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Thursday, June 24, 2004

Domestic Disturbance

Yes, it’s sad but true, something is definitely amiss in Shangri-me. Someone is not happy with the status quo and has decided that instead of an open forum of communication, it is much more effective to defecate on the carpet. I really wish my brother would just grow up.

No, no, no. I’m talking, of course, about the cats. I have two cats, their names are stupid, and so since I can give them new names here I will: Boris and Natasha (also stupid, but at least catchy). I wasn’t sure which one of them had decided to turn the whole basement into its personal commode, and I also wasn’t sure if someone was sick and that was why this was happening. After some consultation with an expert (my mother) it was determined that this was behavioural. She offered a number of suggestions, which are supposed to keep me out of the vet’s office, so I’m in the process of implementing them.

I was sure that it was Boris, he’s a real mamma’s boy, and what with work, friends, and the new boy I’m seeing, I haven’t been back at the ranch much. It would have made sense if he were lashing out at me in his abandonment. So, Sunday evening I put together a second litter box, and second food and water dish, and moved the rig up into my room. My bedroom. That’s right, I’m now sleeping three feet away from an open sewer. You had better believe that that puppy is getting cleaned often. There’s nothing quite so funky as a litter box that’s been sitting under a sunny window all day in a room where the door has to be closed.

I want to kill myself, but I probably won’t have to; God only knows what sorts of diseases are floating through my system because of this scenario.

My surprise was absolute when I went into the basement yesterday afternoon to see a fresh pile. I had convicted and imprisoned the wrong suspect. The verdict had to be overturned and the new suspect imprisoned. Natasha, as is her way, remained cool throughout the proceedings and didn’t reveal any sort of emotion. She is now enjoying all of the amenities involved with spending two weeks in my room: she gets to knock over the many glasses of water I have lying around, she can exact new revenge on me by pooing in my shoes, and she can relax secure in the knowledge that Boris can’t try to have sex with her.

It’s the strangest thing, both of them have had their naughty bits removed, but Boris still does his level best to get it on with her a few times a day. I find it quite disturbing, because he usually puts his chips down (hello!) right in front of me. I’ll be typing or reading and he’ll leap on top of her with all of the passion and vigour his little body possesses. Then I have to throw water on him, because I don’t want to watch that. If I don’t do that I wonder if I should be playing soft music, or leaving the room or something… I also wonder if my throwing water on him and making him ashamed of his natural urges will turn him into a deviant serial killer or something? I’m so grateful that people don’t handle sex the same way cats do. If someone ran up to me while I was having a nap, jumped on my back, and then bit me as hard as possible on the head the last thing on my mind would be getting off. Well, it would be about someone getting off, but getting off me.

We’ll have to see how it goes, if she doesn’t stop going wherever I’ll have to get rid of her, and I really don’t want to do that. These two have been really good friends to me, especially when I was pretty lonely out West, and they provide me with a great deal of amusement. Natasha likes cold running water, and the toilet is a very good provider of same, so she would regularly fall in the toilet of my old apartment. There are few things funnier than hearing/seeing a cat fall into a toilet. They’re also really funny when they accidentally have their tongues sticking out. Just thinking about it makes me chuckle. You’ll look up from whatever book you’re reading and your elegant cat will look back at you with this silly little protruding tongue. Oh man, you can’t write comedy like that.

There are lots of people out there who don’t like cats at all; I’m dating one of them, actually. Men, except for my brothers, don’t like cats. I don’t understand what causes it. I consider myself a dog person, because I’d rather have hundreds of puppies than anything else, but in truth I suppose I’m an animal person, ‘cause I’m willing to love them all. Cats aren’t considered as “manly” as dogs are, but small dogs don’t really look very manly either. If your pet can be carried around in a handbag (and there are some dogs that get this treatment) then chances are it’s not the “scourge of the upper east side.”

I’m generalizing again. There was a program on the CBC (shut up) wherein they were reading letters out. One letter was from a man who was hiking in Jasper, Alberta. When you’re hiking in the Rockies they recommend that you take a bell with you, or else that you sing to yourself if you’re alone in order to warn any bears that you’re in the neighbourhood. This man was not following the advice of seasoned professionals and he ran into some trouble. A bear came out of the bushes on the path and began advancing on him, when – no word of a lie – his trusty wiener dog burst out of the shrubbery “like a rat on crack” and began savaging the bear’s genitals. The bear backed off. I know for a fact that none of our dogs, who were medium-large in size, would have been able to manage a feat like that. They would have had to lie down with a cool cloth and a glass of water with lemon until danger passed.

Friday, June 18, 2004

Time Suckage

It’s Friday, and one of those Fridays where I’ve convinced myself that the world owes me a favour and I should be allowed to go home. Occasionally my bosses take pity on us and send us home early for the weekend as a gesture of good will. There doesn’t appear to be a lot of good will out there today. They are away at a conference, and we are here wishing we weren’t. It likely wouldn’t be such a huge deal if not for three things: I am reading a very good book I’ve been waiting for (Song of Susannah, by Stephen King), I am very tired and would like a nap, I had convinced myself that today would be one of the days they would call and spring us.

There was already one call from France this morning, and I even asked at the end, “So, is there anything else AT ALL that you wanted to tell us before you hung up?” There wasn’t. The odds of them having the time and thinking to call again to give us a head start on the weekend are slim. Now I’m bitter at the world and have resolved to not be productive for the rest of the day. It only seems fair in light of this massive disappointment. How dare they expect me to work for money when they could just give it to me for napping at home? Puh-lease.

Instead of obsessively checking my email and surfing through the online jukebox to find the Jack Johnson song “Flake,” I’m going to perform a writing exercise. I keep meaning to write a romance novel, because I used to edit them and they’re fun, so I’ll start one here now and if anyone feels like offering feedback, I’d appreciate it.

Thundering Hearts

Veranda Sutherland lounged in the window seat of her father’s parlor with a book hanging loosely from her tapered, shapely fingers. She was a young woman of surpassing loveliness, with fine, smooth white skin that covered all of her five-foot-five frame. Her hair was a long thick waterfall of ebony, and, when loose, hung well past her waist. She could be heard to make unladylike comments when she sat on it by accident and snapped her head back. Her sapphire eyes were large and evenly set, and smoldered as though lit by an internal flame, which is interesting because most people can’t think of things that are sapphire blue and smolder. Unless they’re into chemistry or something.

Veranda was thinking about love; more specifically about the man her father was choosing for her to marry. It was down to three choices. There was Buck Wineguard, a stocky man who greatly resembled a beast of burden in both aroma and intelligence. He was also rumoured to have a propensity for those same animals, if one would stoop to believe rumours. Since Veranda didn’t like him anyway, she would. Bachelor number two was named Thad Verily. Veranda wasn’t sure she wanted to marry a man who had better taste in clothes than she had, or whose hair was prettier and more elegantly styled than her own. The final choice was Lord Drake Covington. Lord Covington was very dashing and handsome, but was also a very dark and mysterious man. He didn’t have a trustworthy face, and Veranda privately suspected that he was responsible for every bad thing that had happened in the world.

Like most girls of her acquaintance, Veranda knew that her situation was hopeless, and that as a lady of quality she would have no say in the most important decision of her life. Her father was not a man who allowed himself to be swayed, cajoled, or intimidated. She supposed that if she were allowed to choose that she would pick Thad. He was the least likely to be insufferable for the rest of their lives, and at least they could talk about clothes and boys together. Her father would likely pick Lord Covington, because he’s the antagonist and the story can’t continue without him playing a significant role.

As she contemplated her melodramatic thoughts she heard hooves coming up the path to the house. She wondered if she could summon the strength to be civil to visitors today. With a sigh she closed her book and got up to set her looks aright before whomever it was made it to the door. As she smoothed her black hair into position a feeling came over her, a very strange and excited sort of feeling, the kind she sometimes got when horseback riding. Veranda felt her breathing quicken and could see her pulse beating more rapidly at her throat. She didn’t even need to pinch her cheeks to add colour, as it had appeared all on its own. What can this possibly be, she wondered? Was she ill? While she questioned herself in this fashion there was a knock at the door.

The rapid knock beat in time to the fluttering of her heart. The knock sounded like it came from strong hands. Strong masculine hands that weren’t afraid of hard work, hands that had tamed horses and men alike. Hands that could bend a man to their will. Hands that were familiar with the landscape of a woman’s body and….

“Hello, is anyone home?” A baritone voice questioned from the other side of the door.

With a breathy “Oh!” Veranda tripped lightly to the door and threw it open to the stranger standing on her porch.

The slightly more than six foot tall specimen filling the doorway was just the yummiest piece of man Veranda had had the opportunity to view. He filled out his military uniform VERY nicely with an assortment of rippling muscles and interesting planes and angles. There were bulges in all of the right places, and it was all she could do to not stare too pointedly at some of the more masculine ones. Cheese and rice, she was supposed to be a lady!

“Good afternoon, Miss, I’m hear to see Lord Sutherland.”

Veranda gave him what she hoped was her most winning smile and said,

“Of course, sir, is my father expecting you?”

“Your father? Are you, by any chance, his daughter Portico?”

“No, that’s my older sister, she lives with her husband’s people a few townships over.”

“I see, then that would make you Veranda. Word of your incredible beauty has spread far and wide. Clearly, it wasn’t exaggerated.”

“If my beauty is so ‘incredible’ then why didn’t you know who I was right away?” She asked peevishly.

“Your sister’s supposed to be pretty hot too.” He replied with an easy grin.

Despite herself, Veranda was surprised at how quickly the smile came to her full red, lips. This man was clearly a rogue, but he was charming.

“You never answered my question, sir.”

“What question is that?”

“Is my father expecting you?”

“Oh! Of course, yes, he is expecting me.”

“Why don’t you come inside then?” She asked with a purr in her voice.

His eyebrows rose slightly at her tone and he found his body responding in highly inconvenient ways.

“Thank you, I’ll do just that.” He breezed past her and headed toward the back of the house. “He’s in the study, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” she panted, trying to keep up with his long-legged stride, “but how can you possibly know where that is?”

“I’ve been in here before.”

“Really? But I’m certain I’ve never met you before.” She racked her tiny brain for a memory of him.

“Oh, it was a few years ago, and I don’t think that you were here. Anyway, I can find the way by myself, and I don’t want to trouble you anymore. Doubtless you have important matters of your own to attend to.”

The truth of the matter was that he found her presence vaguely unsettling. She resurrected feelings he’d long hoped to keep buried. Now the only thing he hoped to bury was himself inside her. Wow, where did that thought come from?

As he made he made his way alone to the back of the house Veranda realized she had forgotten to ask the handsome stranger his name…

Thursday, June 17, 2004

Daddies

Father’s Day is coming up quickly; I haven’t done anything about it. I guess I’ll buy a card; I’ll probably pick up a gift too. On the off chance that my father reads this I won’t mention what we’re thinking about getting him. The thing is, though, he doesn’t want anything. He doesn’t really believe in these sorts of holidays and nothing but golf balls or wine excites him in terms of gifts. He doesn’t listen to CDs, doesn’t watch movies (or know how to use the DVD player) and seems to have all of the books he wants. He won’t acknowledge his birthday anymore, and wishes we wouldn’t either. This resulted in a game I enjoyed, but no one else seemed to find as funny.

My father, like many men (at what age, exactly, do all men seem to turn into my father, anyway?) has problems finding things that are right in front of him. He’ll open the fridge door and rifle through and glare at the contents for a full five minutes before he starts loudly accusing all of us of having consumed whatever he’s looking for. At that point I would walk purposefully, yet wearily, into the kitchen and immediately locate the item. He would thank me and then utter the following much loved phrase, “Well, of course I couldn’t find it. You people are always moving things around so that I can’t find them.” I like how we turned into “you people,” like he’d never met any of us before and we were part of a global conspiracy to thwart him. Anyway, the game was this, since he didn’t want any presents and flatly forbade us (I have no birthday) from getting him anything. This was his birthday wish. So, we took the presents we’d gotten for him, removed the tags and hid them in his stuff.

He’d come downstairs and say to my mother,
“Did I always have this Yankees’ shirt?”
“Of course,” she snapped (ever the patient June Cleaver cutout).
“Oh, okay then.”

It worked well with books too.

“Oh, where’d we get that? I’ve been wanting to read that.”
“We’ve had it for ages.”
“Have we? The spine isn’t even cracked…”

Yeah, how ‘bout that?

Dear old dad takes a lot of ribbing around our household. We mock him a fair bit, it’s not mean-spirited, but it is sort of constant. As a result he’s become pretty quiet. He also thinks that we don’t listen to him and don’t take his advice. So here’s my gift to him, and where I prove him wrong.

We used to work together and I asked him why he did something at work, because it didn’t really seem like it was part of his job, and so he explained to me that everything was part of his job. If his boss asked him to shovel the walk, even though he made eighty thousand a year he would, for two reasons. For one thing, you never ask anyone to do anything you yourself are unwilling to do, and second, if your boss decides that your time is best spent doing something then you do it.

He taught me that you can’t eat pizza, wait half an hour, and then let your brother throw you around a swimming pool or you will most certainly barf, and then you will have to leave the pool so you don’t drown on your own vomit. At least Matthew had to clean it up.

My father explained to me that being flexible and versatile, both in the workplace and in life, are two of the most important qualities you can have.

He told me to control a car’s speed with the accelerator and not the brakes, as much as possible.

When it snows he always tells me not to make sudden moves: no sudden starts, and no sudden stops. Everything should be gradual.

My father didn’t exactly teach me this one, we sort of learned it together, but if your child is extremely accident prone don’t try to explain every scratch and bruise to the hospital staff or they will think that you’re beating him/her. He was actually almost accused of beating me on one of my many trips to emergency.

Even though it kills me, I sometimes use his jokes. I find myself telling people that “in the immortal words of Frank Burns, ‘it’s nice to be nice to the nice,’” something he said frequently.

When we lived in a townhouse and our bikes were hung up on a wall I had some trouble getting mine up and down and he made me practice. He explained that it was very important that I learn to be self-sufficient, because I should never have to depend on anyone to do things for me that I should easily be able to do myself. I hate using weights, but I always keep that in the back of my mind and try to stay strong enough to help myself and the people I love.

We were in Prince Edward Island when I was little and he took me out to the edge of the Atlantic Ocean. We stood there, and even though I was scared he took my hand and led me out into the cold salty water. The waves came up to my waist when they rolled in from the great unknown. He told me that we were going to jump over the waves when they came to us. I wasn’t used to being in water without water wings, and the ocean was larger than everything in my limited repertoire. But he held my hand and asked if I was ready and I said that I was. He held on tightly and we jumped wave after wave until I thought my arm would snap off, and I laughed almost until I was sick. I forgot to be scared because he was there, and he didn’t let go.

There was a scary period when he had prostate cancer. It wasn’t really life threatening, but I was terrified just the same. It was the first time something had gone wrong, the first time something truly bad hit THAT close to home. What do you do and where do you go when your dad is sick? When you still feel sort of like a little kid most of the time, who do you turn to when the person you've always turned to is unavailable for comment? I felt so young, so impossibly young, and like there was nothing in the world I’d ever be able to handle if something happened to him.

Happy Father’s Day, go hug your dads.

“Have You Gone through A lot of Guys?”

This question was asked of me fairly recently and try to imagine how horrified I was to receive it. Now, granted, the person who asked it had limited social graces and no sort of filter, but it was obviously what he thought or he wouldn’t have asked.

The interesting thing I found about being asked how many guys I’d gone through was the implication that I had slept with everyone I dated. What a typical pig-dog, rat-bastard, misogynistic attitude. Yes, clearly because I’ve gone out on dates with a few different people it means I’m also serving it up to all of them. I’m “the Cold-Sore Queen” you read about on bathroom walls all over.

I guess you could say I’ve dated a lot people. According to some that could make me pretty slutty, according to me it makes me a people person – which could mean slutty without the sex. Some of the people I’ve gone out with were okay, some were horrendous, and some were beige. The beige category applies to the guys who, whenever their names are brought up in conversation, friends will say, “Oh yeah! I totally forgot about him!” To the beige category we add the following: the guy who didn’t laugh at any of my jokes, the tequila boyfriend, and the guy who gave me a Harrison Ford biography when I lent him The Bell Jar.

This is just an aside, but it is a good story. The Sketchiest Boyfriend Ever award goes to my first long distance relationship. He was five hours away, and I was clearly not in a good place judgmentally. How else do you explain dating a guy whose parents ran a church in the basement of their house? He only ate breaded chicken and Alphagetti. He was a big fan of Star Trek and bought himself an eighty dollar plastic model of “the Bridge,” which he set up in my room and played with when he visited. As it turns out he already had an identical one back home, but this was such a good price he couldn’t pass it up. God, that was the longest visit of my life, because I knew as soon as I saw him step off of the train that I had made a rather monumental mistake. I’d like to say that I was possessed or something when I made the decision to actively date this person who, while very nice, was deeply weird.

At the end of my second year of university things were getting a little out of control with the number of boys I had dated, and people were having some trouble keeping track. This resulted in my oldest brother purchasing me a book called How to Dump a Guy: A Coward’s Manual. I was a little offended by that, but his reasoning was, if I was doing so much of it, I might as well get the technique down.

While I haven’t necessarily used the techniques outlined in the book, I did find it an interesting read. There are scenarios for every sort of break up. I think that they even provide the etiquette for dumping via Fax (ie: don’t). Can you imagine? Most of my break ups have been done in person, some over the phone. In one instance I moved to another province, which avoided the issue nicely. There’s one person I am still technically dating, despite the fact that he’s been with someone else for the past ten years (although their relationship ended in recent months). I went to his house to see what would happen to “us” when he moved an hour and a half away, and he said we would “live our lives and just see how it went.” To him that clearly meant an end, but in terms of actual legalities we’re obviously still a couple. He’s really in the doghouse about forgetting our anniversary and my birthday for the past six years. I’m strongly considering not taking him back if I ever see him again.

Logically, thinking about breaking up with people leads us to thoughts of first dates. First dates are always the worst. When you’re single you really look forward to meeting someone and having the first kisses, and the cuddling on couches, but rarely do you look forward to that horror known as the first date. I dread them with relish. So much preparation goes into this event, both mentally and physically. You’ll not have worked out for weeks, but as soon as you know you’re going for coffee with someone you undergo the 24 hour total body overhaul. This involves working out for at least two hours straight (including cardio, weights, and abs) in the hopes that this will transform your body into an entirely different shape before the date. You have to shave your legs and all other areas you’ve neglected. You might wax your eyebrows, and if you’ve left yourself enough time you might also consider a face mask, and painting your nails. Make up is a much more careful affair for the first date, you don’t just slap it on and hope for the best, you actually take the time to try and come up with “a look.” Your hair will also require special attention. Interestingly, it will always look better on days when you don’t have a first date, and when you don’t lavish all sorts of special attention on it. There’s no point even mentioning how long you agonize over it. Whatever you decide on wearing, you’ll regret it for one reason or another, and you’ll also probably get deodorant marks on it. Here’s a handy hint, if you just rub the cloth against itself, where the deodorant is, it’ll go away - maybe.

Mental preparation involves trying to become incredibly fascinating in the shortest amount of time possible. This will involve reading a newspaper, or at least some of it, for the first time in months. You’ll also likely have several imaginary conversations featuring yourself and him in order to feel as prepared as possible for any conversational eventuality. I wonder if boys put themselves through this agony. Maybe they just drive themselves into a frenzy imagining how quickly they’ll be able to get into your pants.

One first date worthy of note took place when I was nineteen or twenty. I started going out, for some reason, with a two-hundred pound bouncer of the club we spent a lot of time at. I had forgotten that I agreed to go and see a movie with him. He showed up at our house with one of his housemates while I was in classic Sunday loungewear. I think I asked him what he was doing there. He looked decidedly taken aback at that question, “you said you wanted to see a movie tonight.” Did I now? There had to have been cocktails involved. Okay then! So I managed to skip out on all of the prep work mentioned previously and just move straight into terror. He asked my housemates if any of them wanted to go with us, and since his friend was there Big M decided to come too.

Try to imagine her surprise when we were dropped off at the theatre and his friend sped off. She was mortified, she still yells at me whenever this comes up in conversation. As we were walking into the theatre he was in front of us, and she and I were whispering frantically back and forth:

“Holy shit! I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this was a date!”
“I didn’t know it was a date! I don’t remember agreeing to this! You can’t leave.”
“Screw that! I’m not staying.”
“Yes you are.”
“No I’m not.”
“Yes you are.”
“Fine, I’ll stay for one movie; then I’m gone. I can’t believe you did this to me…”

We went in to watch the movies, it was a double feature. He sat between me and Big M. At one point, not too far into the first movie, I heard a strange noise and looked over to discover that he was snoring. Yes, my date was asleep. Big M and I exchanged a glance. What a shit show.

True to form, at the end of the first movie she made as graceful a retreat as she could manage and we finished the rest of our date. He even managed to stay awake for the second film.

At the end of the night he walked me home, which took about forty-five minutes. To pass the time he decided that it would be a good idea to tell me stories about his youthful indiscretions. There was the first time he got drunk, which was when he was ten. He spent that afternoon sleeping it off in the gym’s equipment room. The other stories had to do with the times he was almost arrested for public nudity. What is it with boys getting drunk and taking their clothes off in public?

Shockingly we dated for awhile. He cracked me up, I didn’t delude myself too much, though, I knew we wouldn’t be picking out china someday, or anything, but he could always make me laugh. Who else, for Easter, would buy me a hollow chocolate Hercules (from totally heroic Saturday on Global)?

The secret to not ending up with these stories is to not go out with people just because they like YOU but rather because you like them too. It wastes a lot less time to handle it that way. At any rate, happy hunting, and good luck.

Thursday, June 10, 2004

The Mean Reds

Audrey Hepburn, in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, said that instead of the blues she got the mean reds, and that they were worse than the blues. She described the mean reds as being sad and scared, and you just don't know why. Tiffany's was the only place she could go that brought her peace.

I'm having a mean reds sort of a day, and it's not just me either. Just about everyone I've talked to - complained to, really - have confessed to similar feelings. Like the craziness believed to accompany a full moon - do bad moods also follow a cycle? Predominant stereotypes indicate that women will be angry once a month; when women are close to each other their cycles often coincide and that results in a whole gaggle of irritable women. That's not the case with me right now; however, I'm just ticked. It was one of those days.

Things started off with the feeling of not being quite awake, but I kept trying to jolly myself out of the grogginess. I started my day at work by sending out, what I thought would be, a very sweet email. It was one of the rare times where I was one hundred percent sure of my motivation. I was writing to someone I care about to try and make him happy and show that I was thinking of him. Wow, did I ever misread that situation. In the process of trying to compliment someone very close to my friend I ended up saying something potentially insulting. There was too much room to read between the lines, and I was totally misrepresented. Now, as I mentioned above, I was fully not trying to be sarcastic or ambiguous or cheeky. People who know me might find that hard to believe because of every day for the past twenty-seven years, but it's true. It was the high road all the way this time.

So, in addition to the craziness at work, I also got to enjoy feeling guilty and self-righteous for the rest of the day. Add to the mix feeling angry at myself for being guilty over something I didn't think I needed to feel guilty about. Man, I could use a drink.

I hate one of my coworkers. I'm going to come right out and say it. I don't hate many people, hardly any really, but this woman is special. She works from home, but comes into the office once a month. She never uses her keys, but rather buzzes for me to let her in every time she arrives, goes for lunch, walks someone to their car, or just when she feels like watching the big vein in my forehead throb. One of my illustrious tasks is to make coffee in the morning. I'm usually the only one who drinks regular; maybe one other person will have a cup of it, so I usually only end up making coffee once a day. One day she sauntered down the hall toward me:

"Um, Lynx....there's no more coffee, and I don't know what we do when that happens..."

Well, shit, let me think, we could...panic and close the office for the day, curl up in a pile on the floor and nap like kittens, or WE COULD MAKE ANOTHER POT OF COFFEE. Honestly, it's like one day the wolves who were raising her said, "It’s time for you to take everything you've learned from us and go into the city to work."

Today, while I was doing three other things a man called to say that he would be late for his interview with her because he was on the bus and it was running late. I relay the message. He calls back while I'm still working on these three things, and he's well and truly late now, to ask for directions. I give them to him, but obviously, since she wasn't the one giving them, they were wrong and I'd inconvenienced her. I apologized and explained that I hadn't had much time and felt that I had given perfectly adequate directions, at which point she informed me that I didn't need to "get defensive." Ho ho ho! I may not need to get defensive, but now I GET to fuck her shit up. Next time she heads out in the rain to grab a curry meal from the corner cafe I'm going to head off to the bathroom with a crossword puzzle. Take your keys, you dumb twat.

The homecoming wasn't satisfying, either. Traffic was bad on the way, and then I babysat for awhile. When my brother and sister-in-law came home there weren't hellos, there were questions. They were all fairly reasonable questions, but you wouldn't have heard me admitting that then. “Are you watching the Stalker episode from CSI AGAIN? You’re messed up.” “Is the baby eating hot dogs? He’s never eaten those before. You know those are one of the foods babies can choke on.” This was all in the first five minutes. It turned out the hot dog point was moot as the baby would have nothing to do with veggie dogs and cried every time he put a piece in his mouth. The Stalker episode of CSI (season two) is brilliant and creepy and I really like it. I can understand why my having watched it four times in the past few months could hint at a problem, but I just really enjoy watching Nicki cry.

I came upstairs for awhile to regroup and decide what I needed to do to break the mood. Audrey had her Tiffany's, what did I have? Music? A little Rage Against the Machine when you're ticked works wonders. Nothing like lip synching along to "Fuck you I won't do what you tell me!" for five minutes straight without feeling a little better about life. And there's this. Expelling anger onto screen, or paper, or a sympathetic ear is quite cathartic.

Days like this, when everything conspires to fuck you over, remind me of when I used to work in the food court of our local mall. Periodically I'd have these wretched days, and I'd just be foul to deal with (I was seventeen). On one in particular I was stocking the fridge with pop and muttering angrily to myself when two things happened in unison: a child started wailing, and I banged my hand against the rack I was loading the drinks onto. Instead of screaming, or walking out of work I must have howled with laughter for ten minutes solid, no breathing. It was either that or go postal. Maybe that's the way it works, you either suck it up and laugh it out, or your rage builds until you're up on a water tower with a semi. Let’s all just keep hoping that I continue to find writing a serviceable release.

Thursday, June 03, 2004

Nothing’s Fine, I’m Shorn

Well, the problem isn’t actually the cut, it’s the colour. I went into the salon expecting to get my hair cut, and to get some highlights. I expected to leave with brown hair that had some blonde in it; the situation is quite the opposite.

Cats and kittens, cuffs and collar are decidedly unmatched. For that matter, so are cuffs and eyebrows. I look ridiculous. I also look, as my oldest brother so kindly pointed out, like my mother. Now, since she doesn’t know where this website is, I’m not that worried about offending her, but if she does happen upon this: I’m not saying you are an unattractive woman, I’m saying that at the age of twenty-seven I don’t want to be mistaken for you.

This is an overreaction, obviously there are more pressing concerns in today’s world than what’s up with my coif, but at the moment I don’t care about any of them. I look funny, and I won’t cease looking funny for awhile. Damn them. I’m wishing itchy things on all of them.

The problem I have with salons is that I lose the ability to make any sort of choice, I always assume that they know what’s best for me in a way I never could. They ask me questions and it’s the nineteen fifties or something, “Oh, I can’t decide. What do you think?” They are the experts and I put myself in their capable hands; in much the same way I would expect to defer to a doctor in the event of surgery. That being said, after what happened to my head when I trusted these people I don’t think I want to take a chance with the doctors. Suppose they decide that my liver would look better if it was pinker? And then I die?!

I’ve been preconditioned to trust hairdressers; to look upon them as heroic. This all stems back to a memorable incident from my childhood. Who hasn’t had a rotten home haircut? Don’t’ worry if you haven’t, ‘cause I had your share, and your share, and probably his too. The most notable of which occurred the night before my grade five Xmas concert. My mother was going to give me a trim so that I would look “sharp” for my performance the next day. I should point out that she had given me many haircuts prior to this event and they were all fine. I should also point out that my mother has crazy-shaky hands, and is a little on the nervous and twitchy side. Yo, she was a powder keg with a smoldering fuse.

I could sort of hear her humming and hawing to herself while she cut my hair and tried to get it right. Finally she moved away from me saying “I’m scared to take any more off in case there’s nothing left.” Try to imagine how it felt to hear that phrase.

I looked in the mirror, determined – if not to be stoic – than to at least be brave, and saw what she had done to me. No word of a lie, I looked like Fred Flintstone. Screw stoic, I wailed.

She pursed her lips and said, “Oh, it’s not that bad.” I tried to pull myself together, but it just wasn’t happening. Forget about the humiliation of showing up at school like that, but to be on stage in front of God and everyone? The next morning I was kept home from school so that we could hide mommy’s nasty little secret. She took me to the local mall (everything was pretty local in this town, though), and presented me to the hair stylists. I like to imagine that their names were Sheena and Laverne.

No one else was in, so they could devote all of their heavily made-up attention to me. With narrowed eyes (admittedly, that could have been a symptom of too much mascara, or in-breeding) and planned their attack. They circled, touching my hair with yellowed fingers, and finally stepped aside to consult. Periodically they’d throw my mother a look that said more clearly than words that they wished home haircuts were punishable by law. They reminded me of temperamental artists, I half imagined that they would throw up their hands and wail “I simply can’t WORK under these conditions!” But evidently they decided their skills were equal to the task.

When they were finished I looked great, and the concert was saved for me. But, God, what a shit show to get there. I say now, although things will likely change by the time I get around to having kids, that I won’t put them through the same thing. Who are we kidding?

And so, clearly I’ve been preconditioned to see hair dressers as saviours, and to trust them implicitly. This willingness to trust blindly, and question nothing, has left me looking odd indeed. I need a tan, or something, to go along with this new look. One haircut shouldn’t have you seeking a whole new image. Well, unless you get a mohawk or something.

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