Le Monde de Fromage de Kate

Yesterday, while I was sitting at the computer, my Father came into the room and said, “You’ve done something different with your hair.”

“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 “Part DUH”; that would more appropriately reflect my utter cleverness in this scenario. Well, I did promise a sequel to this entry. I can tell that everyone has waited with bated breath, unable to be patient – they are CLAMORING AND BREAKING DOWN THE DOOR SHOUTING, “WHERE OH WHERE IS THAT OTHER BLOG ENTRY YOU PROMISED??????” Sorry – was that SARCASM????? Ah well, you’re getting it anyway.

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.

So many anniversaries today. Sixty years ago today the Enola Gay dropped an atomic bomb on Hiroshima. One year ago today, young Simon died (see “Perspective,” “Goodnight Sweet Prince,” and “I Have Learned What It Means to Wear Yellow“). I have been sitting and looking at the sunlight filtering through the leaves of the huge English walnut trees in the front yard and thinking about Simon. I’ve also been thinking about illness and death and those who I love so much. Some are going through Hell. We need to learn to go through Hell and still laugh, I guess.

Simon at his “Celebration of Life Party” on July 1, 2004.
He and his family are laughing at
“Marcus, The Funny Man Who Does Tricks.”

This sunny day is for you, Simon. I hope Japan is also sun-drenched today. Finally, this light is for you, Bean. Thank you for the many luminous days you gave to me. Wow – it has been four “official” years and we had an entire decade together (more even – three “legally sanctioned” and seven, shall we say, “creatively endorsed” and four or so years before that during which I was privileged to know you. This year…who knows where to put that one – I could come up with some suggestions but they would, no doubt, be unthinkably ribald). See? I’m learning to still laugh even if I cannot have eleven or perpetuity. Happy Anniversary.

I had always intended this blog to be utterly and wholly ridiculous and I vowed that it would contain nothing profound, nothing too personal and certainly nothing of great importance. I’ve already broken that promise more than once, though I’m not sorry about every infraction (see I Have Learned What It Means to “Wear Yellow”). However, I think I do regret the previous entry a little. But I’m going to leave it, anyway. Everyone who knows me is already aware that I’m a crazy lady (or a crazier lady) and those who don’t know me probably don’t and shouldn’t care too much. I’ll just say this: If you don’t want to read an entry that may cause you to cringe and shudder and cry, “Too much information! Too much information,” you may want to skip the entry below.

Then again, you might want to read The Cookie Incident. It’s a little funny. And the Down The Stairs episode is somewhat amusing, too.

And here’s something that could make ANYONE feel better. Here is my youngest nephew, Anders. This picture was taken almost two months ago when he still looked a little like Winston Churchill:

Anders Christian Brondum
Born December 23, 2004

The Right Honourable Sir Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill
November 30, 1874 – January 24, 1965

See?

Please Wear Yellow with Lance! Buy a Live Strong Wristband benefiting the Lance Armstrong Foundation and show your support for cancer survivors, cancer education and cancer research.

I wear yellow; the Live Strong wristband was my very best gift this Christmas.

Young, YOUNG Dad

My father survived “cancer-free” for 14 years after second stage prostate cancer (and after a radical prostatectomy when he was only in his 40’s). But that cancer has suddenly returned and has inundated his bones. “Opportunistic Cells,” they call them. Indeed – they are absolutely everywhere.

So, I wear yellow. I wear it in fond memory of Helen Pawlowski and Joan Koralewski, other dear mothers of my growing up, who died too, too soon of merciless organ cancers. I wear yellow for Pamela and Janae (and their families) – my “brat pack” sisters forever and always. I never take the time to tell them how much I love them.

Simon Craig Vodosek
May 17, 1997 – August 6, 2004

I wear yellow in memory of Simon Vodosek, an 8-year-old boy who spent half of his short life with neuroblastoma and still managed to teach and enrich the lives of everyone he met (and continues to do so with his legacy). I wear yellow for Mary, Markus and Miriam, Simon’s family. They are truly “survivors.” Mary sent emails to ME during the time Simon was dying, concerned about how I was doing.

The Gorgeous Bride and Her Father

I wear yellow in memory of Laurie Walker, mother to my sister-in-law, who made every single one of her only daughter’s wedding invitations by hand and helped choose the gorgeous crimson wedding dress – yet she could not be at the wedding because of her disease. Nevertheless, her presence touched everyone there; the officiant (okay – me) only got through one line of the service before crying. Laurie died on September 17, 2004, almost exactly a month after the wedding, having survived eight long years of leukemia/lymphoma. I wear yellow for Ashley and her family, who managed to celebrate and grieve, simultaneously, with such dignity. I CAN wear yellow because of Ashley. Thank you for the bracelet, Ashley.

And, yes, I wear yellow in memory of Mister Rogers, the most gentle, honest and kind icon of my childhood, who died on February 27, 2003 after battling stomach cancer. “Mister” Fred Rogers supported my creativity, my whimsy and my love of music. Most importantly, Fred Rogers taught everyone, by perfect example, and best said in his own words, “I feel the greatest gift we can give to anybody is the gift of our honest self.”

This Logo Goes On T-Shirts Every Christmas
(Hopefully with more discovered genes added)

I wear yellow, also, in hope and support of Dr. Lisa Cannon-Albright, director of Genetic Epidemiology at the University of Utah and former director of the now defunct Genetic Research (where I worked for five years). She was one of the key players in the discovery of the two first breast cancer genes (BRCA1 and BRCA2), a prostate cancer gene (p16) and several others. Now, in what could be the ultimate definition of irony, she suffers from breast cancer herself. And I wear yellow to support the work that she and her colleagues around the world (some of them my dear friends) do every day to decipher the mysteries of cancer and other diseases.

But mostly, and foremost, with all my heart, I wear yellow in support and love of my father and in the hope that he survives enough of the future to do all the things he cares for most.

My Father Doing What He Loves Best

(Being The World’s Best Grandpa)