Le monde de fromage de Kate

Gotta love anything with animals:

“Okay – put the goat back,” she insisted.

Only a grandmother:

“Did he sterilize his lips?”

And one that begs some clarification*:

“She’s having a no hair day,” she explained solicitously.

*She said afterwards, “People who think they are having a BAD hair day should consider what it’s like to have a NO hair day!”

Happy Fortieth Wedding Anniversary, Mom and Dad!

Married September 10, 1965

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.

DISCLAIMER: Again, I have chosen to maintain the anonymity of each speaker in the following quotations. I will say that there were five people present – most of them contributing to the dialogue – not counting the animals.

Heard from the next room:

“I WON’T wear a scarf!” he shouted.

Observing the state of the jewels:

“You’re dropping pooka shells everywhere, Honey,” she said wearily.

Despite the fact that they were tiny and ceramic:

“I am not in the MOOD for pancakes,” he grumbled.

After complaining endlessly about his wardrobe:

“Is it time for TEA???” he screamed.

As it seemed obvious by this time, anyway:

“Mrs. Crumpet is a BITCH,” she remarked.

As someone else added to their costume (which already consisted, among other things, of a combination of a hot pink sequined tutu and a shirt made of African tribal fabric) he commented irritably:

“I don’t think that goes.”

After more belligerent demands for immediate service of the tea:

“Mrs. Crumpet is a DRUNKEN WHORE,” she said, then immediately clamped her hand over her mouth.“That didn’t come out right,” she explained.

A tad later:

“Humph,” she stated. “Just wait ’til I write about this in my gossip column!”

Later still:

“Next time I’ll tie him to a chair with a negligee,” she said thoughtfully.

INTERLUDE: Yelling, laughter, an asthma attack resulting from pure cantankerousness, animals wearing clothes, and a water fight.

Believe it or not:

“Thank you ever so much for the tea,” he said sulkily, with a slight attempt at an English “effete snob” accent.

And finally:

“We should have tea more often,” she exclaimed cheerfully.

Sarah’s second chemo infusion was Monday. She had an allergic reaction to one of the drugs (luckily she could still breathe) so she also got a big ol’ dose of antihistamine. Having had a number of such antihistamine doses myself (although I usually was privileged to receive an epinephrine shot at the same time – UP down – UP down – EEEEEEEEEEEEEH!) I can vouch for the festiveness of that experience. Apparently it’s still necessary that she receive that medication, so next time it’s in the mix she will get the antihistamines up front. HUZZAH!

Here are a couple of pictures, one taken just recently and one from last year I happen to run across. Red suits her.

Cheongsam Blond
Maryland, 2004

Short Hair – Bare Feet
Utah, 2005

And I don’t want my OTHER niece to feel left out, so here is a recent picture of her (still wearing her mother, I guess you could say?):

Paisley & The Green Dog with Headless Ashley
Kansas, 2005

Goodbye, Janis Joplin.

Sarah had her first chemotherapy today (yesterday, technically).

So Far So Good

Her doctors at Primary Children’s staged her definitively with Stage II Hodgkin’s Lymphoma (with an “A” rating – she can have outpatient chemo, etc.) after the final CT and gallium scan. This means no cancer in the pelvic region, no cancer in the bone marrow and none in the liver and/or spleen. She has significant fast-growing growth in the “mantle” region (chest, neck, etc.), so she couldn’t be staged at Stage I.

On Friday her hematologist/oncologist, Dr. Afify (very cool name, I must say), said that she needed to cut off her very long hair now, so that it wouldn’t become an infection risk as it fell out. I understand why she made this request (even though Sarah had wanted to hang on to her tresses as long as possible); Sarah has TONS of thick, long hair. Since she has a Central Broviac® Catheter, she cannot shower. She has to bathe piecemeal, you might say, and Shirleen (her Mother) and I have been washing her hair in the sink. Shirleen took to calling the extensive mass of sopping hair “the sweater.” I’d have to concur with that designation. Shorter hair is much easier to care for in this situation (and, not to put too fine a point on it, probably less traumatic to lose in chunks).

I had promised Sarah that when she had to cut her hair that I would cut the required ten inches off of mine to donate to Locks of Love. Sarah wanted to hold on to her big braid of hair (cutting out the “middle man,” you might say), and as she is her Mother’s daughter (Shirleen can make ANYTHING), she figures they can somehow integrate it into a hat or hairpiece of some variety.

Therefore, Saturday was salon day. Shirleen and my Mother and Sarah had pedicures (which I like to call “pedigrees,” for some reason – I did work in Genetic Research family studies for five years…). Sarah, Salon Queen du Jour, got to dictate the vivid purple nail polish.

Then we went for the dramatic SEVERING OF THE LOCKS. Lest you think I’m being ESPECIALLY over-dramatic, I should point out that Sarah has had long, long hair for years (and considered it her crowning glory). Add to that the trauma of the cancer and the treatment and you name it – this haircut was going to be a big deal. As for me, I haven’t had short hair since I was in grade school. (Okay – I know this process is NOT about me – but it is my blog, so I feel obliged to include some personal explanatory information.) This was a time in my life when Shirleen, with her long, blond mane was “pretty” and I, with my “rat’s nest” of short hair – that’s what a barber called it (and this was during my ultra shy period) – was “cute.” I, as children are wont to do, thought this meant that Shirleen was pretty and I was ugly. This upsets my Mother to this day, because she certainly didn’t MEAN it that way. But she does take SOME credit for the somewhat horrific incarnations that my hair went through when I was a child, since she cut it most of the time. She also tried to even out the wave/curl with perms (this never worked) and in most of my school pictures there are two plastic barrettes (bows, dogs, flowers – you name it) framing my face. As a matter of fact, she and I were talking about my scary hair and she pointed to a little framed trio of pictures – my sisters and I circa 1978 – and said, “And that was a GOOD hair day for you!”

I must also point out that my family found this very picture

of Ramona Quimby in one of those Scholastic book fliers and tormented me with the rather startling resemblance between the two of us. It’s rather astonishing that the original image still exists, tack holes, rips, tape and all. This is owing to my parents’ GIANT BULLETIN BOARD OF DOOM (but that’s definitely a story for another time). Oh, stupid childhood trauma. I won’t talk just now about the other equally tragic incarnations that my hair went through after I, admittedly a tad late in my life, achieved coiffure autonomy. Perhaps THAT’S a story for another time. Then again, it’s just hair (though MINE has tried, on more than one occasion, to KILL ME – this is the gods’ honest truth – the hair gods, I guess).

Here is the sweater – still damp, the twenty-five pound anaconda that they severed from Sarah’s head, and an “after” picture:

She, of course, instantly looked absolutely DARLING, though she suffered from frustrating light-headedness as a result of losing the “sweater.” Shirleen looks great, too.

She now has a mod “do” that is disconcertingly reminiscent of my Mom’s good sixties hair (believe me, there is a distinction to be made there). Then me – here’s before and the aftermath:

The stylist cut four ponytails off to get the optimum donation. Then she just went for it. She texturized, she made some of the ends “piecy,” she even used that instrument that has all the tiny razors in it. These are processes I have only experienced vicariously when watching Nick Arrojo. The result seemed to get high marks from others, but it is a little shocking to look in the mirror and see just a little bit of the “rat’s nest” child. Really, in the scheme of things, it IS JUST HAIR. And I looked in the mirror that night and sometimes thought, “That’s fun hair.” Then I would catch a glimpse at another moment and think, “OH MY HELL – IT’S HALEY MILLS IN THE PARENT TRAP!” Another glance, it would be fine. Then, “Blessed Saints of Tresses and All That is Holy, It’s THE OTHER HALEY MILLS FROM THE PARENT TRAP!” Truthfully, I’ve nothing about which to complain. It’s not as though I got my hair done in a cabin at summer camp by my newly-found twin using craft scissors; I received a very nice haircut. It’s the shock, perhaps, of having the little ringlets shorn from my neck with CLIPPERS (BAAAAAAAAAAAAH!).

ENOUGH! I’ll say it again – it’s just hair. HOWEVER, there will be a sequel to this entry that has to do with interesting experiments in hair colour (Sarah dictated purple highlights for ALL, for one thing). Mostly, I have to confess what happens when one decides that, though they have NEVER had their hair dyed and they have CERTAINLY never dyed it by THEMSELVES, that they should go solo with permanent hair colour in the middle of the night.

But seriously, I could and should just say over and over again, “Sarah, you ARE SuperGirl! I’m so proud of you!!!“

Now I’d BETTER go bald.

Sarah is my sixteen-year-old niece. This was her response to someone’s comment about the oodles and oodles of hats and scarves acquired for her at the Park City Outlet Mall. You see, she has just been diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. Wednesday, she had various tests and examinations all day at Primary Children’s Medical Center. Thursday she had a biopsy, had a tunnelled central catheter implanted, and had two bone marrow samples extracted – one at the cheek-top of each “glutei” (that is the technical term, isn’t it?). She spent the year in Maryland with one of my brothers and his wife for the unique experience and “for fun.” Unfortunately, she spent a percentage of that time being poked, prodded, tested and having to carry around fecal samples at Johns Hopkins (lucky to be there, though) – you name it, because 1) she has Iron deficiency anemia, but cannot absorb iron supplements and must have bi-yearly transfusions, which it turns out could be a side-effect of her diagnosis of 2) Ankylosing Spondylitis, an autoimmune disorder/type of arthritis, and 3) in the last few months she has developed an alarming number of fast-growing “polyps” or “nodules” in her lymph system, which led to the diagnosis of Hodgkin’s Disease.

She amazes me and I want to applaud her. Not only has she been a real trooper through it all, she has the intelligence, wit and strength to still be, if you’ll pardon my saying so, a big smart ass. You go, Girl! I love you!

DISCLAIMER: I have chosen to maintain the anonymity of each “she” in the following quotations. And NO – they are NOT all me. Perhaps I didn’t say a single ONE of the following. (Okay – I did NOT say them ALL – half, maybe, but not ALL.)

While perusing:

“One day,” she said wistfully, “I’m going to buy a big ol’ larynx.”

A few days ago:

“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “I guess you just have to pee every day and hope for the best.”

Earlier tonight:

She replied wearily, “What she really needs is a poop shoot.” Long pause, blank stares – “Well, that IS the technical term for it!” With this the children concurred.

Lastly, a classic:

“I just want to rip those pants right off of him!” she said angrily.

CONFESSION: I confess: These quotes, even in their original contexts, were not necessarily any more coherent.

This contention would be more aptly supported if I could remember the precise discourse resulting from an advertisement on some “family” channel for a piece of schlock Romeo and Juliet/West Side Story remake involving two families with competing pizza parlors (I kid you not). I claimed that one really CANNOT remake Romeo and Juliet; Shakespeare “borrowed” the storyline, after all, so any retelling of it now is just a cheap West Side Story rip-off (West Side Story, admittedly, was a very clever update, but even it was taken from the classic story that was based on a archetypal legend in the first place).

“Yes,”replied my sister, “You really couldn’t remake West Side Story unless you did it with dogs and cats.”

She went on to explain that members of the family had actually discussed this “non-traditional” casting recently, trying to decide whether it was more fitting for the cats to be the “Jets” and the dogs to be the “Sharks” or vice versa. We ultimately agreed that cats should play the “Sharks” and dogs should portray the “Jets.” Then we started thinking about the “casting pool” possibilities within our own troupe of family pets. MY cats won the female leads (Fiona, the lovely ingénue, Maria, and BeBe as the feisty Anita – she is the mezzo, after all). I believe we decided this after imagining what a splendid job they’d do of “I Feel Pretty.”

You may find this discussion already disquieting enough. Trust that instinct. But we persisted in setting up the casting and imagining the choreography for the musical numbers. The culminating moment, I believe, was when I said, “But I just COULD NOT cast Zeke as Tony.” Even we felt a little ridiculous then. (BUT any discriminating person would have to agree with me, as Zeke is a three or four pound poodle – a DORKY poodle at that. It just would NOT work.) We need more dogs.