My friends and their hair.

Two people that I know have recently cut their hair. B. looks fantastic, sort of Angeline Jolie in Hackers. J's is shorter than it was, but the shave made a bigger difference than the hair. The hair cut was a gift for his wife (which she asked for), so he did it. So this got me thinking about my hair. It really needs to get cut. I've told my sister that I'll do it when I'm out there, and cutting it is related to a fitness goal. But the thing is, do I really want to cut it?
I should
ButI never do anything with it.
It's my only good feature.
But I never do anything with it.
It took a couple of years to get this long.
But I never do anything with it.
It would be expensive to keep it in style if it were short.
But I never do anything with it.
I don't have a very feminine face, short hair would make it worse.
But I don't don anything with it.

The weirdest part, that I've never been able to work out, is that I never have my hair...just there. Always always always a braid, or a bun, a barrette, SOMTHING. It is out when it is washed, and that is the only time it isn't in something. So in a way, I'd like to put off the getting rid of it all until I've managed to go an entire day and night with my hair just being hair. Although that may mean it would never be cut at all. Which would be stupid, having all that hair and never doing anything with it!

Loved and lost.

Everyone loses things, some of us more than others, yes? But there are things I have - or had, I should say - that shouldn't be in the list of misssing things. For instance:

I can think of at least two shirts, blouses, really, that are gone. I've checked behind the washer/dryer, in my daughter's closet, at the laundromat I used when the washer broke down, at the house of friends who loaned me their washer during the same tragic washerless spell and in my son's closet (because I couldn't think of anywhere else to look). Not in any of those places. How did this happen? I don't go places that one would be taking off one's shirt, let alone leaving accidentaly (or intentionally!) without putting it back on. So where are these two shirts?


A Shovel. This may have a logical answer. I do have kids, and although they deny it I can see that it is possible that they borrowed it for some reason I'd rather not hear about and then left it where ever it was they were using it. So perhaps that isn't so odd.

Almonds. I was making a dessert that required two types of almonds. I bought them, I remember unpacking them from the grocery bag and yet beyond that there isn't a trace of them or a hint of where they may be. I had to go out and get more almonds. That was months ago and they are still missing.

Winter Boots. I know I bought winter boots last year for me, because the ones I had - and still have - were worn out and no longer warm in any way. I bought them on sale at the end of the season, and they...walked away? They're pretty clunky, too, so you'd think I couldn't miss them. But they haven't turned up despite some pretty desparate searching.

A bottle of Veggie Juice. I bought a giant bottle of 10 vegetable juice to take to work. It isn't at home, it isn't in the car and it isn't at work. So where is it?

One year I bought a Santa Claus (Mrs. Claus, actually. Or so I hope) matching underwear/bra set. I remember hiding them, because it was January and I wouldn't need them for another 11 months. OK, so I would never actually NEED red underwear with white faux fur trim. But as I did spend $ to get it, I want to wear it. So where on earth did I hide them? I've gone through every cupboard and every drawer that I own, and they're just...M.I.A. Or Missing Without Action, depending on how you look at it.

I've a much large list of things that are missing, these are just the ones that keep me awake at night trying to figure out what's going on.

Waiting for Theblow.

I've had two giant disruptions in my life in the past three days. A huge hit to the baking business (although I think I have a new road to try on that front), and a huge blow at work. Now the work change could be good, consequently not a blow, but it could be terrible. New job, new location same Board. They do say a change is as good as a rest, though, so I'm waiting to see how the work thing pans out. The thing is, I am now wondering if there is any truth to the rule of three. Is there some third thing out there, poised to distrupt my life in some huge way? Or are these things happening to speed up my eventual move to BC? Or are they happening because change is a part of living?

How do you wear cereal?

I'm in the bathroom at work and two other women are having a conversation (sidenote: why do they do that? how can they do that? Do what you have to do, wash your hands and leave). I'm not really paying attention until I hear the following:

"ugh- is that dandruff?"
"no, it's cereal"

So...where might you have cereal that could be mistaken for dandruff? Or where to do you have dandruff that could be mistaken for cereal? And what cereal are you eating that looks like dandruff?

I think this is why eavesdropping is bad for you: I'm going to be thinking about this for days, now. I may never eat cereal again. And who takes people to task over dandruff anyway? I guess I should just be grateful that the bathroom eater is a guy, and consequently us womenfolk on this floor never have to deal with that. Although I'd like to know why he eats his lunch in the bathroom. Wacky world, eh?

Brain Worms

There are thoughts in life that wriggle their wormy little way into your brain, and you can’t let go until you’ve made the worm happy. A question, perhaps, that has no immediate answer must be pursued until an answer is found. Or a moral dilemma that one feels must come to some sort of resolution, even when it is a hypothetical dilemma. Or wanting something you really shouldn’t have: that extra bowl of ice cream, that 27th beer, that bank robbery in Vegas you’ve been thinking about. (that last thing is probably just me). The thing is, sometimes there are things you want that you can’t have at the moment. I am almost dizzy with wanting to lie down on thick green grass in the park, under the biggest tree I can find. I want to lie down and close my eyes and let the summer sun warm my winter skin.

For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.
-Solomon

(I’d give a great deal to hear what turtles have to say).

Cars are not magic

Being in a car doesn't render one invisible. So don't do anything in your car that you don't care to be seen doing. Not that I didn't know that or anything. I'm just sayin'.

Cruel Gruel

You know what it truly disgusting, especially on a Friday morning when all you really want is a large mug of London Fog from Stone’s Throw? Oat Bran porridge, when you’ve used too much water and not enough bran and you have to drink it.

Oh wait – that just got surpassed in the stakes of disgusting things to eat; cold watery oat bran porridge.

An independent brain

I’ve come up with a new work rule: when three things go wrong before nine in the morning, you get a day off with pay. Of course that would benefit some of us more than others, but still.

I had several things to take to work today, so when I went to start the car I took Poland’s cake with me. I stepped on the top step, which, as it turned out was not so much a step as a skating rink. Yup, the kind of ice that makes you fall. My brain, without asking me for my opinion, said “Save cake! Must…save…cake”. So the cake was saved, with a minor wrist scrape on the arm that was holding it (minor, but it is right where the mouse pad thingy rubs. Thingy being the correct term for it), but my tailbone was not saved in any way. So as I sat there I thought that really, it would have been better to let the cake fly (birthday girl is very nice: having a cake next Monday wouldn’t have mattered at all), and save myself from the fall. When I got to work I fixed the cake – the sides were messy – and went to fill the kettle with water for tea and oatmeal. Except that my lunch and breakfast were somewhere on the front step at home. So no oatmeal. And whilst I filled the kettle and contemplated my foodless day, I didn’t realize that I was pressing both taps on the water jug, so the water catcher was overflowing with water that was pouring in a waterfall onto the floor. Sigh. I scooped out a bit of water from the water catcher thing, and took it out of its pocket to empty it. I was almost at the sink when someone opened the door next to the sink, bumping me, so that water ended up on the floor in front of the sink.

I guess if I am really hungy I can go to the cafe across the street. Or eat cake. The cake might as well be lunch, because in the end it is pointless, from a birthday point of view: birthday girl is home sick today.

I can't wait to see what the rest of the day holds for me.

I'm too risque for me.

I was thinking of posting a poem (of my own writing, that is). I have ten poems I've written over the past fifteen years that I still like. I've written many more, but they weren't worth saving. Some managed to hang on for months, even a year, but in the end they were trashed. So I looked at the ten, and all but one are not suitable for my blog. My poetry is not appropirate for...well, me, I guess. Weird. I had already noticed that I write far better when angst ridden than when happy. I have no jolly poems, despite being a disgustingly happy person. I guess bad poetry writing is my own form of therapy.

If this keeps up I'll have to learn how to swear

Another weekend of plumbing. This time it was the dishwasher, which now has a new impeller installed. Fortunately that is a fairly cheap part to get, but there is a lot of taking apart/putting back together to get the old one out and the new one in. I learned something, though: if you’re not responsible for something, you ignore it. I ran a bath, unloaded the dishwasher, loaded it up, cleaned the counters, put stuff away, turned the thing on and went to have my bath. I had the jets on, so I couldn’t hear anything. When the jets stopped (it is one of the old-fashioned kind, just a knob by the door that you turn), I heard this hideous grinding noise coming from the kitchen. A noise that no one thought to mention, let alone do something about, like turning the thing off. And I’m not talking about a quiet little noise, either; it was a truly wrenching grinding sound. I had to turn it off, take everything out and then scoop water out (it wasn’t draining, either), take it apart, leave everything all over the floor, go to the Maytag store to get a new impeller, run home and put it all together. It took up allof my house cleaning time, which would have been terrible, but that was on Saturday, games night. Boys, as it turns out, don’t notice a messy house when there are new games to be played, cartons of juice to be quaffed and a platter of cookies to eat. If you’ve ever wondered, 6 boys can eat 80 cookies in the space of oh, say, and hour and a half. I’m sure if I’d made more, they would have eaten those too.

Handy-person heaven.

I fixed the dripping faucet in the tub on the weekend – and now when I’m in the bath I beam upon my handiwork with tenderness and pride, as opposed to the glare I used to give it as it dripped endlessly in a Chinese water torture kind of a way. It wasn’t as easy as it could have been: the first weekend I tried I realized that I needed a different/better tool. I phoned my dad to ask if there was a specific tool that one uses to take out a screw whose head is stripped. He wasn’t home. Neither was my sister’s boyfriend. I wasn’t assuming that the women I knew wouldn’t know if there is such a tool, but the Hingstons weren’t home either. I thought about phoning some random guy friend. Most of my friends are guys, but I didn’t think I could cross the line of friendship with a tool question. In the end, I phoned a work friend, whose husband had the answer. Or at least an answer. Use something like a chisel to get it out the tiniest bit, then use small vise grips to twist it the rest of the way out. That is in the end what I did, but I had to get a pair of vise grips first. The great thing is that the cartridge that was making the thing drip got replaced, and since I was doing it and not the bun head that put the first one in, the direction you turn the knob for hot is hot and for cold is cold. The old cartridge was in upside down, so when you turned the knob toward the H you got cold water, C got you hot water. So it is perfect now…just so long as we all remember that direction for hot water is different than it has been for ten years.

I do like fixing things if they’re mechanical, and most plumbing is fun too, so it wasn’t a bad job for a Sunday. I never try to do anything electrical when it breaks down (yes, I can hear that collective sigh of relief), and whilst I wouldn’t mind learning how to do carpenter type things, no one will loan me the tools. It’s almost as if my father has phoned everyone and told them not to loan me anything that plugs in that can, in the wrong hands, take off a hand or a foot. The few times I’ve asked someone for say a saw, I usually get “ummm…why don’t I just come over and saw whatever you’re working on for you?” Strange.

A Thing of Grace and Beauty

This being a childless weekend, I went out Saturday night (oh please, stop laughing and get up off the floor). No, not a date for those of you who were shocked speechless, but nevertheless it was a night out. Of course things progressed in a fairly typical crazybarefeet fashion - starting with fashion. I decided to go shopping, and got to buy pants a size smaller than the last time I went shopping. I also bought a top to go with them. What can I say: if you have the time to wander around at Winners you might as well get more than one thing, right? And at least I skipped the lingerie section this time, as I was on a tight budget and really wanted a new pair of pants. Which is odd when you think about it; being a skirt girl pants don't often end up on a must have list. I digress.

So I did the usual getting ready things: bath, reading and relaxing, getting dressed. I had everything on, and was standing (no fidgeting whatsoever) gazing in the mirror wondering if I could be bothered to put on some sort of make up. I stood there for a long time, thinking that on the one hand that I don't really know how to put make up on with any sort of elan, and yet on the other hand that make up is what one does when one goes out. So there I am, dressed, and almost ready to go....when a button flies of the shirt. Yes, it flew, I was lucky it didn't go down the drain. An essential button as it happens, as my first thought was wondering if I really needed to sew it on. I did. Now this may come as a shock to you (maybe not those of you that know I've had the material for a front door curtain for more than a year) but I don't sew. Not at all. But a button? Surely I could do a button. On to finding some thread, and a needle, and maybe scissors although I could always use teeth if necessary. Found the needle and a bunch of thread in an emergency repair kit. But thread of the right colour? No, that would have been too easy. Nevertheless, I did get it fixed. (Interruption: my cell phone just rang, and when I answered it a woman asked for Barry. Nope, wrong number. To which she replied - prior to hanging up - "well, isn't that just f***ing great". Crumbs - not my fault bastard Barry gave her a fake number!)

Once I was ready to go, off to the car I went, but not without falling ass over teakettle on the front steps. OK, note to self, it is very slippery out. So I get to the club, and walk to the door with the extreme carefulness usually only seen on the raging drunk tryng to convince a cop he's sober. But I got to the door safely - no falling! I get in, make my way downstairs and on the way to hang up my coat...I fall ass over tea kettle. AGAIN. On nothing. There was no ice, no new wax, shoes weren't new, no hidden obstacles. BUGGER.

On the plus side, I wasn't trying to impress anyone and whilst I'm pretty sure I've never broken or spilled anything on Thursday nights, I think the people from the club know I'm not a thing of grace and beauty. Actually - thanks to a comment from a guy (yes, Marc, it was you) years and years ago, in my circle of friends I am referred to as "not overly bad looking".

In its entirety, the story is that this guy (yes Marc, you) was trying to figure out why he liked me. He did his figuring out loud driving me home from some youth group thing at Queenston Heights. His actual remark was "I like you, but I'm not sure why. I mean, you're fairly witty, intelligent enough (I was way overqualified in that regard given his IQ), and not overly bad looking, but I don't see why I actually like you". I just about fell out of the car laughing. Which upset him, as apprently he couldn't see the humour - or insult - in telling someone on a second date that you see them as not overly bad looking. And what does that even mean? Bad looking, but not to the point of undateableness?

I am use to not being a thing of beauty, and as for grace, well I can dance but I'm not the most co-ordinated broom in the closet. But still, did I have to do that, right there, right then? And here is a question: when I went to get a drink (Sambuca and coke - don't knock it until you've tried it), the coke spraying thing backed up on the bartender, and sprayed me. Yup, on the new blouse. So the question is - did that happen because nothing in my life can go according to plan, or because the bartenders life never goes according to plan? My curse, or his?

Its all about me, me and me. Mainly. Sort of.

I'd love to be able to say that eveything I post has a double meaning, deciperable by the cognoscenti only, but sadly such is not the case. If you're in here, you'll be mentioned by name, perhaps along the lines of " My friend MayBis a social worker who should be a forensic scientist, and she is the proud owner of a chapstick eating underwear stealing dog". See? I mean, she might have guessed that I was referring to her if I hadn't mentioned her name- although there are many chapstick eating underwear stealing dogs in this city, so she couldn't t be sure. But now she can be. I would have enjoyed writing about games night people, but my in-my-head nicknames are not terrible clever ergo not terribly hard to figure out. Except maybe ickythickears. So relax - the eagle doesn't fly at midnight.