Is it just me???

Time just seems to slip by these days. Just had the thought today of how ironic we have the expression of ‘having time’ when it’s such an intangible and elusive concept.

Blogiversary… A few of my favorite posts…

Today’s my 2 year blogiversary. Last year I was a little too busy to blog what with giving birth (or close to it) and all. But this year I thought I’d give my blog a little more attention.

When I first started this blog, I really wanted it to be a place where I wrote essays about my daily life. No small thing was too small. Most of my writing I really wanted to focus on fiber, since fiber is what speaks to me no matter how long between projects. I spent a lot of time on my initial blog posts, hoping to hone my writing skills. I also wanted to post patterns and tutorials on my blog. My goals were to increase my traffic. My hope was that someone would ‘discover’ my writing and that I could parlay that into something larger.

But, two months into my blogging adventures, life suddenly changed. I got engaged, moved, pregnant and married all within the course of 6 months. I just didn’t have the energy to devote myself to my blog the way I wanted to. In fact I probably posted more blogs in my first month than I have this past year.

Oh well. C’est la vie. My life is so rich these days and I will always have a blog (or whatever will be around in coming years) to return to when I have more time.

For the moment, though, I thought I would post links to my favorite posts. The posts that really tell a lot about me and that might have gotten buried in a chronological sidebar archive somewhere along the way.

• The Magic Egg (in which I get proposed to)
• Killer Crochet Hooks (in which my hooks get confiscated during jury duty)
• They Flew the Coop (in which a few little birds have a big impact on my apartment building)
• Bound by Semesters (in which I reflect upon leaving teaching)
• How Knitting Socks is Improving My Relationship (in which I give the reason for frantic knitting in the car)
• Love — Exciting and New (in which I lament my Loveboat haircut)
• I’m a chicken (in which I talk about finding out I’m pregnant)
• Breaking the News (in which I write about telling Doug that I’m pregnant)

The people’s corn

Slovak Notes 1991

The cornfield across from our dorm at Jedlikova 9 was a maze of cornrows scattered with abandoned parts of machinery. Twisting and winding through them was a feat in and of itself. We used to cut through these state-owned fields in order to go to the restaurant at the local campground, called, of all things, Auto-camping. Doing this shaved some time off our trip (we’ve have to otherwise transfer trams, busses, and still have to walk). We usually used the cornfield as a place to get somewhere else, but one day during the summer, we actually decided to go to the cornfield – and pick some corn.

It was early summer and I had been out late the night before with one of my Slovak friends, Peter, and a few of his buddies. Peter, from a town outside Kosice in the northeast, was a total card. Blessed with a brilliant sense of humor, generous heart and an artistic eye, he had a talent for taking photos and for winning people over. I think I met him in the club room of our dorm and having befriended him, Brian and I would often go out with him. Over time we had developed a friendship with Peter – one in which we never knew what would happen next.

So, on this one hot summer day, while lying in bed recovering from the previous night’s festivities (or rather, in Slovakia at least, normal evening), Peter knocked loudly on my door.

“Katka, let’s go get some corn!”

Opening the door my slightly spinning head registered Peter standing with bag in hand and I thought to myself, “Hey, why not, a trip to the market would probably help me work the beer out of my system.”

In my innocence, I thought we were going to one of the vegetable stands that popped up during the summer and fall or a nearby village where they grow corn. But, as with so many things in Slovakia, that wasn’t the case.

We went next door, grabbed Brian, crossed the tram tracks, the soccer field, and headed into the cornfield across the street.

“We’re gonna get corn here???!!”

“Sure, everyone does it. It’s the people’s corn, after all!”

Brian and I exchanged uneasy glances with each other, pictures of guys with shotguns threatening to shoot us or of dark deportation cells running through our hung-over heads. Maybe it was because we weren’t really lucid that we simply shrugged at each other and followed Peter down the corn rows into the heart of the field.

We had gone quite a way when we heard a noise. It wasn’t anything like a bird or the rustling of the wind through the tall ears. It was a high-pitched human voice. Brian and I looked questioningly at each other, but Peter, ever fearless walked right up to where the noise was coming from where, there was, of all things, an old car parked.

Inside the car the windows were steamy and a young couple was…well…sowing their seeds in the middle of the day totally oblivious to our presence.

Giggling and cracking jokes we continued on our quest to pick corn. We passed row after row until we reached the spot where there was corn that suited Peter. It wasn’t like we were just taking an ear or two either. Peter had brought a big bag. Big enough to feed half the dorm corn.

As we chatted and filled our bags, we heard footsteps approaching. It was a cop whose job it was, we guessed, to safeguard the corn. Peter, totally unaware, kept picking, but Brian and I stopped, looked at each other somewhat fearfully replaying the picture of a dank Slovak holding cell in our minds. “Hey, Peter, there’s a cop!” Peter, totally unfazed turned around.

“Is that your car?” the policeman asked.

“Nope”, Peter replied. “But there was a couple in it. They were ‘parking’, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh”, the cop said. A pause. I could almost feel the cold air of the Slovak prison enveloping me as the seconds seemed to endlessly tick away.

The cop continued, “As long as it isn’t your car, parking isn’t allowed here.”

“Oh, we’re not parking. We’re just getting some corn.”

“Hmmm. Well as long as you’re not parking here, it’s okay.”

And with a parting wave, the policeman wished us a good day.

Peter slung the bag of corn over his shoulders and we headed back home. He never once flinched or seemed afraid of trespassing or illegally picking corn. I guess there must have been some sort of post-socialist understanding that stealing was okay – just as long as you weren’t illegally parked.

Copyright K. Datko

Next post…

This is a post about my next post (no witty or elliptical heading here…). For the past few years I’ve been writing essays about my life in Slovakia after the wall fell. I thought I’d post a few on my blog in hopes of getting feedback or ideas about what to do with them. (I’d love to get them published.)

So, if there is a post with no baby, political or fiber content, chances are it’s a crazy story about something that happened oh so many years ago…

Full Circle…

The year I was born, Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated (yes, I hit the big 4-0 six weeks ago).

The year Alex was born, America elected its first black president.

I’m happy that my child will be able to live in a world where a black man can become president. Where it’s still possible to dream…

Identity Theft?

Three times this week I’ve been asked…

How are you doing?

To which I’ve replied…

We’re fine (colicky, teething, etc…)

It’s official… I’ve gone from me to we.

Holidays

For the past 25 years I never really got into holidays. As a teen they usually were filled with an irate parent wreaking emotional havoc after dinner. This was such a constant, that when I got older I always thought it would be better to spend my holidays with people whom I didn’t know all that well or alone. I loved doing something crazy and a little different during the holidays — they became a time of exploration and self-reflection instead of a season filled with wrapping paper and long-held emotional baggage.

Some of the things I did during my holidays in years past included sitting quietly in a cafe reading or knitting, scuba diving in Bali, climbing an active volcano at dawn or chilling in a hot spring in Okinawa. All things that meant that my holidays, while fun for me, were times when I was alone.

This has all changed during the past couple of years since Doug and his family really like to celebrate.

I had forgotten the anticipation of the holiday season. How it could be fun — that people can actually enjoy themselves. Spending time with Doug’s family was really a change. Kids get so excited about things, family can gather together without yelling or tears. Traditions can be passed down from one generation to another. For the past 2 years Christmas has actually been fun. I find myself becoming less jaded about the season. Holidays now have a meaning.

Now that I’m expecting, I find myself looking forward to holidays, wanting to share them with Doug and Alex, hoping that they will become a time filled not just with traditions and presents, but also with reflections on what life truly is about.

Thanks to Doug, the holiday season for me has no longer become a time filled with cynical dread but rather a time when I realize just how much I have to be thankful for.

Googling old friends…

Have you ever had a few minutes and wondered what happened to a former lover, childhood friend, teacher? As I’m sure most people have, I’ve been ‘googled’ by a few people in the past and have, on occasion, tried to look up old friends to see what they are up to.

One of these friends was Brian, someone who I had spent my year and a half in Slovakia with. We started out as enemies — we went to college together and for various reasons, did not get along for the 2 years we knew each other in school. But, somehow as fate would have it, we wound up as neighbors living in East Slovakia. Being stuck together at the edge of the then ‘free world’ and our love of the Slovak language culture and people made us the best of friends.

I had kept up with Brian for a few years after leaving Slovakia and unfortunately lost touch with him when I left for Japan. I did hear from some friends in Slovakia that he had become a father and was working on his PhD, but aside from that, I was left to my own devices to see how he was doing.

Each year since I’ve been back from Japan, I google Brian. It’s always around the middle of November, because that’s when I came back from Slovakia and feel the most nostalgic for my time there. This year in particular I really wanted to contact him because I’ve started going through my memories of that year and writing essays that may eventually make their way into a book someday. Almost every essay includes Brian in some way or another.

I typed his name into the search engine box and finally had success.

I felt so happy to come across him! I found out that he’d won a Fulbright Scholarship and was doing well in his career. I was so excited to see that there was an article about him in a professional newsletter, that is, until I started reading more closely….

It turns out that 11 months ago Brian passed away.

The article was a tribute to his memory and contributions to his field of study. I don’t know the specifics of his passing, but when I found out, I spent the whole afternoon in tears. It’s so sad that I just when I finally had found him, Brian was already gone.

I haven’t yet figured out how to contact his wife and kids to let them know how great there dad was and how sorry I am for their loss. But now I have become more determined than ever to write down those Slovak stories…

I dedicate this post in honor of a dear friend who — even though I haven’t seen him for over ten years — impacted my life so greatly.

Weighty Matters

It all began with my dad calling me plump and juicy when I was little. Until I hit puberty, I was chubby (unlike most of the other girls who seemed to lose their baby fat once they hit third grade). Then, the opposite happened – at age 13 all those curves melted away (except for my hips) and I was the short, flat-chested girl with straight lines. Then, instead of saying how nice I looked my dad would say “You look like a boy. You’re not supposed to see ribs on a girl!”

These conflicting messages ensured that I would probably never be comfortable inside of my own body. How I longed for the day when I thought things would change and that I would feel happy to be whatever shape I was.

This has yet to happen.

Even pregnant, the body image issues I have battled all my life seem to magically rear their ugly heads (or in my case, hips!). I always thought that it would be so wonderful to have a socially-approved-of-belly and that I wouldn’t have to worry about how much I weighed or how big I was.

This still has yet to happen.

Maybe it is because I got pregnant just before getting married and my fears of showing in my dress (which I of course, did – I was showing quite early). Maybe it was because we wanted to wait to tell people we were expecting until after the wedding. Whatever it was for the first 3 months of my pregnancy I felt heavy, fat and bloated.

Something inside of me, though, told me that my issues would probably pass once I hit the second trimester. Showing would be wonderful. This would’ve been the case if I hadn’t of had gestational diabetes and had to go see the dietician (who just so happens to be a very small middle-aged Chinese lady with a slight build).

Our conversation went something like this:

Her: Oh, you are overweight.

Me: I know I’ve gained weight in the past few years because of stress, but I’m well within the parameters for my height.

Her (checking off the Overweight box on my intake form): Oh no. You are overweight. I am the same height, and even though I have smaller bones, you should weigh 120 lbs. pre-pregnancy.

Me: I have weighed that much before. I was anorexic and size 3 clothes hung on me. I’m not genetically wired to weigh that little.

Her (ignoring my comment about an eating disorder): That is your ideal weight.

This is a medical professional? Every time I go into this office to have my glucose levels evaluated, it’s a similar conversation. I’m almost in my sixth month, and have only gained about 5-6 pounds so far. How on earth — if all my pregnancy books say I should have gained about 11 — can that be too much?

I also love the fact that her scale magically reads my weight as being 2 lbs. heavier than my OBGYN’s. I had an appointment with both of them the same day – the dietician being right after the doctor. I asked her how I could’ve gained 2 lbs. in the course of an hour. Part of me wonders if their scale is off just to be able to lord their non-pregnant, genetically-predispositioned-to-be-thin figures over me and make their patients feel bad.

There is little positive about these visits.

Trying to ignore this does take some energy and hard work, though.

In truth, I unless I have an appointment with these nurses, I feel happy with my belly and size. I am eating well and exercising. I know that I’m carrying high and that my belly will show a little more than some other women.

And that’s just the way it is.

Technorati Tags: Pregnancy

Breaking the news…

So this is another piece I wrote a bit ago about telling Doug we were expecting. He has been after me to post it…

Here are just a few scenarios I pictured when I was younger that I might one day use in the future telling the news to my partner/husband that we were expecting (reminiscent of the Hallmark Channel/Hollywood-esque cliché).

Scenario #1

Knitting baby booties and having the husband look up at me and ask what the booties are for. I give him a knowing glance with a sly grin and say, “Well, dear…”

Scenario #2

Interior. Evening. Tall taper candles are lit on the table, three-course dinner is waiting to be served. Husband walks into the apartment.

Husband: Wow, this looks incredible! What’s the occasion?

Wife: Oh nothing, this is just a little something I put together to show how much I love you.

Conversation and banter continue throughout dinner. Dessert is brought out. The wife takes her husband’s hand and says.

Wife: Honey, I have something special to tell you.

Husband: What is it, did you get the new promotion at work?

Wife: No, dear, this is something much more wonderful. (She smiles coyly, looking at him with loving eyes.)

Husband: I can’t imagine what it is. Can you give me a hint?

The wife glances shyly down at her abdomen. Smiles and says…

Wife: You’re going to be a father, we’re expecting!

After a brief moment of shock, the husband jumps up, sweeps his wife into his arms and carries her off into the bedroom.

Okay, in truth I actually never envisioned myself doing or saying any of these things. First off, scenario number one would never work because I’m constantly knitting baby booties, afghans, hats and toys for friends’ and relatives’ babies. The second scenario is just far too cheesy, but one of the books I’m reading actually suggests something like this. Not only would it involve keeping the pregnancy a secret for a bit of time (impossible for me) but it would also mean that I’d have to somehow explain how I would be serving a wonderful dinner complete with meat (which, up until I became pregnant was pretty much a non-existent entity in my diet) but without wine. (Just tell me how a wine lover would explain that one without giving up the game??).

Oh how reality is so totally different!

Here’s what really happened. So far gone from the romantic notions of ‘breaking the news’.

Scenario #3

Interior. Hot humid day. Fans blowing in the background. Katie is in the bedroom looking up information on the internet about pregnancy, eyes swollen. Doug enters living room.

Doug: Hey, I’m home!

Katie doesn’t answer.

Doug places mail on the table. Starts walking toward the bedroom. Katie comes out of the bedroom. Doug looks at her red face – obviously something is wrong.

Doug (concerned): Hey sweetie, what’s the matter?

Katie: I… Well… (She gulps for air). Um…

They are standing on opposite sides of the room. Doug moves closer.

Katie: Um… You know how I said I was feeling really terrible the past couple of weeks?

Doug: Yeah.

Katie: Well… After meeting you for ice cream this afternoon, I went ahead and got a pregnancy test, just in case. And…

Doug: Yes?

Katie breaks into sobs, moves, heaving and crying to the sofa. She seems inconsolable.

Katie: I… I…took the test.

Doug: Oh, you should have waited for me!

Katie: I just wanted to do this alone. So, I took the test… and… (sobs and gasps for air) It’s positive!

Silence. Doug wraps his arms around Katie.

Doug: It’s okay.

Katie: You don’t understand, I feel so guilty. Like it’s my fault this has happened right now! I know we were planning this for later, but… now, just before the wedding???

Doug: Oh sweetie! It’s okay. Maybe this was in God’s plan for us.

It may not have been the most romantic moment in the world, what with red and bloated eyes and tears running down my face. But this was how it happened. No candles, no knitting, just the two of us holding each other on the sofa, awaiting the next challenges this news would bring.

 

Technorati Tags: pregnancy

I’m a chicken

This blog post is pretty personal. I originally wrote it a couple of months ago…

I’m a scaredy cat.

Even though I’m the sort of person who can readily hop on a plane and travel the world without so much as a few pages copied from a guidebook (and sometimes not even that much), I’m just, deep, down at heart, a chicken. If something seems too daunting, I don’t dive into it – I avoid it.

So, I probably would’ve known about this whole thing earlier. All the signs were there. I had a feeling inside of me that there was something going on that was unusual, but instead of being proactive, I put things off, hoping against all hope that whatever my intuition was telling me was misguided.

I should’ve known better – my intuition is always right…

I notice the first signs while I’m teaching. Extreme tiredness and grumpiness. Nothing out of the ordinary for me, since my PMS symptoms are usually really strong. I debate whether or not to go back on the pill because this one time I feel so bad, I think I’ll scream and I don’t want to have to deal with this right before the wedding. Between working and moving, my schedule has been thrown completely off and all I want is for my cycle to end.

I wait…
and I wait….

This is strange for me – unless I’m stressed (which I am, though), I’m like a clock. I know the moving, wedding planning, and working is getting to me, but this much?

Something inside of me tells me that things in my body are different. For a week I wake up in the middle of the night, heart beating wildly, unable to sleep. It feels like there is an unknown entity taking over my body – visions of horror movies unleashing their vise-like hold on my psyche.

What if, I ask Doug the day after one of these episodes, I’m…well…you know…pregnant?

It wouldn’t be the end of the world, he says. It might be in God’s plan for us.

The thought lingers in my mind for a good week. I keep pushing it away because I did have some mild cramps and some bleeding. I am just about ready to go to get my pill prescription refilled when I decide to go ahead and take a test just in case.

It reminds me of being a teenager all over again.

Walking in the drugstore the same nervousness grips me like when I was 17 and considering sleeping with my boyfriend. Back then I knew that I wasn’t really ready (and, we ultimately didn’t because of my then strong religious beliefs and the fact that I didn’t love him), but at the time I thought it would be wise to have some protection on hand just in case.

As I walked down the aisle those 20-odd years ago, I remember being totally overwhelmed at whatever lay ahead of me. As fate would have it, I ran into a high school friend, chickened out and bought something simple like gum instead.

This day in the drugstore seems no different, except I muster up my courage and go through with the purchase. I throw the box in the back of the car and head over to one of my favorite cafes to write.

When I get home, I look at the box, fear once again rearing its head. Hands shaking, not certain if I can go through with this.

But of course after a few deep breaths I do. It feels like the first time I went scuba-diving in Hawaii where I had to end my dive early because I started hyperventilating. I am confined within the 16 square foot space of my bathroom, the pressure inside of me reminiscent of the weight of the water on that particular dive, pushing me down, closing me in. I’m unable to do much but wait.

The box says to wait 5 minutes, but the answer appears almost immediately. First one blue line in the left window and then a minute later another line in the right.

There’s got to be some sort of mistake, I think to myself. This can’t be real. Maybe the test is wrong. (Being the thrifty person that I am, I had gotten the generic brand, after all).

But it is there, clear as day. I am pregnant.

Even though this is something I’ve always wanted, I’m not ready. I’m terrified and start sobbing uncontrollably.

Technorati Tags: Pregnancy, Pregnancy Test

Stoned Architect

I’m certain that the people who designed apartments in California during the 1960s were on drugs. Not only are there psychedelic touches here and there on the trim of many of these buildings, but they were often created with little or no thought to the fact that people will actually have to live in them.

Case in point — our current abode.

The genius who came up with the plan for this place never took into account the fact that, yes, Pasadena gets super hot in the summer and, especially at night, near-freezing in the winter. The placement of the walls ensure that there is no way for a breeze to penetrate the bedroom in the back of the apartment (which also happens to catch the full afternoon sun). They then decided to install Hawaiian windows — those thin horizontal glass panes that, when open, cut off a large part of the breeze, and, of course, when closed (this being a loose term, they never really close fully) let in drafts of cold air.

There’s also the kitchen. It’s made for giants. Granted I’m not tall, but I can only barely reach the lower shelf of the cabinets. It’s frustrating having to ask Doug to reach up for the simplest thing or climb on a chair to get something down. Of course, tall people aren’t immune to this design flaw either — the door is at just the right height to bang Doug in the head every time it doesn’t latch (which is often, as it happens to be).

Then there’s the bathroom. There is only a sliver of a medicine chest and the sink slopes downward causing anything sitting on it to occasionally slide off. When we got a set of shelves to go behind the toilet, we also found out that the floor is slanted — 16 inches of shelf width meant that there was a 1/2 inch difference in the slope of the floor.

None of the corners in the apartment are perpendicular. I found this out when trying to install corner shelves.

Finally, the AC is located on the bottom-most part of the furthest-most corner of the living room. It only cools a 2 by 5 foot swath of space.

In my last apartment there were a few things that weren’t really designed well, but at least there was a lot of cross-ventilation, the floors were even, and I could reach 2 to 3 of the shelves in the cupboard.

The more I think about it, the more sure I am that there is something deeper at work here. Perhaps these buildings are a by-product of an acid trip gone bad, or a Zen-like desire to instill in its inhabitants a sense of austerity by way of poor planning.

Maybe then, the solution to the problem is for me to jump into the mind of the person who originally conceived our building. Come to think of it, ‘recreational’ drugs might actually make this place seem normal!

Deathly Hallows

Ok. So I wasn’t going to buy the new Harry Potter book. I had signed up for it from the library (197th in the cue) 2 months ago. But somehow I just couldn’t resist.

It was easy at first to ignore the hype and not want the book, but while I was in the airport in DC last week I kept seeing people with it tucked (as much as something that big can be) under their arms. Sticker shock aside, I felt the pull of the tome, unable to control myself, much like someone under the Imperius Curse.

I caved.

I knew it’d only be a matter of time before the spoilers started coming out, before people would discuss the book on the net and in their blogs. It took me a little over a day to read (being stuck on a plane for 7 hours helped, of course) but the deed is done. I’ve finished the book.

I cried at the end, not just because of the ending (which I would never reveal to others, except Doug who hasn’t read the books and is not as invested in them) but because of the many hours of light-hearted fun and reading pleasure I have had.

Once I finished it, I felt like I was saying goodbye to an old friend.

The Wormhole

I’m convinced that we have a wormhole in our apartment, that is, something that transports things from this point in time and space to another, alternate universe. I say this because recently things have been disappearing without a trace.

At first I thought it was simply a gremlin or two, like the little creature “Not Me” in the Bill Keane comic, Family Circus. But now I’ve come to realize that there is no other explanation — someplace in our apartment there is a wormhole. Not a stationary one, mind you, but one that twists and turns with the cool summer night breezes.

The first hint of the wormhole was when Doug was looking for a DVD, The Scent of Green Papaya. We had just eaten Asian food, the night was warm, but not too hot, and somehow the lure of the poetic cinematography and stillness in the film was something we both craved. He had just organized his DVDs but the film was nowhere to be found. Not with the other DVDs, not on the desk. It was simply gone.

The next thing to go was our wedding planning book called Cheap Ways To Tie the Knot. The last time I had seen it was when I was working on invitation wording. One of my books is still there but this one is missing.
Last night it was one of Doug’s contact lenses.

But, sadly, the major thing to disappear in the apartment is my cat, Machan. The last time we saw her was on Sunday — she was under the bed. We left in the mid-afternoon for a movie and when we got back 3 hours later, she wasn’t there. We searched all her favorite hiding places, closets, everything. Still no sign. She’s been known to hide away in the closet every now and again for a half a day or so, and so I didn’t really worry until yesterday morning when she still hadn’t appeared. She’s a noisy little creature, and after tearing apart everything we had organized over the past 2 months, we came to the conclusion that she was definitely not in the apartment.

But, she’s not outside our apartment either.

See, Machan is a scaredy-cat. Whenever she sees someone coming, she runs under the furniture. If she ventures outside, it’s only when we are watching her, slinking against the wall, going a few yards only to get spooked by some random noise and come running back. I can’t imagine that if she did get out, she would have stayed out long. We would’ve heard her whines or she would’ve been sitting outside the door.

There is no rational explanation for her disappearance, especially since the door was closed and neither one of us saw her sneaking out.

After 11 years, 2 continents and 3 homes, I hope she comes back. I keep thinking that maybe wormholes can work the opposite way, bringing us back the things that are most dear to us which we have lost to their energetic force field.

Love, Exciting and New…

Just call me Julie. That’s right, that’s what I should (but don’t necessarily want to) be called today.

No, I haven’t succumbed to multiple personality disorder like Joanne Woodward in “The Three Faces of Eve”. I haven’t forsaken all of my identity to become subsumed into another completely different persona. No, the only thing that has happened to me is…

I got a haircut.

I have curly thick and unruly hair. What I asked for was a “flip” style that really works well with my hair and face. What I got was…

Wings!

Yep. I could be a host of things today. Julie, your illustrious Cruise Director, a chicken, a duck, a plane. You name it. You see…today…my hair…can…FLY!

It all started out innocuously enough. I needed my roots touched up and thought that instead of my usual trek to the beauty supply shop I would pay someone to do it for me. I figured that it would be nice to start getting some more shape and texture cut into my hair so that by September it would look stunning for the wedding. My budget for the month already being shot on wedding deposits and such, I was tempted to go to Supercuts, but opted instead to try a salon on a tree-lined street with a lot of upscale shops and spas. My goal was to find a really relaxed hair styling place where there no gay men saying to me “Sweetheart what have you done to your hair?” and trying to sell me tons of expensive products. (Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against gay men, it’s just that this type of conversation is guilt-inducing to the extreme — and the last thing I need is more guilt trips in my life… And, as an aside, I also like to keep the hair products I use to a minimum.)

The first salon I walked into charged $75 for a cut. (I won’t mention how much their color treatments were, but just to give some idea, close to half of what I now pay in rent.) No way was I going to pay so much just for a few snips from a pair of scissors. (I don’t care that much about my hair.) So, I found a little salon down the road with a really nice Vietnamese lady, walked in and asked if she was free. She was, the price was right and the next thing I knew, I was in a chair with cape around my neck awaiting my hair color.

It was a leap of faith, because I really don’t trust anyone to cut my hair. The only person I liked who ‘got’ how my hair should be cut was my former neighbor (whom I dubbed ‘Dippy Neighbor Chick’). I could get an edgy cut, color and highlights from DNC for under $80 — unheard of anywhere, most of all LA. But, she did a great job and I was so sad to see her move away a year ago. Since then it’s been me, a pair of scissors, a layering tool from Japan and a bottle of color.

I have to say that I was taken by the experience. She was very meticulous, showing me pictures of haircuts, asking me what I wanted. I loved talking to her and hearing about her experiences. The way she shampooed my hair was wonderful, tender, and thorough. When I got back into the chair I watched her cut, snip and trim, carefully measuring to make certain things were even. Wet the cut looked fine. But then she took out the blow-dryer and…

My hair exploded! (Figuratively, of course.)

I thought at first that it was one of those important-first-step-secrets-of-styling that the people who charge the big bucks say they do (you, know, in order to charge the big bucks). I told myself that I would trust the hair-styling gods to take care of me and that I couldn’t leave the salon looking like I just walked out of a bad 80’s melodrama. As I was thinking all of this she handed me the mirror looking upon her work proudly and said…

Well, what do you think?

Shock. Horror. Sadness. What does one say in a time like this? I don’t think she misunderstood my English — flip and wings don’t really mean the same thing or even sound alike, after all. I was too stunned to do anything but gulp, pay, and hope that my bobby pins were still lodged somewhere in my bag.

As I walked down the street, I realized that this situation called for the one thing I was avoiding — product. So, off I headed to the Aveda salon nearby. When I walked in, I could see the girl at the desk looking me over and turning up her nose, peering at me around her desk as I was searching for some gel. Behind her was the stylist giving a middle-aged woman with dark roots a Connie Chung-style haircut, waxing on about the products she should use in her hair, and I as I plunked down my money for some de-poofing hair gel, I thought…

Well, now…maybe wings aren’t so bad after all!