Everyone's a Bastard

At least, that’s how I feel sometimes. The exceptions to that headline are: my family, my friends, Stoker, all people who agree with me about the following subject (and this does not mean that you have to agree with me about politics, just about being inundated with pessimism), Mike Savage, and the Pope (I just like unwavering religious figures, both dead and alive). So, I guess "everyone" means the media, because honestly I don't get into political discussions with people. However, some of my coworkers bring it up, unsolicited by me. I usually don't give them my two-cents, either because I'm not really informed on the subject or because it's just not worth the energy.

Here's the problem: I’m so sick of hearing about how George Bush sucks. If one more person subtly or unsubtly hints to me through any medium—standing by the water cooler in the break room, on the radio, television or web page—that they think the president sucks, I swear I’ll hit them. Well, probably only the people at the water cooler. But I’ll do something rash, like throw my computer monitor out the window or tip over the water cooler. Seriously. I’m so tired of it. What gives? I mean, when Bill Clinton was being duplicitous and lying about crap, you couldn’t find a single person talking about how they wanted to defile images* of Bill Clinton’s face or make fun of him or sing shitty songs about what a big, fat, humongous liar he was, or about how horrible America is.** It was like a walk in the park as far as popular opinion was concerned. You know? He only perjured, but no media source or single person could even imagine that his finesse for lying would carry over into any other part of his administration. He was great. He was wonderful.

It’s all a bunch of crap. And I’m sick of it. Don’t talk to me, I just want to be alone now***.




*This is a link to the NIN statement that they won't be performing at the MTV video awards because they can't use a large, unmolested picture of Bush's face as their backdrop.
**I used to support Amnesty International, now I just think they're a bunch of misinformed, never-satisfied jerks.
***A joke. Sort of. You can talk to me.

Fear of Falling

Tonight we had rehearsals for the wedding, which is this upcoming Friday night (June 3rd). It was kind of strange and made everything feel more immediate and real.

There are stairs in the back of the room at the reception center, for the bride to go down as a kind of gauntlet, it seems, before the marriage takes place. You might call this a test of her devotion to the groom and her desire to enter the institution of marriage. While it's nice to watch a bride glide into the room in this manner and seemingly float down from above -- the entrance accentuating her physical beauty and prowess -- it's torture to be the one clunking down the stairs in a wedding dress and dangerous shoes, as I will surely be. And tonight I felt very stupid practicing on the stairs in bermuda shorts and an old black Strokes t-shirt, to this very dramatic (though beautiful) music, with Stoker, my mom and dad all watching me. I felt out of place, but luckily we're not having a big ceremony or anything so we were the only people there.

When we left Stoker's parent's house this afternoon, his mom and dad said, "See you on your wedding day!" And that was crazy to hear and think about. It's not that I'm scared to marry Stoker -- I know I want to be with him forever and I love him. But the whole ceremony is a big deal and there's all this pressure on me to perform. When I try my best to step/glide and everything down the stairs on Friday night, I'll be the center of attention. I used to love that, but now that I'm older it's an awkward spot for me. What if I fall down?

Today and this Weekend

1) I like my post about bachelor parties, so I'm going to make this one short. I want everyone to scroll down after reading this, to be sure to read the bachelor party post, and also the comments. They're very insightful.

2) The power went out at work today at around 11:00. After about 20 minutes you could really feel the building heating up. The generator wasn't even working, so no computers. We were useless. They sent us home. I get paid for all 8 hours. What a deal.

3) I went to the comic book store with my mom this afternoon. She loves Uncle Scrooge and Donald Duck comic books, and incidentally, so do I. I bought two graphic novels. One is actually this guy's diary of his trip to France and Morroco. At least I think those are the places. The other one is by some guy named Andy Watson, or something (I don't have them with me). This is my first foray into graphic novels, influenced by Ward, who wrote about the Sin City movie and graphic novels. I took one of the graphic novels to Stoker, at work, who had to stay for the whole day. Poor boy! The power didn't go out on that side of town.

4) I'm getting my hair trimmed tomorrow because I'm getting married next Friday. One of my coworkers is counting down the days and announces how many are left, loudly, every morning. It's funny. "7 days!" He'll say with a huge grin on his face, rubbing his hands together.

5) Last night Stoker and I drove 1 1/2 hours to Cache Valley to catch the tail-end of his cousin's wedding reception. Afterwards we drove the rest of the way to his parents' home in Richmond. You'll be happy to know that Gouda, the baby goat, is still alive and doing very well. Kelsie has been bottle-feeding her and now Gouda can run and jump like a regular little goat. And Brie, the older baby goat, still loves me. We're going back up there tomorrow so I can spend more quality time with the baby goats (tongue-in-cheek). I love the goats. But I also like to hang out with Stoker's family. Okay, okay, secretly, I really love hanging out with the baby goats.

6) Did I mention that I made dinner for Stoker tonight? As a surprise. It's chicken curry in a crockpot and I found the recipe on the internet. It's not bad. I've made if before. Here's the recipe:

2 whole chicken breasts, boned
1 can cream of chicken soup
1/4 c. dry sherry
2 tbsp. butter or margarine
2 green onions with tops, finely chopped
1 tsp. curry powder
1 tsp. salt
Dash of pepper
Fluffy rice

Cut chicken into small pieces, place in crockpot. Add all remaining ingredients except rice. Cover and cook on high setting 2 1/2 to 4 hours. Serve over hot rice.

7) So much for short. But this is the end. If you're not going anywhere for the 3-day weekend and are reading this, too bad. Keep your chin up and all. If you are going somewhere, have fun. I'll be prancing in green meadows with the baby goats while pastoral music plays in the background. That may sound lame, but believe me, living in a musical is anything but lame.

Okay. That was lame. My life is not a musical.

The New and Improved Bachelor Party

For the record, no, Stoker will not be going to a bachelor party and he will not be going to a strip club. I bring this up because my coworker asked me if Stoker would be participating in this tradition. When I said no, my coworker said that maybe the guys (meaning Stoker’s friends, not the guys I work with) would take him, you know, and then Stoker wouldn’t have control over this and he’d just have to go along begrudgingly. I told this coworker that there are no ‘guys’ to speak of. Stoker’s not a man’s man. He doesn’t hang out with the ‘guys.’ He hangs out with me, my family, his family, and occasionally our friends who consist of both males and females .

There’s this problem in modern society of double-standards. Double-standards irritate the hell out of me. Case-in-point:

Before marriage, women throw what’s commonly known as a ‘wedding shower’ for the bride-to-be. At these showers gifts are given to prepare the bride for her upcoming marriage, such as towels, dishes, pots and pans. Sometimes gifts relate to sex, like lingerie or tasteful nightgowns. But again, this is to enhance the relationship. Women prepare and look forward to being a wife, while also aware that it’s an end to an important phase of their life: being single.

What do men do before the marriage? Bachelor parties (except Stoker, he’s not interested in this ritual). Some men are good and have friends who are also good and they simply go out to dinner, or go on a fishing trip. Whatever. Their focus isn’t on something that’s detrimental to his relationship with his fiancée and I don’t care what a man says about his wife being okay with strippers or porn or whatever. Deep down no women is okay with it. It hurts. And it’s an insult to his wife. If Stoker went to a bachelor party with the guys and there was a stripper, it would say to me that he doesn’t care about how I feel if he didn't leave or put an end to it. You know the word, cuckold? That’s a man whose wife has cheated on him. Where’s the word in our language for a woman whose man has cheated on her? As far as I know, there’s not one, but in my mind the crime warrants its own word, such is the importance and depth of pain caused by a man’s infidelity. And I think in the hearts of many women, a man watching a stripper has as good as cheated on his woman.

The solution: men need to change the view of marriage being the old ball-and-chain and look at it as something freeing. A married man has someone to love and who loves him. He has a hug to go home to at the end of the day. He has someone to listen to him. And there’s always sex. I’m not saying marriage is easy. I imagine that like most good things in life, a person has to work hard at it and make it a priority to fend off decay.

So the next time one of your buddies gets married, throw him The New and Improved Bachelor Party*, which mirrors the wedding shower. Instead of pots and pans, give him a barbeque grill or power tools. What better way to show your buddy that you wish him well in his new life than by giving him a ratchet set? Men need tools, it’s not like they grow on trees. They’re expensive and to have a happy, comfortable home a guy needs to be able to go out in the garage and get his pneumatic drill when home repairs are calling.



*This term has been copyrighted by me. Just kidding. But I offer it as the solution to our culture’s negative stereotypes regarding marriage rituals. Not the opposite, which is women regressing to the lowest common denominator and taking the Sex in the City way out of things by having lame-assed bachelorette parties at the Chippendales club. Real great, girls. Real great. Take five steps back on the evolutionary scale. That’s a good idea.

Goats

Three baby goats were born on Friday night. The bellering (that’s what they called it and I assume they must know, being around goats and all) woke me at 3 am that night. But I didn’t go out to watch Doug (Stoker’s father) and Christy (his mother) help with the birth. In the morning Kelsie came into the room to tell her sister, Anarie, what happened. I listened, pretending to be asleep on the chance that I might want to go back to sleep after they left (I didn’t). Kelsie told Anarie what colors they were and their names. This year it’s a cheese motif: Mozzarella is white with black patches, Cheddar is black with white patches and a spiral of white going down her foreleg, and Gouda, the runt, is brown with white and black patches*. Runt sounds harsh to an uninformed person (me), but she’s very small and Staccato (there must have been a music theme a few years ago) is rejecting her. Actively, as in pushing Gouda away with her nose and knocking Gouda down when Gouda comes near to nurse. I’m very disappointed with Staccato, but I’m trying to understand that it’s just her goat-ly instinct.

But don't worry, I think Gouda will make it because Stoker’s family is bottle-feeding her and when I left on Sunday she was a little better at walking without falling down.

We’re going back this coming Saturday. Why? I have my reasons.

Reasons to go back to Cache Valley on Saturday: rejuvenating “country” air, Brie (the baby goat born 14 days ago), Gouda, “country” mornings, Stoker’s sisters, sitting in Paul and Ann’s backyard on Sunday afternoons (Stoker’s brother and sister-in-law and we only did that once, but I’m planning on going back for a repeat visit). And last but not least: spring in Cache Valley. It's the best — everything is green and if I really knew, I could say it looks like Ireland or New Zealand at this time of year. Since I don’t know, I can’t stand by that comparison. But it looks like pictures of Ireland or New Zealand that I've seen, and yes, I’m in love with Cache Valley**.

On Saturday evening we went to the Black and White Days parade, like I mentioned I would. The parade passes right in front of the White house (no really, Stoker’s last name is White). And we sat there in lawn chairs with the evening sun on us, a row of senior citizens on my left and Stoker on my right. Every float tossed candy and you’ll be happy to hear that there WAS salt-water taffy, Sixlets and Tootsie Rolls amongst the cornucopia of candy (I’ve been waiting my entire life to use cornucopia in a sentence). Word to the wise, if you want the old-fashioned parade feeling, with candy and everything, you’ve got to go to small-town parades. City parades don’t throw candy anymore for safety reasons, eliminating any REASON to go to a parade.

Later that evening Anarie and her friend, Aram (both are studying performance piano at the university), played a few songs together on the pianos. And then, instead of feeling like I was in the country, I felt like I was in Carnegie Hall. Exaggeration? No. I’m not an aficionado by any means, but it was awesome. Aram played something called the Sabre Dance. Five stars.

That about sums it up. Yesterday Stoker and I got our marriage license and then I went to the dentist because I’m getting a crown in a few weeks. That sucked, my mouth is swollen. I think I’m allergic to the gloves the dentist wears. Stupid gloves, I look like Krusty the Clown (or is it Klown?). Great. That will be great for the wedding pictures.




*Sorry to disappoint, no Feta.
**N.B. Cache Valley has its share of crap. Like crap as in horrible downtown Logan traffic, which you don’t expect because it’s considered a small town. But the growth of the valley is random and unchecked and the city-planners aren’t city planners at all. Apparently. Because the sprawl is insane. The only main thoroughfare is through the center of Logan on Main Street. The only time it’s not congested is in the middle of the night. Otherwise getting from, say 1400 North to 700 South is an infuriating journey. That’s my biggest complaint about C.V.

Black and White Days and Sauerkraut Festivals

This weekend I’m going up to Richmond with Stoker. I say up, because as we all know*, locations that are north in latitude are ‘up’ while locations that are south of where you are, are ‘down.’ Many people mix that up**.

But anyway. I’m going to a sort of festival/celebration called Black and White Days in Richmond (pop. 2,000). It has to do with cows and an auction. I think. I think there will be other animals. Maybe goats and pigs. There’s a parade. Hopefully there will be candy tossed from the parade participants. Hopefully there will be salt-water taffy in the candy mix. Saturday morning -- though I’d love to sleep in -- I’m supposed to run in the Black and White Days race with Stoker and his dad.

If you don’t already know, Richmond is home of Big J’s, the joint Uncle Rico and Kip have shakes and fries in, in the movie Napolean Dynamite. Just to familiarize you with the area.

Most of all, I’m looking forward to seeing the new baby goat (Stoker’s parents have goats). These are pet goats, in case you’re thinking otherwise. And there might be another baby goat born while I’m there. I’ve never been around a live birth before, with animals or humans. So I’ll let you know how it goes. I’ll also give you a report of Black and White Days, which promises to be exciting and entertaining. Check back often.

FYI, my folklore mentor, Barre Toelken, has told me that the best sauerkraut he’s ever had was in Providence, UT (beating out Germany and Austria). A town not far from Richmond. I’m telling you that to illustrate the beauty of small towns and small town festivals. I’m not quite certain how it does that, but nevertheless, there it is: for great sauerkraut go to Providence. There's even a festival called the Sauerkraut Festival (short on creativity, but long on good sauerkraut. What?) every September.




*I made these rules up. But they work.
**Ha ha. The only exception is something that’s directly west or east of you, but is lower in elevation. In that case you may use down to describe your destination. As in, “I’m going down to the beach.” Also, if you’re on top of a mountain and you want to go down the mountain to a location that’s north of you, then you can say “I’m going down to Ogden,” or something.

Arrested Development = Good News

Good news everyone. Arrested Development will be returning next season. I didn’t get to see that many of the second season episodes because I don’t have television. What I mean is, my parents have it, but when I moved out at 18, (to Logan and then SLC), I didn’t have it (that’s about 9 years without steady television). So I got out of the habit of watching it. That’s a good thing, you say? Well, you’re right. It is. But anyway, I’ve somehow stayed on top of things, even without television. I just want to let everyone know, who cares to know, that they can find the best sitcom to come out in years on Fox this summer, for reruns. I don’t know when the second season will hit stores for purchase, but I’ll be sure to keep you posted.

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In unrelated news (I know: overused, not-so-clever-anymore, expression), one of my co-workers who we’ll call Urban Cowboy for the sake of privacy, asked me if I went to Star Wars last night. My reply: no. I didn’t even see Attack of the Clones. I told him I didn’t enjoy The Phantom Menace and how could I with irritating Jar Jar Binx (or is it Binks? Who cares.). And poor Urban Cowboy told me he liked Jar Jar. Poor guy. But lucky for him, most people who matter will find that trait (as though liking an intolerable movie character qualifies as a full-fledged trait) endearing. Urban Cowboy left his cubicle to go get something from the printer and another co-worker, who we’ll call Chuckles, came over to my cubicle and said, “Jar Jar Binx? I overheard Urban Cowboy. Seriously, who likes Jar Jar Binx?” I told him Urban Cowboy must have been influenced by his son, who might have been young when Jar Jar Binx was at his prime in theaters. Then Urban Cowboy came back to his cubicle looking more innocent than ever and caught the tail end of the Jar Jar Binx conversation. Urban Cowboy looks more innocent to me now because he likes a movie character associated with children and innocence. Is that strange?

I don’t know. But Chuckles left after that and Urban Cowboy asked me something else and then the poor man had to endure an hour long lecture on why I didn’t enjoy The Phantom Menace and why Stoker isn’t the kind of guy who would want to wait until 12:01 am on May 19th just to see the new George Lucas epic. I got going and couldn’t stop. That’s what happens when you ask an over-analytical, post-English literature/Master’s of Folklore student a question about a text of any type (and text can apply to anything from a book to a grocery store). Urban Cowboy’s glazed look tipped me off that he wasn’t enjoying the words coming out of my mouth.

I laughed uncomfortably and said, “So anyway, I don’t know, maybe I’ll see the new Star Wars. After I see the Attack of the Clones. Stoker and I don’t really get into action movies. I mean, we saw Kung Fu Hustle. Did you see that [shakes his head]? It was good. Interesting. It’s an action movie, a kung fu show from Hong Kong, I think. It had great special effects. Did you see the movie Who Framed Roger Rabbit? [shakes his head] You mean, you liked Jar Jar Binx and you didn’t see Roger Rabbit? That doesn’t make any sense.” And before I could give Urban Cowboy any more reasons to think I’m a weirdo, high-maintenance, opinionated woman, I turned back to my computer and polished off another boring ad.

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I want to point out that I’ve updated the blogs I visit thing. Is that the blog roll? I don’t really know. I’m kind of out of it on the jargon. I stopped visiting some of those other sites. FYI, My Space Cowboy is not the official title of the blog the link takes you too. It is in fact, Stoker’s blog (for those of you out of the proverbial loop – I love to say proverbial – Stoker and I are getting married on June 3rd). And I want to direct traffic to his site today because he updated his blog, finally after weeks and weeks. Please stop by and leave a comment for him. Let him know what you think. Read some of his past entries. Encourage him to keep writing if you like anything he has to say.

Also, I don’t know what’s going on with the Imaginary Mind site. Linda has been working on her new computer system and it might be down. Be patient. I’m sure she’ll be back. I hope she’s still out there somewhere. You never know.

iTunes Single of the Week

I guess I’m a jerk. I can’t help it. I’m a very critical person and I’m not trying to pass that off as a virtue. I’m really not. I’ve been sucked into the black vortex of iTunes and on occasion I listen to the free download of the week. This week it’s some young guy name Kyle Riabko. This is how iTunes (and probably everyone else, too) is selling his album:

Kyle Riabko has quite a resume for a 17-year-old. He's opened for Maroon 5, John Mayer, and blues great Buddy Guy. He also played all the guitar and bass parts on his album Before I Speak. Our free Single of the Week is one of his funkier tracks, "Do You Right."

First of all, my intent isn’t to be one of those bitter people who rip on everything around them, from fragrant spring blossoms (“They’re TOO fragrant. It’s making me sick.”) to the obese lady wearing a tube-top (“Why are tube tops back in? What fashion guru decided we needed to herald in another era of that unsightly style?”). You know, the kind of person who sucks the joy out of anything, even spring blossoms? Well, I’m not that person. I’m the person who, once her eyes have been opened, can’t go back to her ignorant, blind bliss (see Plato’s “Allegory of the Cave”). Yes, I would dance around your comatose, staring figure, shouting myself hoarse that what you see is just a shadow of brilliance. So listen to me. What I’m saying is that I am one of those fools with ideals. When something falls short of my foolish ideals, I might say something. I just might.

And Kyle Riabko’s single of the week is weak. No really. I couldn’t pass that opportunity up. But it is. His voice is weak and there’s that irritating, polished, over-produced sound like what you get from a post-American Idol album (i.e., nothing but voice, while lacking a real emotional center). Plus he’s 17. And here’s the exact reason I’m a jerk: because I can’t listen to a 17-year old singing about love. I don’t know what’s gotten into me, but ever since I grew old (27), I can’t stand to listen to an inexperienced teenager calling a woman on. Who can? It’s like the momentarily popular Billy Gilman stuff. It’s embarrassing in its innocence. Not that innocence is a bad thing. Especially when 17-year old Kyle starts singing about how there's not another man who can do her right. Also, did Kyle write those lyrics? They suck. (“It’s time for show and tell, I need to do you right…”)

To Kyle, I will give him that the guitar solo is fantastic. The guitar itself has a sweet, buttery jazz sound and I love it. The drums are solid, except that sometimes the snare sound seems a little flat. The music itself isn’t bad. What’s bad is (what I interpret to be) the posing attitude of the entire song. The singer (remember, 17 years old) as a man. I don’t buy it. Great resume, you know, opening for Buddy Guy and John Mayer. But, as Stoker pointed out at the Keane show while Brenden Bensen was playing, a band doesn’t want an opening act that’s better than them. So Kyle’s resume does nothing for me. And also, he played all the guitar and bass parts on his new album? You’re kidding me. Right? How can this be?

I guess that’s a new thing for mainstream pop. So I’m a jerk. I’m sorry. Here are some links to several musicians who do most of he work on their albums, plus the production. (Player Hater) (Ani Difranco) (Bill Ricchini) (Now it's Overhead)

Wicker Park vs. Shall We Dance

Today, I officially have to eat my own words. I’m not sure how to do that. Especially since I didn’t officially rip on the movie. You won’t recall me saying anything negative about Wicker Park. But I did, on more than one occasion and Stoker probably remembers all of those occasions, since he wanted to see it when it first came out, early in our dating days.

I remember one occasion in my beloved Logan, Graywhale cd store. It was there that I picked up the soundtrack to Wicker Park and cursed it for having an array of excellent indie and not so indie bands on it. Death Cab, Aqualung, Broken Social Scene and the likes. I was, to put it mildly, very pissed. My contention? That a sweet, kick ass soundtrack featuring beloved and obscure bands (greedily horded by pseudo-elitists like myself) does not make a crap movie better. It soils the name of those bands willing to sell their precious music.

But, I guess the bands need to support themselves. And even if some stupid movie with aspirations to be really great (for example A Home at the End of the World*) features classic songs—Yaz’s “Only You” or Patti Smith’s “Because the Night”—doesn’t necessarily detract from the quality of the song. However, it does affect how a person hears the song. Once the song is associated with crap, a listener will always be able to, or even be forced to, recall the crap it was married to once upon an embarrassing time.

I’m just saying. There’s a price to be paid for associating your song with a movie. It’s a risk. If it’s a good movie or one that gains cult status, your song, like Kenny Roger’s “Just Dropped In (To See What Condition My Condition Was In),” is reborn to a new generation. And the song will be remembered fondly as an appropriate accompaniment to the moment when Dude was flying over the city at night, bowling ball in hand. Man, that was great.

I guess most artists are willing to risk it.

Anyway, Wicker Park wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be**. In fact, it was pretty damn good. Especially since Stoker and I tried to watch Shall We Dance with Richard Gere and J-Lo a few nights ago. Why? We were drunk. No, just joking. I don’t know why. We were tired from our four-hour trek around the SLC outdoor mall and it was there, accessible (it belongs to my aunt, who lives next door). We didn’t get very far into the show before I couldn’t take the crappy acting any longer. Poor Stanley Tucci (Big Night = ****, that's four stars, btw). I really like him. It was too much to watch him making a fool of himself in one of the worst movies ever. Contrast that horrible piece of crap with the intriguing, nicely filmed Wicker Park.

Wicker Park=

– excellent love story: true love triumphs in the end. Similar theme as The Princess Bride. Let’s hear it for true love. (Not recommended for bitter, jaded, sad jerks who hate true love.) Right now, I love true love because I have it. But I understand hating true love.
– interesting cinematographic techniques. Plus, there’s that whole cool blue-lens thing going on (not the technical term for it). I love that, how it colors everything with a blue tinge.
– Josh Hartnett actually behaves like a person who’s lost someone they loved and his character does believable things, like sneaking into his former girlfriend’s house. My statements may seem tongue-in-cheek, but they’re not. Also, the culminating moment between the evil, sneaky girl and Josh Hartnett is a realistic portrayal of how real people behave (as opposed to Jerry Springer people). It’s not one of those over-the-top dramatic moments with people throwing wine in each other’s faces and smacking one another like the Stooges.
– Stoker compared him to that annoying moron-guy in Napoleon Dynamite (what’s his name? Don?), but I thought he did a good job (and I usually don’t like this guy), but the supporting male actor, Matthew Lillard, wasn’t so bad. His character also behaved in believable ways.


Anyway, most of the stuff I just said was based on what other people did, like the screen-writer, director, and cinematographer. But maybe they didn’t integrate those key-players in the making of Shall We Dance.






*And no, I haven’t seen this lame movie. And yes, I’m making the same (perhaps) mistake as I made with Wicker Park. But I’ll be willing to eat my words (again) if someone wants to challenge me. I’ll watch it, in the end, and if it turns out to be great, I’ll relent and repent. If it turns out to be (as I suspected), crap, I’ll laugh and say, “Shame on you Patti and Yaz. I expected this from Duncan. But really, Patti. Patti.”

**Important note: not all my fault. Note the dvd cover of Wicker Park. Note the trailer for Wicker Park. Notice how the movie was advertised as a sex scandal? I’m not into sex scandals or Harlequin romances. So I didn’t want to see it. Originally. Anyway, the movie is much more than that and actually has an intriguing plot. Stupid advertisements that drive audiences away instead of pulling them in.

Hair

I seriously can’t understand how so much variation can exist from one day to the next, when it comes to my hair. As many of you already know, I have naturally curly hair. It’s not tight, frizzy curls. It’s a mess of relaxed curls that straighten out on top when it gets too long. It’s Sheryl Crow-ish, to make a comparison you can envision, though not nearly so sexy and photo-shoot ready as Sheryl Crow’s hair. Last October I cut it short. At first I straightened it everyday and it looked all right. Straightening it everyday is a lot of work and I’m lazy when it comes to primping. Or, more accurately, when it comes to primping, I don’t at all. I’m not a priss, if you must know, plus it puts a lot of strain on my hair. What with my wild imagination and visions of it just falling out one day from highlighting it too much and burning it every day to make it straight*, I just stopped doing it. And Stoker likes it curly. That’s incentive to give up the work of actually ‘doing it.’

So anyway. What I don’t get is how one day it curls up just right, in little adorable clumps that I love, much like a Greek statue. Just how I want it. But the next day it falls limply over my ears in separated strands like angel-hair pasta, still curly but not curly enough for my taste. Stupid angel-hair pasta hair. On those days I feel ridiculous and out of place and I want to hide myself in a hat or a brown paper sack. Like today. I feel ridiculous.

How can it vary so much? I’m really wondering. How many factors go into how my hair behaves day after day? Does it react, one day, to an increase in humidity? And the next, to the dryness? Does it matter what shampoo I use? And when I use conditioner or I don’t use conditioner, does that affect it? I try not to give a crap about my hair (there’s an expressive phrase), but I do. Though not enough to spend an hour— or even a half hour—on it. I suppose this means I don’t have the right to complain.

Still I complain, because there are incontrollable environmental factors contributing to how it behaves. And that’s what chaps my hide. It really does.

And in other words, I’m having one of those ugly days.

But I’m listening to the new Spoon album, and just in case it matters to you (whoever you are, wherever you are), my favorite song on it is “I Summon You.” And here’s something else I’m thinking about: how is it that the song I end up absolutely loving on an album, is also the song the radio stations love and all the people in the world love (who listen to that band) and also the song the band loves the most? (In the case of Keane, it was “Everybody’s Changing.” The crowd went WILD when they started playing it at the show the other night. See previous post.) Like I’ve said before, I guess I just have generic taste that I sometimes mistake for good and eclectic taste.



p.s. If you thought no one could outdo my bad-hair, sunburned-shoulders day (oh yeah, I have sunburned shoulders. Stupid sun-block that I forgot to put on before my hike), my friend who just got back from climbing Mt. Rainer has 7 cold sores**.




*not the technical term for it, but that’s essentially what it is.
**I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, At least you don’t have the Ebola-like fever the people in Angola, Africa are suffering from. And I’m thinking you’re absolutely right, and that’s why I’ll never go to Africa.