Le Monde de Fromage de Kate

Zeke, a wee, shy little toy poodle belonging to William, Sarah and Shirleen escaped from their yard last night. Shirleen had let both their tiny dogs out; they usually scratch on the door in just a few minutes, but last night they did not. Shirleen went to call them after about fifteen minutes; Lily sheepishly came in from around the OUTSIDE of the ajar gate (perhaps opened by the neighbors’ slightly over-zealous, giant teenager Labrador dog – I sent a combination lock home with Shirleen tonight to take care of this possibility), but Zeke was nowhere to be found. Shirleen combed the neighborhood on foot for quite a while, and then drove around for several hours. We’re sending flyers to the animal shelters and vets, too. BUT, if you happen to see this tiny dog:

ZEKE, Neutered Male White Toy Poodle

TINY – At most, 3-4 pounds – HAS MICROCHIP

Shirleen had recently groomed him, so he was not wearing his collar. He does, however, have a microchip. Please call the number on the poster (it’s a Utah Valley number) if you find poor little Zeke or leave a comment here. THANK YOU!

I think I conduct my crazy hair colouring experiments in the middle of the night because then NO ONE CAN STOP ME – ha ha ha HAAAA HA HAAAAAAAAAAAA (and other maniacal laughter). I spent a week intermittently mulling over the whole Goth Strawberry Shortcake debacle. I shopped for restorative products TWICE, photographs of my former hair colour from the “olden days” in tow (all the while changing my mind, returning things, and then adding this and that).

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

One ‘n Only® Colorfix by Jheri Redding

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:

Naturally, you mix the colour with equal parts of the developer.

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!

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.

Sarah had her Central Broviac® Catheter removed yesterday. I would imagine that she dreams of having a bath or a shower in which she can cover ALL her body parts with water SIMULTANEOUSLY. The post-surgical instruction sheet from Primary Children’s prohibits her from riding her scooter, swinging, and playing on the monkey bars for a few days – so I imagine a pogo stick is RIGHT OUT. They wrote in “driving,” as well, because of her age, but the irony is she doesn’t drive yet and she would probably be very tempted to utilize a pogo stick if given the chance.

Only one more week and you can lounge in a five-hour bath until you are a veritable prune, Sarah!!!! And in the meantime, you don’t have to heparinize every day and have dressing changes with a “sterile field.” Huzzah! The heparinizing is part of “flushing the line,” which explains why Sarah has been peppered daily for the last six months or so with the question, “Did you FLUSH?” She’ll still have to have a few blood draws as part of the radiation and check-ups, but the overwhelming desire to change BACK the expression “Boob-Tube” to its original meaning as a television synonym won over.

I, in sympathy of her procedure, did my best to create a battle-field surgical setting (I skipped the general anesthetic) in order to “touch up my roots.” This entailed an intricate system of clean kitchen garbage bags held in place with masking tape (sorry, Dad, didn’t seem like the occasion for duct tape – though for you, I appreciate that EVERY situation demands duct tape). Then I had a double-bagged “red bag” garbage system set-up for any disposables covered in dye (I didn’t use a real “red biohazard bag,” though I do have some – they make lovely gift wrapping for over-sized gifts) – oh – and none of this refuse will have to be incinerated at a biohazard plant. Athletic tape, latex gloves, yards of plastic wrap and one of those salon capes (under which I wore painting clothes, just in case) were also integral parts of the process. And NO, I didn’t go nutty overboard and use the Sarah’s sterile surgical gloves. I did double glove, but that’s just good planning. I had asked all the necessary (probably daft) questions at the beauty supply place, and I was ready to go. I, naturally, chose the middle of the night during which to endeavor this solo project. I have done it ONCE already (without entirely horrific results). And I learned my lesson the first time about what to watch on TV while processing the colour – no sex shows (despite their scientific demeanor and merit) on TLC or any other “educational” channel. I chose Olympic hockey (Russia versus Kazakhstan).

Since I was attempting to “touch-up” my roots, I was somehow supposed to put the squid ink solution JUST on the root sections first. This defies all laws of physics, especially the rule of Brownian Motion:

The continuous random motion of solid microscopic particles when suspended in a fluid medium due to the consequence of ongoing bombardment by atoms and molecules.

Wait – perhaps this ADHERES to some rules of physics (such as the aforementioned one) and “The Uncertainty Principle.” Whatever the case, trying to saturate ONLY YOUR ROOTS is an absurd pursuit.

I had also decided that after my roots processed for half the time, I’d “comb it through” and then boost the rest of the colour.” My hockey strategy seemed to be working, and I did make it BEFORE the timer buzzed (leaving a minute or two to unwrap some of the strategically placed plastic wrap, add the rest of the dye, and STRUGGLE to comb it through. I sat down (on a protected service, naturally) to watch more hockey during the second processing stage. I was doing really well, but then one of the announcers said, “Ah, ‘stick between the legs’.” Then the other concurred, “Yes, ‘stick between the legs’; that’ll be a penalty” Followed by, I kid you not, “Let’s watch it in slow motion.” Next, during the slow-motion replay, “Ah – there it is – ‘STICK BETWEEN THE LEGS’ – it’s very clear.” This made me snort, guffaw and chortle like a junior-high-aged boy. They said, “STICK BETWEEN THE LEGS.” Snicker, ha ha HAAA! Please cut me a modicum of slack; it was the middle of the night, and what with the pungent chemicals and an excess of plastic wrap and athletic tape about the head and face…

ANYHOO, after I’d been diverted by the above-mentioned hockey penalty for a number of minutes, I had the good sense to go and CHECK the timer, and I caught it immediately after it buzzed. Here’s the dilemma; I’d attributed the exceedingly dark results I’d achieved with the original dye job to the excessive processing time. Alas, this was only part of the trouble. I now know that I am STUCK with a colour that was just too dark in the FIRST PLACE. It isn’t a midnight BLACK auburn, but it was not what I was trying to achieve. At least I am using a product “For the younger, hip, modern client.” I didn’t know. But, as a reminder to myself:

NOT 5.60 Intense Red Auburn

A Very Happy Belated Valentine’s Day to All Y’all. My greeting is late, because I went to Blobby Farm to link to my favorite Valentine’s Blog-E-Gram (okay it’s the ONLY Valentine’s Blob-E-Gram, but it’s AWESOME), and was met with this tragic message:

Sadly, Blob-E-Grams have been abused by spammers and will be unavailable until we can get this sorted out. Thanks for your patience.

CURSES on you, abusive spammers!!! It’s reprobates like YOU who ruin it for all of us! To quote something I recently heard exclaimed by a group of young girls (particularly Emma), “The horror, THE HORROR!” Forlorn and despondent, I took to my bed (okay, I would have done that ANYWAY, but it sounds better when I can blame it on something).

Today, a ray of sunshine! Mary Ellen, The Very Best Aunt in the WIDE WORLD had sent me a copy of a Valentine’s e-card. I wasn’t able to make it function properly until today, but it was worth the wait. Here ’tis:

A Screaming Banshee Goes on a Date

It’s no Blob-E-Gram, but is nonetheless VERY deserving of praise and accolades.

Since, as of last week, I have achieved the ripe old age of the square root of 1,296 (yeah, yeah – very thinly veiled way to put it, but I get a kick out of the fact that anyone who is not a savant will have to either actually do math or get out a calculator to figure it out – so there), you’d think I might have achieved a new echelon of sagaciousness. But NO. I just forget names more often and am frequently at a loss for the most basic of words when trying to have a somewhat normal conversation. Wait – I suppose one must have an OLD echelon of sagaciousness in order to achieve a NEW echelon of sagaciousness. Damn. Aye – there’s the rub.

There has been a question bothering me in the last few days, and I evidently have not by sheer age reached the wisdom with which to untangle this mystery. Here’s the question:

WHAT ARE “BOOTSTRAPS,” ANYWAY???

The fact that I am ignorant as to what they ARE means that I shall only continue to have difficulty in any attempt to “pull myself up” by these mysterious items. It also begs the question: Do I even HAVE “Bootstraps?”

I am not so senile as to grasp that I could just Google the phrase or Blingo it (though I haven’t any Blingo friends so it makes me SAD to Blingo – *hint, HINT*). But I’d rather entertain the knowledge and wisdom of those about me. Tell me the truth, perjure yourself – I don’t really care in this instance as long as it’s entertaining. Again, the question du jour is:

WHAT ARE “BOOTSTRAPS,” ANYWAY???

*As far as I know…

Okay, I’ve HAD it. This entry is driving me MAD, MAD, I say!!! I cannot seem to fix the way it completely befuddles the columns in Internet Explorer (I’ll say it just ONE more time; it looks GREAT in Firefox…). So, for the time being, if you’d like to read this entry, follow the link:

Link to the Entry that is driving me MAD – MAD, I SAY!!!

Earlier tonight I received the belated news that I’d lost a friend – too soon, too young (how many times have I said that in the past year and a half).
Eric Joseph Tierney

May 18, 1979 – January 23, 2006

Eric loved irony, so the title of this entry is a line that Eric said in a play he opened, performed four times, and wasn’t able to close because of sudden liver failure, Love! Valour! Compassion!. His dear friend and the play’s director said:

…I believe he [Eric] loved us enough to hold on until the show closed…so we could hold on…before he slipped away.

There is peace in knowing that the last thing Eric did was something he loved. There is peace in knowing that someone as full of life as Eric is out there, somewhere, armed with wit and heart.

Oh, how I wish I were not so out of touch with everyone and everything; I could have seen him one last time. Ah – something else I’ve said too many times in the last year and a half, “I could have seen him/her one last time.” Ironically, I did see him one last time – I can’t remember how long ago (I know it was at a calmer time in MY life, so it must could have been at least three years) – and I was delighted to see him and he was pleased to see me; we caught up a little, and I put his number in my mobile – yet another phone number I will not be able to erase right now. But you rarely have the privilege of KNOWING that it is the last time you’ll see a person; just as you seldom know when it is the last conversation, the last phone call – or, in regards to another sort of bereavement – the last kiss, the last vacation, the last time you’ll spoon together in a bed that belongs to both of you. I suppose I am learning a great deal about loss at this point in life. I only wish it had NOTHING to do with unalterable death. Too young, too soon…

You see, Eric was and always will be “Little Eric” to me. I first me him when we were both in a production of A Little Night Music at the Babcock Theatre at the University of Utah. I had already graduated with my vocal performance degree (on the ten or eleven year plan – with a myriad of unofficial minors, including theatre and anthropology). Eric was a freshman – a BABY of eighteen or nineteen. When we realized that I was almost EXACTLY ten years his senior (I was born in early 1970, he was born in mid-1979), it only strengthened my initial feeling – he was Little Eric. But Little Eric always had a surprise up his sleeve. He had a rich baritone voice – and he was still essentially a TEENAGER. Furthermore, he was well-read, could discuss at heated length – very articulately – which requiems he admired and which were garbage (if I remember correctly, though we disagreed on some counts, he had the excellent taste to esteem the Fauré Requiem) – his knowledge of music in general was extensive and impressive (and I was the snot with the B.Mus. – assuming in the first place that just couldn’t be the case with a Freshman in the Actor’s Training Program). And then I found out he was from Butte, Montana. It is true, as his obituary says, that “he would tell anyone who would listen all about his hometown.” And he was an exceptionally good sport about the ENDLESS amount of amusement I derived from discussing (okay, sometimes mocking) Butte. Years earlier, I had been, I believe, one of the few people who actually STAYED OVERNIGHT in Butte. At that time they was a big fundraising effort to light the ninety-foot statue, Our Lady of the Rockies, that stands on the Continental divide “overlooking Butte, Montana at the Interstate Hub of I-90/I-15.” He was pleased to convey to me that the dream of lighting up “Our Lady” had been realized so that now it is visible at night. And I don’t think the comedy inherent in the fact that a ninety-foot statue of the Virgin Mary looms over a wee mining town was at all lost on him. I doubt ANY comedy was lost on Eric.

I will never forget that, one night, during the run of A Little Night Music, Eric showed up at Village Inn where a few of us were grabbing a bite (the evening’s party having been shut down by the police just as we arrived). He was several (maybe even five or six) sheets to the wind, and was lavishing affectionate kisses and hugs on all friends he chanced to encounter. “I LOVE you, Kate!” “I LOVE you, Dan!” And on and on. “I just LOVE you guys!” he said, looking absolutely thrilled with each individual. Then he said, with a somewhat vain attempt at a more serious tone, “I KNOW you think I am saying these things just because I am drunk. But it’s BECAUSE I am drunk that I feel more free to share them.” I believe that’s true. In my opinion, he was never the sort of person – and here I’ll add “pardon my French,” because I think he’d really like that – “blow sunshine up your ass.” No matter his blood alcohol level, I think his expressions of love and friendship were genuine and sincere.

An hour or so after I heard about Eric’s sudden death, I just HAD to find pictures from A Little Night Music. This was no small feat (as those who know me and my current situation can confirm) as my belongings are scattered from here to France (that, too, is for you, Eric) in boxes and piles and blown to the wind. But I found those pictures because I HAD to. Here is the very first I found:

There you are, Little Eric, holding my hand. Yes, I am the “blue one” (Mrs. Anderssen). For you, Eric, I flout a personal “rule” – one which I’ve managed to keep unbroken for going on four years (I swore I’d never include a photo of me on this blog taken during, say, the last couple of decades in which you could clearly see my face and/or body). Someone wise recently told me that I should break some of my own rules, especially those that must MIGHT be arbitary in order to see how I really feel about them. He said it could be very freeing. He was right. Granted, I might still prefer a picture SANS my image, but it captures a moment I never want to forget, and I WAS there. We’re posed in our approximate ending positions for the song Remember. Ironically, I DON’T “remember” exactly which of the song’s lyrics were ours, though I know for certain that we had a tête – à – tête in that number (the distribution of lyrics was confusing with added Liebeslieders). I DO remember dancing with you. You waltzed beautifully (and as a mere infant TEENAGER). You were so poised and graceful, despite the fact that (perhaps because of the Babcock’s lights or because of the show’s costumes) you were sweating profusely.

Thank you for that memory and A Little Night Music. I have always adored that show, and from now on I will not think of it without thinking of you. Thank you for our EVERY encounter, no matter how brief. I am deeply honoured to have known you.

And I am certainly in good company. I hope you’d be gratified by how much material about you a simple internet search produced. Here is just a sampling:

• Eric’s Obituary from The Montana Standard
• An article about Eric from The Salt Lake Tribune
• An article about Eric from Salt Lake Metro
• An article about Eric from KUTV.com
• A memorial notice from the University of Utah Alumni Association
• A personal tribute to Eric by his friend, Sarah Stoeckl
• And, as an enduring testament to his skill and perception, an article by Eric entitled Tori’s Sacred Journey

Later today, February 10, 2006, there will be a memorial service for Eric at 4:00 p.m. at the Jeanne Wagner Theatre at the Rose Wagner
Performing Arts Center (138 West 300 South, Salt Lake City).

Dear Majestic Goddess Monkey Cats,

I had intended, today, to extol your beautiful performance at the ensemble competition on Monday in this entry (and to talk about my failed but well-meaning intentions to get a pap smear, a breast exam, a general check-up, a tire rotation, and a medication assessment on my birthday), but I am afraid I must change my plans.

I know you will understand, but I didn’t want you to think that I’d forgotten about you. And how COULD I?

Most Sincerely Yours,

Crazy Heathen Aunt Kate Cake

I think I may have to turn in my Turophile crown. Duh – it’s IMAGINARY; I’m not THAT crazy (don’t get me wrong, having constructed four or five “Festival of Idaho” crowns – a subject for another time – I think I might really enjoy having a Turophile crown, but I don’t deserve it now). I received an email from Ideal Cheese concerning the “Ideal Cheese Super Brown Special Jan. 28 – Feb. 5, 2006.” I still do not get the “brown,” part; we’ll just have to see if I can figure that one out. I immediately thought determined that this was vital, life-altering cheese information and that I should, as a good Turophile, immediately share it. Here’s the gist of what I would have posted:

Get ready for your Super Bowl 2006
party with some great cheeses from Ideal Cheese at a great reduction!

From Saturday, January 28 through Sunday, February 5, 2006, you can order up to 5 different cheeses, and receive a 20% discount on those.

I KNOW! Were I at all solvent be assured I’d have five breath-taking different cheeses at the house this very minute (if I’d not gobbled them all up before tonight). But, ALAS, I am certainly not “in the chips.” AND, double alas (oh yes I CAN), when I first attempted to post the information I could not access the Ideal Cheese site. Oh, you can imagine (hmmm- don’t try too hard) the foul dairy curses that flew through the air at that moment.

Before I continue, I must stress that the following information is JUST BETWEEN US! I cannot emphasize this point strongly enough. You may ask why. THEY ARE ALWAYS WATCHING AND LISTENING; THAT IS WHY. Shhhhhh!!! You see, Firefox has developed an unfounded animosity for me (I can’t think of a single reason I deserve it) and there is no love lost between Internet Explorer and I (Yes, I HAVE GROWING HATRED FOR IT – shhhhhh!!!). So because I couldn’t access the Ideal Cheese site when I first thought of it, I failed to remember to go back and attempt it again. Yes, I FORGOT. Curses on this brain rattling aimlessly in my mammoth cranium! February Fifth is over, Super Bowl 2006 is over (I presume – and I DO NOT CARE TO WHAT END), so no special and wonderful discount cheese. I can only extend my most humble and sincere apologies to all those affected by this Käse Catastrophe. In addition, I will do my utmost to make certain that such an egregious oversight of a wonderful cheese opportunity will never occur on my blog again.