Halle & Josh
Williamstown, MA
Showing posts with label for yer consideration. Show all posts
Showing posts with label for yer consideration. Show all posts
5.04.2013
4.16.2013
Like white blood cells attacking a virus
The words below are just another reason Patton Oswalt is one of my favorites.
For the people who lost their lives, limbs, and sense of peace at the Boston Marathon yesterday, for the many Afghan wedding-goers who were also killed and wounded yesterday by a US bomb that missed its target, for the 17-year-old Nashville boy who was shot and killed while waiting for a school bus last Thursday and for everyone we don't know about.
Patton Oswalt:
Boston. Fucking horrible.
I remember, when 9/11 went down, my reaction was, "Well, I've had it with humanity."
But I was wrong. I don't know what's going to be revealed to be behind all of this mayhem. One human insect or a poisonous mass of broken sociopaths.
But here's what I DO know. If it's one person or a HUNDRED people, that number is not even a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a percent of the population on this planet. You watch the videos of the carnage and there are people running TOWARDS the destruction to help out. (Thanks FAKE Gallery founder and owner Paul Kozlowski for pointing this out to me). This is a giant planet and we're lucky to live on it but there are prices and penalties incurred for the daily miracle of existence. One of them is, every once in awhile, the wiring of a tiny sliver of the species gets snarled and they're pointed towards darkness.
But the vast majority stands against that darkness and, like white blood cells attacking a virus, they dilute and weaken and eventually wash away the evil doers and, more importantly, the damage they wreak. This is beyond religion or creed or nation. We would not be here if humanity were inherently evil. We'd have eaten ourselves alive long ago.
For the people who lost their lives, limbs, and sense of peace at the Boston Marathon yesterday, for the many Afghan wedding-goers who were also killed and wounded yesterday by a US bomb that missed its target, for the 17-year-old Nashville boy who was shot and killed while waiting for a school bus last Thursday and for everyone we don't know about.
Patton Oswalt:
Boston. Fucking horrible.
I remember, when 9/11 went down, my reaction was, "Well, I've had it with humanity."
But I was wrong. I don't know what's going to be revealed to be behind all of this mayhem. One human insect or a poisonous mass of broken sociopaths.
But here's what I DO know. If it's one person or a HUNDRED people, that number is not even a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a percent of the population on this planet. You watch the videos of the carnage and there are people running TOWARDS the destruction to help out. (Thanks FAKE Gallery founder and owner Paul Kozlowski for pointing this out to me). This is a giant planet and we're lucky to live on it but there are prices and penalties incurred for the daily miracle of existence. One of them is, every once in awhile, the wiring of a tiny sliver of the species gets snarled and they're pointed towards darkness.
But the vast majority stands against that darkness and, like white blood cells attacking a virus, they dilute and weaken and eventually wash away the evil doers and, more importantly, the damage they wreak. This is beyond religion or creed or nation. We would not be here if humanity were inherently evil. We'd have eaten ourselves alive long ago.
1.21.2013
Hot yoga
Every five or six years I try yoga, go to one class, feel shamed by my inability to balance and concentrate and quickly renew my claim to not like it, never mind the fact that so many people I know greatly enjoy yoga and/or ARE TOTALLY OBSESSED with it. Most recently, I was talked into a hot yoga class.
When I found out the yoga studio was in Brentwood, I grimaced. I was quickly given shit and reminded that Brentwood is only 20 minutes away. Because I've gotten used to the accessibility of my neighborhood in East Nashville and because I don't like cars, driving, or rush hour, to me Brentwood is psychologically much further away but I relented because I felt like I was being a dick and that, I'm guessing, is not what yoga is about.
Nicki told me that I needed to bring a bath towel, water, and to arrive a half hour early. The class started at 4:30; I left home at 3:00. Lest you think I was being jumpy and neurotic, I'll tell you that it took me 20 minutes just to get to the right highway because Nashville traffic can be awful. I know people from bigger cities go, "You call that traffic? I'll show you traffic!" and get all proud of how terrible they have it but I disagree. The roads here can't support the number of cars on them and it makes everyone standstill on a regular basis. Standing still is great when you are in a yoga class trying to follow your instructor's order to be the tree, not so great when three highways are narrowing to two lanes and miles of red brake lights.
Example: Interstate traffic was so slow on my way to yoga that a man selling The Contributor newspaper chose to sell from where the on-ramp meets the merging lane because cars were creeping along slowly enough to stop and hand him a buck.
Example: I was going slowly enough to snap photos of stopped cars to text to Matthew, "So fucking relaxing!" even though I don't believe in texting while driving.
OFF TO A GREAT START
I finally made it to 65 South and picked up speed. That's when I realized that I forgot to bring a towel and water. I had a brand new yoga mat I bought at Target and an athletic tank top compressing my midsection JUST IN CASE I got ballsy in yoga and tried to stand on my head and didn't want my shirt to fly up. Looking back, this was a precaution I need not have worried about.
Ah well, I thought, I'm still early enough that I'll find the studio and I should still have enough time to stop somewhere and pick up a towel and water. It's the suburbs, there will be shopping centers. Once I located Fahrenheit Yoga, I pulled into a parking lot and searched nearby stores. There was a Target but even closer, there was a Publix supermarket. I thought about the Kroger by our house, the one we casually refer to as "murder Kroger" where there's always a changing miscellaneous section that sells random crap like towels.
This Brentwood Publix was not murder Kroger. I walked the aisles quickly, running out of time, looking for towels. When it became clear there were none, I noticed every item with absorbent properties and imagined different scenarios: showing up for yoga with a bag of cotton balls, wiping my forehead with Pampers, covering my mat with paper napkins. Dang it. Then I saw the blankets and knew I was bringing an orange fleece blanket to hot yoga.
WHAT A GREAT DEAL
The woman behind the front desk at the studio asked if I'm Jessica and informed me that since I'm a new student, I get a starting deal of 10 classes for $10. I'd paid $20 online for one class which seemed STEEP so it was cool to hear that I was now getting a price that was 20 times better but it meant I needed to come nine more times to make it work. Fahrenheit Yoga is so sneaky already, trying to trick me out of quitting right away. If they think that money is the way to make a "This hurts, I'm stopping" person into a "No pain, no gain" person, well, in my case they are right.
I was given a tour and instructions: if I feel lightheaded I am to lie down with my feet toward the wall and head toward the mirror and I was to put my "towel" over my mat. I laid my fleece blanket over my mat, giving the impression that I had arrived not to get all centered and whatnot but to have a picnic. Back in the locker room, I overheard a girl telling her friend that she lies on her stomach and meditates while waiting for the instructor to arrive. And I may be wrong but then it sounded like she also made fun of someone's blanket. The combination of the locker room setting and the fact that I showed up with funny looking stuff is giving me flashbacks to the first day of seventh grade and my goofy tie-dyed shorts.
Upon returning to the studio I laid on my stomach as if to meditate but I really just checked out everyone as they come in. To my mind, the other students were all perfect; my inferiority complex was kicking into high gear. The people who weren't meditating were doing complex looking stretches and backbends, calmly twisting this way and that. I felt defensive. I was thinking that if I'm going to do yoga, I need to find a low rent YMCA somewhere.
This defensiveness had been brewing since I'd left my home, when I put on baggy sweats and Matthew's metal band hoodie over my tight yoga gear and pronounced, "I am NOT wearing yoga clothes in public!" and "I will NOT get smoothies at Whole Foods after my yoga class!" Even though I love smoothies and have been eating one a day lately and certainly no one was ordering me to do anything.
THEY ARE NOT KIDDING ABOUT THE HOT
The class started with a series of breathing exercises. I don't know if it was just the hotness of the room or that I haven't exercised in a long time but I got really lightheaded and almost passed out. I opened my eyes as wide as possible because I felt like if I blinked I'd fall over and I concentrated on staring at myself in the mirror. I know they told me to lie down if I needed to, but the class started TWO MINUTES AGO. I have pride.
I made it through and sweated a river for an hour and half. I did lie down several times later in the class, my ankles wobbled, my knees cracked, and I had to do a lot of peeping to follow along with the others but the instructor was nice. There weren't many moments when it felt good per se, but I was able to imagine that it might feel better if I stick with it more than I have historically. At the end, we laid on our backs in the darkened room while someone walked around, sticking cold lavender-scented hand towels in our hands. I took that sucker, draped it over my face, and fully accepted the instructor's invitation to stay there as long as I needed to. Eventually I sat up, wiped off all the orange blanket fuzz that was coating my sticky skin and tried not to think too hard about the next nine times.
When I found out the yoga studio was in Brentwood, I grimaced. I was quickly given shit and reminded that Brentwood is only 20 minutes away. Because I've gotten used to the accessibility of my neighborhood in East Nashville and because I don't like cars, driving, or rush hour, to me Brentwood is psychologically much further away but I relented because I felt like I was being a dick and that, I'm guessing, is not what yoga is about.
Nicki told me that I needed to bring a bath towel, water, and to arrive a half hour early. The class started at 4:30; I left home at 3:00. Lest you think I was being jumpy and neurotic, I'll tell you that it took me 20 minutes just to get to the right highway because Nashville traffic can be awful. I know people from bigger cities go, "You call that traffic? I'll show you traffic!" and get all proud of how terrible they have it but I disagree. The roads here can't support the number of cars on them and it makes everyone standstill on a regular basis. Standing still is great when you are in a yoga class trying to follow your instructor's order to be the tree, not so great when three highways are narrowing to two lanes and miles of red brake lights.
Example: Interstate traffic was so slow on my way to yoga that a man selling The Contributor newspaper chose to sell from where the on-ramp meets the merging lane because cars were creeping along slowly enough to stop and hand him a buck.
Example: I was going slowly enough to snap photos of stopped cars to text to Matthew, "So fucking relaxing!" even though I don't believe in texting while driving.
OFF TO A GREAT START
I finally made it to 65 South and picked up speed. That's when I realized that I forgot to bring a towel and water. I had a brand new yoga mat I bought at Target and an athletic tank top compressing my midsection JUST IN CASE I got ballsy in yoga and tried to stand on my head and didn't want my shirt to fly up. Looking back, this was a precaution I need not have worried about.
Ah well, I thought, I'm still early enough that I'll find the studio and I should still have enough time to stop somewhere and pick up a towel and water. It's the suburbs, there will be shopping centers. Once I located Fahrenheit Yoga, I pulled into a parking lot and searched nearby stores. There was a Target but even closer, there was a Publix supermarket. I thought about the Kroger by our house, the one we casually refer to as "murder Kroger" where there's always a changing miscellaneous section that sells random crap like towels.
This Brentwood Publix was not murder Kroger. I walked the aisles quickly, running out of time, looking for towels. When it became clear there were none, I noticed every item with absorbent properties and imagined different scenarios: showing up for yoga with a bag of cotton balls, wiping my forehead with Pampers, covering my mat with paper napkins. Dang it. Then I saw the blankets and knew I was bringing an orange fleece blanket to hot yoga.
WHAT A GREAT DEAL
The woman behind the front desk at the studio asked if I'm Jessica and informed me that since I'm a new student, I get a starting deal of 10 classes for $10. I'd paid $20 online for one class which seemed STEEP so it was cool to hear that I was now getting a price that was 20 times better but it meant I needed to come nine more times to make it work. Fahrenheit Yoga is so sneaky already, trying to trick me out of quitting right away. If they think that money is the way to make a "This hurts, I'm stopping" person into a "No pain, no gain" person, well, in my case they are right.
I was given a tour and instructions: if I feel lightheaded I am to lie down with my feet toward the wall and head toward the mirror and I was to put my "towel" over my mat. I laid my fleece blanket over my mat, giving the impression that I had arrived not to get all centered and whatnot but to have a picnic. Back in the locker room, I overheard a girl telling her friend that she lies on her stomach and meditates while waiting for the instructor to arrive. And I may be wrong but then it sounded like she also made fun of someone's blanket. The combination of the locker room setting and the fact that I showed up with funny looking stuff is giving me flashbacks to the first day of seventh grade and my goofy tie-dyed shorts.
Upon returning to the studio I laid on my stomach as if to meditate but I really just checked out everyone as they come in. To my mind, the other students were all perfect; my inferiority complex was kicking into high gear. The people who weren't meditating were doing complex looking stretches and backbends, calmly twisting this way and that. I felt defensive. I was thinking that if I'm going to do yoga, I need to find a low rent YMCA somewhere.
This defensiveness had been brewing since I'd left my home, when I put on baggy sweats and Matthew's metal band hoodie over my tight yoga gear and pronounced, "I am NOT wearing yoga clothes in public!" and "I will NOT get smoothies at Whole Foods after my yoga class!" Even though I love smoothies and have been eating one a day lately and certainly no one was ordering me to do anything.
THEY ARE NOT KIDDING ABOUT THE HOT
The class started with a series of breathing exercises. I don't know if it was just the hotness of the room or that I haven't exercised in a long time but I got really lightheaded and almost passed out. I opened my eyes as wide as possible because I felt like if I blinked I'd fall over and I concentrated on staring at myself in the mirror. I know they told me to lie down if I needed to, but the class started TWO MINUTES AGO. I have pride.
I made it through and sweated a river for an hour and half. I did lie down several times later in the class, my ankles wobbled, my knees cracked, and I had to do a lot of peeping to follow along with the others but the instructor was nice. There weren't many moments when it felt good per se, but I was able to imagine that it might feel better if I stick with it more than I have historically. At the end, we laid on our backs in the darkened room while someone walked around, sticking cold lavender-scented hand towels in our hands. I took that sucker, draped it over my face, and fully accepted the instructor's invitation to stay there as long as I needed to. Eventually I sat up, wiped off all the orange blanket fuzz that was coating my sticky skin and tried not to think too hard about the next nine times.
3.17.2012
37
I was totally going to keep it on the down low that yesterday was my birthday. Matthew pointed out that since I'm back on Facebook that might be hard (good point) but he didn't tell me that he'd already texted Rob because Rob would NOT miss the chance to embarrass me. Nothing embarrassing to a normal person happened but since I'm bashful about being born, it was plenty: everyone I work with pretended like they didn't know all day until they'd gotten a chance to buy cake and balloons and when I was lured onto the bus by someone who acted like she was upset and needed to talk, I climbed aboard holding a case of spring water only to be met by everyone singing and laughing at me. Then I tried to blow out the trick candles and wished I'd showered or changed my clothes from the night before since I was being filmed. It was super sweet.
The night before, as we were driving to Wichita, I talked to Sara on the phone because her birthday is the day before mine. We always laugh about her idea that even if birthdays don't seem like a big deal, there might be a tiny part of us that is disappointed when there isn't a parade in our honor and that the Mayor doesn't declare some sort of holiday. She called a few minutes before midnight and said that we should always talk to each other during the transition from March 15 to 16 and pass her birthday off to mine. "Your float is slowing down and dropping to the back of the parade and mine is taking the lead," I said to her. "Shit, I think your float just crashed into the bleachers." She disagreed and said her float parked safely so we argued about that for awhile.
My birthday ended up being a very busy, very hectic day. After things calmed down around dinnertime, I finally made it inside to the locker room to take a shower. I took a second to check Facebook and saw all the messages from friends so I took a few photos of myself to post on FB and say thanks. Someone asked me if I'd had a good birthday and I said, "Yeah, it wasn't bad. It was good." I've had worse. The Maryland potato chip debacle and the three-hour flat on the side of the highway spring to mind.
Patton Oswalt's take on why we should only celebrate 20 birthdays per lifetime here.
The night before, as we were driving to Wichita, I talked to Sara on the phone because her birthday is the day before mine. We always laugh about her idea that even if birthdays don't seem like a big deal, there might be a tiny part of us that is disappointed when there isn't a parade in our honor and that the Mayor doesn't declare some sort of holiday. She called a few minutes before midnight and said that we should always talk to each other during the transition from March 15 to 16 and pass her birthday off to mine. "Your float is slowing down and dropping to the back of the parade and mine is taking the lead," I said to her. "Shit, I think your float just crashed into the bleachers." She disagreed and said her float parked safely so we argued about that for awhile.
My birthday ended up being a very busy, very hectic day. After things calmed down around dinnertime, I finally made it inside to the locker room to take a shower. I took a second to check Facebook and saw all the messages from friends so I took a few photos of myself to post on FB and say thanks. Someone asked me if I'd had a good birthday and I said, "Yeah, it wasn't bad. It was good." I've had worse. The Maryland potato chip debacle and the three-hour flat on the side of the highway spring to mind.
Patton Oswalt's take on why we should only celebrate 20 birthdays per lifetime here.
2.16.2012
A love letter
It's been really hard to be a good friend lately. For months I've been busy traveling and working away from home on a level that I wouldn't think possible to sustain but I'm doing it. We're getting by. When I'm actually home I try to relish each moment but still get caught in front of the computer, settling the past week and setting up the next. I recently fell asleep on the new couch, curled up with Matthew and Patsy, our arms crossed over each other, noses tucked underneath shoulders. When I awoke, groggy, I thought, this is exactly what I've been craving, a family puppy pile.
At home my priority is those two and I do my best to pay attention. Then I try to call my parents. I reach out to my friends but it's been hit or miss and that hurts because in many ways my friends have been the most important thing in my life. I don't think I would have survived to now without them. Yeah, you guys have made me laugh a lot but SURVIVAL, YO. The concurrent shift to a marriage I love, with Matthew both as husband and friend, and a job that is wonderfully rewarding but as consuming as it gets is a delicate balance in and of itself. Eking out hours for myself is tricky. I get so mentally exhausted that at the end of the day, I can't always speak to the world outside of my four walls; all I can do is Netflix or read fiction before falling asleep, usually before the end of the program or chapter. Giving as I should to everyone is impossible right now. I can't explain in any interesting manner the way my hours and days unfold. The only person who really, reeeeally knows is Matthew; he sees it when I'm home and hears it when I'm away. He understands how happy I get when I feel I'm doing it all well and witnesses my tears of frustration when I'm not. He tells me I'm being too hard on myself and I say that's easier said than done.
A few weeks ago Sara wrote and asked if I had any photos of us out in New York with her uncle Jimmy. It must have been 2003 when we went drinking and dancing with Jimmy, known to us also as "Tito" and "Charlie". I think I called him Tito the most and he calls me "The Rev". That night, St. Patrick's, we went to an Irish pub and then to another Irish pub where we danced salsa with junior firefighters under green shamrock garland and Sara and I shook a leg with a little old couple whose collective age was right around 170 years. Tito is fighting cancer now and Sara wanted to show him those photos if I still had them. It would bring him joy, she said. That night was one of his favorites. I wrote back and asked her to send him love from The Rev and told her that the photos were still in a shipping container in Nashville but that as soon as we moved in Feb 1 and unpacked, I'd find them. When I finally dug them out, these flimsy scans of xeroxed copies, two dogeared images from a great night almost ten years ago and sent them to Sara, she was sitting with Tito, watching the Super Bowl.
I think Sara's been on an old photo kick because around the same time that she asked for the New York photos, she sent a link to a group of us who all went to school together and met in Ecuador in 1997, a link to a website that contained incriminating shots of all of us in South America. Doing drugs? Naw, though I did spot evidence of drinking beer on the roof of a moving train. The main offense, in my opinion, was our egregious choice of pants. Our jeans were nipple-skimmers. And huge. I do recall my Ecuadorian boyfriend telling me that my clothes were too floja: literally "lazy". "What is he talking about?" I wondered at the time. But the first photo I saw of myself, slick with Amazonian sweat, inspired me to shriek to Matthew, "My jeans! I look like I have a dick!"
I was not alone.
The photos from Ecuador made me stop for a minute and think about the last 15 years, about how I got from this hill outside Baños to where I am now.
I found photos I took of Sara the last time I saw her in New York six months ago and thought of how much her life too has changed since 1997. Change is to be expected, right? I love change with all my heart. That's not news here. We act the same together now as then: killing some wine or ill-advised shot before having a serious conversation, asking each other what is this like for you? What do you think about that? What does it mean? Right before laughing like stupid asses and smirking over someone's shoulder. Note: we both smirked a lot over one another's shoulder at the audience when we officiated each others' weddings.
I don't feel like I'm losing anything or anybody being so absent right now, I just miss people and parts of myself. Matthew supports me and my work, my friends and parents give me a hard time now and again but know that I haven't disappeared for no good reason. I have reasons even if they aren't always fully understood. I just never want my life to narrow, I want it always broad and full of many people and many interests. I want the people I love to feel it deeply and not just believe it because I tell them. I want my friends to know I'm thinking about them so often, because I am. I want lots more photos 15 years from now. I want to curl up and fall asleep on the couch with Matthew and Patsy, our arms crossed over each other, noses tucked underneath shoulders.
At home my priority is those two and I do my best to pay attention. Then I try to call my parents. I reach out to my friends but it's been hit or miss and that hurts because in many ways my friends have been the most important thing in my life. I don't think I would have survived to now without them. Yeah, you guys have made me laugh a lot but SURVIVAL, YO. The concurrent shift to a marriage I love, with Matthew both as husband and friend, and a job that is wonderfully rewarding but as consuming as it gets is a delicate balance in and of itself. Eking out hours for myself is tricky. I get so mentally exhausted that at the end of the day, I can't always speak to the world outside of my four walls; all I can do is Netflix or read fiction before falling asleep, usually before the end of the program or chapter. Giving as I should to everyone is impossible right now. I can't explain in any interesting manner the way my hours and days unfold. The only person who really, reeeeally knows is Matthew; he sees it when I'm home and hears it when I'm away. He understands how happy I get when I feel I'm doing it all well and witnesses my tears of frustration when I'm not. He tells me I'm being too hard on myself and I say that's easier said than done.
A few weeks ago Sara wrote and asked if I had any photos of us out in New York with her uncle Jimmy. It must have been 2003 when we went drinking and dancing with Jimmy, known to us also as "Tito" and "Charlie". I think I called him Tito the most and he calls me "The Rev". That night, St. Patrick's, we went to an Irish pub and then to another Irish pub where we danced salsa with junior firefighters under green shamrock garland and Sara and I shook a leg with a little old couple whose collective age was right around 170 years. Tito is fighting cancer now and Sara wanted to show him those photos if I still had them. It would bring him joy, she said. That night was one of his favorites. I wrote back and asked her to send him love from The Rev and told her that the photos were still in a shipping container in Nashville but that as soon as we moved in Feb 1 and unpacked, I'd find them. When I finally dug them out, these flimsy scans of xeroxed copies, two dogeared images from a great night almost ten years ago and sent them to Sara, she was sitting with Tito, watching the Super Bowl.
I think Sara's been on an old photo kick because around the same time that she asked for the New York photos, she sent a link to a group of us who all went to school together and met in Ecuador in 1997, a link to a website that contained incriminating shots of all of us in South America. Doing drugs? Naw, though I did spot evidence of drinking beer on the roof of a moving train. The main offense, in my opinion, was our egregious choice of pants. Our jeans were nipple-skimmers. And huge. I do recall my Ecuadorian boyfriend telling me that my clothes were too floja: literally "lazy". "What is he talking about?" I wondered at the time. But the first photo I saw of myself, slick with Amazonian sweat, inspired me to shriek to Matthew, "My jeans! I look like I have a dick!"
I was not alone.
The photos from Ecuador made me stop for a minute and think about the last 15 years, about how I got from this hill outside Baños to where I am now.
I found photos I took of Sara the last time I saw her in New York six months ago and thought of how much her life too has changed since 1997. Change is to be expected, right? I love change with all my heart. That's not news here. We act the same together now as then: killing some wine or ill-advised shot before having a serious conversation, asking each other what is this like for you? What do you think about that? What does it mean? Right before laughing like stupid asses and smirking over someone's shoulder. Note: we both smirked a lot over one another's shoulder at the audience when we officiated each others' weddings.
I don't feel like I'm losing anything or anybody being so absent right now, I just miss people and parts of myself. Matthew supports me and my work, my friends and parents give me a hard time now and again but know that I haven't disappeared for no good reason. I have reasons even if they aren't always fully understood. I just never want my life to narrow, I want it always broad and full of many people and many interests. I want the people I love to feel it deeply and not just believe it because I tell them. I want my friends to know I'm thinking about them so often, because I am. I want lots more photos 15 years from now. I want to curl up and fall asleep on the couch with Matthew and Patsy, our arms crossed over each other, noses tucked underneath shoulders.
1.22.2012
12.20.2011
Preparedness
"Oh my god, are there people in there?" We were driving east on I-40 just past Barstow, CA and to the right of the highway down an embankment was a smoking car turned upside down, a man running towards it. I slowed down as quickly as I could and pulled over to the shoulder. Matthew jumped out of the passenger door and began running. I backed the car along the shoulder, grabbed our phones, locked the doors and ran as well. I slid down the brush and gravel hill and when I got closer heard the man ask Matthew if he had a knife. Matthew pulled his Kershaw out of his pocket and handed it to him. I saw a woman's legs and heard her screaming. A boy of eight or nine was out of the car, standing about ten feet away, shaking and staring at the car, now on fire. Matthew and the man cut seat belts and pulled the baby and little girl through the windows. I put my arm over the boy's shoulder and across his chest and felt his heart racing. "They're getting out honey, it'll be okay."
Their mom was finally cut free and pulled out. A truck driver arrived with a fire extinguisher and the fire in the front and back of the car was doused. The family was banged up and cut and the mom was stumbling and wailing, "What happened? What happened?" She held her baby and looked at the car in shock and cried. She had no idea how her car had sailed off the highway and down the hill but a driver behind them saw the car swerve left, then right, and then was gone. The mom must have fallen asleep. She was moving to Chicago, driving her kids alone, and didn't get very far. Other cars stopped and more people helped with ice packs and water and pulled the family's suitcases over for the kids to sit on. They wrapped the kids in blankets and talked to them. Someone with OnStar called down the hill to tell us that the police and ambulance knew where we were and were on the way.
The first policewoman arrived and one of the bystanders filled her in on the kids' contusions and abrasions. I wished I were a nurse and knew words like contusion and was doing more than just rubbing the mom's legs and reminding her that her babies were safe. When more police showed up we felt in the way so we thanked the men we were standing with and went back to our car. As I drove away, I couldn't turn the music back on and I couldn't stop thinking about those children. They were so quiet; their mom was the only one making any noise. Were they okay? Was more wrong with them that we couldn't see? I couldn't stop thinking about how much worse it could have been: it might have happened on a less busy road with no witnesses. It could have happened after dark. The car could have gone to the left and into oncoming traffic. They could have not been wearing seat belts. The fire might have kept burning. Matthew might not have had a knife in his pocket. They could have easily lost their lives.
"Thank god you had your knife." They were stuck in there. "I'm a believer, I have to learn to use my knife now." #46 on my life list is to learn to open and close my switchblade properly. I put that on the list out of embarrassment, because I've had it for over a year and still feel like I'm going to injure myself every time I pick it up. I think it's funny to laugh at Matthew when he whips his knife out of his pocket to open a lollipop or a banana but I suddenly get it. Also, the AAA first aid kit I keep in the trunk is useless. I dabbed the baby's bloody nose with the tiny square of gauze in the kit and that was that. We already have two flashlights in the car and I keep a small one in my shoulder bag. I want to get more gauze, ace bandages, rubbing alcohol and blankets for the trunk. Maybe a glass breaker? Basically I want to become a first responder because I tend to take things too far. I hope the family is okay.
Their mom was finally cut free and pulled out. A truck driver arrived with a fire extinguisher and the fire in the front and back of the car was doused. The family was banged up and cut and the mom was stumbling and wailing, "What happened? What happened?" She held her baby and looked at the car in shock and cried. She had no idea how her car had sailed off the highway and down the hill but a driver behind them saw the car swerve left, then right, and then was gone. The mom must have fallen asleep. She was moving to Chicago, driving her kids alone, and didn't get very far. Other cars stopped and more people helped with ice packs and water and pulled the family's suitcases over for the kids to sit on. They wrapped the kids in blankets and talked to them. Someone with OnStar called down the hill to tell us that the police and ambulance knew where we were and were on the way.
The first policewoman arrived and one of the bystanders filled her in on the kids' contusions and abrasions. I wished I were a nurse and knew words like contusion and was doing more than just rubbing the mom's legs and reminding her that her babies were safe. When more police showed up we felt in the way so we thanked the men we were standing with and went back to our car. As I drove away, I couldn't turn the music back on and I couldn't stop thinking about those children. They were so quiet; their mom was the only one making any noise. Were they okay? Was more wrong with them that we couldn't see? I couldn't stop thinking about how much worse it could have been: it might have happened on a less busy road with no witnesses. It could have happened after dark. The car could have gone to the left and into oncoming traffic. They could have not been wearing seat belts. The fire might have kept burning. Matthew might not have had a knife in his pocket. They could have easily lost their lives.
"Thank god you had your knife." They were stuck in there. "I'm a believer, I have to learn to use my knife now." #46 on my life list is to learn to open and close my switchblade properly. I put that on the list out of embarrassment, because I've had it for over a year and still feel like I'm going to injure myself every time I pick it up. I think it's funny to laugh at Matthew when he whips his knife out of his pocket to open a lollipop or a banana but I suddenly get it. Also, the AAA first aid kit I keep in the trunk is useless. I dabbed the baby's bloody nose with the tiny square of gauze in the kit and that was that. We already have two flashlights in the car and I keep a small one in my shoulder bag. I want to get more gauze, ace bandages, rubbing alcohol and blankets for the trunk. Maybe a glass breaker? Basically I want to become a first responder because I tend to take things too far. I hope the family is okay.
12.16.2011
Henna #4
I just had my fourth run-in with Lush henna and the first was in April so I'm looking at doing this process on my hair every two months until I say eff it and go grey. HMMMM. That is a bit more often than I'd like but I'm still digging the outcome, all natural looking and earthy and non-toxic, so be it. This time I mixed half a bar of caca rouge (red), half a caca brun (dark brown), and a whole caca marron (chesnut). I'm getting better at the application - boiling, grating, mixing, slopping - though it still looks, and always will I suspect, like a baby escaped its diaper and crapped all over the counter. I have now instituted a "dance once it's on" step and when the caca has been combed through and has started to harden into a helmut, I do a few moves to celebrate before getting to the business of hanging out in a shower cap for seven hours.
12.09.2011
11.02.2011
charity: water
One of the things I'm doing to prepare for Camp Mighty is represent for my team, Team Two (woop!), in fundraising for charity: water. Each group's goal is $200 per person or $5,000 total. There are four groups so we are aiming to raise $20,000 before Camp Mighty even starts. Nifty, huh?
Please read below, watch the video and consider donating here. If you donate, please mention my name in the comment section. If you're in Oceanside, CA this weekend maybe I'll see you on the bike path as I will be channeling my inner 8-year-old and will be selling water and snacks and generally chatting it up on behalf of charity: water.
100% of your donation will directly fund freshwater projects in developing nations and every dollar raised is tracked to a water project.
charity: water focuses on life’s most basic need -- water. Water affects everything: education, health, poverty, and especially women and children.
One billion people live without clean drinking water all over world. Diseases from unsafe water and lack of basic sanitation kill more people every year than all forms of violence, including war.
Women and children usually bear the burden of water collection, walking miles to the nearest source, which is unprotected and likely to make them sick. Clean water nearby means more than safe drinking water; it means time, freedom and incentive to change communities.
When a water project is built in a community, members can often use the new water source to grow small gardens near their homes and secure their own food supply. Self-sufficient households are less affected by external conflict, famine or inadequate government services.
charity: water served its first one million people at the end of 2009. By 2050, the world's population is estimated to grow by three billion and 90% of this growth will be in the developing world. Unless sustainable water solutions are scaled fast, regions already stressed for safe water sources will be over capacity. We’re expanding our reach to meet these demands and will not stop until every person has safe water to drink.
And thank you...x
Please read below, watch the video and consider donating here. If you donate, please mention my name in the comment section. If you're in Oceanside, CA this weekend maybe I'll see you on the bike path as I will be channeling my inner 8-year-old and will be selling water and snacks and generally chatting it up on behalf of charity: water.
100% of your donation will directly fund freshwater projects in developing nations and every dollar raised is tracked to a water project.
charity: water focuses on life’s most basic need -- water. Water affects everything: education, health, poverty, and especially women and children.
One billion people live without clean drinking water all over world. Diseases from unsafe water and lack of basic sanitation kill more people every year than all forms of violence, including war.
Women and children usually bear the burden of water collection, walking miles to the nearest source, which is unprotected and likely to make them sick. Clean water nearby means more than safe drinking water; it means time, freedom and incentive to change communities.
When a water project is built in a community, members can often use the new water source to grow small gardens near their homes and secure their own food supply. Self-sufficient households are less affected by external conflict, famine or inadequate government services.
charity: water served its first one million people at the end of 2009. By 2050, the world's population is estimated to grow by three billion and 90% of this growth will be in the developing world. Unless sustainable water solutions are scaled fast, regions already stressed for safe water sources will be over capacity. We’re expanding our reach to meet these demands and will not stop until every person has safe water to drink.
Water Changes Everything. from charity: water on Vimeo.
And thank you...x
10.29.2011
I'm going to Camp Mighty
I've worked on the American Idol tour for the past seven summers and had plentiful good times but I also missed a lot: a Bronx summer reevaluating my life and possibly my decision to quit my publishing job, a Columbus summer with Bova flowing with gin & tonics, laughter, and solitude (I used to sit in his living room and underline A LOT of philosophy), a summer in LA which would have hastened an inevitable break up, a couple of summers in Kentucky with Matthew and all the backyard parties and cut off jean shorts that entails (apparently no slim figure) and finally, I missed BlogHer conferences.
I've read accounts of BlogHer with envy, nice I want to be your friend envy, not mean I want what you have and would poke you in your eye to get it envy, but envy nonetheless. Each summer I'd become immersed in my job, stepping far away from my blog and feeling like I was starting over each September. I always wished I was going to BlogHer to meet all the smart ladies I lurk about online but instead I was on a midnight bus to Tulsa eating string cheese and drinking a Bud Light.
When Maggie Mason and Laura Mayes announced Camp Mighty, I was thrilled. It's in November and therefore not summer, it's in Palm Springs so I can drive, and that's all it took. I signed on immediately.
This summer I was offered a job tour managing promo for one of the Idols' new albums and I took the job on the condition that I had certain dates off, like Nov 10 - 12. It's been tricky trying to do everything well at once - do well in my relationship even though I'm not home much, do well in my job because I have pride and care about the people I'm working for, and do well creatively. It hurts to write this next sentence but, ah well, I think it's true: because I'm not getting paid for being creative and being married, I think those areas are taking the biggest hits right now. I will smile through bloodshot eyes to make sure I get my job done but I'm not writing much and no amount of phone calls a day are equal to the simply being next to someone you love.
Nov 10 - 12 is creeping up and I'm starting to feel like Camp Mighty has jungle eyes. Yeah, I'm likening drinking a poolside cocktail at the Ace Hotel to a panther staring at me through the pitch, eyes glassy and reflective. I have to prepare! I'm on a team and we are raising money for charity: water, a non-profit that brings clean drinking water to people in developing nations. And by we I mean they because I've done fuck all. My personal Charity Water brainstorm session starts Sunday when I'm hanging out in Nashville with Matthew, my last show of the week completed.
I'm also in process of writing my Life List of 100 things I want to accomplish with relish. Big, small, and medium-sized, these are the items on my bucket list that I need to have noted and ready to dissect for Camp Mighty. Sounds fun? It is. And hard. I had no idea. I've worked on it mainly on planes this last week and it's finally getting up there; I think I'm at #84.
I've read accounts of BlogHer with envy, nice I want to be your friend envy, not mean I want what you have and would poke you in your eye to get it envy, but envy nonetheless. Each summer I'd become immersed in my job, stepping far away from my blog and feeling like I was starting over each September. I always wished I was going to BlogHer to meet all the smart ladies I lurk about online but instead I was on a midnight bus to Tulsa eating string cheese and drinking a Bud Light.
When Maggie Mason and Laura Mayes announced Camp Mighty, I was thrilled. It's in November and therefore not summer, it's in Palm Springs so I can drive, and that's all it took. I signed on immediately.
This summer I was offered a job tour managing promo for one of the Idols' new albums and I took the job on the condition that I had certain dates off, like Nov 10 - 12. It's been tricky trying to do everything well at once - do well in my relationship even though I'm not home much, do well in my job because I have pride and care about the people I'm working for, and do well creatively. It hurts to write this next sentence but, ah well, I think it's true: because I'm not getting paid for being creative and being married, I think those areas are taking the biggest hits right now. I will smile through bloodshot eyes to make sure I get my job done but I'm not writing much and no amount of phone calls a day are equal to the simply being next to someone you love.
Nov 10 - 12 is creeping up and I'm starting to feel like Camp Mighty has jungle eyes. Yeah, I'm likening drinking a poolside cocktail at the Ace Hotel to a panther staring at me through the pitch, eyes glassy and reflective. I have to prepare! I'm on a team and we are raising money for charity: water, a non-profit that brings clean drinking water to people in developing nations. And by we I mean they because I've done fuck all. My personal Charity Water brainstorm session starts Sunday when I'm hanging out in Nashville with Matthew, my last show of the week completed.
I'm also in process of writing my Life List of 100 things I want to accomplish with relish. Big, small, and medium-sized, these are the items on my bucket list that I need to have noted and ready to dissect for Camp Mighty. Sounds fun? It is. And hard. I had no idea. I've worked on it mainly on planes this last week and it's finally getting up there; I think I'm at #84.
10.11.2011
Going away
Sunny, Mandy, and I have always talked about going away together. We used to imagine a garret apartment in Paris where we would live poverty-stricken, adventurous lives and would know when not to enter our shared flat due to the colored bandana-over-the-doorknob system that told when one of us had a boy over. I love that we never imagined enough money to have our own space; it was always small and close. When Sunny and I met Mandy in junior high, we started sneaking out of our homes and trying to get in trouble.
I think we were all impatient for MORE: more age and freedom and independence. I know that more than anything, I craved experience. I wanted to rack up experiences like bright beads and wear them as a necklace, a hemp necklace. (It was the 90s). I thought about other girls I knew who followed rules better, many of whom I liked and were my friends but who I didn't necessarily feel as inspired by because they weren't as daring. I thought I'd rather question everything and make mistakes and learn my own way. I remember thinking, "I'd want my child to be this way."
This past weekend, Sunny, Mandy and I finally went away together to Union Pier, on Lake Michigan, with their girls Freddie Jane and Sarah Grace, aged 2-and-a-half and 2 years old.
Photo: Sunny Neater-Dubow
It was nuts in a really calming, wine-drinking, walk to the beach sort of way. In some ways I still see our cravings, the more-more-more thirst for whatever it is we want and in others a bizarrely complementary patience reigns. Slow to marry and mate, their babies are so young and we are all still young enough yet we're 20 years removed from our Paris dream, a dream that specifically wasn't important. None of us had a great love for the French, we just wanted to be out in the world. And we all got into it in our own way.
Photo: Sunny Neater-Dubow
I know that I'm old enough to be slightly terrified at the idea of all of the above: having kids, not having kids, having my kids be like me. When I was younger, I was glad I was so moody, petulant, and pissed off because I thought that meant I was thinking. Now I'm also glad I got out of a lot of scrapes in one piece because that thinking led me down some dark alleys.
I can't look at these little girls and wish dark alleys upon them for the sake of knowledge. I wish them confidence, joy, and curiosity. I watch them run around in circles, laughing and egging each other on and wonder if they'll get along when they're older. I think it's important that they see us make time for each other so that they'll value friendship. We laugh about how they might turn into princess-cheerleaders, so different than we were but we'll quell the cringe and love that about them, too.
I watched Mandy and Sunny sit on the floor and change their daughters into pajamas. Mandy passed a diaper to Sunny and I almost laughed by how similar they still looked to their high school selves, right down to their clothing. Everything has changed, and nothing.
I think we were all impatient for MORE: more age and freedom and independence. I know that more than anything, I craved experience. I wanted to rack up experiences like bright beads and wear them as a necklace, a hemp necklace. (It was the 90s). I thought about other girls I knew who followed rules better, many of whom I liked and were my friends but who I didn't necessarily feel as inspired by because they weren't as daring. I thought I'd rather question everything and make mistakes and learn my own way. I remember thinking, "I'd want my child to be this way."
This past weekend, Sunny, Mandy and I finally went away together to Union Pier, on Lake Michigan, with their girls Freddie Jane and Sarah Grace, aged 2-and-a-half and 2 years old.
It was nuts in a really calming, wine-drinking, walk to the beach sort of way. In some ways I still see our cravings, the more-more-more thirst for whatever it is we want and in others a bizarrely complementary patience reigns. Slow to marry and mate, their babies are so young and we are all still young enough yet we're 20 years removed from our Paris dream, a dream that specifically wasn't important. None of us had a great love for the French, we just wanted to be out in the world. And we all got into it in our own way.
I know that I'm old enough to be slightly terrified at the idea of all of the above: having kids, not having kids, having my kids be like me. When I was younger, I was glad I was so moody, petulant, and pissed off because I thought that meant I was thinking. Now I'm also glad I got out of a lot of scrapes in one piece because that thinking led me down some dark alleys.
I can't look at these little girls and wish dark alleys upon them for the sake of knowledge. I wish them confidence, joy, and curiosity. I watch them run around in circles, laughing and egging each other on and wonder if they'll get along when they're older. I think it's important that they see us make time for each other so that they'll value friendship. We laugh about how they might turn into princess-cheerleaders, so different than we were but we'll quell the cringe and love that about them, too.
I watched Mandy and Sunny sit on the floor and change their daughters into pajamas. Mandy passed a diaper to Sunny and I almost laughed by how similar they still looked to their high school selves, right down to their clothing. Everything has changed, and nothing.
10.08.2011
A. Skate
Full disclosure: Despite all my talk of skating and the fact that I have my own board and there's a small colony of skateboards leaning up against the wall at my front door, I skated a total of ONE TIME this summer. ONE WONDERFUL, GLORIOUS TIME.
I've regretted the fact that I talked so much about skating before tour because by August I couldn't stop thinking what if I break my hands if I skate on a day off? How will I type and do my job with broken hands? Somehow I imagined a cast extensive enough to require a little stilt between my torso and arm. It was a bad break, bad enough to break both arms along with my hands. Really bad.
My one skate was in Salt Lake at the very beginning of the summer during rehearsals. I was walking around the city with Neil Wilson and we spotted a deserted parking garage underneath an apartment building. I scooted around and leaned this way and that and took a few turns and was pretty pleased with myself. Nothing fancy but it felt like a solid start.
For the rest of summer I was harassed by Neil Rinden and Tyler, both of whom would ask me periodically how my skating was going and then make fun of me for being a poser. Neil Rinden was particularly relentless and kept asking to see my wheels to which I kept giving him the finger. Finally, on the second-to-last show day he said that we had to do a photo shoot of me "tearing it up." Sure, I said, no problem.
I forgot, though, how crazy the last show day is. There is so much to wrap up and close out and take care of and it's one of those days where I want to be sentimental and thank everyone personally from the bottom of my heart for all their hard work but I end up resorting to Lamaze breathing to try to calm the fuck down and at best manage to share a few beers in the parking lot after load out.
When I saw Neil in the dressing room corridor that day he said, "Roncker, get your board out!" and I distinctly remember replying simply, "NO," over my shoulder as we passed. The photos didn't happen, the wheels still look new and I still can't skate very well but I still think it looks fun especially now that I'm less worried about the repercussions of being in a body cast.
But what I really wanted to tell you to check out is this: A.skate, a nonprofit for autistic kids.
Children with autism often struggle with the ability to follow directions, play on a team due to the lack of social skills, and many require activities to be performed on their own terms.
Autism, like skateboarding, can be unpredictable and often times unruly. We embrace the parts of autism that are hard to understand and give these kids an outlet that is free of rules or judgment, and allows them to be social without being “social”.
How cool is that?
I've regretted the fact that I talked so much about skating before tour because by August I couldn't stop thinking what if I break my hands if I skate on a day off? How will I type and do my job with broken hands? Somehow I imagined a cast extensive enough to require a little stilt between my torso and arm. It was a bad break, bad enough to break both arms along with my hands. Really bad.
My one skate was in Salt Lake at the very beginning of the summer during rehearsals. I was walking around the city with Neil Wilson and we spotted a deserted parking garage underneath an apartment building. I scooted around and leaned this way and that and took a few turns and was pretty pleased with myself. Nothing fancy but it felt like a solid start.
For the rest of summer I was harassed by Neil Rinden and Tyler, both of whom would ask me periodically how my skating was going and then make fun of me for being a poser. Neil Rinden was particularly relentless and kept asking to see my wheels to which I kept giving him the finger. Finally, on the second-to-last show day he said that we had to do a photo shoot of me "tearing it up." Sure, I said, no problem.
I forgot, though, how crazy the last show day is. There is so much to wrap up and close out and take care of and it's one of those days where I want to be sentimental and thank everyone personally from the bottom of my heart for all their hard work but I end up resorting to Lamaze breathing to try to calm the fuck down and at best manage to share a few beers in the parking lot after load out.
When I saw Neil in the dressing room corridor that day he said, "Roncker, get your board out!" and I distinctly remember replying simply, "NO," over my shoulder as we passed. The photos didn't happen, the wheels still look new and I still can't skate very well but I still think it looks fun especially now that I'm less worried about the repercussions of being in a body cast.
But what I really wanted to tell you to check out is this: A.skate, a nonprofit for autistic kids.
Children with autism often struggle with the ability to follow directions, play on a team due to the lack of social skills, and many require activities to be performed on their own terms.
Autism, like skateboarding, can be unpredictable and often times unruly. We embrace the parts of autism that are hard to understand and give these kids an outlet that is free of rules or judgment, and allows them to be social without being “social”.
How cool is that?
9.27.2011
Lush henna - After
Several people asked for after photos from my recent Henna session so yesterday I obliged and stood in the mirror mugging myself for a few too many minutes. It was further proof of why I'll never be a style blogger. It is so hard for me not to look crazed, goofy or cross-eyed in photos. Ignore my face and focus on the hair color, thanks! This hue brought to you by two blocks of Caca Marron and one Caca Rouge.
9.08.2011
Lush henna
You know what's really interesting? MY HAIR.
I cut it and dye it and generally mess with it so much that I end up spending a lot of time in awkward stages of growing it out. If I could stick with a hairstyle, I would look more polished overall and less like George Washington or a medieval page. But I bore easily so, oh well.
My objective at the moment is to let my hair be itself...mostly. I'm done with the blow drying and flat ironing regularly; my hair curls and flips and acts out and I want to let it. But I'm not yet at peace with its natural color which is becoming, increasingly, gray.
I was born a humungous 10-pound slab of a baby with a little tuft of brown hair. I grew into a blonde kid and graduated to honey brown in junior high, aided in part by an affinity for buying Sun-in at Walgreens. Over winter, I was a darker brown. I spent a year of high school with long, fuchsia locks. I let a friend hack that off at some point and since then have experimented going shorter, darker, lighter, blonder, redder, whateverer.
In London in 2008, I let a hair stylist have his way and he, disdainful of blonde, dyed it a deep brunette with a heavy bang and a solid platinum streak. It was blunt and unapologetic and I thought it looked really good but it took WORK. I kept it up for awhile and flat ironed it to conform but the style slowly and eventually morphed into something else AND IT COSTS MONEY to have hair professionally maintained every few months. I'm also not willing to worry about my hair at the first sight of rain or humidity for the rest of my life; I'm not that fancy.
Since then I've gone jet black (not good with my skin tone) and several shades of brown with a few bleaching phases thrown in for good (bad) measure. I screwed with my hair so much that it was undeniably damaged last year: totally fried, limp, and stringy. I responded by cutting it all off.
Today I'm smack in the middle of another George Washington-ish grow out but I'm determined to keep it healthy this time. Once I realized I couldn't afford to dye it at the salon, I had three choices:
1. Be proud of my premature* gray and flaunt that shit
2. Buy cheap color from the drugstore
3. Find a third option
I initially chose 2 and went back to Walgreens, much as I did in junior high, but fuck, people, it hurt. The fumes from the dye stung my eyes and was obviously toxic.
Around this time I mentioned to Kevin, my assistant tour manager, that Matthew and I have a soap habit. We like soap and will throw down for a bar if it's handcrafted and smells delicious. Kevin responded by buying me a gift certificate to Lush as an end of tour gift, so nice! I did buy soap but I also read all about Lush Henna, a natural dye. No joke, I read nearly 400 reviews of Lush henna and by the time I got to #399 I was convinced.
Almost every person who wrote about Lush henna said their hair is softer, shinier, bouncier, and looks better than it did before. There are no chemicals leaching into your head and your brain when you use Lush henna. And it's relatively cheap. Why isn't everyone dumping this crap on their head? Probably because they either haven't heard how magical it is or they are scared by the fact that you can't put regular dye on top of henna so if you screw it up, you have to deal.
They may also be put off by the procedure: it sits for 4 - 8 hours before you rinse it out. It comes in blocks that look like baker's chocolate. You boil water, grate the blocks of color, mix up the four hues (Caca Rouge, Caca Marron, Caca Brun, Caca Noir) or use just one. Make a paste with the grated henna and slop/comb it into your hair. I rub vaseline around my ears and hairline, cover everything in sight with saran wrap including my head when I'm done, and then walk around with a shower cap on for the rest of the afternoon.
I know I'm not really addressing the fact that I could just HAVE GRAY HAIR. I'm not ready. I look at my mom who has the coolest most beautiful hair, who gets compliments on her naturally silver, naturally curly crazy hair all the time. She says that when she's in a room with women her age, she's often the only one who isn't dyed to kingdom come. She looks so, so good and I admire that she doesn't hide anything and isn't afraid of her age or her hair but I'm not there yet. Perhaps we shall delve into why in a later post?
Saran Wrap, headband, blocks of Caca Marron & Caca Rouge, cheese grater, rubber gloves, tea kettle, shower cap, mixing bowl, photo of llama for visual interest
The last time I used Lush henna was on one of our recent days off. It was rainy and sucky out, the perfect time to hole up in a hotel room with a shower cap on my head, hoping no one pulled the fire alarm.
*I may be too old to call my gray "premature". Humor me.
I cut it and dye it and generally mess with it so much that I end up spending a lot of time in awkward stages of growing it out. If I could stick with a hairstyle, I would look more polished overall and less like George Washington or a medieval page. But I bore easily so, oh well.
My objective at the moment is to let my hair be itself...mostly. I'm done with the blow drying and flat ironing regularly; my hair curls and flips and acts out and I want to let it. But I'm not yet at peace with its natural color which is becoming, increasingly, gray.
I was born a humungous 10-pound slab of a baby with a little tuft of brown hair. I grew into a blonde kid and graduated to honey brown in junior high, aided in part by an affinity for buying Sun-in at Walgreens. Over winter, I was a darker brown. I spent a year of high school with long, fuchsia locks. I let a friend hack that off at some point and since then have experimented going shorter, darker, lighter, blonder, redder, whateverer.
In London in 2008, I let a hair stylist have his way and he, disdainful of blonde, dyed it a deep brunette with a heavy bang and a solid platinum streak. It was blunt and unapologetic and I thought it looked really good but it took WORK. I kept it up for awhile and flat ironed it to conform but the style slowly and eventually morphed into something else AND IT COSTS MONEY to have hair professionally maintained every few months. I'm also not willing to worry about my hair at the first sight of rain or humidity for the rest of my life; I'm not that fancy.
Since then I've gone jet black (not good with my skin tone) and several shades of brown with a few bleaching phases thrown in for good (bad) measure. I screwed with my hair so much that it was undeniably damaged last year: totally fried, limp, and stringy. I responded by cutting it all off.
Today I'm smack in the middle of another George Washington-ish grow out but I'm determined to keep it healthy this time. Once I realized I couldn't afford to dye it at the salon, I had three choices:
1. Be proud of my premature* gray and flaunt that shit
2. Buy cheap color from the drugstore
3. Find a third option
I initially chose 2 and went back to Walgreens, much as I did in junior high, but fuck, people, it hurt. The fumes from the dye stung my eyes and was obviously toxic.
Around this time I mentioned to Kevin, my assistant tour manager, that Matthew and I have a soap habit. We like soap and will throw down for a bar if it's handcrafted and smells delicious. Kevin responded by buying me a gift certificate to Lush as an end of tour gift, so nice! I did buy soap but I also read all about Lush Henna, a natural dye. No joke, I read nearly 400 reviews of Lush henna and by the time I got to #399 I was convinced.
Almost every person who wrote about Lush henna said their hair is softer, shinier, bouncier, and looks better than it did before. There are no chemicals leaching into your head and your brain when you use Lush henna. And it's relatively cheap. Why isn't everyone dumping this crap on their head? Probably because they either haven't heard how magical it is or they are scared by the fact that you can't put regular dye on top of henna so if you screw it up, you have to deal.
They may also be put off by the procedure: it sits for 4 - 8 hours before you rinse it out. It comes in blocks that look like baker's chocolate. You boil water, grate the blocks of color, mix up the four hues (Caca Rouge, Caca Marron, Caca Brun, Caca Noir) or use just one. Make a paste with the grated henna and slop/comb it into your hair. I rub vaseline around my ears and hairline, cover everything in sight with saran wrap including my head when I'm done, and then walk around with a shower cap on for the rest of the afternoon.
I know I'm not really addressing the fact that I could just HAVE GRAY HAIR. I'm not ready. I look at my mom who has the coolest most beautiful hair, who gets compliments on her naturally silver, naturally curly crazy hair all the time. She says that when she's in a room with women her age, she's often the only one who isn't dyed to kingdom come. She looks so, so good and I admire that she doesn't hide anything and isn't afraid of her age or her hair but I'm not there yet. Perhaps we shall delve into why in a later post?
The last time I used Lush henna was on one of our recent days off. It was rainy and sucky out, the perfect time to hole up in a hotel room with a shower cap on my head, hoping no one pulled the fire alarm.
*I may be too old to call my gray "premature". Humor me.
9.02.2011
Desiderata
I drank an americano at Bard Coffee in Portland, Maine and read the local weekly. An article about Market Street Eats made my mouth water so I looked up the address and walked a few blocks to buy a wrap at the sandwich shop, an avocado melt. Everything the article said about the food was true, so dang good I went back for breakfast.
When I stepped in the second time, the guy who took my order the day before said, "Hey Jessica..." all casual, like we've been homies forever when our entire relationship actually consisted of him writing my name on the food ticket yesterday.
"Hey," I said and complimented his memory, "Nice one..."
While I waited for my breakfast sandwich, I wandered around and looked at the walls, at the license plates, bumper stickers (Jesus would signal, Who died and made you Elvis?), artwork, and photographs and then I saw Desiderata.
As has so much lately, the timing felt auspicious. Not everything in the poem spoke to me specifically and I don't mean to sound as if I'm in some sort of spiritual crisis but this has been a summer of challenges, conflicts, and confrontations. I've also cackled and chuckled but the laughs don't loom as large. It's been exhausting at times, exhilarating at others. I've questioned a lot what goes on around me, what goes on inside me, and how I handle the both.
Overall, I'm proud. I still have to order myself everyday to get my nose out of the paperwork and keep laughing, that it's all part of a bigger picture and all learning. I don't know what part of that learning curve I'm on but I'm riding the hell out of it.
Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even to the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
When I stepped in the second time, the guy who took my order the day before said, "Hey Jessica..." all casual, like we've been homies forever when our entire relationship actually consisted of him writing my name on the food ticket yesterday.
"Hey," I said and complimented his memory, "Nice one..."
While I waited for my breakfast sandwich, I wandered around and looked at the walls, at the license plates, bumper stickers (Jesus would signal, Who died and made you Elvis?), artwork, and photographs and then I saw Desiderata.
As has so much lately, the timing felt auspicious. Not everything in the poem spoke to me specifically and I don't mean to sound as if I'm in some sort of spiritual crisis but this has been a summer of challenges, conflicts, and confrontations. I've also cackled and chuckled but the laughs don't loom as large. It's been exhausting at times, exhilarating at others. I've questioned a lot what goes on around me, what goes on inside me, and how I handle the both.
Overall, I'm proud. I still have to order myself everyday to get my nose out of the paperwork and keep laughing, that it's all part of a bigger picture and all learning. I don't know what part of that learning curve I'm on but I'm riding the hell out of it.
Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even to the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
8.21.2011
8.16.2011
Hearts
Last night I went to bed sick (body) and tired (mind). I've been worrying about things I can't control and I was caught up in an ugly mix of gloomy sadness and hot anger. Swinging wildly between wanting to escape (read historical novels in bed and eat jellybeans until my stomach aches) and wanting to take a motherfucker out, my temper has been shorter, my patience thinner, and my nose is running.
Reading blogs today snapped me out of it; sometimes other people's words are just what I need. While I've shied away from much of the online social media world and have stuck just to blogging, I'm reminded this morning of why I keep writing and reading blogs even if I don't tweet, have pinterests, and quit Facebook.
You don't always know what's well received or not when blogging. Silences may hang after posts. Did it make sense to anyone? It doesn't necessary matter but knowing when you connect with someone is gratifying. My friends and family often comment away from the blog and give me their reactions privately. I'm not a huge commenter myself so I'm definitely guilty of not telling people what I think and, actually, really want to do more of that.
I woke up early this morning and decided to try harder. I pulled the curtain open and opened the laptop. Among all the sites I checked were Megan's tumblr and Already Pretty. God, ladies. Thank you! Megan's posts on awareness and peace and Sal's thoughts on assuming positive intent were so damn timely, it nearly broke my heart.
"Hearts and rainbows!" as Rinden and I say sarcastically. Well, hearts. I'm still not really into rainbows.
Reading blogs today snapped me out of it; sometimes other people's words are just what I need. While I've shied away from much of the online social media world and have stuck just to blogging, I'm reminded this morning of why I keep writing and reading blogs even if I don't tweet, have pinterests, and quit Facebook.
You don't always know what's well received or not when blogging. Silences may hang after posts. Did it make sense to anyone? It doesn't necessary matter but knowing when you connect with someone is gratifying. My friends and family often comment away from the blog and give me their reactions privately. I'm not a huge commenter myself so I'm definitely guilty of not telling people what I think and, actually, really want to do more of that.
I woke up early this morning and decided to try harder. I pulled the curtain open and opened the laptop. Among all the sites I checked were Megan's tumblr and Already Pretty. God, ladies. Thank you! Megan's posts on awareness and peace and Sal's thoughts on assuming positive intent were so damn timely, it nearly broke my heart.
"Hearts and rainbows!" as Rinden and I say sarcastically. Well, hearts. I'm still not really into rainbows.
7.27.2011
This is a sweet thing
Matthew handed me a bunch of roses in the parking lot of the Atlanta venue last night when he, Doug and Jacquie arrived. I gave several away to people as I passed them in the hallway, one of whom was an older gentleman security guard. At the very end of the night as we were sitting on the curb drinking champagne (Thanks Jacquie), we saw the security guard carry the rose out in a glass and give it to a woman waiting in a car.
7.06.2011
Professional competence
I read the following in Adam Gopnik's New Yorker piece, Life Studies, and it rang true:
Whatever professional competence we feel in adult life is less the sum of accomplishment than the absence of impossibility: it's really our relief at no longer having to do things we were never any good at doing in the first place -- relief at never again having to dissect a frog or memorize the periodic table.
He had me at periodic table.
I know that my adult achievements are real but if I'd been forced to be a math teacher I would have spent my life convinced I'm a big dummy. Also, I read this article while laying in bed eating Swedish Fish, something I wouldn't have been allowed to do as a child. Sweet, sweet adult freedom.
Whatever professional competence we feel in adult life is less the sum of accomplishment than the absence of impossibility: it's really our relief at no longer having to do things we were never any good at doing in the first place -- relief at never again having to dissect a frog or memorize the periodic table.
He had me at periodic table.
I know that my adult achievements are real but if I'd been forced to be a math teacher I would have spent my life convinced I'm a big dummy. Also, I read this article while laying in bed eating Swedish Fish, something I wouldn't have been allowed to do as a child. Sweet, sweet adult freedom.
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