Le Monde de Fromage de Kate

Yesterday, allegedly, Ashley gave birth to my new niece, Paisley Laura Bartholomew. Purportedly, they are all doing well. However, since they are in – shall we say – a somewhat rural (pastoral? – no – bucolic) part of Kansas, they get cell phone reception and can send text messages, but picture messages are undeliverable from that area. You see, there are particular service gaps that I like to call “cellular grain voids,” where the corn, being as high as an elephant’s eye, hinders the sending and receiving of images. It’s all very scientific. So, at this point, they might just be FAKING this whole baby birth thing. For one thing, there are conflicting descriptions concerning Paisley’s vital statistics. My Mom reported, “Eight pounds, thirteen ounces, twenty-one inches, full/pouty lips and lots of dark hair.” She also said the Paisley was “soooo beautiful” and a number of analogous sentiments. Charles sent a text message that said simply:

“Eight pounds thirteen ounces. Twenty two inches. Nine tentacles, one laser beam.”

Normally, since they don’t live too far from several larger cities, every once in a while, I get a little batch of pictures from Charles and Ashley while they have access to the cell network in its entirety. Ashley has sent cute pictures of wee infant wares (like, “Which stroller should we buy?”) and such. Charles has sent pictures of animals, mostly (occasionally an awfully cute shot of Ashley’s formerly pregnant belly). Here are three such pictures:

One may ask why I chose to post such admittedly creepy pictures when discussing such an auspicious occasion. My reasoning is that since we haven’t any pictures of the damn baby, I will simply have to show what she does NOT look like (in all probability).

I’ve had a couple of requests for pictures of my new, shorter coiffure. Let me explain why I cannot post such an image on my blog (for all to see).

My baby brother, David, works as an electrical engineer for Lockheed Martin in Maryland. The security clearance process there is VERY strict. It took months and months for him just to get PENCIL clearance (don’t ask what precisely that it or I might have to kill you). Then he got super-duper-super-secret-super-high clearance (that is, I believe, the technical term; I don’t dare ask, because I think he might have to kill ME if I ask too many questions). This is all a little amusing – not because I mock their process – I don’t mock the process, Spy People who might happen upon this blog. It’s just that David is a living incarnation of Dudley Do-Right, Mother Theresa and a boy scout all smushed up together (in the nicest and best way possible). We have enough indication to believe that he is, indeed, a genetic member of our family. But he is so NICE (not that the rest of us are evil incarnate, it’s just that David is so NICE). I’m now considering an alien abduction scenario where, periodically throughout his life, David was kidnapped and given experimental treatments that made him the pinnacle of virtue and nobility. And perhaps they also made him so TALL. In my theory, David knows absolutely nothing about this, of course. Otherwise, he couldn’t have passed all his polygraph tests. I picture those tests occasionally for my own amusement, because David has SUCH a low-key way of approaching things. I imagine that when they asked him hour after hour upon hour of questions that every single line on the paper or screen just looked like this:

Let me further put this security thing into perspective: If his wife calls him at the office, everyone in the room HAS TO STOP TALKING. Yes, if anyone gets a phone call from the “outside” EVERYONE IN THE ROOM HAS TO STOP TALKING so they don’t inadvertently leak pencil secrets (or whatever the super-duper-super-secret-super-high level clearance secrets are). So, in deference to him, I must maintain my anonymity. Why then, you may ask, do I go about blithely posting pictures of everyone else in my family? Uh… Well, it’s because they are shorter than I am so…

Okay, okay, all that about David is completely true except the part about my picture. All y’all who know me are well aware of the fact that I am NOT photogenic. Even when I am good-natured about the process and try desperately to not ruin – say – someone’s wedding pictures, the result is generally very unflattering. There are ALWAYS skeptics who don’t believe me. There are a few things for which they should simply take my word. Here are the top three: I’m NOT photogenic, I have NO ankles, and I have an abnormally large head. I will elucidate further, because someone, without fail, presumes I’m being self-deprecating. Not about these things, my friends, not about these.

Here’s a good example – take my inordinately large head. I haven’t ever worried that it APPEARED particularly humongous. Certainly no self-conscious traumas like this:

Would ya look at the size of that kid’s head! It’s the size of a planetoid and it has it’s own weather system! Looks like an orange on a toothpick!

Or this:

I’m not kidding, that boy’s head is like Sputnik; spherical but quite pointy at parts! Aye, now that was offsides, now wasn’t it? He’ll be crying himself to sleep tonight, on his huge pillow.

The joke with my somewhat erstwhile husband (who also has a very, VERY large noggin) and I was that our progeny would have to cart their disproportionately gi-normous heads about on little carts until the age of five or six, unable to lift them because of the overwhelming weight. We thought this was FUNNY. Yet even my Mother, when one of my nephews could hold his head up at a very young age, confided to my sister, “Don’t tell Kate, but she really COULDN’T lift her head for a long time. But she had other skills.” I thought this was beyond HILARIOUS.

Still, the doubters tend to misinterpret what I consider helpful as self-abuse. For instance, I went the makeup and wig shop for a preliminary wig fitting for a production of A Little Night Music. During this process they put the combed out hair pieces on you to try to find a good fit and/or match. I was one of a few cast members who needed two wigs (they were THRILLED about that later), so I thought I’d give them a “heads up.” Ha. I said, “I have a really big head.” They immediately dismissed this idea and started pulling out hairpieces. I was just trying to help; I knew they needed to steer away from the tiny, wee wigs for pin-heads and find something more the size of a grizzly bear pelt (okay – a grizzly bear CUB pelt). “No really,” I said, “I have an unusually big head.” They just didn’t believe me. I sighed and let them put wig after wig after wig on my head and watched their eyes get bigger and bigger. Finally, someone said, “You DO have a big head!” I told them it was where I stored all my big brains so they’d feel better. Suffice it to say, my dressed wigs had quite a few added-on curls about the face.

What is the point of all this blather? Trust me when I declare certain facts about myself. I must make another confession now. I don’t actually HAVE any pictures of my current coiffure. This is not to say that, considering the facts I’ve related in the preceding Tolstoy-length essay, I’d be anxious to post pictures of myself on my site if I did have them.

BUT – for anyone who bothered to actually peruse the previous Tolstoy-length essay, here is a picture of me with short hair.

Yup, this photo was taken in the early ’70’s, but never again will I able to pull off the sneakers and sundress ensemble with such panache.

Read the following and decide for yourself: Is it purely amusing or does it portend a feline takeover of the world?

I believe I have mentioned that my Kitten Children belong to a CD club (under their full names, Beatrice Allessandra Gatto and Fiona Maura MacArthur, of course), but they’ve received surprisingly little junk mail as a result of these memberships. Fiona may have just received the first, come to think of it. She got an invitation to join Your PC Made Easy® – “Basic Computer Skills Made Simple & Easy.” There are four FREE cards inside and an opportunity to claim your “free gift package.” I thought this was all very droll (and considered handing the cards over to my Father, who, despite being a brilliant scientist, has – ahem – conspicuous gaps in his computer skills, particularly the online variety, which made that fact that he was the one who just installed DSL on this computer more than a little tiddly bit sad).

But then I began to reflect – what if this was no haphazard marketing ploy? Did Fiona ORDER this packet? Wait a minute – she used my last name instead of HERS – perhaps thinking it would attract less postal attention. Are my Kitten Children brushing up on their computer proficiency???

Further examination of this matter is imperative. The very top free card reads, “Get to know E-mail.” Okay, that is a tad spooky. Now I’d better open this package (a federal postal offense, yes, but she IS a cat). Worse and worse! Also included are “Write and print a letter,” “Moving files and folders,” and “Help – my PC crashed.” Good GOD – that’s all Fiona and BeBe need to start some type of snail mail campaign, an email campaign AND hide the evidence by burying or moving the files and/or folders. And ANYONE who uses a PC (as opposed to a beloved Apple product) cannot proceed without instructions on how to handle multiple crashes. WHAT IF THEY ARE PLANNING TO TAKE OVER THE WORLD? Oh, yes, they’ve earned my trust with their superlative cuteness and even their occasional charming naughtiness. Is it all a ploy? They are cuddling and going to sleep in a chair right behind me; perish the thought, but perhaps they are SPYING! Oh yes, BeBe, pretend to wash your little paws, but I am now SUSPICIOUS!!! Feign sleep with that faint, sweet little snore, Fiona, but I’m WATCHING YOU!

I have a grommet injury. It would be a completely unremarkable injury (especially pour moi), excepting I still – weeks later – have what I thought was a blood blister on my finger (it’s dark and bloody-looking, but it never turned into a blister – technically, I can’t say what it is). I could hold this finger in the air and say, “Look at my festive grommet wound,” but you might be offended (given that it’s on THAT finger).

Pathetically, I caused this injury while applying tiny scrapbooking grommets. It might have been impressive to have been wounded had I been using sail cloth, a gargantuan hammer and grommets the size of hamburger patties. Nope – tiny grommets and an elfin-sized hammer. I believe the wee cobbler in that kid’s song uses a hammer this exact size. You know – the “rap-a-tap-tap” shoemaker? Wait – is he a “wee little man” or is he a “wee little elf”? I know that there were elves who played an integral part in historic story-telling shoemaking by some means. Perhaps it was they who took over in that story where the shoemaker can’t get all the shoes made, so he falls asleep (perhaps he can’t finish his work because he has a substance abuse problem – hard to say) and the elves made all the wee shoes. At least he was grateful – that LUSH!

Anyhoo, it was rather a small hammer; but don’t think it didn’t pack quite a punch! I have the mysterious and enduring lesion to prove it.

Oh, the life of COMPLETE EXHILARATION I lead! Thrills all day, chills all night – it’s quite remarkable.

WARNING: If you are offended by frank language relating to certain aspects of the science of animal husbandry, do not read this entry. But let me tell you that you might want to anyway, because it’s pretty damn funny. Besides, it’s all in the interest of SCIENCE.

Asked, in all earnestness, by (apparently) a very dedicated student:

When masturbating a boar does it help to, you know, vocalize, like grunting or squealing?

The professor’s reply:

It’s not like I’ve ever gone, “Moo baby, oh yeah MOOOOO,” when using an artificial vagina.

This was, as you would expect, followed by a long, uncomfortable silence.

Oh – speaking of animal husbandry, The Living Planet Aquarium is offering internships that include the following:

• Aquarist/Animal Husbandry
• Freshwater Animal Husbandry

Naturally, they need a herpetology intern as well. And someone, evidently, needs to enrich the animals.

And speaking of enrichment – someone gave me some very interesting facts about the semen volume, phallus quirks and sexual stimulation preferences of the boar. Perhaps I’ll share those another time. I will tell you that this person referred to the boar as an “evil animal.”

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