Last weekend, I helped Katie clean out the shoe bins in her closet. Her feet grow so rapidly these days that some pairs don't fit from week to week. We bagged up tennis shoes, soccer cleats, flip-flops, party shoes and cowboy boots, to be given away. Out with the old, and in with the new, I suppose. I wish there weren't quite so many new, though. For example, she owns four pairs of dance shoes - jazz, tap, character, and ballroom. I would have thought we had covered the bases. She came home from dance practice Thursday and said she needed ballet slippers, because her feet aren't gliding during the warm-up.
Size ten ballet slippers. It's almost comical - like she's standing on pink leather skis. I took them out of the bag tonight and looked at her pink slippers, then got out her first pair of ballet shoes. I've saved them, along with her baby shoes. I could fit three of that first pair, end to end, inside the ones she bought today. I remember her first day in Ms. Susan's ballet studio, how she learned to tuck her shoes up inside her leotard when she put on her street shoes - just like a real ballerina, Ms. Susan assured the girls. She danced to "Spoonful of Sugar," that first year, in hot pink and silver costume. It was comedy gold. Now she doesn't care about how she dresses - her dance clothes smell worse that then boys' locker room during football season - but she loves the movement and the musicality involved. My daughter, who is growing so quickly that she's often gawky and awkward, is so graceful and different when she dances. I'd be tempted to save these shoes when she's done with them (hopefully she'll wear them out, rather than outgrow them), but as I said - they smell after a while.
I held those little girl slippers in my hands tonight, and started thinking about how many milestones in my kids' lives could be measured by the shoes I bought. It seems there have been so many occasions and activities that required their own footwear. Katie got her first shoes when we traveled to visit family in the northeast, because it was cold there and shoes helped keep her little feet warm. The next summer she got her first pair of "jelly"sandals - she called them her tap shoes and clomped up and down the halls, listening to the sound of them on the hardwood floors. That second Halloween, she was Dorothy and wore her ruby slippers until they fell apart. Elizabeth got new Bob the Builder shoes to wear on her first day of school. She got her first flip-flops, which resulted in her first busted lip. Kindergarten brought their first soccer cleats. Dress shoes for choir. White shoes for Easter Sunday. Riding boots to take to camp. Cowboy boots for rodeo.
I could line them all up, and they'd circle our block. A parade of where my kids have been, and pointing - toe to toe - to where they are going. These days, Katie still wears mostly shoes that let her do what she likes best - dancing, volleyball, soccer or plain old Sperrys for school. But high heels are starting to creep into the wardrobe. She borrowed mine for a while, but now my shoes are too short for her. I'm not sure if I'm relieved or sad about that. I've certainly proven that a mom can get nostalgic and irrationally weepy over anything, even a smelly pair of soccer cleats.
My own shoes are less exciting. Oh, I had my first high heels days, and those have gone by. Sometimes I think about my grandmother and her shoes - she had about a hundred pairs. At 4'10", she felt it was necessary to wear heels at all times. At 88, she was forced to wear practical shoes, and she said it was the worst thing about growing old she'd found yet. Her feet were gnarled, with bunions and corns. But, oh, how she loved her shoes. In my punk phase, she threw out my black boots more than once, telling me to get something "cute and girlie, so the boys won't be confused." I didn't have the heart to tell her, it wasn't my shoes that the boys were checking out.
These days my shoes are like me - mostly practical, with a really fun pair thrown in here and there. But if I had my way, I'd just go barefoot all the time. Barefoot would be wonderful - no more sore toes, no blisters on my heels, always able to feel the world beneath my toes. But then, if we all went barefoot, I'd have no memory trail of shoes. Now, if Katie's feet would just quit growing....
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
so how did that happen?
I was driving home this evening, car loaded with grumpy, hungry kids, and I did it again...I just sort of blocked things out for a few minutes, came back to awareness, and had a momentary panic. For about four seconds, I absolutely had no idea where I was or how I got there. Where I was, was driving down a road I drive several times a week. But for just those few seconds, I, well, I wasn't in Kansas anymore. Well, I've never been in Kansas for more than a pass-through, but you get the point. It got my heart pumping for a moment, wondering if I'd turned on a strange road and not noticed somehow. But if I had turned onto an unfamiliar road, ironically, I would have noticed right away. It just goes to show how easy it is to miss the ordinary, the every day, and how scary it is when we realize those things aren't right there in front of us any more.
No, I haven't been drinking, and there is no need to call to have my license suspended. We got home safely and with a minimum of whining (and no wine at all, because I was, afterall, driving). But it all resonated so clearly, because it's exactly what I do on a regular basis. I wake up, I get dressed on autopilot, and I don't do anything wacky like put my bra on the outside of my clothing (not yet...senior moments are rare still), but I don't think about what I'm doing, or where I'm headed. It's all routine. And every great once in a while, I look up and wonder where I am, and how the heck I got here. How did I get to be thirty something? How did I become a mother, and oh, wow...shouldn't someone have made me take a test on that or something? How did I get to where I am in my life?
I remember the major milestones. I remember learning to ride a bike. I remember starting high school. I remember my first car. Going to college. Getting married. I remember the days my kids were born. Those are clear. It's all the stuff in between that's a blur. I look up and wonder, "so how did that happen?" It's amazing to me that the things that most clearly define who I am and where I am at this particular juncture in time are the small things. It's making a bad choice in a minor way, but learning something major from it. It's parenting day after day and not losing my temper (and I need a sign like hazardous work sites with a ____ days since the last explosion warning). It's the jokes with my friends. The hugs from my kids that I take too much for granted. The glasses of wine. The monotony of cleaning my house, and a million other little things that have led me down this road. All the twists and turns are minor, and so familiar to me. I'd notice if something big happened. Say, I won the lottery tomorrow...I'd notice. It would not slip by me. It wouldn't slip by anyone in the near vacinity, because it's hard to ignore a woman screaming and dancing naked in the streets. But...my shoe has a hole in it, and I promise you it won't bother me at all until I step in a puddle...just won't notice until there's something worth noticing.
So, if I'm driving in a daze, thinking about what I need to get done or how mad I am at a coworker, or if I should go for a long walk or skip it but also skip dinner, and I suddenly look up to be derailed by a familiar street missing a sign and am thrown into a panic of "how did I get here," it's perfectly normal and to be expected, right? (And wow...that was a major disaster of a run-on sentence.) It's admirable of me to say I'm going to appreciate the little stuff and take time to really look instead of just seeing...but it's not realistic. We're hardwired to overlook the little stuff, the familiar stuff...there's a reason we call it the big stuff. It's big. It's worth noticing. It's what reminds us of where we've been along the way. All the little road markers are no more than a green blur on the side of the road, as we whiz past, racing toward the next small thing. So, tomorrow when I say, "how the heck did this happen?" Tell me to blame it on the little stuff.
No, I haven't been drinking, and there is no need to call to have my license suspended. We got home safely and with a minimum of whining (and no wine at all, because I was, afterall, driving). But it all resonated so clearly, because it's exactly what I do on a regular basis. I wake up, I get dressed on autopilot, and I don't do anything wacky like put my bra on the outside of my clothing (not yet...senior moments are rare still), but I don't think about what I'm doing, or where I'm headed. It's all routine. And every great once in a while, I look up and wonder where I am, and how the heck I got here. How did I get to be thirty something? How did I become a mother, and oh, wow...shouldn't someone have made me take a test on that or something? How did I get to where I am in my life?
I remember the major milestones. I remember learning to ride a bike. I remember starting high school. I remember my first car. Going to college. Getting married. I remember the days my kids were born. Those are clear. It's all the stuff in between that's a blur. I look up and wonder, "so how did that happen?" It's amazing to me that the things that most clearly define who I am and where I am at this particular juncture in time are the small things. It's making a bad choice in a minor way, but learning something major from it. It's parenting day after day and not losing my temper (and I need a sign like hazardous work sites with a ____ days since the last explosion warning). It's the jokes with my friends. The hugs from my kids that I take too much for granted. The glasses of wine. The monotony of cleaning my house, and a million other little things that have led me down this road. All the twists and turns are minor, and so familiar to me. I'd notice if something big happened. Say, I won the lottery tomorrow...I'd notice. It would not slip by me. It wouldn't slip by anyone in the near vacinity, because it's hard to ignore a woman screaming and dancing naked in the streets. But...my shoe has a hole in it, and I promise you it won't bother me at all until I step in a puddle...just won't notice until there's something worth noticing.
So, if I'm driving in a daze, thinking about what I need to get done or how mad I am at a coworker, or if I should go for a long walk or skip it but also skip dinner, and I suddenly look up to be derailed by a familiar street missing a sign and am thrown into a panic of "how did I get here," it's perfectly normal and to be expected, right? (And wow...that was a major disaster of a run-on sentence.) It's admirable of me to say I'm going to appreciate the little stuff and take time to really look instead of just seeing...but it's not realistic. We're hardwired to overlook the little stuff, the familiar stuff...there's a reason we call it the big stuff. It's big. It's worth noticing. It's what reminds us of where we've been along the way. All the little road markers are no more than a green blur on the side of the road, as we whiz past, racing toward the next small thing. So, tomorrow when I say, "how the heck did this happen?" Tell me to blame it on the little stuff.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
gender bending
I've been thinking a lot about gender roles this week. In all the years I taught early childhood, the argument of nature vs. nurture came up...a lot. I never had a clear cut answer for anyone. I'm certain, no matter whether it is politically correct or not, that little boys are hardwired for different kinds of play than little girls. Give a four year old girl and a four year old boy the same Barbie doll, and they'll both play with it. But the girl's Barbie will be groomed, go to a wedding, and play with friends. The boy's barbie will be tied up with string at some point, be dragged through mud, and possibly interrogated. In particularly sophisticated play, the Barbie might actually become a gun - little perfect plastic legs pointed and "pow, pow" sounds resonating through the air. But.....little boys love pink just as much as little girls, and I'm certain that it's only society that makes blue preferable. After all, purple was once the color of kings - women would never have been allowed to wear such a rich color. We teach them a lot - girls dance ballet, boys play football. We teach them that boys are good at math, and girls talk too much, so they're better in English class.
Some of us grew up with the idea that there are men's jobs and women's jobs. So, it all came back to me in a rush tonight, while I was doing the dishes. How fitting. I worked today - all day- came home, cooked dinner, did laundry and then cleaned up the dishes. John is on vacation this week....he took the kids to Academy, and then he watched television while I cooked, cleaned and fussed at the kids. When he's not around - sometimes for weeks at a time - I take care of whatever needs to be done. But it never occurs to him to do all the things I do...the man could walk past a pile of dirty clothes for months, and it would never occur to him to wash the smelly socks. He'd just go buy new ones. I know...he's done it before. I've spent years conducting experiments to see how long I can leave things to fester before he'll turn a gimlet eye in their direction. Now...he does vacuum. Vacuums make noise, they have moving parts...they are manly.
Is it a learned gender role, or are grown up boys still playing different roles than grown up girls? I wonder....
When Katie slammed her bedroom door one time too many (which would be only once, for those who know me), I threatened to take her door off the hinges. Her answer to me, "you can't, my Daddy won't let you use his tools." Wait, wait, wait...I have my own tools. They're not even pink.
For those who know me, my only brother is gay. He is a gay, brilliant musician...he does not use tools, work on cars, or care about my dad's war career. I was the only person left for my dad to teach. I can paint a house, shoot a gun, replace a car battery, and am quite good at maintaining the lawn. But even my dad maintains that just because I CAN do those things, doesn't mean that I should. Women should be kept safe. Well...I'm all for safe, but I'll gladly trade some grass mowing for someone else putting away the freaking laundry.
I've never told my girls that there are any kinds of limitations on what they can do as females (except peeing standing up...there ARE some lines you just don't cross). Yet, as puberty rounds the corner for Katie, I see she's embracing what it means to be a girl in our world.
So, the water was growing cold on my dishpan hands while I was thinking about all of this tonight, and I refuse to believe that I am destined to smell like clorox forever, just because I have a Y chromosome. I'm pretty sure the lack of that same chromosome didn't deprive the males around me of the ability to put laundry in a machine. It's a machine, guys, it makes noise and it even walks across the floor with a really manly swagger, if you put in enough heavy stuff. Maybe if I paint it camouflage colors and call it Rambo...in the meantime, I think I'm sad that I never had a little boy so I could observe some of these things from beginning to adulthood, and draw some conclusions. Then again, one person leaving the toilet seat up at my house is probably enough.
Some of us grew up with the idea that there are men's jobs and women's jobs. So, it all came back to me in a rush tonight, while I was doing the dishes. How fitting. I worked today - all day- came home, cooked dinner, did laundry and then cleaned up the dishes. John is on vacation this week....he took the kids to Academy, and then he watched television while I cooked, cleaned and fussed at the kids. When he's not around - sometimes for weeks at a time - I take care of whatever needs to be done. But it never occurs to him to do all the things I do...the man could walk past a pile of dirty clothes for months, and it would never occur to him to wash the smelly socks. He'd just go buy new ones. I know...he's done it before. I've spent years conducting experiments to see how long I can leave things to fester before he'll turn a gimlet eye in their direction. Now...he does vacuum. Vacuums make noise, they have moving parts...they are manly.
Is it a learned gender role, or are grown up boys still playing different roles than grown up girls? I wonder....
When Katie slammed her bedroom door one time too many (which would be only once, for those who know me), I threatened to take her door off the hinges. Her answer to me, "you can't, my Daddy won't let you use his tools." Wait, wait, wait...I have my own tools. They're not even pink.
For those who know me, my only brother is gay. He is a gay, brilliant musician...he does not use tools, work on cars, or care about my dad's war career. I was the only person left for my dad to teach. I can paint a house, shoot a gun, replace a car battery, and am quite good at maintaining the lawn. But even my dad maintains that just because I CAN do those things, doesn't mean that I should. Women should be kept safe. Well...I'm all for safe, but I'll gladly trade some grass mowing for someone else putting away the freaking laundry.
I've never told my girls that there are any kinds of limitations on what they can do as females (except peeing standing up...there ARE some lines you just don't cross). Yet, as puberty rounds the corner for Katie, I see she's embracing what it means to be a girl in our world.
So, the water was growing cold on my dishpan hands while I was thinking about all of this tonight, and I refuse to believe that I am destined to smell like clorox forever, just because I have a Y chromosome. I'm pretty sure the lack of that same chromosome didn't deprive the males around me of the ability to put laundry in a machine. It's a machine, guys, it makes noise and it even walks across the floor with a really manly swagger, if you put in enough heavy stuff. Maybe if I paint it camouflage colors and call it Rambo...in the meantime, I think I'm sad that I never had a little boy so I could observe some of these things from beginning to adulthood, and draw some conclusions. Then again, one person leaving the toilet seat up at my house is probably enough.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
mirror, mirror
Tonight I watched Katie posing in front of the mirror in our hallway. She spends a lot of time doing that lately. So much, we put a full length mirror in her bedroom. The hope was that this would prevent half-naked prancing in the hallway. Yeah...she likes the hallway one better. She came out with hair up, blue pajama top. She skipped out with pigtails and red pajama pants. Back to the green and white pajamas. Then she took a shower...and started all over again.
I found myself wondering, "what does she see when she stares into that mirror?" I know what I see when I look at my daughter. I see a beautiful girl, who can look pretty ugly when she's angry. I see a talented kid, who all too often coasts by with the bare minimum effort. I see the enthusiasm of childhood, tempered by the onset of teen angst - being too enthusiastic would be uncool. I see the shadow of the toddler who never left my side, and frightening glimpses of the woman she will become. I see the battle between wanting to be accepted and being true to herself. I see the pig-tails and mascara, the stuffed animals and texts to boys, the elation and frustration, cartwheels and high heels - all in equal, scary measures. When I look into her face, I see the baby I carried and the soul I have known since before she was born.
What does she see?
I was in a workshop last week when I was asked to say three words that would be said by co-workers at my retirement party. Now, first of all, I hate these types of questions...."if you were a root vegetable, what kind of root veg would you be?" ummm...turnip? Oh, is that bad? Anyway, I was so stumped by that question, it was embarrassing. I stammered, stuttered, and couldn't think of a thing. When pressed to say how I thought co-workers see me, I answered "insomniac, overly-demanding, quiet." The people at my table were shocked, as they said none of those were words that would have come to their minds - well, maybe the insomniac part...that's legendary. One person even went so far as to say she's concerned if that's really how I see myself. Other people described themselves with such hope, such optimism...
I look in the mirror every day. If I'm not seeing myself, then who do I see? I think a lot of the person in the mirror is the girl I was TOLD I was the whole time I grew up. It was summed up in two words, "not perfect." If it's not an A+, then it's not perfect. If there's one thing out of place in your home, then it's not perfect. If your hair is messed, then it's not perfect. I look at the things I have done, and see only the mistakes...keep looking for perfect.
When I look at my children, I don't see what they have done wrong (well, yes, I do, but I don't see that as who they are). I don't measure them by how many mistakes they make, or how many others have done better. I expect my kids to be true to themselves, and they're for sure not perfect. I don't want perfect - I prefer lovable and learning. Perfect kids wouldn't go with my imperfect furniture anyway.
When Katie is prancing in the hallway, I have two hopes for her. I hope that - and I really do mean this - she is wearing something more than a bra. But even more, I hope that she sees what the rest of us see smiling back at her - all her imperfect glory. All the possibility. All the dreams. All the lovable mess that is her.
I found myself wondering, "what does she see when she stares into that mirror?" I know what I see when I look at my daughter. I see a beautiful girl, who can look pretty ugly when she's angry. I see a talented kid, who all too often coasts by with the bare minimum effort. I see the enthusiasm of childhood, tempered by the onset of teen angst - being too enthusiastic would be uncool. I see the shadow of the toddler who never left my side, and frightening glimpses of the woman she will become. I see the battle between wanting to be accepted and being true to herself. I see the pig-tails and mascara, the stuffed animals and texts to boys, the elation and frustration, cartwheels and high heels - all in equal, scary measures. When I look into her face, I see the baby I carried and the soul I have known since before she was born.
What does she see?
I was in a workshop last week when I was asked to say three words that would be said by co-workers at my retirement party. Now, first of all, I hate these types of questions...."if you were a root vegetable, what kind of root veg would you be?" ummm...turnip? Oh, is that bad? Anyway, I was so stumped by that question, it was embarrassing. I stammered, stuttered, and couldn't think of a thing. When pressed to say how I thought co-workers see me, I answered "insomniac, overly-demanding, quiet." The people at my table were shocked, as they said none of those were words that would have come to their minds - well, maybe the insomniac part...that's legendary. One person even went so far as to say she's concerned if that's really how I see myself. Other people described themselves with such hope, such optimism...
I look in the mirror every day. If I'm not seeing myself, then who do I see? I think a lot of the person in the mirror is the girl I was TOLD I was the whole time I grew up. It was summed up in two words, "not perfect." If it's not an A+, then it's not perfect. If there's one thing out of place in your home, then it's not perfect. If your hair is messed, then it's not perfect. I look at the things I have done, and see only the mistakes...keep looking for perfect.
When I look at my children, I don't see what they have done wrong (well, yes, I do, but I don't see that as who they are). I don't measure them by how many mistakes they make, or how many others have done better. I expect my kids to be true to themselves, and they're for sure not perfect. I don't want perfect - I prefer lovable and learning. Perfect kids wouldn't go with my imperfect furniture anyway.
When Katie is prancing in the hallway, I have two hopes for her. I hope that - and I really do mean this - she is wearing something more than a bra. But even more, I hope that she sees what the rest of us see smiling back at her - all her imperfect glory. All the possibility. All the dreams. All the lovable mess that is her.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
hello...good-bye
This evening I had the sorrowful moment of saying good-bye to a friend. She is moving half a world away and we may well never see one another again. In today's electronic world, it's never really good-bye, except our friendship will change. For a moment, I didn't want to go to her farewell dinner, because - childishly - if I don't say "good-bye" then she can't really leave. Right?
I grew up moving so often, that I was forever saying good-bye. To friends. To pets. To schools. To teams. To dreams. I wonder if it's easier to be the one leaving or the one being left? So many places that I have lived, so many people have touched my life. All my life, I have remembered them off and on, for many of them have shaped a part of who I am today.
Through social media, I have reconnected with many of these friends. Through messages, tweets, blogs, and photos, I know who they are now. It doesn't even feel strange, because I've carried them with me all along. I never really left those friends. Never said good-bye completely. We share memories, experiences based on where and when we were in that moment in time, and shared bits and pieces of one another. I still get to share my life with a childhood neighborhood playmate, talk about my family with the first boy I ever kissed, and exchange recipes with someone whose locker was next to mine in high school. We've become the strangest global family I could ever imagine. And, yet, before Facebook or My Space, or even AOL chirped out "you've got mail," I thought about them and recalled their words and laughter over the decades.
In college I wrote a paper about whether technology was bringing us closer together globally or just reducing personal connections. My answer today is the same as it was then - both. We're connected to loved ones all over the world, but sometimes we slight those right in front of our noses, choosing to engage in electronic communication instead of face-to-face. Conversation is almost a lost art with many people. Language is ever changing...but people don't, and we have the same basic needs as always. I think we are only now experiencing electronic media that allows for true connections. I can't wait to see what the next ten years bring.
So, as Carol sets her sights on the East, I can look forward to sharing her adventures from afar, and enjoying the pieces of herself that she has left behind. We share a love of cats, a love of books, and a love of kids. Her enthusiasm for life is an inspiration.
I only hope that somewhere, I have changed some people as well.
I grew up moving so often, that I was forever saying good-bye. To friends. To pets. To schools. To teams. To dreams. I wonder if it's easier to be the one leaving or the one being left? So many places that I have lived, so many people have touched my life. All my life, I have remembered them off and on, for many of them have shaped a part of who I am today.
Through social media, I have reconnected with many of these friends. Through messages, tweets, blogs, and photos, I know who they are now. It doesn't even feel strange, because I've carried them with me all along. I never really left those friends. Never said good-bye completely. We share memories, experiences based on where and when we were in that moment in time, and shared bits and pieces of one another. I still get to share my life with a childhood neighborhood playmate, talk about my family with the first boy I ever kissed, and exchange recipes with someone whose locker was next to mine in high school. We've become the strangest global family I could ever imagine. And, yet, before Facebook or My Space, or even AOL chirped out "you've got mail," I thought about them and recalled their words and laughter over the decades.
In college I wrote a paper about whether technology was bringing us closer together globally or just reducing personal connections. My answer today is the same as it was then - both. We're connected to loved ones all over the world, but sometimes we slight those right in front of our noses, choosing to engage in electronic communication instead of face-to-face. Conversation is almost a lost art with many people. Language is ever changing...but people don't, and we have the same basic needs as always. I think we are only now experiencing electronic media that allows for true connections. I can't wait to see what the next ten years bring.
So, as Carol sets her sights on the East, I can look forward to sharing her adventures from afar, and enjoying the pieces of herself that she has left behind. We share a love of cats, a love of books, and a love of kids. Her enthusiasm for life is an inspiration.
I only hope that somewhere, I have changed some people as well.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
hair follicles...er...follies
OK, so I am most unfeminine in that I do not color my hair, cut it myself, and generally treat it as the dead locks of keratin strands that it is. But....today I thought I'd try something different. I haven't changed my hair color purposefully since high school (read - red dye disaster), and I have never done highlights. For whatever reason, I was standing in Walgreens, buying my millionth hair brush (either the kids steal them, or we have a hairbrush eating monster that lives under our sink - either way, I don't want them back), and I decided I wanted to highlight my hair. Oh, yeah, this was just a greaaaat idea.
So, I got home and thought, "not doing it." And then I realized I paid $13.99 for that box of color, and oh yes I was. There were more directions on the box than my computer came with, and it was really hard to read the directions through the translucent plastic that was a pair of gloves. Now, why they felt the need to attach the gloves to the directions, I don't know. Is it an extra bid to make sure users USE the gloves? Protection from water on the instructions? I just know that somewhere out there, some woman doesn't see them at all, and thinks she didn't get a cheap pair of plastic gloves. So, I fearlessly mixed up some blue paste with the little plastic paddle (which would make an excellent canoe paddle for outdoors Barbie, but, oh...nevermind), and tried to apply it with the little fingertip brush. But the brush kept getting stuck in my hair, and leaving globs of blue paste in odd places. And then I lost the brush entirely, and I kept thinking, "fifteen minutes...is that from the start or finish of application?" and I started to have visions of locks of my hair falling out. So, I abandoned the little fingertip brush, and just started finger combing it through my hair.
So, here I sit, with blue paste applied very unevenly all over my head. I kind of stink...I'm almost positive this was a mistake...and I am wavering between washing it out before the 15 minutes are up, or sticking it out to see what happens.
And why am I doing this? There is no reason why my mousy, dishwater blonde hair shouldn't be just fine. No need for streaks of light...except, I usually get these for free from the summer sun. The sun I haven't seen much of this summer, and it's depressing to end the summer with winter dull hair. So...I've gone the chemical route. I feel so illicit. I feel so cheap. And I really feel kind of itchy. So, maybe I'm developing hives. Then I can be bald AND lumpy. Good plan.
Why all this fuss over how I look anyway? I get mixed messages. On the one hand, I'm told it's what's on the inside that counts. But to be sure, if my outside showed up to work with no make-up, flip-flops and a bathrobe, I wouldn't have a job by noon that day. Certainly media gives us crystal clear messages that women are expected to uphold certain ideals of what is or is not attractive. Why settle for what nature provides, when we can chemically enhance ourselves.
So, I'm sitting here waiting for the structure of the cells in my strands of keratin to change, so I too can look nothing at all like Malibu Barbie - because I'll never be a Barbie doll kind of girl. Who knows...maybe it'll be a good look for me. Maybe I'll try red again after all...surely disasters can't happen twice, right?
So, I got home and thought, "not doing it." And then I realized I paid $13.99 for that box of color, and oh yes I was. There were more directions on the box than my computer came with, and it was really hard to read the directions through the translucent plastic that was a pair of gloves. Now, why they felt the need to attach the gloves to the directions, I don't know. Is it an extra bid to make sure users USE the gloves? Protection from water on the instructions? I just know that somewhere out there, some woman doesn't see them at all, and thinks she didn't get a cheap pair of plastic gloves. So, I fearlessly mixed up some blue paste with the little plastic paddle (which would make an excellent canoe paddle for outdoors Barbie, but, oh...nevermind), and tried to apply it with the little fingertip brush. But the brush kept getting stuck in my hair, and leaving globs of blue paste in odd places. And then I lost the brush entirely, and I kept thinking, "fifteen minutes...is that from the start or finish of application?" and I started to have visions of locks of my hair falling out. So, I abandoned the little fingertip brush, and just started finger combing it through my hair.
So, here I sit, with blue paste applied very unevenly all over my head. I kind of stink...I'm almost positive this was a mistake...and I am wavering between washing it out before the 15 minutes are up, or sticking it out to see what happens.
And why am I doing this? There is no reason why my mousy, dishwater blonde hair shouldn't be just fine. No need for streaks of light...except, I usually get these for free from the summer sun. The sun I haven't seen much of this summer, and it's depressing to end the summer with winter dull hair. So...I've gone the chemical route. I feel so illicit. I feel so cheap. And I really feel kind of itchy. So, maybe I'm developing hives. Then I can be bald AND lumpy. Good plan.
Why all this fuss over how I look anyway? I get mixed messages. On the one hand, I'm told it's what's on the inside that counts. But to be sure, if my outside showed up to work with no make-up, flip-flops and a bathrobe, I wouldn't have a job by noon that day. Certainly media gives us crystal clear messages that women are expected to uphold certain ideals of what is or is not attractive. Why settle for what nature provides, when we can chemically enhance ourselves.
So, I'm sitting here waiting for the structure of the cells in my strands of keratin to change, so I too can look nothing at all like Malibu Barbie - because I'll never be a Barbie doll kind of girl. Who knows...maybe it'll be a good look for me. Maybe I'll try red again after all...surely disasters can't happen twice, right?
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
the things Julia Child won't tell you
A co-worker today was telling the story of making Julia Childs' roast chicken for Sunday dinner. She and her husband have taken it up as a challenge to cook each and every Sunday from the classic cookbook. They take turns being chef and sous chef...they have stocked up on butter. It all sounds so cozy. She talked about playful banter about who was in charge that week. She described the melting butter, cooking a sauce without garlic, and rotating her bird. No, really, she made it sound like they were having the time of their lives.
While I am a decent cook, I do not eat nor do I cook meat. I have two children. They do not eat tofu, eggplant, portabella mushrooms, and several other vegetarian kitchen staples. There are limited things you can do with beans, brown rice, cheese, and pasta. Of course, they enjoy the standard vegetables - peas, carrots, broccoli, green beans, zucchini. It's the more exotic flair they resist. So, Julia has little appeal for our household.
I think sometimes that I will write my own book - all the things that Julia Child won't tell you. It would be sort of a cookbook for moms, or those of us who live in the non-gourmet world. I'd include all my wisdom...it would be a short book.
Bon Appetite!
While I am a decent cook, I do not eat nor do I cook meat. I have two children. They do not eat tofu, eggplant, portabella mushrooms, and several other vegetarian kitchen staples. There are limited things you can do with beans, brown rice, cheese, and pasta. Of course, they enjoy the standard vegetables - peas, carrots, broccoli, green beans, zucchini. It's the more exotic flair they resist. So, Julia has little appeal for our household.
I think sometimes that I will write my own book - all the things that Julia Child won't tell you. It would be sort of a cookbook for moms, or those of us who live in the non-gourmet world. I'd include all my wisdom...it would be a short book.
- You can spend half an hour chopping your mise en place, cook the perfect pasta primavera sauce, and your kids will ask at the last minute if they can have "just noodles with butter."
- You can whip up the perfect lemon creme brulee and be told that it is "almost as good as the jell-o pudding cups."
- No one in the real world actually eats capers.
- Ditto for anchovies.
- Houston humidity and the leavening agent in yeast do not play well together. One might even say they fight it out. The humidity wins, every time. Much like when it tangles with my hair. Darn humidity.
- Those who can actually flip an omlette or turn a perfect crepe are freaks of nature. They are to be viewed with awe and fear. Mostly fear. For they could take over the world if they chose to do so. But, fear not, for most of them are too busy admiring their perfect crepes t0o worry about world domination.
- The best vegetables in the world are the ones you pick out of your own garden. Sometimes the peas don't even make it into our house - I just find a trail of pea-pods, leading from the garden to the garage and a bowl with three full pods for the table.
- Okra, however, does not improve with age or size. It becomes stronger and fiercer, and well...wood-like. We picked some overripe okra last year - I could have built an ark with it. None-the-less, Houston weather grows some champion sized okra.
- A ten year old can set ANYTHING on fire given a toaster oven and enough time.
- You can hide anything in a muffin. Anything...seriously.
Bon Appetite!
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