocket and there you go. But really, the best use for the quillow is one that I don’t think even the engineers of the quillow foresaw (though I do not mean to diminish in any way their genius – or genii if there were several of them). You see, when in a car or on a Greyhound or even in a lawn chair in the back yard during a cool autumn evening, the worst thing about a blanket is how your feet are always sticking out somewhere and your toes get chilly. I simply orient the quillow so the pocket is at the bottom, and I can sneak my feet into it. It’s a perfect foot pocket! However, now I can’t sleep with the foot pocket near my face, because in my mind it has become just that – a foot pocket.
A pillow. A quilt. A foot pocket. And a beautiful bluejay on the front. I don’t think my dad had any idea how much he changed my life that day.
sigh
Call it my Best Kept Secret. Or my Unsung Hero. The quillow I received for Christmas from my father about four or five years ago has turned out to be my favourite gift of all time.
The really fun thing about a quillow isn’t even how functional and diverse an invention it is. What’s fun is that no one KNOWS they even EXIST! Let me explain. A quillow is like a small quilt, really only big enough for one person. And at one end, it has a pocket that is about a foot squared. When you want to conserve space, say in a suitcase or in an overnight bag or in the car, you can neatly fold up the quillow into this tiny pocket and voila! You have a pillow. It’s what you get when a quilt and a pillow get a little too friendly.
My quillow is great for watching tv, that goes without saying. But it is also wonderful for taking on plane trips and car trips. You can snuggle up and be warm if you get sleepy; you can cover your legs if someone in charge of the thermostat cranks the air conditioning; you can even avoid that seemingly unavoidable I-just-fell-asleep-in-the-car-and-now-I-can’t-move-my-neck syndrome. You simply tuck up that quillow into its pocket and there you go. But really, the best use for the quillow is one that I don’t think even the engineers of the quillow foresaw (though I do not mean to diminish in any way their genius – or genii if there were several of them). You see, when in a car or on a Greyhound or even in a lawn chair in the back yard during a cool autumn evening, the worst thing about a blanket is how your feet are always sticking out somewhere and your toes get chilly. I simply orient the quillow so the pocket is at the bottom, and I can sneak my feet into it. It’s a perfect foot pocket! However, now I can’t sleep with the foot pocket near my face, because in my mind it has become just that – a foot pocket.
A pillow. A quilt. A foot pocket. And a beautiful bluejay on the front. I don’t think my dad had any idea how much he changed my life that day.
sigh
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Weekly Lock-Yourself-Out-of-the-Apartment Day
I hereby christen WEDNESDAY as Lock-Yourself-Out-of-the-Apartment Day. You all know what happened to me last weekend after my run with Delia. You all read my blog (as you faithfully do).
Well THIS week, I was absolutely determined NOT to lock myself out of my apartment. Mark was, again, going tutoring for the evening and Delia and I were, again, going running. This week, we decided to go with the Running Room Club. Delia picked me up before Mark had left to tutor, and I made absolutely sure that I had my entire key chain with me when I got in her car.
When I got home at the end of the night, despite the fact that there was no logical reason for there to be a problem, I half held my breath as I put the key in the lock. No problemo. In I went!
As I was heading through the house to the back room, I noticed some of the Venetian blinds were askew. Hmmm, I thought.
When Mark got home from tutoring, I asked why he was late returning. He replied, “because I was late getting there.” Why on earth was he late getting there, you ask? He locked the apartment door on his way out, using the little button on the inside handle, and then realized he couldn’t get into the car because he’d left the keys in the house. So he had to go to the back windows (which were, thankfully, open) and push in the screens and climb in like a cat burglar. Then he had to carefully put the screens back.
If only I’d thought of that LAST week!
I hereby christen WEDNESDAY as Lock-Yourself-Out-of-the-Apartment Day. You all know what happened to me last weekend after my run with Delia. You all read my blog (as you faithfully do).
Well THIS week, I was absolutely determined NOT to lock myself out of my apartment. Mark was, again, going tutoring for the evening and Delia and I were, again, going running. This week, we decided to go with the Running Room Club. Delia picked me up before Mark had left to tutor, and I made absolutely sure that I had my entire key chain with me when I got in her car.
When I got home at the end of the night, despite the fact that there was no logical reason for there to be a problem, I half held my breath as I put the key in the lock. No problemo. In I went!
As I was heading through the house to the back room, I noticed some of the Venetian blinds were askew. Hmmm, I thought.
When Mark got home from tutoring, I asked why he was late returning. He replied, “because I was late getting there.” Why on earth was he late getting there, you ask? He locked the apartment door on his way out, using the little button on the inside handle, and then realized he couldn’t get into the car because he’d left the keys in the house. So he had to go to the back windows (which were, thankfully, open) and push in the screens and climb in like a cat burglar. Then he had to carefully put the screens back.
If only I’d thought of that LAST week!
Monday, September 18, 2006
My Secret Love Affair
It’s really a not-so-secret love affair. It occurred to me that what was once a friendship has “crossed that line” the other day, during a staff meeting. A culinary genius (who also happens to be a teacher) at our school, had created a moist, sweet carrot cake masterpiece with cream cheese icing and set it out for the other teachers. Of course, the other staff members who know me, calmly moved to the side as I made a beeline for it. Later, at my seat, a friend began chatting with me. She then noticed I was absorbed in what I was doing. I said, “Hold on a second. I’m just making love to this carrot cake.”
That was the moment. It was an epiphany. It might be defined as a dependency. Not on carrot cake per se. But it is somewhat abnormal how giddy I become when there is an extra piece of pie sitting out or there are cheesies in the staff room. I used to say that I am proud that I can delight in the small joys of life. However, these joys DO come at a price. One can only indulge in a finite number of these joys before the indulgence becomes apparent and takes its toll.
This leads to another love of mine … running. It allows me to have my love affair with food, with LESS consequence (I’m not stupid enough to fool myself into thinking they erase each other).
I’m not saying this is a healthy way to view food OR exercise. But denial is counter-productive and unbecoming. This runner LOVES her food! So try to avoid getting between her and the last cupcake!
It’s really a not-so-secret love affair. It occurred to me that what was once a friendship has “crossed that line” the other day, during a staff meeting. A culinary genius (who also happens to be a teacher) at our school, had created a moist, sweet carrot cake masterpiece with cream cheese icing and set it out for the other teachers. Of course, the other staff members who know me, calmly moved to the side as I made a beeline for it. Later, at my seat, a friend began chatting with me. She then noticed I was absorbed in what I was doing. I said, “Hold on a second. I’m just making love to this carrot cake.”
That was the moment. It was an epiphany. It might be defined as a dependency. Not on carrot cake per se. But it is somewhat abnormal how giddy I become when there is an extra piece of pie sitting out or there are cheesies in the staff room. I used to say that I am proud that I can delight in the small joys of life. However, these joys DO come at a price. One can only indulge in a finite number of these joys before the indulgence becomes apparent and takes its toll.
This leads to another love of mine … running. It allows me to have my love affair with food, with LESS consequence (I’m not stupid enough to fool myself into thinking they erase each other).
I’m not saying this is a healthy way to view food OR exercise. But denial is counter-productive and unbecoming. This runner LOVES her food! So try to avoid getting between her and the last cupcake!
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Standing in a Snowbank
I went wedding gown shopping today. I was in Peterborough and really just wanted to spend some fun quality time with my mom and my aunt. “We’re just going out to have fun”, I warned in advance. There would be no actual purchasing, I insisted. Dress shopping is supposed to be the best part, my married friends have told me, so I wanted to savour it and make it into multiple excursions if possible. Involving many friends.
So we drove to the first downtown shop and it was not hard to not purchase anything. Everything was ugly and about fourteen sizes too large. It’s hard to walk when you’re holding up the front of your dress, hoisting the hem so you can walk, and pinning the dress in the back so your breasts don’t go hang out with your belly button.
The second store was different. We knew as soon as we walked into it that it was going to be more fun. There was a pretend runway! And stone walls and lots of mirrors and many, many more dresses. The woman really just grabbed anything I even remotely smiled at and put it in the dressing room for me. I had said, “Something really simple!” and I had thought, “Nothing over $500, it’s just one day.” My aunt had said, “When you try on THE ONE, you’ll know” and I thought, “I don’t know if it will be that dramatic”. So we tried on dress after dress. Most were too big, so we had to pin them in the back. The first one I really liked was a two-piece. The top was like a boostier (boys, if you don’t know what that means, use your imaginations) and the bottom was, well, like an enormous mountain of marshmallow topping. It was like standing in a snowbank, no, a snow fort! It was similar to popping your head out of the sunroof of a small white hatchback. But it was hilarious!
The best part about dress shopping is how everyone tells you you’re beautiful. They tell you anything would look good on you (yet somehow you’ve been convinced to spend thousands on a white, silk masterpiece). They hold their breath when you walk into the room. And sometimes they even cry a bit.
I was standing in the change room on a little stool while my mom was lacing up the thousands of corset-strings in the back of one particular gown when I looked into the mirror and said to her, “Oh dear. I have a bad feeling.”
“What!?” she asked.
“I have a bad feeling this is THE ONE.”
And it was. It was dress number, um, about fifteen. And it was the last one I tried on. After you’ve tried on THE ONE, all the others don’t seem worth the effort.
Just for the record – it’s not plain and simple like I’d envisioned. And it’s not $500. And if you think I’m insane, let me just say that I didn’t act impulsively. If it’s REALLY meant to be, it’ll be there for me next time I come back to Peterborough.
I went wedding gown shopping today. I was in Peterborough and really just wanted to spend some fun quality time with my mom and my aunt. “We’re just going out to have fun”, I warned in advance. There would be no actual purchasing, I insisted. Dress shopping is supposed to be the best part, my married friends have told me, so I wanted to savour it and make it into multiple excursions if possible. Involving many friends.
So we drove to the first downtown shop and it was not hard to not purchase anything. Everything was ugly and about fourteen sizes too large. It’s hard to walk when you’re holding up the front of your dress, hoisting the hem so you can walk, and pinning the dress in the back so your breasts don’t go hang out with your belly button.
The second store was different. We knew as soon as we walked into it that it was going to be more fun. There was a pretend runway! And stone walls and lots of mirrors and many, many more dresses. The woman really just grabbed anything I even remotely smiled at and put it in the dressing room for me. I had said, “Something really simple!” and I had thought, “Nothing over $500, it’s just one day.” My aunt had said, “When you try on THE ONE, you’ll know” and I thought, “I don’t know if it will be that dramatic”. So we tried on dress after dress. Most were too big, so we had to pin them in the back. The first one I really liked was a two-piece. The top was like a boostier (boys, if you don’t know what that means, use your imaginations) and the bottom was, well, like an enormous mountain of marshmallow topping. It was like standing in a snowbank, no, a snow fort! It was similar to popping your head out of the sunroof of a small white hatchback. But it was hilarious!
The best part about dress shopping is how everyone tells you you’re beautiful. They tell you anything would look good on you (yet somehow you’ve been convinced to spend thousands on a white, silk masterpiece). They hold their breath when you walk into the room. And sometimes they even cry a bit.
I was standing in the change room on a little stool while my mom was lacing up the thousands of corset-strings in the back of one particular gown when I looked into the mirror and said to her, “Oh dear. I have a bad feeling.”
“What!?” she asked.
“I have a bad feeling this is THE ONE.”
And it was. It was dress number, um, about fifteen. And it was the last one I tried on. After you’ve tried on THE ONE, all the others don’t seem worth the effort.
Just for the record – it’s not plain and simple like I’d envisioned. And it’s not $500. And if you think I’m insane, let me just say that I didn’t act impulsively. If it’s REALLY meant to be, it’ll be there for me next time I come back to Peterborough.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Cold and Abandoned
I am at Delia’s house, in my soaking wet running clothes (even though we finished running three hours ago). I am miserable and cold and abandoned. Okay, so no one abandoned me. I locked myself out of my apartment.
Delia, my friend, was driving over to go running with me. She dropped her keys onto my kitchen table, I took the key off my key ring and carefully threaded it into my shoe lace and away we went...knowing full well that when we returned in an hour, Mark would already be gone. He was supposed to tutor for three hours.
When D & I got back to the apartment, I took the key and slipped it into the lock on the back door, but it wouldn’t turn. I wiggled it – still no rotation. Then I looked at it carefully and realized that I held in my hand the key to our shed. I had four keys on my key ring. Three of them unlocked doors to our house. I had a 75% chance of picking the ring one, but instead I took the key to our SHED!
As Delia and I walked to her place (remember, although her car is parked on our street, her car keys are in my apartment), I reflected on the irony of it all. As I was leaving, I knocked on the bathroom door (Mark was about to hop into the shower). And I hollered, “Don’t forget to lock the door! I’ve got a key!”
I am at Delia’s house, in my soaking wet running clothes (even though we finished running three hours ago). I am miserable and cold and abandoned. Okay, so no one abandoned me. I locked myself out of my apartment.
Delia, my friend, was driving over to go running with me. She dropped her keys onto my kitchen table, I took the key off my key ring and carefully threaded it into my shoe lace and away we went...knowing full well that when we returned in an hour, Mark would already be gone. He was supposed to tutor for three hours.
When D & I got back to the apartment, I took the key and slipped it into the lock on the back door, but it wouldn’t turn. I wiggled it – still no rotation. Then I looked at it carefully and realized that I held in my hand the key to our shed. I had four keys on my key ring. Three of them unlocked doors to our house. I had a 75% chance of picking the ring one, but instead I took the key to our SHED!
As Delia and I walked to her place (remember, although her car is parked on our street, her car keys are in my apartment), I reflected on the irony of it all. As I was leaving, I knocked on the bathroom door (Mark was about to hop into the shower). And I hollered, “Don’t forget to lock the door! I’ve got a key!”
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Take Comfort in the No-Blog
I have always loved to write. I used to stay up until the middle of the night when I was a teenager, writing intricate plots between fictional characters which bore suspicious resemblance to people in my life. I usually started stories with a fervor and then let them lay partway through their finished state. And this was due to something all writers experience – a wane in inspiration.
As I re-visit my own blog (half expecting something new to be there, except that I haven’t written anything new), I ask myself why I’m not blogging. I am experiencing writer’s block. Then I remind myself that there is comfort in not feeling inspired. When, in my life, did I write the most volumous and passionate pieces of literature? I wrote when I was experiencing the most turmoil and uncertainty and tragedy. So if you log on to my blog and it’s been a while since I wrote anything truly inspiring, I ask you to smile for me. My life is beautiful and wonderful. I am a very lucky girl.
I have always loved to write. I used to stay up until the middle of the night when I was a teenager, writing intricate plots between fictional characters which bore suspicious resemblance to people in my life. I usually started stories with a fervor and then let them lay partway through their finished state. And this was due to something all writers experience – a wane in inspiration.
As I re-visit my own blog (half expecting something new to be there, except that I haven’t written anything new), I ask myself why I’m not blogging. I am experiencing writer’s block. Then I remind myself that there is comfort in not feeling inspired. When, in my life, did I write the most volumous and passionate pieces of literature? I wrote when I was experiencing the most turmoil and uncertainty and tragedy. So if you log on to my blog and it’s been a while since I wrote anything truly inspiring, I ask you to smile for me. My life is beautiful and wonderful. I am a very lucky girl.
Monday, September 04, 2006
Croc Hunter
I’m going to be blunt. There. That’s my disclaimer. And you might think I’m insensitive, and maybe I am. But let’s just get the air cleared.
The croc hunter is dead. He was stabbed by a stingray, his venomous tail barb penetrating Steve Irwin’s thoractic cavity, through the intercostal muscles and skewering his heart. And although stingrays often jab people (probably when people step on them inadvertently or annoy them enough), people rarely die from their wounds. I imagine, though, that few of these documented punctures are through the heart!
Some may say that the croc hunter had it coming. I know it’s not a nice thing to say about the late great man who simultaneously loved and taunted nature. Some would say he didn’t respect the potential ferocity of wild animals. There is no doubt in my mind that he was passionate about nature and did, in fact, respect all of the world’s creatures. I’d say, quite simply, he was a drama queen. He loved to get the adrenaline pumping through his veins; he loved to speak with his arms and get spectators fired up about crocs and gators and lizards and snakes and spiders and deadly oceanic creatures.
So I am going to make an assumption about the late great croc hunter. I don’t think he would have wanted to leave this world quietly in his arm chair with a book on his lap. I think he would have wanted to go in a blaze of glory, embraced by the wild unpredictability that made him as excited as we’ve all seen he can get. Leaving so early in his life is an untimely tragedy, but I think we can all agree that there was nothing typical about this man.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
