The three things that struck me right away about Williamsburg, Brooklyn:
1) almost everyone on the street seems to be in their twenties to early forties
2) there is an incredibly high proportion of pet dogs of every size and shape
3) I have never seen so much ink in one place in my life.
A land of tattoos. Some incredibly fantastic and some of them, well….some defy comment. Elaborate dragons, wings, mystical symbols, faces. Tiny designs on wrists, circli
ng patterns snaking across necks and shoulders, backs and chests. Vines weaving up calves. Some intricate works of art. There were also pieces that caused me to silently grieve for their parents. There is a tribal feel to it all. I looked at everything in wonderment.
I was met at Port Authority by my beautiful, upbeat and extremely accommodating friend A., who then steered us through the subway to Brooklyn. We spent the next few days eating, walking, wandering in and out of shops, went to the village to watch a very talented belly dancer accompanied by an ensemble playing some great Egyptian music; attended an off-broadway play in Manhattan that was captioned (yay !), did a lot of talking, played some doumbek. Good pizza. Japanese dinner with red bean mochi ice cream for dessert, which I am craving at this very moment. Mexican brunch. Some of the best People Watching I have done in a while. A moonlight walk to the water to see the bridge and lights of Manhattan. It was a very nice experience, a good time in good company.
At one point during the weekend, A. decided to get a mani/pedicure This is not something I indulge in. I don’t like enamel on my finger nails and I paint my toes rather haphazardly in the summer for a kick and without great care – they are currently purple – two weeks ago they were blue. My kids have noted that I have either missed a few spots or the polish has actually run off the nail onto my toes, but I am not concerned. I am a barefoot gardener, there is no point in wasting something like that on me. So I told my friend that I would just go with her and watch while she had her nails done to a perfect, super high gloss, urban sheen. But on our way there, we passed a hair salon with balloons out front that was having some sort of promotion fair – “Free mini-massage, mini-facial, mini-makeup”. So on a whim I decided instead of being an audience to the manicure, I would indulge in the free mini-spa festivities while she did her thing. 
A pretty blonde woman and an enthusiastic guy in diamond bling, both very nice, very engaging, fluttered around me so attentively. I got into the mood. This was fun. Briefly pampered and patted, my neck massaged, I ate some grapes and drank tea, and yes, bought some product. And then I decided to have a bit of an adventure.
OK, I am in my fifties, on the later end of the fifties at that. Perhaps still young inside, the petals are dropping off this rose on the outside, what can I say? Some part of me yearns to be younger to indulge in my inner insanity, some part of me is so glad I am not. I longed to be able to wear some of the fun stuff I saw on the street, stuff I used to wear or once would have looked great it, that now I could never pull off. I cringed seeing the reflection of my wrinkly old throat in the salon mirror (how did that happen?). And I get tired easily and early. Those things I would have changed. Other things I just noted with amusement. So much of this scene was just a recycling of the way my friends and I once were, over thirty years ago. It just goes around and comes around again.
So the hair…..some quick history here…… my hair has become mostly all white in the front, with a couple of streaks of purple run through it that I did a while back on a whim, and which has never totally washed out. It is very, very wild and berserk, somewhat long, curly/frizzy hair which Will Not Be Tamed. It never has been tamed. Ever. It generally makes a statement on its own, even without the purple. I have learned to let it do it’s own thing.
For most of my life I have absolutely hated the dark, spiraling mass of untameable fusilli hair that has been me. The irony….after many, many years, when I finally did come to some peace with what my hair was, accepted that it had its own unique way, that I was never going to have straight, shiny hair, and that some people actually admired and even envied it – it was then when it suddenly turned gray and even frizzier….just like that! So much so that coloring it meant within three days, sparkling silver roots and a white skunk stripe would appear. Being anti-maintenance, coloring has not been an option. So then I had to learn to love it – and myself – in its latest incarnation, all over again.
But you know, I really look washed out in all this whiteness. The little bit of purple streaks has given it a little pop. It’s been purple since last October. So here I was, surrounded by a whirlwind of youth and color and dragon tattoos. Maybe a little bit of midlife crisis rose to the surface. Or maybe I just wanted to have a little more fun for the weekend. I decided on some deep, cherry red, just a few streaks. So I asked the experts in the salon if they could make that happen. “Sure honey, we can do that…and I love your cheekbones….”
The weekend is over now, and I am back home, where there is no hip urban heartbeat to pulse to. The hair – it is not deep cherry red, it’s copper orange – frizzy, orange with white patches and stripes, sort of like a giant, stuffed calico cat perched on top of my head.
Actually, I look like Bozo The Clown …….. but I am pretending to think that I don’t. Years ago I would have been a lot more upset about this. Now, well… I am not thrilled, and yet still have managed to feel somewhat mildly amused.
When he picked me up at the bus station, the S.O. was silent, but his physical reaction said it all….he reared back for a second in the driver’s seat as if he had been kicked in the head by a mule, and his upper lip actually did a little bit of an Elvis Presley curl. But not a word….actually quite out of character for him. Probably smart, too.
A few hours later I asked him if he liked my hair or not and he said “Ummm…..it’s OK… I guess”.
The following evening he came out and said that I looked like Bozo. Which I already knew. I guess somebody had to say it out loud.
The night after that he asked me how much I paid for it. That is not up for discussion.
It will fade…..somewhat. At least I hope it will. My boss tactfully said he preferred the purple, but his eyes bugged out a bit. Received a few raised eyebrows and suppressed smiles from coworkers. Polite, polite. In the meantime, I am going to try and rock it a bit with feathers and other adornments, because short of totally covering it up with yet another color or trying to strip it out with bleach, there is not much else I can do about it for now. I often wear headscarves anyway. Good thing – I can see it is going to be a summer of that.
This is why I have never gotten any tattoos…….
~*~
You know, I do believe there is probably other life out there. How could there not be? The odds are too great that there must be. I don’t know that I could be convinced about strange space craft landing and taking people away in their mother ships, but I think we are not the only ones out in the universe. Or necessarily the only ones here, if you want to get into talking about dimensions. But that is another subject.
We hit three garden nurseries in a row – one that focused on native plants, the second an unplanned stop at a large farm store that sold food in addition to gorgeous botanicals, and the last one set in a niche on a hill and just delightful. I am buzzing high blissed out from these wonderful places. (Also maybe from the orange muffin with piles of orange butter cream frosting on top that we got at the second place). In any case, I have been floating all weekend…..and a bit lighter in the wallet too.
also known as Egyptian Privet. It produces small, fragrant white flowers and bright green leaves – the leaves which are dried and crushed into powder. Henna, with a history of 5000 years, has its origins in Asia and the coasts of Africa. The use of decorative and cosmetic henna can be traced to ancient Egypt.
Return of the Sedum –
in station to get my mother a card. In memories that are filtered through the echoed chambers of childhood, I recall it was a card for Valentine’s Day, but that might be because it had hearts on it – in reality it could have been a Mother’s Day card, as I had picked it out just for her.
ails to someone I thought was a like-minded friend, only to one day get a response back from her saying she “didn’t like my edge”. I guess my edge was a little too raw. Getting this reaction was like the Valentine Card Incident sting, to a lesser extent. Needless to say, that was the end of that correspondence.
punctuated with many “Thanks!!!!!”, embellished with lots of happy, upbeat exclamation marks and further punctuated with smiley faces to insure they get it and can envision me as a perky ray of sunshine. Which I am not. I have been adding emoticons to many things I write now and I seriously hate emoticons, I really do. If this is what it takes….(I pause here to sigh for a moment)…..
od thing, so after work I dutifully stopped in at the Urgent Care place, got a check up, an x-ray and an arm sling, told I had calcium deposits and a bone spur in my shoulder, told to make an appointment with an orthopedic doc and was sent home to rest up with steroids and some pain meds. A calcium deposit? I am picturing images of vast salt mines.
was willing to listen to me, although it’s now after the fact. So she hits me where I tell her and bingo, they get the IV in.
breathing slowly and steadily….. it’s like having labor pains in your arm. I was really good at natural labor, “Good Peasant Stock” as the OB had jokingly put it back then. But with this, none of my good peasant stock is helping. I end up just crying during that last hour when the pain gets away from me. They tell me they can’t get the machine to unlock and dispense my meds any closer than every six hours without doctors orders. But the doctor is not available.
then something that says “status”. Under status, someone has drawn a Smiley Face. I am assuming that was the last patient’s status, or maybe it is wishful thinking on their part for me. I stare at that Smiley Face mocking me and wish I had a dry erase marker, because if I did I would haul myself out of bed and draw a screaming Mr. Bill Face with its hair standing up and flames coming out. Who are they trying to kid?
left the Octopus lying on the chair. It was a couple of hours after doing that when someone came rushing in my room to see if 207A was dead, as there was a flat reading on their screen. I was scolded, and they hooked it up again, despite my protests that the doctor said my heart is fine and I don’t need these things, and that it had only been half hooked up for hours before, and that, you know, theoretically the patient in 207A had died anyway…..
that decisions can be made that are not necessarily in your best interests, or beliefs, for the sake of saving time, or because “that’s how we do it”, and while going through the medical system people can be treated like sheep. While you will not be popular for questioning, it is imperative to advocate for yourself, or anyone else you care about who may be undergoing medical treatment, or admitted.
and as explained in previous posts, I’m kind of a nature geek). But since it was large and had hairy legs, I told him it might be a Wolf Spider. Actually, I cheat in this department, because the only ones I really know (and call by their nicknames mostly) are the gangly “Daddy Long-Legs”, the little black Jumping Spider, the Black and Yellow Argiope (my personal favorite!) and the distinctive Black Widow. After that, anything big and brown I call a Wolf Spider, regardless of what it really is. Nobody seems to challenge that suggestion.
coffin.
anyone who might enter the premises in a truck could hit it. And now, if we want to move it, we have to pay them to do it. Not only that, but it looks incredibly low-rent and cheesy. It seems all we really need to complete the ensemble now is to put a broken toilet in the front yard and turn it into a planter. Maybe we should add some plastic flamingos too. Needless to say, I am upset.
earthquake or a subway train, accompanied by a grinding/pounding noise – nothing that tape was going to remedy. We finally had to cave and get a new one. You would think this would have been one smooth credit card transaction and easy delivery, but….no.
will. If you look closely, they really don’t look very related. Every once in a while someone will see it and ask “Who are those people?” They have been dubbed “The Fake Relatives”. In our further disconnection from this phone line, we also have not bothered to put in a voice greeting, so you get the standard Robot Voice. Every few days I remember to check the messages. The S.O. usually does not answer it or check it at all.
on top of our patio table, where he will toss an insulted look before springing off and disappearing under the foliage in the garden. A large, bedraggled looking tom lurks beneath the scrap metal that the S.O. has stashed under the portico. I could not figure out why they have suddenly all shown up at our place, until one morning as I was pulling out of the driveway I noticed that someone had placed water bowls, a dish and a can of cat food against our fence.
nd not any larger. I have been dismayed that the Outback and the Forester both have gotten progressively larger (and more aggressive looking) over recent years.
This also includes a body type that is not too angular and looks like a plastic model of a molecule from a high school chemistry class. However, this does not mean that the car should resemble a kaiser roll on wheels, or have a weak, silly, or clown-like look to it either.
Tires. The car should come equipped with excellent, all-season tires that hold the road. We don’t need those massive, wide tires on this car. They are expensive to replace and the truth is, they really don’t give you any better traction. My Brighton Legacy with the smaller tires held the road better than my Outback with those giant ones ever has.
o be traversing any tundras or scaling the sides of a volcano, let’s be real here.
(like me) who do not need or want a Warm Ivory or cream color interior. Because the dark interior is the logical choice, why should we then be forced to have to choose the Paprika Red exterior? I want an Ice Blue car with a charcoal gray interior, but you can’t get one from column A and one from B it seems. One of the major factors in deciding which model and color of Subaru I chose last time included the fact that I needed darker seats and floor carpet that would not instantly look stained and ruined. That should not have been a contributing factor. More flexibility on interior color choices! While you are at it, how about some more classy exterior colors too?
even 100? Then you can make the mileage markings on the gauge farther apart (since you will now have more room on the gauge) with precise and easy to see lines, so that you can actually tell that you are driving 62 instead of guestimating somewhere in the 60’s.
spring and autumn.
Famous Weight Loss Plan I am paying for, which has successfully removed about fourteen pounds so far, I have turned to carrots as the healthful alternative snack. The Famous Weight Loss Plan says you can have all the vegetables you want, so I keep turning to them, and I turn to them all day long. Because they do not really squash my hunger (which is clearly not “real” hunger, but more habit), I tend to eat a whole lot more than I need to.
total opposite – stressful, disheartening, sometimes tear-provoking. This is supposed to be relaxing? Not. I tried switching to some basic crochet, which seemed slightly easier (one hook vs. two needles) but it proved non-productive, with the same horrifying results. I have three disaster projects sitting in a basket at this moment that are now years old.
phase of life right then. The intention was to hopefully expand my child’s horizons beyond the stagnant local townies she was running with at the time. With fantasies of having a mother/daughter bonding concurrently, we arrived at the location, registered, and within five minutes she was off and running with new-found peers. I was not to see much of her for five days. A glimpse here and there, like a puff of faerie dust, and not much more.
needed to be rewound into a workable ball to knit from. I had no idea this had to occur, being the “knit-iot” that I am. Given this discovery, I am not sure if it came that way or if I did something to it, but the unwinding and rewinding of the skein became a major ordeal because the skein had somehow come undone on both ends and was snarled full of knots. It was an incredible mess. Ivy and I spent hours trying to unwind it. And so The Unravelling began.
th the knitters about heft and gauge and stitches and all sorts of crafty stuff. Meanwhile, I would tune it all out and wander around aimlessly, touching the gorgeous yarns and pretending I was going to create something epic. Then I would pick out a skein, roll it into a workable ball of yarn, and a few months later Ivy would send me a hand-knit pair of socks, which I treasure.
