Fat Quarters and Other Signs of Madness

Definition: A Fat Quarter is a cut piece of fabric which is made by cutting a half yard in half again vertically. The piece is therefore approximately 18″ x 22″. This allows for cutting larger blocks than a standard quarter yard which is 9″ x 44″.

Picture this scenario: a quilter is walking down the street when she is acosted by a man in a dark trench coat. He flashes open his coat just long enough  for the quilter to gasp, blush, and begin to tremble. “You want something fat and sassy, don’t you lady?” the man says as he draws back into the shadows of the buildings. “Wait, don’t go” says our quilter. She follows him into the darkness. There is a brief exchange of money. The lurker, good as his promise, hands over something fat and sassy indeed. He disappears into the shadows once again. Our quilter, still trembling with excitement, walks into the sunlight and surveys her purchase. It is a bundle held fast with grosgrain ribbon. It is a set of seven Fat Quarters, all in shades of blues and purples. Quilter gasps once again, but this time with joy — the bundle includes a rectangle of an Amy Butler print long since discontinued. A treasure!

Naturally I condem purchasing hot Far Quarters, but I wanted to illustrate (OK exaggerate) how far quilters will go to feed their habit. Any quilter worth her salt has what is called a “stash”. A stash is an enormous quantity of fabric that will probably never be used. A stash is priceless. Just as fine art collectors view their paintings, quilters look at their stash several times a day.

Adding to the stash is not as simple as putting the new Fat Quarters on the top of the pile. There is a ritual to be acted out — the refolding and resorting of the entire collection, followed by a half hour of silent contemplation while staring at the new stack. Stashes are organized by color and by theme. For instance, all holiday prints will be together (suborganized by the specific holiday). You can’t mix the holidays together — no Halloween prints spooning with Easter prints. Horrors.

But how does a stash begin? Well, the newbie quilter ambles in to her local quilt shop with the specific goal to select fabrics for a lap blanket. First there is the once over, looking at every bolt of fabric. Then there is the critical decision on what will be the inspiration fabric. (Mind you, at this point an hour and a half has passed.) And finally the selection of fabrics that work harmoniously with the inspiration fabric. While the fabric is being cut, the quilter has time to browse. She spots the bins of Fat Quarters. They are like glistening jewels. Entranced she walks over to the bins and starts choosing her favorites. Without thinking about price she takes five stacks of fabric bundles.

Once back home she takes out the Fat Quarters, not even glancing at the yardage she bought for the lap blanket. The Fat Quarters need a home but there is nothing suitable on hand. The quilter jumps in her car and heads for the Container Store where she finds stackable clear plastic drawers. The drawers are just wide enough to fit two bundles side by side. Returning home she lovingly places her five bundles in the plastic drawers. She frowns. She has barely filled one layer of one drawer, the rest are empty. I need more Fat Quarters, she says to herself. Back in the car she returns to the quilt shop.

Fat Quarters are addictive. Once you have some you must have more. Our newbie quilter selects twenty bundles and pays for them with her credit card. She blocks out the fleeting thought “Oh what am I doing going into debt for fabric?” She rationalizes — “I need this fabric.” Since she was using her credit card she figures that she might as well buy some other things. She  chooses a pin cushion, a rotary blade, a large green cutting mat, and a plastic ruler. She signs the credit card slip without looking at the amount.

Home again our friend places her bundles in the drawers. How satisfying, how beautiful. Twenty-five bundles makes a good impression all neatly stacked and stored. Exhausted, she goes to bed early but can not sleep. She gets up and checks her stash. Perhaps they need to be folded more neatly? She carefully unfolds them and refolds with the edges exactly aligned. She finger presses each piece and gently returns them to the drawers. Now she can go to sleep.

In the morning she looks up the addresses of every quilt shop within fifty miles of her home. “If I begin right after breakfast” she says to herself, I can hit every store. The lust for Fat Quarters is strong. She fills her tank and gets an ice coffee for the road. The quest for Fat Quarters has begun.

Just the snacks ma’am, just the snacks

I am leaving on Saturday for a week-long businesss trip to Copenhagen. The powers that be have decided to route the plane from Boston to Atlanta to Copenhagen — that means my trip will last well over 13 hours including time spent at two security lines where I will be segregated and given the wand-over and pat down because I have a titanium knee. And given the frugality of the Airlines these days, my food intake will consist of peanut butter crackers, coffee, and a sandwich the size of my iPOD filled with a waffer of boiled ham.

I am a seasoned traveller so I know that it is up to me to bring adequate victuals for the journey. There has to be a balance of sweet and salty. And I must include one very healthy food so that I fool my seat mate into thinking I am virtuous. Unless I drape one of the plane blankets over me in a tent-like fashion, I will be unable to convince anyone on the plane that I need that seatbelt extender because of my love for apples.

When I go into town to exchange dollars for Kroner, I will also stop at the CVS to stock up on snacks. I am partial to those little bags of candy that you can get for 99 cents. At that price you can be assured that you are buying confections with the highest quality ingredients. A little bag of Tootsie Roll minis will shore up my lagging body with a strong dose of corn syrup, sugar, soybean oil and condensed milk. All the important food groups in one little roll of chocolate.

I always get to the airport too early and have to sit around for an hour or so waiting to board. Inevitably I delve into my snack bag and compulsively eat candy until I feel like barfing. There is no worse feeling than overdosing on cheap chocolate. By the time I get on the plane I am in desperate need of something salty to counterbalance the sweets. Thank heavens that I also stocked up on potatoe chips. Unfortunately, when I grabbed the chips at the CVS I inadvertently got Salt and Vinegar ones. I drink half my bottle of water. Inside my body the Salt and Vinegar chips wage a turf war with the Tootsie Rolls. The seatbelt sign goes off and the stewardess rolls her cart down the aisle. I get a choice of a soft cookie (yuck), more peanut butter crackers, or a miniature cup of Dole fruit salad.

Finally I get to my hotel in Copenhagen. I have a headache and my tummy is alternnately grumbling and forming huge clusters of gas. As I roll my luggage down the hall to my room I spot a vending machine. Abandoning my suitcase I go to investigate. Ya gotta love those Scandinavians — the vending machine is filled with miniature bottles of booze. My coins make a happy ching ching sound as they are fed into the vending machine and then there is a satisfying clatter of bottle being sent down a shute to be retrieved. I buy two bottles of Baileys and a bottle of wine from Norway.

Once in my room I call room service. Please send up a pot of coffee and a cheese platter (because it comes with grapes). I unpack and survey the ruins of my snack bag. All that is left is that apple and five yellow gummi bears. I decide to take a stroll through downtown Copenhagen and find a nice place to have lunch.  I am told that I must try the pasteries.

Animal Prints

 To ward off  hate mail I will start by saying I do not wear real fur but I do wear leather shoes etc and I do eat meat. That being said, I admit that I love animal print everything. It is only because my husband would never set foot out of the basement if I indulged my love that keeps our home from looking like something out of the set for a Tarzan movie.

I limit my animal print addiction to accessories and apparel. I have leopard rolling luggage, leopard handbags, leopard tee shirts, and a raincoat lined in leopard print faux fur. But my favorite is a leopard print coctail dress in which I look like a giant Marilyn Monroe. I even have leopard ears and a tail (for Halloween, silly)! Today I was at TJ Maxx browsing their handbag department. I spotted a horendously ugly animal print handbag designed by Kathy Van Zeeland — I fell in love with it on the spot. Not only was it a really bad rendition of leopard, but it also was dripping in bling — silver colored hearts and fleur des lies and big rhinestone buckles. I am still feeling faint. And what’s more it was on clearance. But I am not buying more junk remember? I can’t believe I let it go.

I think that when we wear faux fur and animal prints we honor our feline and our hoofed friends. Their fur is beautiful and should be worn (in copy). You wear flower prints right? No flowers get hurt, no animals get hurt in the world of faux. And I do not believe that wearing animal prints encourages others to slaughter the real thing any more than wearing flower prints encourages others to pick flowers until the garden is a wasteland.

I condem the hunting and trapping of animals for sport or for fashion. But if you choose to wear real fur I will not make rude comments to you in a stage whisper. I would never call a fur wearer an ignorant slut. Never. But someone else might. So save yourself some trouble and wear faux. And if you want to look cheesy then go overboard and enjoy yourself. I know where you can get a great bag to go with your zebra print stretch pants.

Joel does not live here! Joel n’habite pas ici!

I work from home so I have on my desk both a personal phone and a business phone. No one from work ever calls me on my business phone but I use it about ten hours a day calling in on conference calls. Somehow, a couple of incoming calls a day managed to get wedged into the precious little free time there is on my business line. All the calls are for Joel.

Who is Joel? Well, I have managed to put together a decent profile of the lad based on the brief calls I intercept and the long messages for Joel that are left on my answering machine. Joel is French but is in the United States. Joel has been neglecting his mother and she is worried about him. Joel has two girlfriends who don’t know about each other. Almost for certain Joel does not want to be found which is why he gave everyone a bum steer vis a vis the phone number.

All the calls are in French. Ma francaise est tres mal. Here is how a call goes (I will translate into English): “Joel is that you?” No, you have the wrong number (again). There is no Joel here. “Tell Joel to call his mother.” Did you not understand — you have the wrong telephone number. No Joel! “Oh, sorry. hang  up….15 seconds later….ring “Joel is that you?”

The girlfriend calls are as follows: “Joel baby, you have not called your little Marie. If you are not careful I will get suspicous and then angry and then I will have to come to the States . . . Joel? Joel?” or from girlfriend number two: “Joel, call your mama. She is sick with worry! She is asking how can I even think about marrying a man who will not call his mother. So now I am wondering what you are doing in the United States. Are the girls fast? Is that what you want Joel? Is it? Call me back.”

Once I spoke with Mama herself. She was very confused when I tried my best  in broken French to tell her there was no Joel boy at this number. “No good number?” No.    “No Joel living there?” No. “Where is he living?” For awhile I started answering my phone “Bonjour. Joel n’habite pas ici!” but this really confused the folks cold calling to sell me siding. It is against business rules to answer the business phone pretending I am the maid who does not speak English (or French) so I am stuck with Joel until he decides to come clean with his folks and his ladies.

Joel, are you doing time in upstate New York? Call your mother for pity sakes!

It’s a bird…it’s a plane…it’s Linshaolin

There is a fundamental problem with selecting new eyeglass frames … you have to try them on without wearing your old glasses so you can not tell what you look like. You are at the mercy of the optical store clerk or, as in my case, my daughter. I tried on dozens of pairs of frames and got a  “they are OK” or a “no.” Finally in desparation I narrowed it down to three frames and my daughter enthusiastically voted for a tortoise shell pair. I think she was highly motivated to leave the store and resume shopping for herself.

I picked up my new glasses today. I look like Clark Kent. No one is going to accuse me of being too girlie girl. All I can say is that dear daughter is going to have to look at this vision for at least a year. These are Gucci frames and set me back $300 bucks…and I look like Clark Kent. Not even handsome Superman. No. I look like nerdie Clark Kent.

The glasses are too dark for one thing. Now I am going to have to color my hair darker to even out the difference. That is another $100. And they don’t exactly go with my summer wardrobe of light colored linens. I am going to have to catch some serious sales. But at least they are comfortable. And they come with transition lenses. That means they darken in the sunlight. And in my case they darken by the light of the computer monitor. When they are darkened I look more like Aristotle Onasis than Clark Kent. Fetching.

My husband was cleaning the fridge when I got home so perhaps I should have waited for a better time to get his opinion. He said (without looking up) “they’re fine.” When pressed he said “they are too dark and you look like Clark Kent.” When my daughter gets home she had better rave about how cool I look. More than likely she will have forgotten I purchased them based on her input. She will say “why did you get that pair?” If I even think I hear a whisper about Lois Lane I will be very very cross.

I have kept all my eyeglasses. I have the seventies BIG frames that made me look like an insect.  I have the eighties retro glasses and the ninties Kate Spade sleek black frames that make me look just strange. My favorites are harlequin colored frames that I use just for contact sports. They magnify my eyes thus causing people to shrink away. I have won a lot of arm wrestling bouts after donning those beauts.

If you see a large woman in  Birkenstocks who looks like Clark Onasis it is only me.

Ya’ll Come Back Hear?

I have just returned from the South — in fact from South Carolina — and it will be a few days before I lose the twang that came back so readily to me. I first twanged when we moved to Virginia when I was a preteen and I was sent to a school for well-mannered Southern boys and girls. Ah lerned to bee delikate theyah, and to speak with a sawft voyce as bespeaks gud breedn. Even years of Massachusetts living has not knocked it completely out of my verbal repertoire.

Once again  I was swept up in the enchantment of Southern speech — there was a Paula Dean at every counter and every restaurant. It was not just the charming sounds but also the completely sincere sounding warmth from everyone. I say “sincere sounding” because I just can’t believe all those people could really be loving me that much in such heat and humidity! But everywhere I went I was greeted with such enthusiasm — by the end of the week my self esteem was way high (until arriving in Boston when someone rolled over my foot with their luggage and then said “Well get out the way!). Thank you South for being such a delightful place.

My favorite person down there was the lady who manned the entrance to the Beach Club. My first encounter with her was when she did not see me and was complaining to her fellow guard and used the expression G*^ D^&%m. No sooner did she emit the curse then she saw me and she said to her friend “Oh Robbie do you see how you make me sin?” Then she apologized to me about 100 times.. Then she sat down next to me and talked to me about cooking green beans with ham hock and would I like to see her new puppy. Puppy arrived within minutes and we had a love fest. But then my ride arrived and I had to leave my new guard friend and my new animal friend. “Ya’ll come back tomorrow, hear? she said.” A five minute dive into someone else’s life complete with cooking, AC, puppy, and hubby stories.

The Southern speech was in contrast to the hotel workers British accents — all were students imported from the U.K. to work at the resort for the summer. Their accents were just as charming as were their manners. Every day I would be barraged with “Welcome back,” or “So nice to see you again.” All said in high class British. My ears had a hard time sorting out the  ya’lls from the yes mums. My husband could not understand anybody and needed me to interpret. “Tek the lift to the subterran.?” Dear, that means we have to take the elevator to the basement. “Wud yew like Kyle’s with your kits?” Dear, that means do you want syrup on your hotcakes. “Ya’ll git plenty of grits.” Dear, that means you will get plenty of grits. “What are grits?” . . .

What’s more, no one in Boston calls me Ma’am. In Boston I rate a “yo” at best. I miss the South and will have to find a way to go back more often. In the meantime I will be content with being addressed as “yo”. For now, however, I  will pretend I am still amongst the soft-spoken people of the South. But listen, now,  ya’ll have a wonderful day today. It has been fahine to make your acquaintence. Come back again soon, hear?

Slim Jims on My Pillow Make Me Happy

My family is on its annual summer vacation and this year we chose Hilton Head, South Carolina as our destination. It was an excellent choice. Our hotel is smack in the middle of twenty one tennis courts, a very nice golf course and has an old-fashioned red trolley that shuttles guests to the private beach club. We arrived on Sunday and I am already tanned and happy.

Our hotel is a small boutique type inn that is manned by English young people dressed in kilts. And I must say that these summer workers have been well-trained — the service is impeccable. Each night the maid comes to our rooms and turns down the bed and allegedly leaves chocolates. I have not actually seen these chocolates since they tend to arrive when I am in the shower and some mythical resort beast swoops down and carries them away before I am dried off.

Our daughter who is vacationing with us had a craving for Sim Jims and found a source in the quaint tourist town near the hotel. She, being a child of my loins, decided to pull a fast one on her daddy and swapped the nightly chocolates with a Slim Jim on his pillow. It took him awhile to notice it but when he did the reaction was priceless. “What is this?” he demanded. Daughter, being a wonderful poker player, said “Daddy, this is the South, they really like Slim Jims down here. The maid left it.” Daddy, being used to his family’s attempts to put one over on him, resisted at first. But we prevailed with our earnest expressions. Finally he said, “I am going to ask at the front desk if they left a Slim Jim on my pillow.”

The vision of the kilt-clad Englishman at the front desk looking quizzically at my dear husband was almost too much for us. But we managed to smother our grins and spent the next half hour getting ready to go out to dinner. Husband was unusually quiet. Just before we left he walked over to the bed and picked up the Slim Jim. “Come on guys, are you really going to make me ask at the desk?”

 We spared our loved one and daughter confessed. But I have a feeling Slim Jims are going to start following us on our travels.

The Forum

Cybe message boards are aptly called Forums — conjuring up images of the Roman nobility engaged in logic and rhetoric and the occassional stabbing. I have found that the modern day experience is not far off the ancient one except that the level of discourse tends to hover at the “what did you bbq on the fourth?” versus discussion about the pros and cons of allowing the Gauls to partake of the grain supply.

The typical forum is organized by Interest — car repair, Gospel singing, handbags etc. And the forum participants must register and choose screen names and avatars (little pictures that capture the essence of who they are).  Choosing a screen name is an exercise in creativity that is very important — it sets the tone of who you are on the World Wide Web. You don’t want to be known forever as Schlep or Stinky do you? Screen names need to be catchy — being Smith4041 is not going to get you onto many friends lists. Smithnwessn or Wrdsmith or Messersmith are much better choices. How many Painkillrjanes joined the ranks this year? Or Formerlyknownas________? Taracroft? Latreewinner?

And the avatar choice is critical. Are you a glittery angel person? A cute kitten? A Harley riding biker babe? The thing about avatars, unlike screen names, is that you can change them as often as you like. My favorite forum has virtual parties and the participants change avatars to match the theme of the party. Half the fun is seeing what people come up with. Like people, avatars can be charming or groady.

A forum worth its salt has as much drama as the Roman forum with factions and fighting and stabbings in the back. Why else would we chat for hours with complete strangers? Why would we form bonds of cyber friendship based on postings about Weight Watchers receipes and sales at Nordstroms?  It is the human element. My favorite forum has the motto Pray Hard, Play Hard. The participants are all ladies who alternate posting scripture with posting silly things (usually about the handsome virtual men who grace the forum). It is the contradiction, the counterpoint that makes it a delightful place.

Recently some of these ladies broke away from another forum, forming their own. I chose to join the break away forum, frankly because the ladies there are a hoot and we have tons of fun. Some of the ladies were subsequently banned from the original forum (now we are seeing the Roman connection!) for reasons unstated. The purge caused an enormous hubbub and the banned wore their banning like a badge of honor. It will be interesting to see how the ladies forum shakes out in the months to come. Will things like the book club and virtual parties sustain us? Time will tell. In the meantime I am thoroughly enjoying their company.

I dart in and out of other message boards/forums but find most of them to be boring. When I was suffering from a plantar fibroneuroma and was at my wits end in pain I joined a forum whose members all had the same ailement. You can not imagine how brain stultifying  it is to hear about other people’s feet! Even Weight Watchers message board gets bogged down with millions of “I lost .4 lbs this week” chat. We need to infuse the forums with more substantial talk. . . but I guess that would turn nasty since no doubt George W. would soon come under discussion, Or capital punishment, or separation of church and state, or the weather.

Well, I must go organize a virtual party over at the ladies forum. We can’t take another night of jello shots, so this one will be tame. Oh, by the way, Linshaolin is taking a week off so my next post will be on the 16th. Love to all my devoted readers!

How to Attract a Boy…according to Daddy

My Dad was an old-fashioned Southern gentleman who held doors for ladies until the day he died and always insisted on walking on the outside (next to the street) when walking side by side with a woman. I once asked him why he did this and he told me that it was to protect ladies from being hit by stuff being thrown out of windows! He went on to explain that people used to empty their bed pans out the window and it would not do for a woman to be soiled. It did not matter that nary a bed pan has been emptied out the window for some decades — it was the way he had been brought up and he was sticking to it.

Dad also always wore a sports jacket and tie. He was once given some gorgeous Indonesian shirts from one of the Exchange Students who lived with us. They were not suitable to be worn with ties and it was only because he loved them so much that he broke his tie rule. In contrast to this proper outfitting, Dad sometimes wore his tie around his waist — copying the incredibly sexy Gene Kelly — with sleeves and trousers rolled up. He reminded me of how I imagined Ceazanne looked like in the South Seas.

For a long time Dad did not question the role of men and women in society — women were to be wives and mothers. They were to be well educated and gracious so that they would be good companions and hostesses. He felt it important that I, his only daughter, be trained in the feminine arts of conversation, etiquette, ballroom dancing, and sports. Sports? Women were not to play sports but rather we should be able to converse intelligently about sports, especially football.

Taking charge of my education when I entered the Seventh grade, Dad wrote me a book called “How to Attract a Boy.” In addition to a brief chapter on how to be sexy without having sex, it had chapters on grooming and etiquette but most of it was dedicated to the rules of football and to basic auto mechanics. It breaks my heart that I did not hold on to that book. Unfortunately my teen years coincided with the birth of feminism and I have to say I rebelled pretty hard against Dad’s view of the world of women.

I hated high school and did not get good grades. With every report card I would get the Lecture about going to college — the good catches were college men and if I continued to do poorly in high school I would not  get the opportunity to shop in that marketplace. As part of my teenage rebellion I made sure that the guys I dated aspired to nothing greater than finishing vocational school so they could work and get money for pool and beer. Despite my efforts to resist, however, my parents indoctrination sunk in and I managed to clean up pretty good.

I utterly shocked my Dad when I met a very good catch indeed (a college boy no less) and insisted on getting married right out of high school. It was what he wanted for me wasn’t it? All his arguments about shopping for men at college flew out the window. College suddenly became about being Educated. He agreed to my getting married if I agreed to go to college. Fair is fair and we kept up our ends of the bargain.

Years later when I had achieved some success in the publishing field, Dad sat me down and told me how proud he was of me. But that was nothing compared to when I produced a granddaughter for him. I had become everything he wanted for me — a wife, a mother, a successful “career girl”. It was just unfortunate that my husband did not tinker with cars or watch football — chapters six through nine were wasted.

Packing for Vacation

I travel quite a bit for work and have business trip packing down to a science. I have a wardrobe of wrinkle-resistant clothes that are so bland and boring that even if I wore the same outfit three days in a row no one would notice. Therefore, for a week’s trip I need only pack two outfits and lots of scarves. There is nothing quite as fetching as a navy blue acetate and spandex executive dress paired up with practical shoes. Heads will turn.

Vacation packing is a different matter. One must pack for many different activities: swimming, tennis, sightseeing, dinner, shopping, excursions . . . there is no way I could carry (or even roll) the amount of luggage I need for all these things. Let’s take tennis as an example. For vacation this year we are going to a resort that has twenty one tennis courts, lessons every day plus tennis socials at night. If I take a tennis lesson each day that is one outfit per day times five. If I play social tennis in the evening each night I’ll need another fivc tennis outfits (so far we are up to ten). In addition to the ten tennis outfits, I need at least two pair of tennis shoes, ten pair of tennis socks, sports bras, and a racquet, water bottle, tennis balls, and a couple of dozen headbands and wrist bands.

Swimming is broken down into two categories: pool swimming and beach swimming. I will go swimming every day. So I need at least three bathing suits, a beach towl, sun hat, two or three cover-ups, flip flops, sun screen, sun glasses, a novel with at least 800 pages (I am thinking of reading Edward Rutherford’s Forrest), a cross-word puzzle book, pencils, my iPOD, and a waterproof tote bag. I will have to see if my snorkle gear will fit in somehow.

Sightseeing requires comfy shoes. I will take three pairs of Birkenstocks to match my outfits. I like skorts for the summer and will need to take at least five plus matching tee shirts. I’ll need a couple of handbags, visor, and sightseeing guide. For excursions I’ll need walking shoes, socks, jeans, a tee shirt and windbreaker, and, of course, a fanny pack. If we go to a couple of nice restaurants I’ll need at least two dresses and a pair of dress shoes.

Let’s not forget the basics: two nightgowns, robe, undergarments, train case for cosmetics and hair stuff, a couple of craft projects, a sketch book and colored pencils, camera. And for the plane trip down I’ll need to pack lunch for each of us. What about my meditation space? Do I take Buddha and White Tara with me? Perhaps being on the beach will be sufficiently peaceful — I can sit in the warm sand and stare out into the ocean as I chant. The ocean takes up less space in my suitcase.

I am sure I have forgotten something. But there is plenty of time before I leave.  I’ll be able to change my mind a dozen times. I will use the time to prioritize my outfits in case something does not quite fit into the suitcase. Or, I could always buy another suitcase. Yes, I think I will need to do that.

The Haircut

My hair grows like a weed, which makes Amy, my stylist, very happy. It seems like I just had a haircut but now my hair is long and shaggy again. Today I am going to get it cut short for the summer. I found a nice picture of Halle Berry with a cute short do. I am sure I will look just like her when Amy is done with her magic. I actually showed this picture to Amy once before and she rolled her eyes at me and went and got the Modern Maturity volume of haircut photos. I ended up looking like a cross between Grandma Moses and one of the Spice Girls. This time I will put my foot down and insist that Amy cut my hair exactly like Halle’s.

My hair, being 58 years old, has seen a lot of hair salon action. I had my first salon haircut when I was in the sixth grade. During high school I had a beehive and could not get my hair cut because we could not get it sufficiently unsnarled for several years. Then I sported a flip with the top pulled up into a poodle poof tied up with a ribbon. I thought I looked hot. When I look at photos of myself I cringe. But not as much as when I look at the photos of myself when I had an Afro (by the way, I am of French/Irish descent, i.e., very pale). I went through a period when I was a righteous sister certain that civil rights depended on my showing solidarity through fashion.

Immediately after helping to ensure there was justice in this land I entered my colored hair phase. I did not intend to have magenta hair. It is just that hair coloring technology was in its infancy and was not quite perfect. Magenta was followed by jet black and then blonde — or more properly, white. Blonde was short-lived when I overheard a little girl asking her mother if I was an albino.

My attempts at having hair that reflected the latest fashion has always been thwarted by my waves. I am like that character in Peanuts — I have naturally wavy hair. Problem is that it waves differently each day. Usually I look like I have been in a strongly directional wind. Amy knows how to cut wavy hair to get the most curl. My last haircut was so curly I looked like Bette Davis in “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?”. We are really going to try harder to achieve Halle this time.

We have not yet touched upon the subject of gray hairs, which in my case now outnumber the brown hairs. Gray hairs have a different (bad) texture. They require different hair products than brown hair. It is very difficult to apply hair products when your hair is salt and pepper. I am quite prepared for Amy to make a snide remark when I give her the Halle Berry photograph — she will say something like “Oh of course I can make you look like this.” Then she will get out a photo of Barbara Bush and set that up on her workstation as a guide.

Lullabies

Even though my daughter is now twenty-three, some times I go into her room in the middle of the night to make sure she is still breathing — a hold over from her  infancy when I was an inexperienced mom and lived for the first year of her life in a state of high anxiety. Somewhere between twelve and eighteen months there was a sea change in my maternal instincts and I no longer worried when the dog slept on her head. But seeing her pink cheek and soft hair still makes be look up to the heavens in thanks. All this is a prelude to exploring the highly individualistic world of lullabies — the last sounds our kids hear before they go to sleep.

My daughter heard “Up on the Roof”, “Under the Board Walk”, the entire scores of My Fair Lady and West Side Story, “The House of the Rising Sun”, and the entire album of Brazil 66 (with “Slow Hot Wind” and “One Note Samba” being the most requested). I also composed a few lullalbies (“Jolly Jack-O-Lantern Moon” and “I Love My Little Alli”). Some of these songs contain lyrics that are not really appropriate for a toddlers, so I edited them, replacing “gambling man” with “business man” and “we were making love” with “we were making smores” (hey, kids are not critical about rhyme and metre!). Alli did not realize the deceit until it caught up with her in junior high.

Our bedtime ritual started with the soothing bath followed by what seemed like eternity on the rocking chair. Alli would lay her head on my chest and hold her ear lobe. I would sing  until her breaths were slow and deep with sleep. Then I would carefully lift her up and place her in her crib. As soon as she touched the sheet she would startle and cry so it would be back to the rocking chair. We would do a water bottle and more singing. In the summertime with the windows open I put the entire neighborhood to sleep at eight o’clock PM.

The day (or I should say night) did come eventually when my daughter was much older and I went into her room to “tuck her in” and she requested that I not sing or tell her a story. “Just say goodnight Mom.” I said good night and went to my room and cried myself to sleep.  Childhood is so fleeting. If you have little kids, please savour every moment. You will  have plenty of time later to sleep yourself (who am I kidding? I still stay up until 3:00 AM when she goes out with her friends).

Singing to your child at bedtime is one of Life’s greatest pleasures. Now we sing together (in the car) and that is a great pleasure too, but not quite the same. Now I get critiqued when I am off key. When Alli was a child my voice was that of a goddess — I wonder when it changed?

Madagascar — that’s where they have the car races…right?

Every Friday night I am annoyed when my perfectly good TV viewing of QVC home shopping is cut short by a prime time segment of their For Race Fans Only show. Since I am not a race fan I am forced to turn the channel and watch Animal Planet or the Science Channel. Too much of that sort of educational TV will ruin the American economy. I don’t understand the attraction of Nascar and collecting itty race cars and wearing silk bomber jackets with CITGO advertising on them. However, there are millions of Nascar fans so there has got to be something there . . . am I just missing it somehow?

Car racing falls into the same class of bizarre spectator sports as Big Wheels Trucks — those monster trucks that squash anything in their path as they steamroll around a stadium packed with guys wearing beer patches accompanied by their sons enjoying a testosterone laden bonding ritual. No, I take that back. I respect the fact that a lot of engineering science goes into building a race car. And a lot of teamwork goes into keeping it going during a race. But from the audience’s perspective, notwithstanding the occasional flaming crash, what is there to see except a bunch of cars circumnavigating a track over and over again?

I know that there are superstars in racing and I am happy for them that they achieve celebrity status for driving in circles without crashing into another driver driving in circles. But, hey, I do that every time I go around the Fresh Pond rotary — no one gives me prize money!  I know that there is controversy and even scandal in the rarified atmosphere of the Daytona 500. The current hubub is over drivers taking responsibility for their crews actions. If the crew cheats should the driver be banned? Wow, that one needs to go to the Institute for Ethical Conduct — such judgments should not be left to the untrained. I think that until a decision is reached that further prime time selling of Nascar miniatures should be suspended.

But maybe that is not a good idea. It might leave a programming opening that gets filled with something even worse — like wrestling. Now there is a sport!