October 20, 2012 · 1:18 pm

The Walking-Faster-Than-You-Think Dead

Three seasons into it, I just started watching The Walking Dead. I adore the films of Frank Darabont – you may know him as the director of The Shawshank Redemption, the one movie that makes almost every single person I’ve ever known’s top list of all-time favorite movies.

“What movies do you like?”

“Princess Bride and Shawshank.”

“Anchorman and Shawshank.”

“Seven and Shawshank.”

“The Manchurian Candidate and Shawshank.”

“Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo and Shawshank.”

It’s pretty remarkable. He also directed The Green Mile and The Mist. All three are adaptations of Stephen King stories, which is notable because King is one hell of a storyteller. Darabont’s extraordinary skill at bringing these tales to life lies not in the element of horror, but rather the element of humanity – strength, weakness, kindness, wit, nobility, frailty, good and evil – that he portrays so beautifully.

So basically I’m a fan.

Which is why I have NO IDEA why I didn’t start watching the series when it first came out. Was I living under a rock?

I continued on, blithely ignoring season two. Yes, Frank Darabont left prior to that season’s beginning, but one has to imagine he left a great foundation to build upon. And it’s based upon a series of graphic novels by Robert Kirkman, Tony Moore and Charlie Adlard.

Also? It’s a series about zombies. Post-apocalyptic zombies.

While not a fan of zombies per se, I do appreciate creative premises. Something unique and different and intriguing. Something, let me be honest, that is the diametric opposite of Honey Boo Boo.

The other night, I watched Facebook EXPLODE (not literally, I hasten to add) with posts about the season 3 premier.

“Self,” I said to myself, “Could we be missing something here? It appears that an amazingly diverse array of people we know on Facebook are watching and enjoying this series that, for all intents and purposes, could have been written with us in mind. Also? We’re talking to ourselves again, and we’re doing it in the plural. We’re either royalty or should begin to get really worried.”

What can I say? I’m very honest when talking to myself.

So we got the first two seasons and started watching. Here is a picture of me 10 minutes into the first episode:

One of the stories I read about why Darabont left the series was struggles over the high costs of production. Based upon my reaction, he could’ve simply recorded the sound and released the whole thing as a radio series. My eyes were SEALED shut. I wasn’t even peeking through my fingers.

Okay, maybe I peeked a little.

We ended up watching episode after episode, spellbound, straight through to the end of season one.

I’m not going to give away any spoilers (and PLEASE don’t do so in the comments, thank you kindly). I did jot down several observations that I feel are general enough to squeak by without revealing the entire plot.

  • Don’t ever go to Atlanta. (Hey, look, I didn’t write the series.)
  • Pizza delivery builds mad tactical skills.
  • Life post-apocalypse features gorgeous skin, hair and a luminous natural beauty that can withstand extreme close-ups despite desperate living conditions and limited running water and soap (this phenomenon is also evident in the series Lost). I can’t manage to attain a luminous natural beauty with a cabinet full of lotions, soaps, make-up, hair products and running water. It seems sad that I’ll have to wait until after an apocalypse to finally achieve a clear complexion and shiny, lustrous hair, but I suppose it’s something to look forward to.
  • Never underestimate the power of a tiny little abuela.
  • If you are a horse, trust NO ONE.
  • While gross beyond all reason, a severed hand in a backpack can be a deceptively powerful negotiation tool. Strangely, this method is not mentioned by either Stephen Covey or Dale Carnegie.
  • The Walking Dead are like cockroaches. If you see one, you can be certain that thousands of others are just out of sight,  waiting for the first one to be noticed before they lurch into the open. This can happen in a city, a town, or a field in the middle of nowhere.
  • They are also sneaky. Despite having the motor skills of a diseased pumpkin, they can seemingly navigate a forest filled with fallen leaves and twigs without a single sound.
  • If you haven’t figured this out yet despite Avengers and The Hunger Games, LEARN TO USE A BOW.
  • When living in a post-apocalyptic world in which every second is fraught with danger and terror, if it’s important enough to post a lookout during the day, you might want to post one at night, too.
  • Keys are very important. Don’t leave them in a vehicle that you may need later. Hang onto them tightly, especially when running (and tripping, and falling). Don’t throw them, EVER.

And the most important lesson of them all? The dead can walk a LOT faster than you think. I know I’m not the sportiest of all Sporty Spices, but I do feel that I’m in decent physical condition. The thought that a creature missing half its face, part of an arm and several internal organs shuffling along on a BACKWARDS LEG fast enough to catch me and rip my face off is demoralizing, to say the very least. I’d argue that the show should be called the Walking-Faster-Than-You-Think Dead, or the Jogging Dead, or perhaps even the Eight-Minute-Mile Dead.

We started in on season two already, but I’ll save that for another post. Suffice to say, I’ll be watching the rest.

And quietly training to run a mile in under eight minutes. Just in case.

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September 27, 2012 · 5:07 pm

Death by Scuba

Scuba diving. The words evoke mental images of tranquil blue water, seaweed languidly swaying in a gentle current, tiny brightly colored fish darting here and there. Sounds lovely, doesn’t it?

Not the way I did it.

Studying marine science in Florida, it made sense for me to become certified in scuba. I took a course held in the campus pool. Our teacher, who retired from the Navy, was pretty hardcore. You know, the kind of person who could easily defeat a rabid giant squid with his bare hands without even exerting himself despite (or perhaps because of) his insistence upon wearing a tiny Speedo.

Things got interesting when I was paired with my arch-nemesis from freshman year to practice “buddy breathing”. There we sat in the shallow end of the pool, ostensibly passing the mouthpiece back and forth in a happy, congenial manner like rational adults and certainly NOT trying to deprive each other of air by holding the respirator just out of one another’s reach. At one point I was a thousand percent certain I was going to drown in four feet of water for being too stubborn to admit I needed to breath.  I sat there, vision growing cloudy, pretending everything was perfectly normal. “Death by Abject Stupidity” would be written on my gravestone.  Despite the fact I made it through this exercise, it didn’t do much to boost my overall confidence.

Speaking of, our first check-out dive was in a place called the Snake Pit.

The Snake Pit.

And really, who wouldn’t want to dive in a place called the Snake Pit?  What could POSSIBLY go wrong in a place called the Snake Pit? From what I recall, it was an old limestone pool filled with crystal clear water and roughly a million feet of silt.  As soon as the first fin touched the bottom, the silt became suspended in the water column and reduced all visibility to zero.  An enormous malevolent snake could easily tiptoe up behind you, tap you on the shoulder and swallow you whole without anyone being the wiser, including you.

Of course (we were told) there aren’t REALLY snakes in the water – hahaha, no way! They would never take us to a place with SNAKES in the water. That’s just silly! Hahaha. The goal of this dive was to keep calm under challenging circumstances.  Personally I felt I exceeded expectations by not dying of fear, stress, or accidental snake.

The day came for our final dive – a wreck and a reef in Biscayne Bay. It was cancelled due to bad weather.  This gave me several months to brood and to forget the vital yet complex formulas necessary to dive successfully, meaning “without running out of air or accidentally causing your brain to explode”.

Five months later, our class received word that we were to  join the current class for the final dive. Conditions weren’t perfect for this one, either, but you could tell that barring an outright hurricane, this dive was GOING to happen. We trooped onto the boat despite the three- to five-foot waves. With the exception of the crew and our instructor, my friend Sebastian and I were the only ones NOT throwing up over the side of the boat within the first 10 minutes of leaving the dock.  We sat there in the center of the boat, desperately trying to distract each other from the horrifying sounds of our classmates’ spleens being forcefully expelled through their mouths into the water.

Once we reached the wreck, our teacher was ready. He directed all of the seasick people to pair up, enter the water and wait. Soon, Sebastian and I were the only ones left on the boat. We were ready to jump in and our instructor – the man you could envision diving off of ice floes (sans wetsuit) to save baby seals from satanic polar bears – screamed like a little girl at a Bieber concert and started clawing at his neck. “Dive, people!” he yelled. “Portuguese man-o-war! You two – dive off the back of the boat and follow the anchor line down!” He submerged.

Sebastian and I blinked at each other.

“Don’t those have tentacles that are, like, miles long?”
“I think so.”
“And we’re supposed to jump straight into them?”
“Maybe they’re going in a different direction.”
“Oh, you mean floating against the current?”
“Hmmmm.”

What could we do? We jumped off the back of the boat and plunged straight down, using up 50% of our oxygen in about three minutes of sheer panic.  We followed the anchor line about 70 feet to the bottom and rejoined our classmates, slightly the worse for wear but uninjured.

For the moment.

The color spectrum is affected when you travel into deep water. One of the first colors to disappear is red. Which is why, minutes later, when some idiot shoved me into the side of the wreck and I put up my hand to keep from crashing into the side of it, the resulting laceration in my palm bleed green.

The Teacher’s Assistant assigned to my group was overjoyed – green blood! Hey everyone, come see! This was SCIENCE! At least, I’d like to think he didn’t mean to present me as bait, attracting every predator within a five mile radius. He grabbed my wrist, sweeping it through the water in ever increasing circles to catch the attention of everyone in the immediate vicinity.

Including two barracuda. They started edging closer, “How YOU doin’?” expressions on their faces, thousands of teeth glinting in the murky filtered light.

By this point, I’d had it. I was DONE. I wrestled my wrist from his grip, pounded on my chest and gestured emphatically to indicate that I was going UP. NOW. I broke all protocols by heading to the surface on my own because by now I just didn’t care.  I didn’t care if I ran out of oxygen. I didn’t care if my brain exploded from rising too fast. I didn’t care if the great-great-great-great grandson of Jaws was zeroing in on my location using some sharkey GPS system. I just did. Not. Care.

My immediate goals were to 1) get out of the ocean and 2) never return.

Once I made it back to the surface, I paddled weakly towards the ladder on the back of the boat, which was bobbing violently in the waves. I grasped it, got one leg up and was immediately thrown so fiercely that my entire body left the water only to splash back down twenty feet away.

Also, it felt like my left kneecap had been knocked off. This barely even registered: I figured I could collect it from the wetsuit and keep it on ice until I could find someone to reattach it.

I swam even more feebly for the ladder again and finally made it back on board.  I stood on the deck, dripping and bleeding, balanced on one leg. I slowly started removing my wetsuit. One of the crew said, “Hey, you’ll want to leave that on for the reef dive.” I shot him a disbelieving look and ignored him. I flailed my arms, trying to wrestle out of the suit, and fell over into the pool of blood spreading at my feet: my own little crime scene. Someone finally bandaged my wrist and I fell into a woozy sulk.

A month later, I received my certification in the mail. Was this some kind of joke?

Regardless, that was the last dive I ever did.

Need a snorkeler? I can snorkel like a CHAMP. I can tide pool, and marsh-muck, and jump into puddles like I was born to it. But if you want a scuba partner, you’re on your own.

I will, however, be happy to wait for you on the deck with bandages.

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August 19, 2012 · 2:53 pm

Gran’s 96th Birthday

“All ready for Monday?”
“Yes, except I don’t know what we’re doing.”
“That’s because it’s a surprise. You know how to dress. You know when you’re getting picked up, right?”
“Yes, but…you’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“No.”
“Hmmmphh.”

###

My grandma is pretty amazing. She’s turning 96 on Monday, and she’s still feisty as ever.

Raggedy Ouch

When I was little, she made me incredibly gorgeous Halloween costumes. By hand. Holly Hobbie, the Pink Panther, a dalmatian.  She even turned me into Raggedy Anne one year, complete with hand-looped red yarn wig, a dress and an apron.  She couldn’t find white and red striped tights, though, so she put me in white tights and used red electricians tape to make the rings (my mother later confessed that this was her idea). About five minutes into our evening of trick-or-treating she noticed I wasn’t keeping up. Then I asked to be carried. She cajoled and fussed and finally picked me up and carried me from house to house, grimly determined that we finish at least one street. When we returned home, she discovered why I hadn’t wanted to walk: she’d taped the loops around my legs so tightly that I couldn’t bend them.

She laughs whenever she tells that story. Which tells you everything you need to know about gran, really. She’s never taken herself too seriously. Admits when she makes mistakes. And she’s always had a great sense of humor.

###

“Do you mind if I post some pictures, gran?”
“As long as it’s not the one from the pirate bar last weekend.”
“Deal.”

###

Games

Playing Yahtzee is a tradition with gran. She has a special dice cup made of cedar purchased as a souvenir on a long-ago family trip. Really that makes all the difference, hearing the little cubes rattle with a hollow wooden sound before they spill out on the table (and often over the edge). She can still beat me 9 out of every 10 games, and will routinely get 3 Yahtzees in a row.  You might think she HAS to be cheating, but she isn’t: she saves that for Scattergories.

The Age Card

Gran has been playing the “age card” since she was in her 60s, so whenever it comes out the initial reaction is typically an eye roll.  She didn’t act 60, or 70, or 80.  She doesn’t act 96, either.

“Do they have Early Boarding for this flight?”
“I dunno. You want me to ask? Why do we need early boarding?”
“Because I’m old. Tell them I can’t see.”

So I asked the gate attendant and she was happy to let gran board early. We lined up to the side, gran trying unsuccessfully to look feeble. When we finally boarded and were seated, I turned to her and said, “You know, the whole ‘Gran can’t see’ thing might work better next time if you’re not carrying your book.”

She grinned, completely unabashed.

###

“Gran, we’d like to take you out for Mother’s Day. Would you prefer to go to Tersiguel’s or O’Leary’s?”
“O’Leary’s. I don’t think the other would be appropriate at all.”
“Why not? Tersiguel’s is amazing – the food is exceptional, and the atmosphere is lovely.”
“What’s it called again?”
“Tersiguel’s.”
“Oh, I thought you said Testicles.”
Pause.
“Gran, why would we take you to a place called Testicles for Mother’s Day?”
“I have no idea. I never know what to expect with you.”

###

It’s 12 O’Clock Somewhere

The day we got married was pretty rainy. The place, which was supposed to be finished, wasn’t, so there were elements of danger everywhere (because simply getting married isn’t stressful enough). The paths to and from the bridal house, for example, were sheets of plastic tarp held down by roof tiles – basically a slip-n-slide waiting to happen.  The grans were being escorted to the photo staging area following the ceremony, and you can probably guess which one was wearing 2-inch gold heels.  The way our friend tells the story, someone announced, “There’s champagne in the bridal house!” and both grans threw off the helping hands of their escorts and starting doing cartwheels and handsprings across the slick plastic and sprinting to be first in line.

Because that’s how my family rolls. They’ve ALWAYS been festive and loved gatherings and having fun. And gran is no exception.

Family

We went to River Country in Orlando one year, and it happened to correspond with a shuttle launch. Mom, dad and I went on the inner tube ride. As we flew off the final slide, we could see gran waving from a bridge overlooking the lagoon. She was smiling and taking pictures. Meanwhile, we could see the shuttle climbing in the sky behind her.  We yelled and gestured, “Turn around, gran! Look! Look! The shuttle!” and she kept waving and laughing. Knowing gran, even if she had turned to take a photo of the launch, she would’ve cut its head off.

###

“Never in my life did I think I’d see a dog welcomed up on MY couch.”

###

Sophie

Gran has never really been a fan of dogs, but Sophie The Wonder Dog is different. Once, when gran spent the night, she slept downstairs on the couch. Sophie spent the night downstairs, too, laying on the other couch. Whenever gran would wake up during the night, she’d glance over to see Sophie silently watching over her, and fall back to sleep, strangely reassured.  Ever since then, gran has spoiled Sophie dog to the point where I’ve had to say, “Okay, gran. You can EITHER call Sophie ‘Lardy’ OR you can give her a thousand treats. You cannot, in good conscience, do both.”

Life and How to Live it

Gran hasn’t had an easy life. She’s known hardship, and challenges, and sadness. She’s also known adventure, and great times, and joy.

She’s quite remarkable, really, and I count my blessings every single day that I’ve been fortunate enough to have her in my life for so long.  She’s taught me – through example – about patience, and strength, and resilience, and joy.  And laughter. And cooking. And unconditional love. Really, she’s taught me a lot about life and how to live it. And isn’t that what it’s all about?

I love you, gran! Happy birthday!

Gran in Oregon in 1945.

Gran in Maryland in 2011 – last year’s birthday celebration.

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August 11, 2012 · 10:52 pm

A Strange Wind Blows at Blarney Castle

The Blarney Stone wasn’t at all what I expected.

I think I expected to walk up to a benign, short and happy stone basking in a field, surrounded by clover and flowers and singing birds and Guinness.

What I found was a castle in ruins with twisty narrow staircases leading ever up up UP to the famous stone.

My parents and I made it to the top and were treated to a panoramic view of the outrageously green countryside. But where was the stone? Several uncertain laps around the top and I had my answer: it was – for all intents and purposes – hanging in mid-air from an outer wall. Across an expanse of empty air. Roughly 673 miles above the surface of the earth.

I should perhaps mention at this point that I am not a fan of heights. Gravity and I have an uneasy truce, at best, and my total lack of coordination cheerfully feeds the fear that one day I’ll be standing on something tall, trip, and fling myself to pointless doom.

People from all around the globe milled about uncertainly, eagerly waiting to see someone kiss the blarney stone.  Slowly, all gazes fell on me, the youngest person up there (at the time) by about 20 years. “She’s young,” I could hear them thinking. “She’s resilient. If she slips and falls, she’ll probably bounce. Let her go first.”

It may take a village to raise a child, but it takes significantly fewer adults to sacrifice a young person to the capricious gods of gravity.

I slowly approached the man overseeing this operation. He was roughly 734 years old and weighed maybe 90 pounds. He would be the one spotting me as I leaned over a gap of a couple of feet to grab metal bars on the outer battlements, bend backwards over a drop of several hundred feet to kiss a rock.

Hear me when I say that in a lifetime filled with doing all manner of stupid things, this ranks near the top.

For comfort, the man provided a wool blanket as a cushion. You know, against the smoothed-by-centuries-of-wind-and-rain rock. I fully expected to launch like a pebble from a slingshot and wondered, almost in passing, if they’d write “Death by Blarney Stone” on my grave.

Clearly I made it, but trust me when I say it won’t ever happen again.

I finished and everyone applauded and patted me on the back and then all of a sudden EVERYONE wanted to kiss it. People are so weird.

I wandered over to a far battlement until my parents called me back and handed me the camera.  Dad, who was a pretty big guy, went to sit on the blanket and in a moment of profound silence – like the universe itself was holding its breath – he let out the loudest fart I ever hope to hear for the rest of my time upon this earth.

The silence continued, only then it was different. It was the sound of people recognizing something that transcends all language barriers. It was the sound of people meeting each others eyes in shock and then glancing away. It was the sound of barely suppressed laughter, building like a wave in the sea.

“That oughta relieve the pressure a bit, sir,” said the little old man. The top of that tower EXPLODED with peals of laughter, people doubled over, tears running down their faces.  Dad grinned, sat back down, leaned back and kissed the stone, followed by mom.  People smiled as we left, waving.

Ireland: I’m so sorry.

I stalked down the steps, furious. My father just farted on one of the national symbols of Ireland.  Even worse, I heard him and mom behind me wondering aloud if they sold “I farted on the Blarney Stone” t-shirts in the gift shop.

Would my humiliation know no boundaries? My parents were torn between comforting me and plotting a new clothing line. I decided to ignore them for the rest of my life.

That night, over a quiet dinner in a local pub, dad looked at me and pouted out his lower lip. He was trying for remorse but spoiled it with a barely suppressed snort. I glared and then reluctantly gave a muffled giggle. Mom started chuckling. Dad’s laugh started deep in his belly and rose through his body until he was letting out a surreal snorking sound through his nose.

We were laughing so hard at this point that other diners stopped and stared until, one by one, they joined in.  We laughed, we chortled, we had tears rolling down our faces, we were holding our sides and gasping for air.

“That oughta relieve the pressure a bit, sir!” Dad blurted out, and we were off again, howling in glee.

I’m pretty sure I had the gift of the gab long before kissing that stone, which makes my net gain from the entire episode residual embarrassment and an even greater fear of heights.

My advice is this: if you go to Ireland (which you should, because it’s a glorious place), find a nice, convenient, relaxed-looking rock someplace safe (ie: on the ground NEAR Blarney Castle), kiss THAT, then continue your adventures. It’s far safer, much easier and the chances that someone farted on it are negligible, at best.

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Aside

The Windy City versus the Hairbrush of Doom

Recently I traveled to Chicago for a conference. I was honored by the request to give a presentation, so despite the fact I’d rather run myself over with my own car than fly these days, I found myself on a plane to the Windy City.

Make no mistake. I knew it was called the Windy City before arriving.  That’s why it was that much more surprising to discover, once I’d arrived at my hotel and was freshening up, that I’d forgotten to pack a brush.  OR a comb.

An adventure – how fun! I walked off, a spring in my step, to find the nearest drugstore.

Because I am directionally challenged at the best of times, forty-seven blocks later I staggered into a Walgreens, absurdly grateful for the air conditioning and even the slightest respite from the glaring sun.  Confronted with what seemed to be thousands of hair brushes, I opted for a round one made out of metal and space-aged polymers and ceramics and maybe even dark matter with extra ions and little nubs on the ends of the bristles.  It was also slightly heavier than my normal hairbrush, a seemingly unimportant factor that I would soon deeply regret.

It appeared to work in the manner of a normal hair brush that afternoon, and again that evening. Not a problem. A seamless transition, or so I thought.

The next morning, I got up early to get ready for a full day at the conference. As I was innocently drying my hair – still half asleep and waiting for my coffee to kick in – IT HAPPENED. The brush got stuck in my hair.

When I say the brush got stuck in my hair, I can see you rolling your eyes and thinking, “Please. What’s the big deal? Unroll it and get on with your life.” And normally I’d be right there with you.

This time, however, I was dealing with the Evil Hairbrush of Extreme Malevolence. In seconds, it had twisted every single strand of hair on the left side of my head firmly around it, and it was. Not. Moving.

For the first time in my life, I was quite literally dumbfounded. I moved on to stunned and slipped quickly into shock. The brush would not move. I tried conditioner. I tried water.  I tried loosening the hair strand by strand.  I looked up solutions on the internet.  Phone a friend seemed to be a top pick, but I was in a strange city and there was no one to call. Using chopsticks to somehow gently pry the hair away from the core of the brush seemed like a viable option, but oddly enough I’d failed to pack chopsticks for a two night stay.  In desperation I began to cut the little nubs off the end of the bristles with my travel nail clippers, just to feel like I was doing something. They scattered like depraved cookie sprinkles across the gleaming bathroom vanity and floor.

I started crying like Woodstock in the old Peanuts cartoons – tears flingling themselves horizontally from my eyes.  It was clear to me I wasn’t going to be able to fix this one on my own. And because the heavy brush was stuck about a half-inch from my scalp, I figured I was returning home with a buzz cut and the mother of all headaches. I called the Concierge.

“Um. Hi. I kind of have a problem. I have a (muffled sob) brush stuck in my hair.”

“I’m sorry?”

“A hairbrush. It’s stuck in my hair. I need help.”

“Would you like me to send up someone from Housekeeping?”

I blinked. Housekeeping? Were they going to Windex the brush free?

“No, I think I need to call a salon or something. Is there one in the area?”

“Yes, there’s one a couple of blocks away.”

She gave me the number, and I called, hoping against hope that they’d be open and someone would be available.

“Hello?”

“Um, hi. The Concierge at the Blackstone gave me your number. I have an emergency. I’m a guest at the hotel and I’m here for a conference and I somehow got a brush stuck in my hair.”

“Are you a client?”

“No, I’m visiting from out of town. It’s kind of an emergency. I can’t walk around with a brush stuck in my hair.”

“Hmm.” She sounded bored.  “Let me ask the lady.”  She put me on hold.  After about five excruciatingly long minutes, during which I began wondering if Housekeeping would deliver scissors, she returned to the line. “The lady, she says come in.”

“Oh thank you! Thank you so much. I’ll be right <click> in.”

Now I had a whole new problem – was I really going to walk through the hotel and down the street to a yet-unknown destination with a brush sticking out from my head? I grabbed a giant scarf and wrapped it around my hair, pretending that the metal brush didn’t make the scarf bulge alarmingly in a way that instantly made the phrase “deformed unicorn” leap to mind.  I opted for sunglasses instead of my regular glasses.  Even in this city where I knew very few people, I decided to sacrifice vision for anonymity.

I made it to the posh lobby without incident, and sidled up to the Concierge station. A woman in front of me was negotiating for a pedicure.  I waited as patiently as I could, feeling like I was standing under a neon sign flashing *FREAK! CAN’T BRUSH HER HAIR!* on and off for the entire world to see.  I tried and failed to NOT wish horrible, debilitating nail fungus upon the long-winded yet reasonably innocent woman standing between me and directions to the salon.

Because I was still in shock, the Concierge had to repeat the directions four times.  Even then, walking out into the bright sunlight, slightly dazed, all I remembered was right, two blocks, then left. Or maybe right. Surely it couldn’t be that hard to find.

In the end, I only went about twelve blocks out of my way.  I finally walked up the steps to the salon with a strange mixture of relief and trepidation, tried the handle only to discover that the door was locked. I knocked quietly. No response. I knocked slightly louder, trying desperately not to offend anyone who might be able to help. Someone finally let me in.

A kind-looking woman walked over to greet me and motioned me to a chair. “Take off the scarf,” she said. I slowly unwound it, eyes fixed on my lap. She blurted out, “Oh my god!” and I burst into silent tears, bottom lip quivering.  “You’re going to have to shave it all off, aren’t you?” I sobbed quietly, like this was the worst thing that has ever happened in the history of the universe. All sense of reason and perspective had left the building at a run about an hour before and were still gaining speed somewhere off in the distance.

“Let’s see what we can do.” And she went to work.

Thirty minutes later, the brush was free. She tried  to hand it to me but I averted my eyes and made useless flapping gestures with my hands. “I don’t want to touch it, I don’t even want to see it. I think maybe you should shoot it or burn it.” I said this earnestly, then asked her how much I owed her.

“Don’t worry about it, ” she said. “Just no more crying. You need to smile more.” And she patted my arm.  Then she explained how to pick out a brush that was NOT the Unholy Hairbrush of Impending Doom.

So I gave her a watery smile and an enormous tip, and sent her flowers the next day.  I may have even promised to name all future houseplants after her (it didn’t seem right to promise to name future dogs after her), but things got a little fuzzy there at the end.  I was free!

I skipped down the street, puffy-eyed, tender-scalped, dehydrated from stupid amounts of crying, horribly frizzy and totally unstyled hair streaming behind me in the furnace-like summer breezes of the Windy City.  And for that moment in time, I was blissfully and ridiculously happy.

Here is the Happy Hairbrush of Lesser Drama, which I bought on the way back to the hotel:

The presentation went well. Thankfully, it was the NEXT morning, although I am still haunted by the thought of session feedback survey results saying, “Presenter did well overall but seemed distracted by an odd shape on the left side of her head under her scarf. For some reason, it made me think a little of a deformed unicorn.”

Timing really is everything.

###

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July 30, 2012 · 9:38 pm
June 16, 2012 · 5:26 pm

Dad’s Laughter

It’s been almost six years since we lost dad.

What a great phrase – lost dad – like we accidentally misplaced him and he’ll show back up someday in the junk drawer or the attic, brushing off layers of dust and grinning.

And trust me, the man would be grinning.

We’re an irreverent family, if you haven’t guessed that already from my posts. We face adversity with humor and jokes. It’s how we roll.

This year, dad’s birthday falls on Father’s Day.  So it’s kind of a two-fer, right? And as it approached, I found myself getting sad and maudlin and weepy.  I took flowers to his grave and stood there impersonating a ginormous, Mickey-shaped tear sprinkler.  And I thought to myself, “Self, really? Is this what he’d want?” No. No, it isn’t.

I could picture him standing in front of me, pouting his lower lip out just like he would when I was upset about something.  “C’mon,” he’d say. “Hang your lip. More. Is that the best you got?” And we’d sit there making faces – trying desperately to stay serious and failing spectacularly, dissolving into helpless laughter each and every time.

That was dad.

As I looked through boxes of old photos to find some to share, I noticed something. It was almost impossible to find a picture in which dad wasn’t smiling or doing something goofy.

Case in point:  Here is dad, doing his interpretation of the dance from REM’s Losing My Religion video.

He is dancing while we spread topsoil yet again on the front yard, hoping against hope that this time grass would grow.  I loved him dearly, but despite fertilizers and grass seed and watering and trucked-in topsoil he could somehow make any yard look like a cursed ancient burial mound – shriveled grass, patches of bare, rocky soil. I’m pretty sure I saw a tumbleweed in our yard once. In Virginia.

He enjoyed ridiculous jokes and puns.  He loved listening to Jimmy Buffett. When he finally got his dream car – a Caddy with a phone that operated through the speakers – you could HEAR him grinning when he called you, just to say hello.  Just because he could.

I remember playing Pictionary with him.  He’d draw the most ridiculous things and then get annoyed when you couldn’t guess them.  He’d start gesturing, or adding more lines over the ones he’d already drawn for emphasis.  Once, we were on the same team, and he drew a sad looking stick man with something on his neck.  “Um.  String bean? Tampon neck?” He pointed forcefully at the picture with his pencil.  I stared at it some more. “Jalapeno pepper?”  He put his head in his hands and started laughing. The buzzer sounded. “Cut throat,” he said.  We all howled with laughter.

That’s what I remember the most about my dad.  He could make pretty much anything fun. His laugh was infectious.  I remember once in a pub in Ireland, he started laughing about something that happened earlier that day.  The laugh started deep in his belly.  It was very low, and as it gained steam it rose through his body until he was making helpless snorking sounds through his nose.  Mom and I glanced at each other and started laughing, too, and one by one EVERYONE in the pub joined in, gasping with laughter, holding their sides, in some cases with tears rolling down their cheeks.  They had no idea what they were laughing about, and it didn’t matter one bit. It was a happier pub after that, people talking and interacting more, all because of dad’s laugh.

If you want a more serious remembrance of dad, you can read my post from a couple of years ago.  It also contains a great picture of him with a windsock on his head. Because, you know, that’s how he rolled.

My dad was a great man. Fun and funny, smart, strong and kind.  He’d do anything for you.  He was my hero when I was little, and he always will be.

So Happy Birthday and Happy Father’s Day to the best dad ever.  I still hear your laughter in my heart.  And I still miss you, each and every day.

###

Photo credits: Mickey Gomez, all rights reserved. 

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March 24, 2012 · 8:15 pm

Disharmonious Feedback

“You have a disharmonious face.”

“I what?”

I’m sitting in a chair in a doctor’s office, getting prepped for an upcoming surgery to correct my deviated septum. Evidently this preparation is done by trying to sell me an upgrade.

“You have a disharmonious face. If you put a line straight down the center of your face, the sides don’t match.”

“Oh.” I pause. “Is that unusual?”

“Yes, but I can fix it. Since I’m doing surgery on your nose anyway, I can straighten it, put an implant in the tip, give you a chin implant…”

“Give me a what? A chin implant?! So I’ll look like Bruce Campbell?”  

“Who?”

“The guy from the Evil Dead movies. You know, he wrote the book If Chins Could Kill?”

“I’m not familiar with that, but no, it’ll look great.”

“According to who? You?”

“Well yes. But in addition to Ear, Nose, and Throat, I am a plastic surgeon.”

“You’re also wearing Birkenstocks with black socks. Tell you what, I’ll pass for now, thanks.”

I know exactly why the doctor said this. I’d already be in surgery and it would be highly convenient for everyone involved for me to get a few “problem areas” repaired.  For just  few bucks more, not covered by insurance, I could have a brand new harmonious face AND help him finance a new boat or, possibly, a better shoe-sock combination.

The only trouble, of course, is that I’ve always been pretty relaxed with the way I look.  This has less to do with an abundance of self-confidence and more to do with stories of plastic surgery gone horribly wrong.  And don’t misunderstand me, here – I have nothing against plastic surgery, it’s just not for me.

But the seed had been planted.

That night, over dinner, I blurt out, “Do you think I have a disharmonious face?”

My husband looks at me, confused.  “What?”

“Do you think one side doesn’t match the other?”

“Like the front and back?”

I narrow my eyes, “No, like the right side and left side.”

“They don’t match on anyone.”

“How do you know?”

“It just makes sense. And who cares? You look beautiful the way you are.”

I look at him suspiciously. “You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

He sighs.

###

A couple of years earlier, I gave a work presentation.  Afterwards, a colleague asked if I minded if she gave me some feedback.

“I’d love feedback,” I replied. “That’s how I’ll learn what worked and what didn’t.”

“Okay. For starters, people our age don’t have long hair. And if they do, they wear it up during a presentation.”

Blink.

“Um, okay.”  I’m wondering whose age she is referring to.  My age, which at the time was early 30s? Her age, which I’d guess was mid-50s?  An average of the two?  I try to tune out another colleague, who is standing just behind the feedback-giver, doubled over in silent laughter.

“Also,” she continues. “You should be wearing make-up.”

“I am wearing make-up,” I reply earnestly. And I was. I’d specifically put some on for a photo taken that morning. I wonder vaguely if I’m going to have to get Laughing Colleague medical attention soon, because now she’s crouched down, almost sitting on the floor, holding her sides and shaking.

“Then you need to wear more make-up. And lipstick. I could barely see your lips when you were speaking.”

She couldn’t see my lips?

“Oh. Well. Um. My lips really aren’t that, er, noticeable, maybe that’s why? But thanks!” I reply sincerely, shaking her hand.  I motion to laughing colleague, who is just able to pull herself together before attention turns to her, “We have a meeting scheduled, so I have to run. So glad you could make it.”

I understand feedback.  I actually appreciate feedback, even when it’s not positive.  I’ve worked, over the years, to not get defensive about it. When it comes to work, especially, I need to know what other people think. I love new ideas, and considering ways to improve or enhance existing programs or to do things that better meet the needs of our clients.

I don’t understand the kind of feedback and insights that are given specifically to make someone else feel bad, especially when it comes to personal appearance. It seems lazy, to me – is the only thing you can think of something negative?  Do you need to give me personal feedback in a professional setting?  Why?  Is there a legitimate reason?

For the record, I adore Bruce Campbell.

It also goes against something my gran taught me long ago:  if you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say it.

On some level, I get it.  People think they’re trying to be helpful.  On the other hand, there are people out there – we’ve all met them – who do this to make themselves feel superior, or people who are less confident who can only gain confidence through putting others down.

What I’d like people to consider is this:  each of us is different. Each of us is unique.

There is feedback I’d give in private to a close friend. There is feedback I’d give to  work acquaintance, but very little of it (aside from “You have something stuck in your teeth, thought you’d want to know.”) would be personal.

I tend to judge people on their merits and on the job they do and the kind of person they are, not on how they look.  I won’t pretend to be an angel, here – certainly I make mistakes, I judge people for the wrong reasons from time to time because I’m human (at least, that’s the current theory).  But I try not to, and that’s what I’m asking here.

You see, there are days when I still wonder if I have a disharmonious face.  Up until that fateful day in that doctor’s office, it had never crossed my mind. Not once. I wonder if my make-up is good enough for a presentation, or whether I should put my hair up (I generally wear it down in an act of absurdly placed defiance coupled with the fact I’m still learning how to do up-dos that don’t look like a failed hair experiment).  In a way, I’m haunted by these foolish, well-intentioned people even while recognizing how silly it is to worry about what they say.

Let’s try to be a little kinder to each other. When we find ourselves about to make a disparaging remark to someone – ESPECIALLY about their appearance – stop and consider your goal.  Is it to help them, truly help them, or for other, less noble reasons?  Can you think of something nice to say, instead?

I’d like to write more, but I have to go buy some new lipstick.

You know, just in case.

###

Photos from Flickr Creative Commons:  Sand sculpture by Erix; Ponytails by Andrec; Bruce Campbell by Florida Supercon; Lipstick by OliviaP C

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February 13, 2012 · 8:04 pm

This Celebrity Bartender

I’ve been invited to serve as a celebrity bartender for this year’s Evening in the Stacks, which benefits the Howard County Library System. Before I forget to mention it, the event is on Saturday, February 25th from 7:30 – 11:30 pm at the brand new Miller Branch, which is really quite spectacular. The photo to the left is of the reading froggies just outside the front entrance – completely adorable, but then I’ve been a frog fan-girl since Kermit.

Let’s go ahead and start with the celebrity part.  Whaaaa? I was about 99.9% sure the invitation came to the wrong person (I’m still not entirely sure I won’t be turned away on the evening of the event – “Icky WHO? Not on the list, sorry!”). To be included with the folks serving as celebrity bartenders this year is humbling, to say the very least.  The list includes Mary Kay Sigaty, Dennis Lane, Candace Dodson Reed, Dick Story and Vic Broccolino.  In other words, I am way, WAY out of my depth.

And if you know me, surely you’re saying to yourself, “Self? Are they crazy?! What on earth does Mickey know about bartending?!” And you’d be right to ask that.  Very right, indeed.

You could fit my total knowledge of bartending on the head of a pin and still have plenty of room left over for countless enthusiastic angels swing dancing their little wings off.  But that’s the fun, right?  (Not the swing-dancing-angels-part, the not-having-any-idea-how-on-earth-I’m-going-to-NOT-embarrass-myself-bartending-part.)

The theme this year is Masquerade, based loosely on the Venetian concept of masques and celebration.  Here is a photo of Venice to get you in the mood, so to speak:

And had I not just attended a masquerade party this past weekend, this is the mask you might’ve seen on the evening of the event:

It’s pretty. It’s from Venice. It’s also a pain in the wazoo to carry around, and I almost took out the eyes of several guests when I wasn’t paying attention.  So that’s out.  As they say, it’s all fun and games until you poke someone’s eyes out with a Venetian mask when you’re trying to raise money for a favorite cause.

Here’s the fun part – I’d love for you to join us.  It’s going to be a LOT of fun – amazing food, music, silent auction and dancing.  Even better?  The bartenders will be competing for tips.  And THE BEST part? You can add to my electronic tip jar ANY celebrity bartender’s electronic tip jar before the event even starts if you won’t be able to attend in person!  It’s super easy, and you can use PayPal.

Just visit the webpage for Evening in the Stacks and scroll down until you see this:

Click on the giant yellow Donate button and you’re off!  You can use PayPal (Did I mention that? So easy!) and simply enter the name of the bartender you’d like to support into the Tip Field.

Just in case you can’t see it, here’s a slightly modified version to help you decide which name you should HIGHLY CONSIDER typing into the “Tip Field” section for your donation:

And please note, electronic tips will be accepted until noon on February 25th. 

Seriously, I do hope you’ll consider supporting me.

More importantly, I hope you’ll consider supporting the Howard County Library.  If you love books or reading or learning you know that you simply can’t beat a good library.

This event is being held at the branch where I grew up – where I first discovered reading, where I used to sit right down in the aisles to read a favorite book, and where I donated most of my allowance for decades of late fees.

Hope to see you there, but if you can’t make it, I hope you’ll consider a small donation to support a favorite cause.  Thanks!

Proceeds benefit the Library’s educational initiatives, including A+ Partners in Education and Project Literacy.

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January 26, 2012 · 1:46 am

Pinster

I remember months and months (possibly years) ago, I noticed a couple of friends using Pinterest.  I casually clicked through, saw a picture, and had no idea what was going on.  Like any truly curious soul, I completely ignored it.  I had enough going on just trying to keep up with random Facebook changes.

A couple of weeks ago, Pinterest shows up again, this time with friends.  Lots of friends.  I’d requested an invitation months back and received a thoughtful and sincere automated e-mail saying that one day I’d be worthy, but not anytime soon.  Since I have no pride, I begged an invite from a friend who was already registered.  I logged in, saw more pictures, and still had no idea what was going on.

Hmmm.

Thankfully Joe Waters  (http://selfishgiving.com/) decided to host a Pinterest-based contest:  create a board called “Causes I Love Contest”, add whatever you like, however you like.  He would judge them and the winners would get valuable cash, prizes, and puppies.  I’m kidding about the puppies. Maybe.

“I can do this!” I thought to myself.  I’ve always been an optimist.  I’ll spare you the torment of rising tension and suspense and tell you that I didn’t win (I didn’t even place. Not that I’m bitter.), but I DID learn a lot.  The most important lesson appears to be if you want me to learn something quickly, your best bet is a contest.  I also learned that I have the self-awareness of a spatula, since until now I’ve always considered myself to be very anti-competition.

Anyway, off I went, pinning my little heart out.  I pinned recipes and craft ideas and hair styles and beauty tips and books and music and geeky stuff.  It’s addicting, I’m not going to lie.  I’m sure there are a zillion posts about the mechanics of how to do it without being socially awkward, but it’s always nice to have someone to laugh at.  I mean with.  Look, sometimes you just have to jump in and give it a try.

A friend of mine who really doesn’t care for Facebook took to Pinterest like a duck to water.  Only she calls it Pinster, and now I’ll bet you will, too.

I’ve tried several recipes with mixed success.  The smoothie was the best, but it blew up my blender, so that was kind of a good news, bad news scenario.  The bread wasn’t bad.  The “no-heat-curl” tutorial ended in complete disaster, but did make me laugh until I cried.  And while my hair wasn’t going in the intended direction (nor was it technically “curly”), I can’t deny that it achieved the kind of volume I’d only ever dreamed of previously.

So far the most popular pins I’ve posted:

  • 10 Canine Commandments
  • Neil Gaiman’s “The Day the Saucers Came”
  • “He wishes for the Cloths of Heaven” by Yeats
  • A picture of The Tick
  • “The Bark Side” VW commercial
  • Allan Rickman’s “Always” quote from Harry Potter
  • A recipe for skillet macaroni and cheese
  • Shawshank Redemption film poster (accompanied by Red’s opera quote)
  • Anything from houzz.com (trust me on this one)
  • A photo of Bruce Campbell’s Cream of Darkness Soup

I’d love to draw some deep, insightful conclusions from this extensive data set, but let’s be serious: of far greater concern is that fact that one person pinned this wildly erratic array of images. Ah, Pinterest!

So if you want to experience the awesomeness of my boards (or more accurately, witness firsthand the evidence of a deeply confused mind), you can find me at http://pinterest.com/mickeygomez/.

###

Photo credits:  Vintage Spatula by GranniesKitchen on Flickr, Creative Commons Attribution License; Bruce Campbell’s Soup from Blastr 

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January 22, 2012 · 8:45 pm

Eye of who?!

In light of recent political events, it occurred to me that a certain type of small aquatic amphibian might need a bit of a PR boost.

Newts already have it tough.  Ever since Shakespeare, folks have been trying to use their eyeballs in potions.  They shared their name with a doomed character in the movie Aliens.  J.K.Rowling used the letters to stand for “Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Test”, and who likes tests?  Really, they’ve been in need of some positive public relations for quite some time.

I happen to like newts.  So while people can be forgiven for confusing them with the man of the same name running for the GOP candidacy, I thought I’d give them a little help:

“I am a small aquatic amphibian, and I approve of this message.”

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