I will say that Kate Logic™ (remember – like standard logic but with half the fat) dictated that since the screen was black (I could still hear a slight noise when I booted up that indicated SOME sort of processing – but no comforting boot-up “bong” – like that has anything to do with the keyboard), I removed all the keys and cleaned out as much cat hair and as many lint balls as I could. I got several bloody wounds in the course of this endeavor (what a surprise). This did not fix it. Even my life-blood did not fix it. The LIFE-BLOOD from MY VERY BODY.

It looks like the image above, incidentally, except with a few lil’ dings and scars and such. Oh – and it doesn’t have the posh Intel Core 2 Duo processor in it like the newer models. This does not mean I love it any less.

And just so you know, I have NOT dropped it recently. The Guru’s reply the that statement was, “Recently??”

Speaking of the Guru, he has taken my precious baby home with him to try and fix it (because I cannot imagine that he has anything better to do). Bless him (again and again).

When I ponder this serious problem, I wonder if it has something to do with Murphy’s Law or Karma or wretched irony. Why? Because just the other day I was thinking, “I haven’t backed up my computer in a long time!” See?

Please, people around the World who may read this blog (even if it’s just two or five or nine of you), pray or meditate or send positive energy to my beloved Mac (whichever method floats you boat). I love it so (too much, no doubt – though I DO love my Kitten Children more)!

This entry was typed with much resentment towards Windows on a wretched PC.

I was carrying my laptop under one arm, my cell phone under the other, and my big cup of water with the lid and the super-cool straw (all Tupperware®, of course) in my left hand (Janet would call that “my BaBa” – evidently you’re never too old).

I did not fall down the stairs. I did not fall up the stairs.

I reached the end of the downstairs hall (in a hurry?) where there are two doors – one to the right and one to the left. Then I did a fantastically spectacular gymnastic maneuver towards the floor -perhaps the ceiling? (well, the wall, really). Let us say I tripped over something. It’s possible – the Kitten Childrens’ scratching post is to the left. Their food mat is there, too. Air? VERY HEAVY AIR???

I hit my right knee on one edge of the right-hand door frame on my way down, flung everything up in the air -WHEEEEE – (including, remember, a large cup of water, which, despite having a lid, has a VERY LARGE HOLE FOR THE SUPER-COOL STRAW). Then I hit the right side of my head on the other side of the right-handed doorway. This bent the right ear-piece of my glasses (and hurt my ginormous head, I must say).

I spent one split second thinking, “WHAT THE…????” Didn’t even have time for proper sailor language. Then I RAN to get towels from the right-handed bedroom closet to dry off my two most beloved (well, I’d put my iPod in that ranking, too, but that was safely ensconced elsewhere) pieces of electronic equipment.

My phone still seems to work; that’s good. I shut down my laptop as fast as possible, dried it off and took the battery out (luckily it wasn’t wet inside there…). Now it is sitting on a very soft pillow in a dim, quiet room with the door closed while it is recuperating. I’m hoping for the best. It didn’t smoke or sparkle and still had normal screen images as I shut it down; I’m taking that as a good sign. Everyone please think healing thoughts for my beloved PowerBook.

In – what – two or three years Grettir managed to only put the tiniest dent on one side (which I couldn’t find for two weeks after I had the thing and then I had to wonder if I’d done it myself). I’ve made a lovely scratchy mark on the right side top already (yes, I’m right-handed – talk about your dominant sides) and another not far from that one.

I suppose what I’m saying is I’M TALENTED LIKE THAT.

Oh – and I did some sort of damage turning off the main water source to the house, but you mustn’t tell my Dad. First of all, I turned the water off (I’m so happy to have the valve IN MY ROOM) being snotty (for a good cause?). Secondly, my Dad takes that joke about engineers being “glorified plumbers” seriously. SERIOUSLY. He should not plumb, for the most part, I assure you. Secretly I will blame him for that faucet being in bad shape because he has turned it soooo hard that part of the knob has actually broken off.

Being a brilliant scientist he does not think the water in the house is off if you can turn on a faucet and ANY water comes out. My Mom and Shirleen and I have all tried to explain the logic of BLEED OFF – the idea that there is still water in the pipes that HAS TO COME OUT even AFTER you’ve turned the main valve off. He has never believed us. A MAN told him that one day and I swear he shouted, “EUREKA – what a brilliant thought? It never, EVER, EVER would have occurred to me!!! Why didn’t someone tell me that before?” As though he’d never heard such an amazing concept before. Argh.

I did learn something very important because of Labor Day. Well, I suppose it’s completely coincidental that I got “schooled” because of Labor Day (which I’m feeling too pissy to spell the cool “Labour” way), but then I can pretend it was part of a celebration.

As I need to take my glasses to be bent back into shape (I learned the lesson about trying to do that yourself a LONG time ago – during an era when every single time I set my glasses on the bad I assured myself I’d remember they were there and then I sat on them about forty-seven percent of the time – maybe even forty-nine percent. It’s the early-onset senility…) I took them off and had a nap. After taking some ibuprofen. I’m tellin’ you, that’s what you do.

And when I awoke, the magical shoemaker elves, as they didn’t have their normal duties today – it being Labor Day and all, had FIXED MY GLASSES. And as it was a holiday, they stuck around (instead of following their normal proclivities to mysteriously disappear leaving being many gorgeous pairs of Italian shoes in MY SIZE) to play some board games (they cheat, but they are so cute it’s just funny). I made some great hummus and we all had a snack and it was just the BEST TIME EVER.

And then I woke up with Kitten Child clear under the covers near my RIGHT FOOT – sooo very cute, but not an expensive Italian, custom-made shoe. Oh, leave me alone; I can dream (I wish I dreamt such nice things).

I went to put my contacts in. This is still a slightly tenuous process, as I’ve mentioned. Let me preface my next adventure by explaining that a day or so after I first got the contacts, they were bugging me a little (because of STICKING MY FINGER IN MY EYE ONE TOO MANY TIMES) and I called the optometrist to ask how I could tell if I’d put a contact in wrong-side out. The reply was a slightly impatient, “Well, can you SEE?” to which I answered in the affirmative (good thing, too, as I was driving at the time – conscientiously using my Bluetooth® headset). “Then they are in right.” I felt like I’d called and basically been told, “Duh, duh, duh – DUH DUH DUH, Dummy! Have a nice day.”

My eyes were a little sleepy/irritated, so I wasn’t entirely surprised when the right contact bothered me after I put it in. I put the left one in, and it was a little better. I took the right one out, my eye was still a little buggy, so I just put the contact back in. After five or ten minutes of blinking and wandering around closing one eye and then the other evaluating whether or not I could see (I could) I thought I’d better check the damn thing again.

Okay – BRILLIANT PEOPLE FROM THE OPTOMETRIST’S OFFICE – it was inside-out and I could still see (when I wasn’t blinking tears away or just blinking for FUN).

I believe it was the great Michelangelo – or perhaps one of the other Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (not to be confused with Teenage Mutant Kitten Children) – who said something about you should learn all your life or there is always something to learn in and/or from your life or life = LEARN, LEARN LEARN. Who knows, as it was originally penned in Italian (possibly Latin, if he was trying to be posh).

Okay. Truth? I’ve seen so many resin-cast-to-look-like-old-engraved-stone replicas sporting this motto in my Mother’s vast catalog collection that I would be unfair of me to say that I could not find the quote:

Yeah – he was being grandiloquent. And if you’d like to know what it means, please refer to the title of this post. I was very clever and put it right out there so that people might think that I was writing about a substantive topic. I’m guessing everyone knew better.

Ah – so what is it that I’m still learning? Apparently EVERYTHING. Indeed, is it not the life aspiration of most people to try all new things when they are in their late thirties? Come on!!! There may be some of you who would forewarn me that this is leading me down a slippery slope and that I am in great danger of pitching headlong into danger and/or oblivion. I would answer, “That’s immaterial.” (Why am I quoting myself while writing in the first person? Why am I asking myself rhetorical questions?) As most people know, I am perfectly capable of toppling over, stumbling, falling on my substantial ASSets and/or taking a header WITHOUT any sort of impediment in sight. What’s more, I mean ON THE FLAT, DRY GROUND.

• I decide that my underwear doesn’t have to be white, black or beige/nude, and I end up with a very large hole in my pants strategically displaying my choice that very day to wear the knickers that say, “Wish on This!” across that back. You think I’m kidding?
• I decide to dye my hair for the very first time… just search through my blog an you find five thousand entries about what that started (like this one).
• Then we have my eyebrows. Never had I plucked them or waxed them. Having started, I have yet one more thing to “maintain.” (Here’s one of THOSE entries.)

I believe it was dear Pamela who suggested perhaps I go back and embrace my “hippy” proclivities (something to that effect). Unfortunately, it’s simply TOO LATE. Vanity is involved, now; jeopardy has been attached (who watches too many re-runs of Law and Order (all flavours)? Pas moi!). How else would I end up with major chemical burns because of INVISIBLE PEACH FUZZ?

By the way, just because it takes me more than 450 words to get to my point does not indicate that I do not have one. To get down to the heart of the matter – the crux, the pitch, the gist, the nitty-gritty (dirt band – sorry), the thrust, the substance – the purpose of this entry is to discuss my eyes.

My eyes are hazel, incidentally. That is neither here nor there, but I’ve always described them as “khaki with an amber ring around the iris.” No, it’s not poetic (especially if you pronounce “khaki” the British and/or Canadian way – that is to say, “CAR-KEY”). Also, they seem different colours depending on what hue I’ve donned. I have “mood” eyes.

ALRIGHT! The point is I had taken my “mood eyes” for a long-overdue eye appointment. Luckily my prescription has not changed THAT much in the interim (and it’s long – embarrassingly long) because the last time I changed prescriptions I had also waited too long and I got new glasses RIGHT before a big trip, and the glasses made me dizzy for two or three days. This truly enhanced my motion sickness plight.

I do have a slight astigmatism now. It makes me feel more urbane (grant me these tiny delusions, please – I ask for so little). Wow. I just realized I’d have to look at my prescription to realize in which eye it is…

SOOO, in the spirit of Ancora Imparo I also was fitted with my very first contact lenses. I was excited at the prospect of seeing my eyes looking all deceptively naked and such. And I dreamt oh-so-fancifully about a ridiculously handsome stranger being able to now “fall INTO” my eyes – unimpeded by anti-glare lenses for the myopic. To be sure, I am not rich, but my fantasy life can be.

Sometimes I feel self-conscious because I am a neophyte at certain things at the ripe old age of – well, any state of “maturity” that can be prefaced with “the ripe old age” should be self-explanatory. In other words, I figured that I’d have a little difficulty putting the lenses in and when you see thirteen-year-olds pop them in and out blind and lubricate them with saliva (at least I know THAT’S stupid) and all that, I thought I’d feel “impaired.”

Impaired ended up being an understatement. A VAST, GINORMOUS (just recently made it into the dictionary – so there!) understatement. The doctor was extremely kind and helpful, but I was unquestionably handicapped at successfully getting contact lenses ONTO MY EYEBALLS. He finally had to do it for me, taught me how to remove them, and then let me try again. Seventeen hours later (SLIGHT exaggeration), I was successful. Of course my eyes were practically swollen shut and so blood-shot that it looked like I’d been on a three-day (maybe week-long) bender.

Here’s my problem: I blink. Excessively. This is why many a photograph (for which I deign to pose) catches me with my eyes closed. Also, I’m fairly light-sensitive, therefore I blink to excess in the sun. My eyes are vulnerable, delicate…creatures.

Don’t mistake me, some people have difficulty touching their eyes; this is indubitably not my problem. You know that expression, “It’s better than a poke in the eye?” I often disagree. A poke in the eye is NUTHIN’. Given the choice, I’d oft choose a poke in the eye over the alternative. Yes, I can touch my eyes – I’ll poke myself in the eye right now if someone asked. There are those who claim I have ELBOWED others in the eye (for the record, I was ASLEEP – and that whole incident is the definition of the phrase “alleged assault” – no cooberating witnesses, no physical evidence).

No, I’m just Blinky McBlinkster. Sometimes I get the lense in right off the bat, sometimes I practically push my eyeball clear back into my skull, pull my finger back, and see that the contact is still ON MY HAND. That’s when the sailor language comes in.

This made it rather difficult on the occasion that three of the four children we were babysitting watched me put my lenses in one day – fascinated by the process despite the fact that BOTH their parents wear contacts – perhaps it’s because I let them touch them (the CONTACTS – not my eyes – though they’d have probably done less damage) – never fear, I re-sterilized the things. But I had to keep it CLEAN – my “potty” mouth, that is.

I AM learning. But if you see me with bloodshot eyes it’s no doubt my doing – DIRECTLY AND PHYSICIALLY.

There is also an “eye-opening” aspect to this whole affair. (ugh.) Most of it has to do with luggage. I like to joke th
at I always carry too much luggage (and that’s not just when I travel, that’s a day-to-day crack I like to make because I embarrass myself by carrying fifty-two or three bags everywhere I go (yeah, yeah – but it’s no fun if I don’t embellish a LITTLE)).

This little quip hit me very profoundly yesterday (I’d started to notice, but OH, THE DENIAL) as I sat down to have my stylist trim my hair. See, when you TAKE OFF YOUR GLASSES for this procedure you are granted a fortuitous amount of “airbrushed” effect on your reflection. With contacts, you must STARE IN THE LOOKING GLASS WITH CORRECTED SIGHT. That’s when you know, deep down in your heart, that the “luggage” joke can rightly be applied to the immense bags under your eyes.

Having been blissfully unaware of and not requiring (I THOUGHT) “under-eye concealer” all these years, it’s disturbing that I’m contemplating it now. Maintenance is a bitch.

ASSUMPTION makes an “ASS” out of you and “UMPTION.”

Insightful words, indeed.

I haven’t been “back East” since I chopped off my hair. I ASSUMED that the humidity would make it more curly and frizzy. I was prepared to tame the wild curl, I was ready to battle wanton frizziness. I was an idiot.

The first time I washed my hair and utilized my various products was on LIVESTRONG® Day – the day that we were to go visit the legislators and have a press conference and all that.

It was not long before, “OH, the horror, THE HORROR!” And that wasn’t just because I hadn’t realized until it was too late that someone had “lightened” my luggage by removing my antiperspirant/deodorant. MY HAIR HAD TAKEN ON A LIFE OF ITS OWN. Now, as many of you may know, this isn’t the first time that has happened. But this was EXTREME. It wasn’t super curly. It wasn’t even exactly frizzy. It simply had taken on, root to tip, an unimaginable VOLUME defying every law of gravity old and new. I was speechless (imagine that) and awestruck.

But doesn’t everyone DREAM of having a bunch of very important meetings and being part of a press conference when they look and smell their very worst? I thought not.

Throughout the wretchedly hot/humid day, I kept trying to calm my tresses (I spoke gently to them, touched them softly – I was the “hair whisperer”). I continuously tucked and re-tucked the whole lively shebang behind my ears. The gallons of sweat seemed to weigh it down – don’t think I’m going to pretend for one moment that I was merely “glowing” and not drenched in my own wretched FUNK and FETOR.

At our rest building – WHERE I WOULD REMOVE MY JACKET AND LET PEOPLE SEE MY ARMS IN A SLEEVELESS BLOUSE – THAT’S HOW HOT I WAS – I had a couple of moments here and there in which, from the front, my coif still looked really horrible, but it seemed I had domesticated it just a little – smushing and sweat soothe the savage beast?

Then the “official” pictures, taken by the professional photographers, were released. Here’s the one that let me know that truth – the entire, awful reality:

Delegates Mill About Prior to the Press Conference

Perhaps you don’t see it? Get a little closer. I’ve blurred the unessential parts:

Kermit & Kate Confer
(I somehow blurred off my own nose. I’m talented like that.)

Still can’t see it? I doubt this very much. But just in case, let me REALLY focus in on the ghastly part:

I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but I made it even more grotesque. Now EVERYTHING is blurry, even the sections I did intentionally “soften,” and I somehow made it look like I’m bleeding from the ear and that I have a mole on my jaw the size of a quarter (American).

I thought I’d “tamed” it, while it had just HIDDEN from me. I look like I’ve affixed a wild animal to the back of my head. Dead? Alive?! You decide. But WHAT IN THE HELL IS THAT THING?

I’d have loved to say which animal, but I honestly couldn’t think of a genus and species that repelled me so much that wasn’t in the arachnid family; this is quite obviously a mammal. I’m open to suggestions.

On a more positive note, my skin, for the most part, liked the humidity. My knees have never been so very soft. My hands were spotted and irritated on and off (I never did figure out why – perhaps an acute case of temporary leprosy), and I was bitten by several DOZEN anonymous creatures (of the insect variety*, no doubt), but for the most part it was pleasant not to have the flaky dry places – ‘specially under my nose, because MY ALLERGIES DID NOT COME WITH ME – rather a miraculous thing. In fact, I just laid in bed sometimes, luxuriating in the fact that I could BREATHE THROUGH MY NOSE completely unencumbered and giggled with delight.

As for the *insects, David, in his über-unflustered way, almost SIGHED one day because of the fifty-third time I’d cried out, “I don’t know what it is, BUT IT IS GOING TO EAT ME!” or something else along those lines. He calmly said, “Kate, it’s like being in National Geographic.”

He lived in Brazil for two years. I had never thought of Maryland as that…mysterious. Perhaps all the nature film crews should now quietly crawl through the gardens and bathrooms and attics and guestrooms of houses there whispering, “I have NEVER seen anything with so many legs that moves so FAST.”

Now I’m finding a certain logic to the idea of moving LIGHTENING-fast if you have three million legs. You think I exaggerate? Ha!

In my bathroom.

By me.

On my own face.

I am not a doctor, nor have I ever played one on TV. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever played a physician on stage either – a man, a pirate, severally mentally insane individuals (type-casting), and a myriad of other lively characters – but no doctor.

I did have a Fisher-Price® doctor’s kit, but I don’t know where it is, and the one they sell now looks like cheap knock-off crap.

I drove the tape over to her high school and happened to park right behind a police car. While in the process of “tele-locating” Sarah, I noticed that in the cop car, on the divider window between the driver’s seat and the “perp” section of the vehicle (that should answer the question about whether or not I watch too many re-runs of all various editions of Law and Order and CSI) there was a sign – a professionally-lettered sign in large capital letters (big enough for me to read even though I’m extremely overdue to get new glasses). The sign read, “STUPID.”

I REALLY wanted a picture of this. But by the time I had re-set my camera phone with the right flash setting so that I take ANY semblance of a recognizable image at all, the police officer got in his car and drove away. Little did I know, this was not merely an amusing oddity, but a SIGN (metaphorically as well as literally) – something portending events in my immediate future. Alas, I did not recognize this foreshadowing.

So after purchasing Gerbera daisies for the Monkey Cats in four different hues (a mistake, I came to find, because NO ONE WANTS ORANGE) and paying a little extra for them to use lemon leaves instead of odious leather-leaf and making sure there were water tubes and purloining tons of little insert cards that said things completely irrelevant to a vocal performance like “Get Well Soon” and “It’s a BOY” and “Happy Birthday,” I was on my way.

I was driving through the “river-bottoms” (as the locals say) and, admittedly, not really paying attention to my speed, etc. Then, as a wretched nightmare from my past, I saw flashing lights in my rear-view mirror. Yes, I was speeding. And though it has been ages since I got a ticket (I’ve grown a little and chilled out the lead foot – REALLY), I know the drill. I don’t get warnings. I get CITATIONS (with the one notable exception of my twenty-first birthday upon which I deigned to use a pitiful, wheedling voice and say, “But it’s my BIRTHDAY” – I almost was serenaded by police officers, but they were too shy in the end to sing to me). I don’t have the necessary blonde bimbo appearance to avoid tickets, I guess (my apologies to blonde bimbos but your sexy wiles deserve a SMALL mention because I sincerely doubt you’ve gone to traffic school five gazillion times and had your license suspended, etc.).

And I knew it wouldn’t do any good to attempt to explain to the officer that after I’d delivered The Natural History of the Chicken to my niece who’d HAD CANCER and run an errand to purchase gifts for DESERVING YOUNG PEOPLE, that it had been imperative, for reasons that I couldn’t really put into words, that I sing along intensely and vociferously (and repeatedly) with a delightfully angry Avril Lavigne song and that’s why I hadn’t noticed my speed. But, OH JOY, since my record has been clean, I CAN GO TO TRAFFIC SCHOOL AGAIN!!! By now I am practically a traffic school connoisseur. I shall have to post an update as to how the local traffic school stacks up to my previous experiences.

Later in the afternoon, it was time for the “Solo and Ensemble” competition. I should say right off that I am NOT a great pianist at this point in time. I do have the ability that I consider imperative from a singer’s perspective for any accompanist, which is to damn the torpedoes, JUST KEEP PLAYING. Nevertheless, every so often, when I’m teaching a voice lesson or the like, I start the introduction to something and I just HAVE to stop because the piece of music I’ve just played has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the notes or the key or the time signature on the page. Then I halt, momentarily baffled, and start again playing something much more akin to the written music.

Now, in my defense, I’d run through “The False Prophet” with the Monkey Cats on what I must describe as several different “honky-tonk” pianos (each incapable of playing several key notes – different ones, depending on the piano). Then I’d run through the accompaniment on my own piano (admittedly not enough). But when we went to perform, after I’d reminded them to all look alive (unlike the bulk of the singers we’d seen who looked more or less like zombie automatons) and to NOT utilize the “Adam and Eve” hand position (just think about it – you’ll get it), I sat down at the grand piano in the High School Choir room.

I’ve never played this piano before (though I don’t suppose that’s really an excuse). So the Monkey Cats are standing poised and ready, I’m poised and ready at the piano, and I proceeded to play an introduction so completely unrelated to the piece that follows that I might as well have favoured everyone with an impromptu rendition of La Marseillaise or Pour Some Sugar. I did have the presence of mind to just keep going, squelching the nigh-unto-overwhelming impulse to make it into a most amusing Victor Borge-esque moment in which I would have stopped, looked quizzically down at the keyboard, had a “light-bulb” moment, opened the piano lid and pulled a rubber chicken out of it. Then, after tossing the chicken into the audience I’d have sat down as though nothing had happened, played the introduction semi-perfectly and everyone would have had a hearty laugh. Ha ha ha.

Luckily, I don’t believe that the skills or lack thereof of the accompanist made any difference in the scoring of their performance. The Monkey Cats did very well with their singing even after hearing the somewhat Avant-garde selection I sprung on them right before they were to open their mouths.

Last year, after singing, I took the Monkey Cats and at least one Monkey Cat Boyfriend to Taco Hell, where we spent $42.11 on food. AMERICAN. I kid you not. ALL of the girls remembered the amount to the penny. They wanted to go again this year (tradition, of course), but we had fewer Monkey Cats in the first place (and we were missing one, actually, so they substituted the “Honorary” Monkey Cat, Josh) and everyone’s boyfriend was either gone or being a “dweeb.” Consequently, we only spent a paltry $26 and forty-something cents.

At Taco Hell, when the subject of my butt somehow came up (it always “ends” up there, no pun intended), and they all reminded me with pride that they’d not poked me in the tookus or jiggled my posterior, Monkey Cat Nessa proceeded to poke my left lunch-lady arm and exclaim loudly something to the effect of, “See, she JIGGLES.” I laid down the law at this point, saying that Hoppy and Bob were OFF-LIMITS, too (thank you, Garrison Keillor).

Then I told M.C. Nessa to “look right at me and pay attention” and went on to regale her – and yes I used these very words – with a “cautionary tale” about making fun of certain behaviors or parts of peoples’ bodies because Karma would come and, pardon my saying so, BITE YOU IN THE ASS. I
used several examples from my own life.

I think, perhaps, the timing might not have been right, as they were well onto their way to being completely punch-drunk. Oh well.

But, HEY MONKEY CATS!!! YES, OVER HERE!!!! I’M HOLDING UP SOMETHING VERY SPARKLY AND SHINY!!! Okay. My young and innocent friends, please consider what I had to say when you are feeling calm (perhaps at the dentist – semi-anesthetized) and if you REMEMBER what I said, know that it is true and beware of the Karma. Thank you.

Just a few other things briefly:

• Josh, the Honorary Monkey Cat, can “read” your nose. I’m not going to attempt to explain this right now. And he has a Cherokee butt (he said so himself – don’t think that I’M being inappropriate).
• The daisy lies to “Doris.” Also, that song could be made ribald, lewd and utterly FILTHY with very little effort.
• A Mr. Pringle wrote “The False Prophet.” I do not know whether or not this is the perfectly-shaped potato chip magnate Pringle or a completely random Pringle who had nothing to do with the idea of smushing up the potatoes and then reforming them into symmetrical potato-smush shapes (genius, really – processing processed food for symmetrical/aesthetic purposes and so they fit such a lovely cylindrical container).

• The GURU reigns true and mightily as always forevermore and tomorrow! Thank you so much for finding the requisite secret places. And curses on the wretched hackers who try to plague your existence. I spit on them; phhhht.
• The Cativity is ON SALE! Hurry now before the limited supply of “sweetly sculpted polyresin” has been depleted!
• This item has taken away any vestige of what scant innocent memories remain from my childhood.
  
  “Candy” Bra
  Moreover, it does NOT look very supportive. And I feel bad for the person who had to Photoshop® her nipples from between the rows of candy beads that make up this “sexy candy lingerie.”
• Less is more when it comes to hair products for one’s Kitten Children.

  Today I bathed them – after cutting their claws and shedding them – they still are keeping their distance from me.

  I still find the incongruity of the fact that my Kitten Children are completely fascinated by the bathtub and/or shower yet you’d think that giving THEM a bath was medieval torture at its best (worst?). They want to watch ME bathe. They’ll even drink soapy bathwater (yuck). They want to chase water from three ounce bathroom cups down the drain (I should explain this game some time). But God forbid I get THEM completely wet.

  So suffice it to say, despite my Father’s firm belief that any respiratory distress is caused by the Kitten Children (as opposed to POORLY TREATED ASTHMA – and PETTING THE KITTEN CHILDREN AND THEN RUBBING ONE’S EYES AND NOSE AND SUCH – WHICH IS JUST STUPID), I gave in to his badgering and attempted Operation Feline Bath (and if you don’t think it’s a major to do you’ve never bathed a cat).

  I got all five thousand towels at the ready, as well as their shampoo and Kevlar body armor for me (I wish). Then I got the BRILLIANT idea that since they get dandruff, especially when it’s so cold and dry, I should use the same treatment I use when I think my scalp is dry. My strategy is so use copious amounts of jojoba oil (theoretically the most like the natural oils in one’s skin). So I dumped jojoba oil on each FURIOUS Kitten Child and tried to really work it in. Oh how they loved that. Then I did the regular shampoo and rinse (and desperate wrestling while attempting to keep my voice soothing and evenly-modulated). I snuggled them in towels and tried to get them to sit by their favourite heating vents. But – OH – they were having none of it. They wanted to go far, far, far away from me and then “re-bathe” themselves (which somewhat defeats the whole purpose of the “allergy” wash since saliva is usually the most severe feline allergen anyway).

  Later, when I did catch a glimpse of each Kitten Child’s wee, resentful face, I realized that the simple shampoo would have been best (not to mention it would have made Operation Feline Bath SHORTER). They look like greasy porcupines. And you can tell that they detect a residue on their fur that they cannot seem to lick off (and I tell you – they are being persistent). I’m hoping the oil soaks in and they feel so luxuriously moisturized that they love me all the more. Or ever again.

Fortuitously, several friends came through with some excellent suggestions. Zina suggested:

You should tell the kids that that’s what happens to you when you do drugs.

Yes, INDEED. Though I’m not sure I’d know how to explain dangerous TOPICAL chemicals, such as thioglycolate, to that age group (even though I also ended up with the more (theoretically) sophisticated first-grade class as well – only TEN kids – private school ROCKS).

Jenny was MOST helpful:

Just wear a neckerchief over the lower half of your face and sing cowboy songs or “She’ll Be Comin’ ‘Round the Mountain” or something like that. Use the little sand-paper blocks for the train sounds, and dowels to make the horsey clip-clop noises and let them gallop around the room. And ALWAYS pass out some sort of sweets at the end. The point is to draw as much attention away from your grossly, appallingly disfigured visage as possible.

…I’m afraid that if you don’t create a major distraction the entire class will spend all of “music time” staring at your big ol’ sores with their mouths hanging open and glazed, half-horrified/ half-fascinated looks on their faces.

NOTE: I have expurgated her self-deprecating remarks (here, anyway) because she has not SEEN my current facial situation, and she has the visage of an angel, damn it.

Here’s an irony: I’d actually considered (okay – WISHFULLY imagined) using some kind of stereotypical “far east” face veil. You know – those mysterious ones that obscure the bottom of your face. AND, as in the movies, you must make bedroom eyes while wearing one and cast ostensibly bashful sidelong glances (surreptitiously imbued with unadulterated LUST and SEX) at attractive males. Oh – and you have to wear “harem” pants.

While I do have zils, I do NOT have a face veil nor harem pants. Moreover, I don’t know any old Turkish music (circa the Ottoman Empire). Okay – I don’t know any NEW Turkish music either. Nor do I have any ancient Persian songs in my repertoire.

I do, however, own a bandanna, as well as an instrument that makes a train whistle sound, claves, AND sandpaper and wooden blocks and I can ACTUALLY REMEMBER THE LYRICS to She’s Comin’ Around the Mountain. I can also gallop. So why didn’t this much more LOGICAL option occur to me?

Well, it’s because, as I recently explained to someone, “Kate Logic” has half the fat of “regular” logic. And logic “lite” (I’m not especially fond of that spelling/term, but it seemed apropos here) has all the TASTE of “regular” logic, but substitutions have been made in the ingredients for the sake of the health-conscious. OR, the product has been whipped and whipped so that it contains many tiny air pockets, therefore rendering a serving lower in calories. “Kate Logic” is like that, too.

But, getting back to the music class, playing “cowgirl” today would have been a rather inappropriate choice, as it turns out that today was “Native American” day. They’d been learning all about Native American culture and history, and when I arrived they were all decked out in headbands, “leather” vests made of brown grocery sacks, and strings of beads. Their endeavor to be multicultural and P.C. might have made “Kate the Cowgirl” seem insensitive.

In the end, I started the class by introducing myself, and then promptly acknowledging that that they were probably curious about my face, as I would have been, and that I’d had an allergic reaction to some cream I’d used and it had made sores on my face. I added that it was NOT contagious, no one could “catch it” from me.

Their response was less than “Ho Hum,” it was non-existent; they couldn’t have cared less. Instead, someone immediately wanted to know if I could do magic tricks (alas, not in my skill set) and said something to the effect of “wouldn’t it be cool if I could make something disappear.” (OOOOH! Like my HIDEOUS FACIAL LESIONS or my PERSONAL DEBT or my DEBILITATING DEPRESSION or – even better – WARFARE, POVERTY AND DISEASE THROUGHOUT THE WORLD? Of course he meant like a coin or a rhythm shaker…) And they ALL were desperate to know what was in the egg shakers I’d brought. For those who have not seen me perform with breathtaking skill utilizing my vast rhythm egg collection, they usually look something like this:

I made them patiently wait to find out. You’d have thought their little lives depended on knowing about those silly eggs. Ah – that age before you are jaded, cynical and world-weary; I long for the time in my life when simple pleasures were enjoyed so effortlessly.

Oh – P.S. We had a great deal of fun. The children were delightful.

Here’s the product endorsement:

VEET® FACIAL CREAM KIT

Specially formulated for smoothness and long-lasting results, the new VEET® Facial Cream Kit has a gentle depilatory cream and moisturizing cream which are clinically proven to minimize irritation.

Both creams condition your skin with rich shea butter. The kit also includes the VEET® Perfect Touch Hair Removal Spatula for easy application and removal. It’s designed for easy, mess-free use, with smooth edges that protect delicate facial skin.

Take the sensitivity out of facial hair – in more ways than one – with the new VEET® Facial Cream Kit.

As is turns out, Shirleen broke the rules, and used her years of experience as a former dog groomer to gently and carefully shave Sarah’s head. So the “Facial Kit” has been in one of my bathroom drawers for ages.

It occurred to me that it might be the IDEAL product to take the essentially invisible peach fuzz off my face (Ladies, if you haven’t hit your mid twenties or later – just you wait – you’ll get more furry, I assure you). It sounded like using this product was as easy and soothing as gently caressing wondrously soft wee sleeping kittens on your face and then smoothing on sumptuous cream that gave you a visage rivaling the finest and most luxurious silk.

Is it redundant to say I really should know better?

I did read the instructions carefully. However, I disregarded the part about doing a patch test “in a small area and waiting 24 hours before using product to ensure you have no adverse skin reactions. Contains thioglycolate.*” Believe it or not, though I am Kate the Safety Dog, I don’t ever patch test or strand test – not with skin products, not with detergents and such (to see if they dissolve or discolour fabric OR cause fatal allergic reactions). I realize that this is incongruous, but in addition to being Kate the Safety Dog, I am wont to be EXTREMELY IMPATIENT at times

Thus, I jumped right on in. In accordance with the instructions, I spread a “thick coating” of the depilatory cream on clean, dry skin. I did NOT rub it in. Ah – a noticeable tingling stinging sensation…

That’s when things got dicey. I’d already disregarded the patch testing section under the “CAUTION” section on the box. I’d also read this “caution”:

If discomfort and irritation occurs during use, remove the product immediately and rinse area with cold water.

In most circumstances, the recommended length of time to allow the product to remain on your skin is UNDER five minutes, ten minutes maximum. I was aiming for the minimum. Regrettably, three to four minutes is not a long time to muse about what constitutes genuine “discomfort” and/or “irritation.” I clearly have a high tolerance for physical “irritation” and/or “discomfort” OR I rationalize to an absurd extent. Perhaps BOTH.

The next step was to remove the cream with the magic VEET® spatula.

The soft ends of the spatula gently glide over the contours of the face, ensuring that the hair is effectively removed.

How FUN; I just love tools! I started to “gently glide” over my face with the magic spatula. I knew instantaneously that I was in trouble. As I insinuated previously, I am NOT a wimp, but each stroke of the the spatula caused me to cry ALOUD with profound and horrific pain. It was something to the effect of, “Ouch, ouch, OWWWWW, OUCH, OUCH, [insert your choice of profanity here], OUCH OUCH OUCH, AHHHHHHHHHH, OUCH, [insert something so vulgar here that sailors all around the world blushed], OOOOOOOWWWWWWWW!!!.” It was like removing several layers of one’s epidermis with a butter knife.

THEN it was time to “wash off residue using cold water.” I was astonished to find that it was WORSE than scraping the cream off with the “gently gliding” spatula. This process, as you would expect, caused another loud burst of similar…oration as aforementioned.

After “patting” my face dry (believe it or not, I was still attempting to follow the directions), I applied the moisturizing cream. VEET® said, “Moisturizing Facial Cream is enriched with Vitamin E to leave your feeling beautifully soft and smooth.” Is that so? I believe, instead, that the opaque nature of this substance (at least when you first apply it) serves as a kind of spackle to hide the hideous sores and lesions that may have resulted from the treatment; then one doesn’t go into immediate shock. The cream hurt like hell, too.

I have learned SO MUCH (as usual, the hard way). Another caution from the package is, “After use, wait 24 hours before applying an antiperspirant, perfume or astringent lotion.” Believe me, there was NO CHANCE WHATSOEVER that I was going to apply “astringent lotion” to my face. If water and AIR hurt my face, anything astringent was RIGHT OUT. I am just not enough of a masochist as to splash gruesome sores with – say – isopropyl alcohol. Yes, call me “WIMPY” and while you’re at it put a hold on those bamboo splinters to shove under my fingernails.

The embarrassing thing (as usual) is that it was my fault. It says – IN BOLD – right on the package, “Failure to follow use directions and precautions may result in chemical burns.” They ain’t whistlin’ Dixie.

True enough, some people might choose to blame repulsive disfigurement on the product, but I believe the old adage, “A bad carpenter blames his tools.” Wait – or is that, “A crappy artist shouldn’t blame the paint.” No… Maybe it’s, “Blame YOURSELF, not your TOOL, Guys.” You get the idea.

Here’s a case in point. While I was searching for an image of the VEET® Facial Cream Kit I ran across a complaint registered with the Consumer Complaints Division of the U. S. Department of Health and Human Services, U. S. Food and Drug Administration, Center for Food Safety and Applied Nutrition, Office of Cosmetics and Colors. There, in a table of adverse reactions to various products, was a complaint for THIS VERY PRODUCT. They have numbers indicating the “Code Injury Complaint” and the “Code Body Part.” These were the two “Code Injury Complaint” i.d.’s indicated:

14 Dermatitis (to include rash, redness, swelling, blisters, sores, weeping, lumps, inflammation, sunburn, chemical burn, and irritation)

19 Pain (to include itching, stinging, burning, soreness, and tingling)

Sounds about right. EXCEPT, when I found out which “Code Body Part” designated, any sympathy I might have felt for the complainant evaporated. They had put the product all over their LEGS. Mind you, though this product (theoretically) shouldn’t cause a problem with leg hair, it is intended to be used on relatively small areas at one time (hence “facial”). There’s no WAY you could apply it to your legs and remove it within the recommended period of time. Moreover, I sincerely doubt that they patch tested. What an idiot.

After my wanton disregard of the aforementioned cautions, I thought it best to continue to follow all cautions TO THE LETTER. And, since the package said, “If irritation persists consult a physician or call a Poison Control Center,” I called my doctor today (I mean yesterday). Luckily, I communicated with her THROUGH her nurse. I’ve suffered enough recent humiliations with my doctor – and I just love her – with a combination of stupid things that I did and with some potentially serious issues that I injudiciously let slide until they got to a point that they still might have some serious ramifications. And that’s all I’m saying about THAT, as the select few who HAVE heard about these issues have heard enough for the WHOLE WORLD (besides, the partially self-inflicted papule on my left breast has healed, and despite the temptation some days to do so, I am NOT going to blog about my nether regions. At least not right now).

My physician suggested cortisone cream, which I’m sure will help eventually, and I’m currently having some luck with “first aid & burn cream” (it has antiseptic to prevent infection AND it has Lidocaine, which is an analgesic).

Still, I had to spend the last two nights sleeping in a recliner with my head carefully positioned on my travel pillow so that my face didn’t have to touch anything. I am a side sleeper by preference, and finally today I fashioned a system with sterile, nonstick gauze (a great deal of it – to be safe – like my concept of how many napkins – that’s serviettes for the “foreigners” – I need to use) so that I could put the less severely burned portion of my face against a normal pillow and take a nap.

In conclusion, I have a list of a few of the critical things I’ve learned, as well as a few questions:

1. *Contains thioglycolate. ANY TIME that a chemical is mentioned in the DIRECTIONS and/or CAUTIONS (not just the ingredients) – even in such a casual way – that doesn’t bode well.

AND if they say even ONCE and especially if they mention MULTIPLE times a “Poison Control Center,” you are not dealing with something innocuous and mild like baby shampoo, “school” paste or whipped cream.

If you feel desperately compelled to mess with it, at least be judicious and resist the temptation to use industrial strength chemicals. Please avoid self-mutilation.

I felt like going all Phantom of the Opera and screaming, “Don’t LOOK at me! I’m a monster – a MONSTER I tell you!!!

WOMAN WHO SKIPPED “PATCH TESTING” ENDS UP WITH DISFIGURING CHEMICAL BURNS COVERING THE BOTTOM HALF OF HER FACE. MORE AT 11:00.

For now I’ll merely say that I have something rather important to add to THIS list.

Just yesterday I tried to locate something in my room. Wait – first I read The End. Yes, it took me a long time to acquire it, but it was worth the wait. I admit, I’ve had a hard time settling my mind down enough to read recently (and for a while…), and this is perfect fare for such a predicament.

Back to my room – ugh. Well, I couldn’t have read a more suitable book, because as all scholars of A Series of Unfortunate Events know, especially if they’ve mastered The Complete Wreck (Emma, I would assert, has graduated this endeavor summa cum laude), The End, like my room, is COMPLETELY full of detritus (I’m not talking about the text ITSELF – rather, “detritus” is an important subject in the story). I found myself rifling through the heaps and piles of this and that thinking (and occasionally musing aloud to myself or SHOUTING to the Universe), “Detritus,” “Detritus,” “AAAAAAAAAHHHH – DEAD SPIDER PARTS,” “Detritus,” “OOHHH – I wondered where that was,” and, naturally, “DETRITUS!!!“

Never mind. Back to Halloween?

I was going to open with a reference such as this:

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death.

Now I don’t feel like it. And I’m not going to say which play it’s from, especially since I only got it right on the second try.

OKAY – I’ve been tetchy enough, let me get to the point (there’s nothing at all amusing that anyone can find to say about the irony of my tangential, divergent and CRAZY “writing style,” so don’t even try).

Ah, Halloween 2006. It was a lovely autumn day; there was a slight nip in the air, and the smell of …. oh – screw it. I spent most of the day reeking of non-staining Ultra Tiger Balm (please remember that it is not made of tigers or tiger parts; it says so right on the packaging). It LOOKED nice outside. Let’s just leave it at that. However, it was downright CHILLY when I was standing behind the door in an ugly pink towel that provided VERY questionable coverage.

The aforementioned shower did afford my back and neck some temporary relief, so I donned my PLANNED 2006 Halloween costume. And here is what I was emulating:

I must assert right this very moment that the only reason that I could use the “Crazy Cat Lady” as a costume is that I am NOT A CRAZY CAT LADY. I successfully passed the very scientific and definitive “Are you a Crazy Cat Lady?” test from Archie McPhee®, and I further summarized the arguments that supported those test results in a previous entry. Enough said.

So, I had the plaid:

I also had the dark shirt, the robe, the scuff-style slippers, the headband and the CRAZY hair. I created the pallor (OKAY – so I accentuated my own pastiness with makeup). I even used dark eye shadow to create the dark eye circles and to emphasize my “eye luggage.”

Then there were the cats. I hadn’t arranged far enough ahead to acquire real and/or stuffed cats from Sarah, William and Shirleen. I found two plush kitties, and I presumed my Kitten Children would be excellent props. I figured that I could say that all the other cats were hiding – plausible, I thought – if anyone asked. “If anyone asked, “- HAH!

Here is one of the “faux” kitties. They were well-behaved – PERFECTLY obliging and cooperative. Here’s the first:

Here is the second – my “Pocket Kitten”:

Then there were MY Kitten Children. I brought food and water, their favourite toys, Kitty treats – a veritable Kitty orgy of fun things – into the living room. I should explain that the Kitten Children aren’t usually allowed in the living room. BeBe tries, regularly, to sneak into the room while people open and close the door, as she seems to have an unnatural obsession with the high-backed green chairs in there; they are like Kitty cocaine – she is addicted and cannot help herself – she wants to scratch the hell out of them. Fiona is MUCH more reticent about the sneaking in. She has observed BeBe being thrown out of there far too many times, I suppose.

So I left the door open, and sweetly beckoned to them to enter. They were incredibly suspicious. BeBe came in first, ever-so tentatively. After a bit, Fiona very timidly followed. This is the sort of thing they initially did:

When the doorbell rang, my plan was to pick up BeBe and “accessorize” with her. I reckoned that not only would this enhance the authenticity of my costume (see the picture above – the one upon which I modeled my outfit), but it would prevent her from running out the door, going to the very first patch of grass she saw, and gob
bling up huge chunks of the stuff, which she would then vomit up not long after. Yum.

The doorbell rang, and I answered as per my plan. The three boys on the porch did not seem to be impressed AT ALL with my ensemble. Besides, I said, “Oh – what GREAT hobbits,” which they found most insulting, since, as they curtly informed me, they were Jedi masters. In my defense, their light-sabers were not glowing (that I noticed) and so I thought they were perhaps walking sticks (?). I heard them muttering as they walked away, “Sheesh – we have LIGHT-SABERS, etc.” Strike one.

The doorbell rang again. This time, it was two little boys (dressed as I do not KNOW what because BeBe was becoming increasingly disconcerted by her “accessory” or “prop” status, and she was struggling to get away). Right off, one boy pointed to the other and said, “He’s ALLERGIC to cats.” (DOESN’T ANYONE JUST SAY TRICK-OR-TREAT ANYMORE?) I responded, “The cat hasn’t touched any of the candy.” Allergy boy very nicely said that he only had problems with cats if he had direct physical contact with them. Strike TWO.

So my Kitten Children seemed determined to cause “costume malfunction.” I don’t suppose it mattered all that much, because, as usual, no one seemed to understand WHAT I WAS TRYING TO BE.

Finally, a substantial group of My Most FAVOURITE Trick-or-Treaters arrived. By then, Fiona had retreated to the kitchen, and BeBe was just getting NASTY (STRIKE THREE). Jenny very nicely offered to put her in the kitchen, too, (probably hoping to prevent any disfiguring injuries to her beautiful children – BeBe rewarded her kindness by hissing nastily at her all the while).

So I had a great time admiring all their superbly-executed and imaginative costumes. I even took little fifteen-second films with my phone (which I must figure out how to LOAD and utilize). And in that large group, only ONE costume confused me (sorry, Jenny), but I still found it very appealing (where DID you get those bloomers/pettipants – whatever they are called?). I was going to take lovely photos with my Dad’s camera, but the re-chargeable batteries were defective, so hopefully someone will send me pictures. Only one other group came to the door during this time, so I just cheerfully flung some candy their way, bid them a “Happy Halloween,” and went back to my honoured guests.

After everyone left, and in view of the fact that we did not get a SINGLE additional knock on the door or ringing of the doorbell, the Kitten Children decided that they could PARTY.

Then they decided to “chill out:”

Okay, so they were HORRIBLE props/accessories, but their utter cuteness prevents me from EVER staying annoyed at them for very long:

Either way, my imagination (if I, indeed, have one), seems to fail me when it comes to Halloween costumes. Either I cannot come up with a ANYTHING, or I conjure up an ensemble that completely and utterly baffles people.

Years ago, for instance, for the Genetic Research Halloween party, I printed a bunch of white business cards. Right the middle, in a small and (I thought) appropriately characteristic font, I printed the word “Ennui.” My acting chops were decent in those days, and I think I did a very fine interpretation of “Ennui.” No one (with the exception of my dear friend, Boom Boom) understood it AT ALL.

Then there was the last Halloween costume I created (prior to this Halloween, I should say). I was Antarctica. I took a very large white sheet, cut a hole for my head, and donned it over a white turtleneck. This created an excellent and vast white continental expanse. Then I added the indigenous fauna. For this I did RESEARCH. Then I purchased a number of little plush penguins and two varieties of seals, which I safety-pinned onto the sheet in an area which I though seemed like the “coastline.” I skipped the lice and midges, etc. I also skipped the flora entirely (you know – lichens, algae, moss). I didn’t want to interrupt the whole characteristic “ice-storm” and barren vastness impression. I was pleased to have come up with what I presumed was rather a unique design.

I went to a party in this garb. No one got it. I even tried to MAKE some people guess what I was. It was a painful process that took many broad hints to elicit ANY success. Humiliating.

I wondered, in retrospect, if some very tiny research stations and a few minuscule people trekking with little sleds across the most immense and “barren” portion of the continent would have made things more clear. Probably not. And they certainly would have made it uncomfortable to sit down.

So, this year I did not have any high hopes for Halloween inspiration, nor did I have plans that made a costume mandatory. However, I was expecting some of my most FAVOURITE trick-or-treaters. And, because I thought it might be fun for them (?), I actually concocted something. I’ll elaborate in a further entry, because I want to prepare the appropriate accompanying pictures.

Unfortunately, my back and my neck were feeling especially wonky on Halloween (that IS the very scientific medical term, in case you were wondering, and I would know because I’ve worked in the industry). It’s not unusual for my back and neck to BE wonky, but my usual tricks weren’t seeming to improve the…wonkiness. I realized that the symptoms had worsened since – YES – I fell down on Sunday (and NO, I will not discuss how I fell UP the stairs rather than down and the resultant bruises are not up for debate).

I worked throughout the day to improve my range of motion. Finally, at about 5:30 I decided to direct a hot shower onto the area. I should mention that, as I was to be the sole guardian of the trick-or-treat treats and answering the door, I had not only left the porch light off, I was keeping the entire front of the house DARK. When I was young, Halloween had RULES. And these statutes were very clear.

If the porch light was off, you DID NOT ring the doorbell or knock on the door. This was because:

1. The residents were not planning to be home.
2. The residents were Jehovah’s Witnesses and did not observe Halloween.
3. The residents hated children and despised anything that might induce merriment amongst young people.
4. All of the above or any combination thereof.

Obviously, some percentage of new-fangled, “modern” children have not been schooled in proper Halloween etiquette. Thus, as I stepped from the guest room shower and put on a towel that somewhat LACKED in the complete coverage department (my Kingdom for one of my BATH SHEETS), I heard the doorbell ringing. And ringing. And ringing some more. Then I heard fearsome knocking.

On the off-chance that it was some of my most FAVOURITE trick-or-treaters, I thought I’d check the peep-hole; if it was them, I could crack the door, tell them to give me thirty seconds to leave and go get a robe and that they could come on in (when I’d disappeared). As I should have suspected, the porch was covered with COMPLETE STRANGERS (I NEVER should go to the door in completely or semi-inappropriate attire – it’s NEVER the people I’m expecting). In the moments I squinted through the peep-hole trying (IN THE DARKNESS, CHILDREN) to discern who it was, I heard them make the following comments:

UUUHHH! Why don’t they answer the door? What are they doing? Whey aren’t they getting the door? What is the deal? What’s their problem?? THEY ARE WASTING OUR TRICK-OUR-TREAT TIME!!!

It was that last comment that emboldened me. HEAVEN FORBID I should waste their valuable trick-or-treat time, even if they were recklessly and WANTONLY flaunting the rules of appropriate Halloween decorum. So I thought I’d, perhaps, SCARE them.

I grabbed the scary papier-maché pumpkin head containing the “treats,” ensconced myself behind the door, opened it and thrust the pumpkin outside (it really is a rather frightening serving implement; you have to stick your hand into the gaping maw of a this hideous faux gourd and pull the treats from it’s dark interior WHERE ITS GUTS SHOULD BE). I mumbled something about how I’d been in the process of “fixing my back”; I’m sure they couldn’t have cared less. One girl did say, “You probably should get dressed before the next people come.” Hmmm – really? DUH!!! I did feel that at this time I should probably allay their fear that I was behind the door COMPLETEY NAKED. “I’m wearing a TOWEL,” I said defensively. One of the other kids responded, “It’s your costume – ha ha.” As they exited the scene in record time considering there were about seventeen of them and they all had to get their candy THEMSELVES, I attempted some droll comment about my “lady just out of the shower” costume. They did not hear this witty remark, as they were already sprinting towards the next abode, which, I hope, had a darkened porch light so that they wasted MORE precious “trick-or-treat” time in a futile attempt to get someone to the door, when, in their ignorance, they were needlessly flouting the sacred laws of Halloween.

I did successfully resist the temptation to lecture them on CORRECT Halloween protocol. Moreover, I also refrained from sqandering even MORE of their valuable “trick-or-treat” time by giving them a lecture on the origins of Halloween and holding them hostage until they’d identified at least ONE other tradition “related” to Halloween that is currently practiced on or near them same day (I would have accepted All Saint’s Day, All Soul’s Day (or even All Hallow’s Eve as an alternate to either of those), Dia De Los Muertos, Samhain, or even Guy Fawkes Night*). I wouldn’t have considered the fact that I had previously seen a “Halloween” special on The History Channel a few days earlier, bolstering my recollection of many facts and adding some festive new tidbits, at ALL inequitable, taking into consideration that these children were infringing on respectful Halloween customs, AND I WAS BASICALLY NAKED.

Tomorrow I will elaborate on my second and intentional 2006 Halloween costume (which was not without malfunctions and FAILURES).

*Perhaps, in honour of the fairly large percentage of my Euro-Mutt heritage originating in the British Isles, I will from now on just skip Halloween and ho
ld out for Guy Fawkes Night. Burning a straw man in effigy sounds like LOADS of fun. And I believe that with the correct precautions that even I could perform this ritual without harm to myself or others. Probably.

I think I told you this: Over a year ago I was sitting at a Friend’s funeral. And I was feeling JEALOUS. He’d been remarried right before he’d been re-diagnosed with cancer, and his new wife saw him through that horrific time. And I had the narcissistic GALL to sit and be jealous that I’d felt all alone during my worst times. But that was a wake-up call. I was so DISGUSTED that I could sit there and think THAT and wallow in SELF-PITY when we were mourning my friend and his lovely, still essentially NEW bride, had to figure out how to say goodbye to him after three years of wondrous hell. That’s when I thought ENOUGH ENOUGH ENOUGH! I still was/am trying to figure out how to forgive myself and to forgive you, but I finally was able to acknowledge that we had a lot of beautiful, intimate years – time that some people never are privileged to find or to know – and that even if I was still hurt or angry or CRAZY AS HELL (working on that one) I really needed to move on in my thinking. I had moved on in many respects, obviously, but to decide that I didn’t have to live an absolute and that I could acknowledge what I was so grateful for what I once had, I could choose to remember it, and even though sometimes it might make me feel a little lonelier (in comparison) I had the opportunity not to denigrate or erase it. And it doesn’t mean dwelling in anything – I was dwelling in my feelings of abandonment and I will always have to be careful of that bugger. It just means that I can feel lucky for something in my life that had so many moments of inexplicable beauty and humour and love. And, YES, it means that I will get a little melancholy on MY Anniversary. I was always the more nostalgic one, anyway, so give me a break. Don’t worry – I’m not going to give you any wood* (that’s for the Fifth) or silk/linen (for number Twelve) – or the “Nontraditional” gifts of silverware (Fifth) or Pearls (Twelfth). Besides, I already have the pearls, thank you very much (you never timed anything “traditionally,” did you) and though now the idea of sending you an anonymous “spork” and a napkin strikes me as rather droll at the moment, it’s a little too late. Let’s just go with the idea that it’s the thought that counts.

So tomorrow, I’m getting THE HELL OUT OF THIS HOUSE and getting that phone. It will be SUPER-COOL and NOT half naked. I’ve also made a decision. I found a bunch of rolls of film, and I know that our actual “Wedding” pictures are among them. I was debating about developing them, but I’ve made up my mind that I’m going to do it. We had an BIZZARE and BRILLIANT Wedding, damn it, and I’d like to remember it. I will make you copies of the pictures. I sincerely hope you’d like to have them. Signed, A Bear Bean (OKAY – a Bear Bean BUBBIN)

*Who thought up this stuff anyway? WOOD????

It makes me do this (but I cannot pull off the ENORMOUS cuteness quotient):

On the night of the banquet, I arrived in Park City for the 50,000th time in five days – this time WITH luggage AND having showered, damn it. I arrived just in time to meet the caterer and give her her thank you gift and her metal drink tubs (the card was BLANK and I explained that it would have said lots and lots of nice things and she very sweetly told me that she could always use a thank you card) and to walk into the banquet JUST as it was supposed to start. (It was NOT the BANQUET FROM HELL yet; those were the innocent days – the days when I thought I’d SEE the bill before I was charged and the days when I believed the the bill would not be based ENTIRELY IN THE REALM OF IMAGINATION.)

I’d been there approximately two minutes when my Father turned to me and said, “So and So and So and So solved the very difficult equation of [INSERT ENGINEERING PHRASE THAT - ESPECIALLY IN A SLEEP-DEPRIVED STATE TO A NON-ENGINEER - MIGHT AS WELL HAVE BEEN "BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH"] and I promised a little prize and an award. Do you have anything?” I looked at him blankly for a minute. He continued, “We’ll call the prize the Anderson-Schulz Flory Award. Do you have a something – uhm, a certificate?”

Mind you, at home, it is not unusual for my Father to say, “It’s So and So’s birthday and I need something in two minutes.” My Mother and I are prepared for this regular occurrence.. We have the Kate and Karen gift shop, with an assortment of little presents as well as accompanying gift bags, wraps and bows. I can put together a gift basket in two minutes flat – LESS than that on a good day. This impresses my Father. I have also stopped him as he is leaving the house with – I kid you not – a HALF-EATEN BAG OF CANDY which he intends to give to some neighbor family as a gift. Oh, the multitude of times that Man has been sent out the door with a REAL little gift/token as opposed to the some weird crap he pulled out from under his bed (he keeps candy there – don’t ask). Perhaps this has given him the wrong impression. Perhaps he thinks my Mother and I can perform GIFT MAGIC.

But at the banquet, I could only gawk in amazement . He WAS sleep-deprived, but not NEARLY to the extent that I was.

Here’s the connection to the Healthy Back Bag – oh the the perfect ergonomic design and it’s capacious interior…. I was cruelly mocked for using this bag. YES, it is an OLD PERSON BAG. So what? I have back trouble (don’t worry – I shan’t launch into a treatise on my rheumatism and my gout and the vapours and whatnot) and it seemed like a good idea. Finally, after years of faithful service, some of the teeth on the zipper to the main compartment gave way. I stood in the shoe repair shop, tears welling in my eyes, begging, “Could you REPLACE the zipper?” But NO, it’s embedded into the design in a way that makes replacement impossible. So now, in keeping with womanly folly throughout the World, I have multiple handbags. At the moment they are mostly summery clearance items from Steinmart and Tuesday Morning, but I still have MORE THAN ONE. This means when you switch things about that NOT EVERYTHING MAKES IT INTO THE OTHER HANDBAG. Granted, I had my multi-tool, but I DID NOT have my pocket knife (it’s PERSONALIZED) or my tiny level. Nor did I have my electronic three-language (four?) translator cum calculator. Most importantly, it means I DID NOT HAVE THE TINY TUPPERWARE KEYCHAIN WITH THE HELPFUL EMERGENCY MEDICATION.

Had the smart-ass in me been awake, I might have said, “Wait one moment Father – let met examine my on-hand awards selection. Okay, I have ‘Best Performance as a Jewish Religious Authority after recovering from a serious Beard Mishap,’ I have the ‘Life-time CRAZY Hair Achievement Award’ – wait that’s mine – I have the ‘Most Engineer-like Faux Pas at a Social Function,’ but that’s not really the right one, ‘Best Malapropism on Tuesday,’ but it’s Thursday, anyway – WAIT – I have the ‘Anderson-Shulz…’ – Damn! I have the ‘Anderson-Schulz Mc-Flurry Award.’ So close. Wait – I will take my multi-tool, cut out a piece of the tablecloth, quickly pen an award (in CALLIGRAPHY – suitable for framing, NATURALLY), decorate it with a little lip gloss from my extensive collection (a story for another time), embroider it with dental floss and THERE YOU HAVE IT! And let me thumb through my envelope full of gift certificates from all regions of the country – PERFECT – I have one for Washington State AND one for Houston, Texas. How lucky! Let me check on my wallet-sized Periodic Table of the Elements and see what the appropriate Noble Gas is for such an occasion….

OKAY – I do – IN TRUTH – carry a wallet-sized Periodic Table of the Elements and have done so for at least twenty years. Mind you, it’s an old enough version that’s missing some of the newer synthetic/atomic/nuclear elements like “Mister Burnsiom” and “Tela-Tubbium,” but I could STILL whip the thing out and tell you in a few short moments that the atomic number of Tungsten (the symbol is “W” by the way – HA) is 74. So there. Awards and gift certificates, no dice (literally – no dice – though sometimes a finger puppet, a rhythm egg and TINY face cards). Cash, upon occasion…

Truly, I did not swallow any dental instruments, but :

• I worked for months and months (on and off) planning little “Welcome to Utah” gifts. I poured Utah honey into thirty-five smaller jars from the big jugs (because it was less expensive than letting THEM do it – and they promised me it wouldn’t introduce bad, wicked bacteria), I distributed Redmond RealSalt into thirty-five small shakers, I obtained two varieties of “Salt Water Taffy” that made in Utah. I typed up the nutritional and background information. I obtained attractive twine (yes, some twine is more aesthetically pleasing than other varieties) and tissue paper AND Chinese food take-out containers in which to put the “Welcome to Utah” gifts. Unfortunately, at the last minute, the course notes and such (done on Engineer time – which means the ABSOLUTELY LAST MINUTE POSSIBLE – I think ALL the course notes were printed by the THIRD day of the FOUR DAY COURSE) prevented me from actually putting the tags and the jute ribbon and the names and all on my “Welcome” gifts. Therefore, I “Welcomed” a handful of people to Utah as they LEFT the State and/or Country and still need to mail the packages to some others who had earlier departure dates. Had my Mom not rescued me (and the people and what I will be nice and call the “languorous” Kinkoes – they seem to work hard, but it is at a pace so UNBELIEVEABLY SLOW that I think any group of simians – take your pick – could have far exceeded their speed without a single opposable thumb amongst them) everything would have gone all to HELL and there would have been NO course notes and NO “Welcome gifts.” Nor would there have been thirty-seven copies of the seventy-four introductory pages (TWO introductory pages) that had ALREADY been copied and were ready to insert. Mind you, it wasn’t her fault – my Dad just stacked them on top of the other pages that needed to be copied. She was beginning to think that the introduction was a WEE bit long-winded – 2,738 copies makes a tall stack, after all.
• Oh yes – another lesson. I reiterate – it’s IMPERATIVE to check if the overflow lodging has air conditioning, ESPECIALLY if it’s unseasonably warm – even in the mountains. One might find themselves sitting at the very expensive “boutique” lodge dealing with all the late check-ins (which was MOST of the check-ins – wait – ENGINEER TIME. If I had a freakin’ nickel for every time someone said “I meant to be here earlier…) and have the most pleasant surprise of a guest walking back from the over-flow accommodations next door saying, “It’s 86 degrees over there. Is there air conditioning?” I wanted to say, “Of COURSE – I would be a BLITHERING IDIOT not to have confirmed such a thing.” So I confirmed it right that minutes. Alas, no air conditioning. This is when I got VERY creative on an extremely large sleep deficit. So and so and so and so were NOT taking the first half of the course, so Dr. A and Dr. B could have those rooms for several days and I could put several graduate students (and it WAS ladies first) in another room for the same reason. Soon my well-organized rooming list (which I’d worked on for months) looked was obliterated with red ink and all my sinister, well-laid plans to put big oil people in the same suite as the bio-fuel conservation people were shot to hell (it was to be SCIENCE to see what would happen – I figured either WWIII – wait, too late – forgive me my Republican friends – WWIII.5 or World Peace and an end to the energy crisis). But that wasn’t the lesson I was going to mention. I was going to say that the ONE person you inadvertently assume is a MAN is going to be a WOMAN. And they are going to be the one flying all the way from NORWAY. I checked every name that could have gone either way (gender-wise) – even if I had a fairly good inkling – EXCEPT the “guy from Norway.” Why didn’t I check? WHY? I don’t know. Is it the presumption of my Scandahoovian bloodlines? Well, in this case, being a descendant of King Frostti Snarlsson (sp?) of Kvenland did me no good whatsoever. In fact, I think it made me subconsciously a Norwegian KNOW-IT-ALL. The name does appear masculine, if you say it in a stupid American accent. When someone from NORWAY says it, it is so strikingly feminine and lovely and only someone who wanted a son with profound gender-confusion would use the name for a BOY. So, at about 1:30 a.m., after I’ve called back to Utah Valley and said, I’m just waiting for the “guy from Norway” – I feel like I should wait for the “GUY FROM NORWAY,” a lovely blonde woman will walk up to the front desk. I don’t remember who I guessed she was, but as soon as she spoke, I KNEW what I’d done. I believe my eyes, as big as saucers, gave away my little faux pas. If they did not, then whatever blustering stream of consciousness I launched at Dr. Skagseth no doubt did (at the end of the week she sweetly said, “I hope I didn’t scare you too much”). Bless her. I stared at her, I stared at the rooming list – I was thinking I CANNOT PUT THE WOMAN WHO CAME ALL THE WAY FROM NORWAY INTO A SUITE WITH A STRANGE MAN – granted, everyone had separate bedrooms and bathrooms and such, but STILL – she’d had horrible taxi difficulties, fourteen or so hours in the air, and evidently an unsightly wreck on the highway (it almost sounded pretty when she said it, but still…) – I could NOT PUT HER IN A SUITE WITH A STRANGE MAN. Luckily, I had an epiphany. We’d had co-workers from Canada cancel and then UNCANCEL and I’d added a participant in the meantime (trying to recoup the income), so I told them they’d HAVE to share a suite – at least they knew each other – and they didn’t arrive until the next day. So I did my five hundredth room switch of the night and put Lovely Ms. Norway in with Lovely Ms. Chinese-Canada.

Tomorrow I’ll tell you why it might be wise to carry a variety of award certificates (suitable for framing, naturally) and random gift certificates in your purse. Let me take that back – I’ll tell you why I need to carry award certificates and random gift certificates in MY purse. And all y’all – those who mocked me for my capacious “Healthy Back Bag” – I curse its untimely death and I curse YOU (a little).

• I am too old and questionably medicated to sleep only a few hours at a time for more than a couple of days.
• ALWAYS, ALWAYS CHECK IF THE OVER-FLOW ACCOMADATIONS HAVE AIR-CONDITIONING.
• Don’t tell the wrong people at the restaurant that your credit card number is on file because despite promises that you will get approval on everything before the banquet and when that doesn’t happen you’ll get approval of a final invoice – you’ll get approval of ANY charges, for that matter – because they will charge you credit card without any invoices and they will overcharge you by at least $1,000. Then they won’t return your calls. So far I’ve only had to use the phrase “Affidavit of Unauthorized Charge” and “over-charge” and such. I fear I may get to the point where I shall be bandying about phrases like “litigation” and “sue your sorry…” Never mind. It’s just a shame that the one really nice, helpful person who is not at fault will no doubt get caught in the middle of it all.
• If you don’t shower for a disgusting amount of time (and this is NOT the standard un-bathed status of the hiding, depressed person – this is in PUBLIC because you’ve not had time to do so and all your clothes are an hour away) far too many people will know about it. This COULD possibly be because I become even more stream-of-consciousness garrulous when I’m sleep-deprived than when I’m not, and I probably told everyone myself.
• If you wear linen pants until you are so vile you should be hosed down, holes will mysteriously appear in the seat of said pants. Whether or not my own body dissolved my trousers is a mystery. It does lead to an interesting discussion: I used to be a purist about many things. I thought perhaps I should “change things up” a bit, and now I wonder. Now I have to pluck my eyebrows (or wax them), have regular haircuts, dye my “roots,” and yes, pay attention to what my underwear says. I’ll discuss my limits in this respect another time, but let me tell you that when you discover that you have large holes in the seat of your pants you will, by some cosmic fluke, be wearing underwear that says, “Wish on THIS!” on the back. I wish I were kidding.

Yes, I could go on (and on) and usually would (okay – JUST SHUT UP AND GIVE ME THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT THAT I DON’T ALWAYS GO ON AND ON AND ON AND ON…), but I am reminded of something that gives me some good perspective. You see, I COULD have swallowed a dental instrument during a root canal.

These are called a Gates Gliddens.

Ah, but no one could do such a thing! WRONG – Shirleen could do such a thing. Don’t get me wrong – she only swallowed ONE Gates Glidden. She went to the second appointment for a root canal (because, of course, the first appointment couldn’t be easily completed for some reason). Then she somehow swallowed a dental instrument. She did know she’d swallowed something, but presumed it was a piece of temporary filling. Then they began quite anxiously searching for the instrument. The dentist said, “You COULDN’T have swallowed that; it’s never happened before.” But it’s Shirleen. Shirleen has the “Luck O’ the Irish,” except it’s not the stereotypical “Luck O’ the Irish,” it’s more akin to the ironic potato famine sort of Irish luck. This explains a great deal about her health, her love life and why I was not entirely surprised when my Mom came home and said that Shirleen had swallowed a dental instrument. After it was confirmed that she had swallowed the Gates Glidden, the dentist did the quickest temporaryfilling EVER and the receptionist took her to the hospital where they endoscopically removed the sharp, pointy thing – TRULY luckily with no perforations anywhere.

So I just keep trying to remind myself, “I COULD have swallowed a dental instrument.” Of course, this not only serves as a reminder that things could be much worse, but that I’m long overdue to visit the dentist…

• Those tasty bran muffins with apple made from the special recipe, though they are “free” or “one point” or something like that according to your sister’s diet experts, still contain oodles of BRAN. Consequently, do not consume them with COMPLETE abandon; you may want to pay attention to how many you’ve had (even if they were all you ate that day – wait apple slices, too – good – MORE FIBER). Otherwise, you will have a VERY “Fiberlicious Wednesday.” And this does not sound as good as “Fiberlicious Friday.” WAIT- gobble up all the bran muffins you want on FRIDAY because it sounds better – almost holiday-like. Oh, the FIBER!!!
• “Park City” really should be called “Golf Course & Kajillion Dollar Condo City.” More on that later.
• If you are touring potential venues for a short course (don’t ASK what insanity might convince you to do work for your Dad’s consulting company again; that’s a story for another time), you might think that the man directing you around the very, VERY nicest lodge (last in the day, coincidentally), would be offended (or at least frightened or taken aback) when you looked at the wide variety of trunks and large baskets placed about the beautifully-appointed suites (many of the pieces rare antiques) and commented at LEAST ten times, “And that’s where you put your dead bodies.” And about the most beautiful (and probably the rarest and most expensive trunk), “That’s the VERY BEST place for a dead body!” Also, concerning the largest wicker trunk, you MAY have made an obscure reference to throwing Falstaff in the river… Where was I? Oh, and THEN, with little oddly-placed doors you endeavored to describe how you and your friend used to assess places, if they looked likely, by saying, “That’s where I’d hide my Jews.” You know – if we went back in time (and to Europe?) and it was the Holocaust… We meant no disrespect; I suppose we were imagining how resourceful we might have been. Anyhoo, this will be the place you BOOK for the short course. The sales manager actually replied to my hiding place for “my Jews” (?) comment, “That’s the FIRST place the Germans would look.” I said we’d cover it with a big piece of furniture… And in an email, when you apologize for the possible offense of touring an EXPENSIVE, charming lodge and commenting the most exuberantly over all the hiding places for corpses, he will say you needn’t apologize because he thought you [yes, I] were [was] funny. It’s nice when not EVERYONE stares at you blankly because YOU ARE A FREAK.
• I’ve becoming increasingly fond of Eastmountainsouth (Hard Times Come Again No More – definitely the coolest interpretation of a Stephen Foster song around – especially fond of So Are You to Me – so short and lovely – and Mark’s Song – and yes, it’s because I’m MAUDLIN – I like it all, really) and Rosie Thomas (I’d have a hard times picking, but she’s got a great take on Let It Be Me – Farewell is haunting – try Let Myself Fall, All My Life or Since You’ve Been Around – her albums have a lot of variety) recently.
• A possible side effect of my newest medication is a “serious, sometimes FATAL rash.” Mind you, it’s very unlikely (you know – low, low occurrences of such a side-effect, but you must be informed so you can get immediate medical attention if you get any of the symptoms), but I am now obsessed by every tiny spot or speck on my body (and there are so MANY – I have freckles and moles and blemishes and bruises and whatnots….). And just writing this also makes me ITCH.
• The u-shaped airplane pillow I bought in Chicago (at MIDWAY were they don’t have the cool automated plastic that whirls around the toilet seat like at O’Hare – figures) and is full of small foam-like dots SMELLS FUNNY. It did not smell funny in the store, just later… It’s a pillow conspiracy. And I’m beginning to think it could be a poisonous smell.

Last night, in the witching hours, I decided to just GO FOR IT. First, I used a colour-removing product:

I purchased this product AGAINST the advice of the knowledgeable store personnel, who, by the nature of my countless stupid questions, doubtless gleaned that I should not, in good conscience, be allowed to mess with “Professionals Only” products. I, however, was feeling rebellious – and, evidently, willing to lose all my hair with extremely grim chemical burns.

Fear not, with my battlefield surgical setting all in place, and having read the instructions many times (I am a WOMAN, after all), I successfully completed the “colour removal” process. The result was very interesting; it vaguely resembles your original hair colour (it’s almost like the “ghost of hair colour past”), but because permanent hair colour removes a percentage of your natural pigment in order to deposit new hues (it’s CHEMISTRY – I am a SCIENTIST), it’s a little odd. So then you add new colour.

I had purchased and returned various colours, finally ending up with three shades. Yes, I thought I’d mix my own hair colour. Yes, I am the least qualified person on the face of this Earth to do so (excluding three to four-year-olds). Yes, I am the epitome of hubris. But, as I said, I was feeling rebellious. And I was feeling like a SCIENTIST. So here is my most scientific hair colour equation:

Everyone knows how much I like a good hybrid. And see? I did MATH, too. And most significantly, I timed everything IN THE BATHROOM so that I wouldn’t be distracted by “reproductive” television or “stick between the legs!” Then I used lots and lots of THIS (very good stuff, incidently).

Ultimately, I did not go bald (yet), I did not sustain any chemical burns, and I think my hair is, in fact, much closer to its “natural” colour. And ABSOLUTELY NO ONE WILL REALLY BE ABLE TO TELL THE DIFFERENCE. Huzzah!

“Yes,” I answered tentatively (having some idea what was about to transpire).

“I liked the color better before,” says Mr. Suave. There was a slight pause during which you could actually HEAR the light bulb click on in his Professor brain telling him – “WARNING – Perhaps that was the wrong thing to say.” So then he tried, “But it looks very nice.” Then, I guess somehow trying to explain what might have been considered an insensitive comment, he said, “It’s just that it was shining in the light from the window and it was so ORANGE!.”

In his defense, he is an engineer. And not JUST an engineer, he is the epitome of the Absent-Minded Professor. Had Fred MacMurray as Professor Ned Brainard (ha ha – BRAINard) not invented “flubber,” and had it anything to do with catalysis, I’m sure my Father would have come up with the substance by now.

So for YEARS we’ve been told, “What I nice haircut. I did like it better before…” and other such “compliments.” Mostly we take this unintentional offense in stride. Being a performer (in the olden days, anyway) led to a veritable smorgasbord of these “critical assessments.” Without missing a beat (ha – music), after practically every concert he would say, “That was lovely. But it did sound a lot better when you practiced it at home.” One feels the overwhelming urge at these moments to take the palm of your hand, hit him in the forehead with it and say, “DUH!!!” Because, indeed, as most people understand, that is the nature of the beast. It will ALWAYS sound better when you are practicing it and haven’t any performance anxiety. One can merely endeavor to take performances closer and CLOSER to the sound you achieve in the privacy of your home or a practice room or – the ultimate feat – the shower. Luckily, he never criticized much about my acting (I think he feels more qualified as a music critic), though once, after seeing a high school play I was in (I played Blanche, the bad, BAD mistress in Night Watch), he scared the almighty HELL out of my co-star by awkwardly making a joke about all the stage kissing – something about “kissing my daughter like that” – Tim thought he was serious and a shotgun might be involved (sorry about that).

Tonight we foolishly ventured to explain (again) why some things just DO NOT NEED TO BE SAID. He countered with, “But when I say I need a haircut you say it looks good and I don’t need one.” Yes, Dad, that’s BEFORE you’ve cut it off. It’s much different when you make a comment AFTERWARDS about how it was better before and one can only scramble about looking for clumps of hair and the superglue.

Poor Shirleen has traumatic piano recital memories of being told “he knew she could do much better.” She was eight years old. He said he had perceived that she was dissatisfied with the performance and wanted to tell her that he KNEW she had the ability to achieve more. She was EIGHT YEARS OLD. I, luckily, have managed to displace any memories of piano recital debacles with the myriad of singing performances I had (especially at University). So at least I have retained the ADULT memories more strongly. Poor Shirleen – she’s a through and through perfectionist as it is.

Come to think of it, not only is the “engineer” factor a strong player here, but genetics has a role. I finished my Senior recital with Not Getting Married Today from Company. My dear friend, Rachel, played the “choirgirl” and Dan played Paul. They did a great job. My Grandmother (Father’s Mother), however, came up to Rachel after the performance and said, “Were you supposed to be singing off-key – was that part of the song?” What do you say to that? For the record, she was NOT off-key, but it is a comic piece so her part is very over-dramatic. I was offended – luckily Rachel was not (bless her – and while I’m at it bless that little fetus, too).

Ah well, it’s all Locks of Love and hair dye under the bridge. I used to braid my hair every night before bed like a Jane Austen heroine. I used to be able to put ALL my hair in a ponytail. And my tresses USED to be this colour:

The elaborate rose-entwined coiffure was Bronwen’s doing. We were at a funeral in Canada, after all… (?) She used to say I had “pirate hair.” Having once been a pirate (complete with eye patch and pistol), I say, “Aaaaarrrrrgh!”

My pirate hair days are definitely over. Now, I look like Goth Strawberry Shortcake!!! I could start a diatribe about the untimely resurrection of all these cartoon characters that I thought had gone to their well-earned DEMISE, but that’s a story for another time.

NOTE: Internet Explorer people, I PROMISE I am still trying to fix the whole wiggy stupid column situation. In the meantime, why don’t you just get Firefox? It’s the super-bestest, anyway (those being the highly-technical computer terms for its product superiority). If you don’t believe ME, listen to Chris. He’s a technophile AND an artiste.

I should say that there are things in my life about which I am an inadvertent purist. I had never plucked or waxed my eyebrows until last summer, for instance. They aren’t dark, and it just never seemed like a huge necessity. Besides, I have a great desire for symmetry in certain situations and yet I seem to be compromised in this respect. If I try to trim a photo by hand, for instance, I’ll cut one side, notice the other is uneven and cut it. But I’ll cut a little too much off and then have to go back to the original side and trim that, too (but I’ll overdo that slice as well). Pretty soon, the subjects of the photo are nigh unto headless and a two inch by three inch wallet-sized photo is now about an inch square. So I was hesitant to attack my eyebrows. I was always told that if you were too enthusiastic in this pursuit that you’d end up without eyebrows and they WOULDN’T GROW BACK. My childhood piano teacher, Theatis Barnett, was a prime example. Her natural eyebrows were GONE. She drew alternates in, but she placed them a little too high up on her forehead. Thus, she always looked slightly surprised. Also, she had orange plastic couches upon which she threw covers of pink faux fur and she often wore a pink cap (covering her VERY interesting jet-black/purple dye job) that had feathers all over it. But that’s a story for another time.

When Charles and Ashley asked me to officiate their wedding last year (leading me to inadvertently tell a number of people that “I was going to marry my brother”) I decided that I’d try to be a presentable as possible. I haven’t regularly worn makeup for years, for example. I spent hours and hours in high school “farding” (sorry, Grettir) as well as using my life-time’s quota of hair spray in order to accomplish such coiffure feats as the “newscaster hairdo” and the “bang claw.” One quarter at University, when I had an aerobics class first thing and a German class immediately thereafter, I discovered that no one noticed if I was made-up or not. Moreover, I didn’t make my self-concept any worse. Gradually, I’ve ended up only wearing makeup for performances (acting, singing) and very special occasions. Perhaps the fact that the music faculty always said things like, “You clean up SO well,” at various jury performances and concerts should have given me pause, but I decided that a low-maintenance approach to my daily ablutions was definitely my style. I stopped trying to fight the wildness of my hair, my legs haven’t been shaved in probably fifteen years (but one must shave their arm pits because they SMELL better) – I guess I do have a little hippy-granola-earth chick in me (complete with long skirts and Birkenstocks®, at various points).

Anyhoo, like I said, when Charles and Ashley asked me to officiate their wedding, I definitely wanted to detract as little as possible from the elegance of the occasion. And since there were a few people taken aback by the idea of ME as the officiant – my grandmother said, “Will I have to hide under my chair?” I thought I’d do what I could. Tangentially, I must ask: What exactly did my grandmother think I would do? She has seen me perform many times and be poised and graceful and certainly appropriate. I wonder if she had visions of me gyrating starkers in front of the audience and loudly singing, “You’re MARRIED, you’re MARRIED,” while beating the bride and groom with switches of sacred herbs and instructing the congregation to chant “be happy and [selectively] fertile” in Latin. I’ll never know – I didn’t want to ask.

But as I am an Ordained Clergy Person as opposed to an wizened male English Vicar, I thought I should be as kempt as possible. I went to a salon with Sarah where we had our hair trimmed. She also had her eyebrows waxed, and it got me thinking (about vizened male English Vicars, apparently). The next day, I went to another salon. I had them cut long layers into my hair and had my eyebrows waxed for the very first time. I must admit – they did look much better. HOWEVER – and this is perhaps why I cling to some of my inadvertent purist behaviors – there were repercussions. Now wayward eyebrows grow in places they’d never sprouted before. These errant brows, if I didn’t pluck them and have periodic salon waxings, would probably cover the entirety of my eyelids. I would be “Yeti-eyed” as opposed to “doe-eyed.” Not attractive.

But I was going to talk about my virgin hair. Since I’d never dyed it before, it seemed like I should wait until a special occasion to do it for the first time. So when my hair was short for the first time since childhood (and secretly I’d noticed that most of my natural highlights were now in the BACK of my hair – which I cut off – and the front was becoming gradually more dull and darker with a few gray interlopers) it seemed like the right occasion. I did ask the advice of the beauty supply purveyor (thank god) about dye types and colours. Had I not, I would probably have ended up “Annie” red or “Munsters” black or a combination thereof. I didn’t want to end up dying my body, too, so I’d concocted a protective barrier of plastic wrap, athletic tape (not as sticky as the medical bandage tape). It was very complex (after all, they don’t call me “Kate, The Safety Dog” for NOTHIN…). I mixed up the dye and the developer (or the transformer of the magic colour crÚme or whatever it’s called) and it looked disappointingly wan and pale. I began to wonder if I shouldn’t have ignored the advice of the beauty supply professional and used something bolder. But after I’d donned yards and yards and yards and yards of plastic wrap and athletic tape – elaborately fashioned into a protective shell that probably would work as a space suit with only the addition of breathing assistance, the dye mixture had turned EXACTLY the colour of squid ink – I kid you not. I was a tad taken aback by this, but I soldiered on. I applied the goo with latex gloves (I’ve spent enough time in medical settings to know the many uses of these handy implements and how to take them off so you get the contaminated inside of one inside the other with them both inside out in a neat, clean little package). Since I had “virgin” hair (the perms of my childhood having long ago grown out and having never dyed it – yes, I have born-again “virgin” hair) I was told the colour would take very well. Therefore I was paying strict attention to the instructions and the time one should leave the dye. I set a timer and sat down on a shielding blanket of clean garbage bags to watch TV. I was watching a show on TLC (The Learning Channel) about human “mating” and sex and the neurological and physiological connections that can be studied and measured. Don’t be mistaken – it was VERY scientific (and they had managed to get wee little cameras into VERY interesting spaces I would have thought unlikely if not impossible). I should have been able to hear the timer buzz from where I was – seriously. After a while, it occurred to me that it seemed like it had been long past time for the alarm to go off. I went to check; it had indeed ended WHO KNOWS how long before. So after being vain about my hair getting darker in front, I ended up with darker hair EVERYWHERE. I reiterate: Don’t dye your hair for the very first time SOLO in the middle of the night.

I guess that’s not really a very interesting tale after all. Especially since – IT IS JUST HAIR. Oh – we did manage to get almost everyone in the family to add purple highlights to their hair (at Sarah’s request – it is her favorite colour and violet is the colour for lymphoma ribbons and whatnot). They don’t really show too much in my hair. Even in Sarah and Shirleen’s blond hair it isn’t THAT obvious. When I locate them, I’ll post the pictures of the temporary mauve hair color (that washes right out) that we purchased for the chicken people who didn’t want to have semi-permanent streaks. My Father looked like Mister Heat Miser.