As I write this post, my hair hangs pin-straight to my shoulders: not a normal condition. It pains me to admit this, but my hair is naturally frizzy. Add the gray, and it's even worse. Add fog, and it spells disaster for any hair style other than a pony tail.
So, you can understand that I was very excited to be accepted as a hair model for the Yuko Anti-Frizz Treatment demonstration at my [excellent] stylist Christine's salon. No frizz for even a week appealed to my vanity; and three hours on a Sunday morning seemed to be a small price to pay. Also, let it be know that the Yuko "system" is highly regarded among professional stylists for successfully straightening kinky, frizzy and otherwise unruly hair. The system was devised in Japan by the eponymous Yuko, to help her many customers with frizzy hair, apparently a national trait.
At first, I think the instructor was actually disappointed at my frizzy hair. First of all, it's virgin (who knew?); that is, it's not colored or treated, just frizzy. He would have liked me better if I had highlights, but since I was the only game in town and he had a dozen students waiting, he lined me up for the infamous "before" photos to document that I have troublesome hair on all sides.
Basically, the 2-1/2 hour process was a sales spiel for the Yuko products with me in the middle. I got doused with Solution #1 (the relaxant), first on the mid-section of my hair–the healthiest part. I can't remember why the roots don't get solution, but it's probably a good thing. After five minutes, the instructor applied the relaxant to the drier hair on the tips. After 15 minutes, I got a good rinsing, although I was told all the ingredients were totally natural.
Next came the neutralizer, and five more minutes of minimizing any damage. Meanwhile, all the observers were up and about, scrutinizing technique, hair product and tools, and the instructor was promoting the system like mad. (The anti-frizz system was a deal at $38.95 for three to five applications, while the approved Yuko "flat iron" costs a cool $245.)
The instructor had a lovely, demure assistant named Hiroko, who did all the shampooing, rinsing, and, when the time came, tag-teamed on the blow-drying and flat-ironing. My head was the center of a maelstrom of activity. I'd never had two people blow-drying my hair from opposite side. Then came the dual flat-ironing exercise. If the Yuko Anti-Frizz system didn't work, the flat iron would fix that. For the uninitiated, a flat iron is two, heated metal plates with a vise-like handle that presses them together to pull your hair into Jennifer Anniston-like straightness. In the process, steam rose from my head like puffs from Vesuvius.
The proof was in the pudding: even after re-wetting and blow-drying, my hair stayed stick straight. Unfortunately, it was supposed to wave, so I can only think it wanted its moment in perfect hairdom). The instructor pronounced himself "shocked" and declared the class was over. He also noted that I would be a perfect candidate for the complete Yuko Hair Straightening Treatment (3 hours).
Maybe next year. For now, I have ten stylists waiting to see what happens next week after my first hair wash. Even with virgin hair, I'm a star.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Monday, September 26, 2011
Netflixion
I'm one of those happy people that loves Netflix instant download. Who could wish for more than an unlimited choice of obscure foreign and independent films interspersed with old Masterpiece theater productions? I'm in heaven, and it only costs me $7.99 a month....even after last month's monumental pricing debacle (stupid, stupid Netflix).
Luck for me, my good friend Daric has equally esoteric tastes in cinema, as well as an appreciation for earnest renditions of classic novels populated with English actors with plummy accents. Really, it's a terrific way to zip through all the required reading of life without flipping a page. I've even enjoyed the recent amp-ed up version of Sherlock Holmes, though Conan Doyle must be writhing in his grave.
Back to the wonders of Netflix. Lately, Daric and I have been trying to bring the world into our living room through film. We've visited Romania twice: once for an abortion, later for language lesson that involved the word "police" as an adjective. In the process, I've learned that Romanian is a romance language (I argued spiritedly against the premise, but was struck down by fact), and that if you listen carefully to the dialog and avoid paying attention to the plot, you could distinguish—quite possibly–Italian and French cognates.
Left alone to my own devices, I've been traveling to Nordic countries, sampling Icelandic and Norwegian films. In addition to enjoying the screen plays (not bad writers, those Scandinavians), I've become completely convinced that I'd never survive a winter north of Marin county. Despite the fact those Volvos do look sturdy, the food is non-negotiable. Sheep's head? That's what you order at an Icelandic drive-thru restaurant.
I also held a one-person Jacques Demy film festival, and had a great time. Why isn't "The Young Girls of Rochefort" on everyone's top ten list? First of all, I could watch George Chikiras and Gene Kelly dance all day. But Demy was a genius with color, music and sheer fantasy. The young girls in question are played by Catherine Deneuve and (her sister) Francoise Dorleac: outstandingly beautiful and lissome to the nth degree. An overall charmer, and a fine sequel to "The Umbrellas of Cherbourg;" maybe even better. For a lovely salute to her talented, departed husband, don't miss Agnes Varda's "The Beaches of Agnes." I've miles to go before I view their collected films, but I know Netflix won't let me down!
Luck for me, my good friend Daric has equally esoteric tastes in cinema, as well as an appreciation for earnest renditions of classic novels populated with English actors with plummy accents. Really, it's a terrific way to zip through all the required reading of life without flipping a page. I've even enjoyed the recent amp-ed up version of Sherlock Holmes, though Conan Doyle must be writhing in his grave.
Back to the wonders of Netflix. Lately, Daric and I have been trying to bring the world into our living room through film. We've visited Romania twice: once for an abortion, later for language lesson that involved the word "police" as an adjective. In the process, I've learned that Romanian is a romance language (I argued spiritedly against the premise, but was struck down by fact), and that if you listen carefully to the dialog and avoid paying attention to the plot, you could distinguish—quite possibly–Italian and French cognates.
Left alone to my own devices, I've been traveling to Nordic countries, sampling Icelandic and Norwegian films. In addition to enjoying the screen plays (not bad writers, those Scandinavians), I've become completely convinced that I'd never survive a winter north of Marin county. Despite the fact those Volvos do look sturdy, the food is non-negotiable. Sheep's head? That's what you order at an Icelandic drive-thru restaurant.
I also held a one-person Jacques Demy film festival, and had a great time. Why isn't "The Young Girls of Rochefort" on everyone's top ten list? First of all, I could watch George Chikiras and Gene Kelly dance all day. But Demy was a genius with color, music and sheer fantasy. The young girls in question are played by Catherine Deneuve and (her sister) Francoise Dorleac: outstandingly beautiful and lissome to the nth degree. An overall charmer, and a fine sequel to "The Umbrellas of Cherbourg;" maybe even better. For a lovely salute to her talented, departed husband, don't miss Agnes Varda's "The Beaches of Agnes." I've miles to go before I view their collected films, but I know Netflix won't let me down!
Saturday, August 13, 2011
One-Armed
For the second time in my life, I'm one-armed. One-armed does not refer to anything mob-related or have to do with malfunctioning weapons. The sad fact is that I keep falling. And, in the process of falling, I injure my shoulder. Last time it was a ligament (right shoulder); this time, it's a rotator cuff repair (left shoulder). Tack on my hip replacement and finger surgery, and I'm a regular bionic woman.
I have discovered from multiple trips to the orthopedist, that the shoulder is a very unstable joint. The top of the long bone in your arm sits tentatively in a skeletal cup, and is anchored by muscles that originate in the back and chest. Keeping these muscles fit and strong is not a high priority for many people (note many fellow humans with flabby upper arms and sagging posture), and a fall can easily "unseat" the bone from its precarious perch. No championship tennis for me: just a plain head-long crash.
So, back to the problems of one-armedness (one of which is spelling it). Have you ever contemplated the elegant concert of your hand and arm movements? One always complements the other, until one arm is encased in an immobilizing sling (and a pretty ugly immobilizing sling, it is). From the inside out (applying undergarments, teeth flossing, blow drying, jeans buttoning, shoe tying), the whole process of readying oneself for the world is dominated by teamwork. (Although, I would recommend the benefits of sucking in the stomach for the jeans buttoning exercise. Almost as good as sit ups.)
Then, there's eating. Today, at the farmers market, my friend wanted me to split a two-for-one melon deal. Ever try cutting anything with one arm/hand? A melon (or any cylindrical object) can roll a long way before I'd catch up to it. I'm concentrating on hand-held foodstuffs like peaches ('tis the season), plums, cherry tomatoes and corn (everyone needs a challenge). And, I can see a lot of soup in my future. On the other hand (bad pun), half the capability will hopefully mean half the calories, and some good may come of that.
Sleeping through the night is impossible. First, the sling takes up half the bed. Then, you have to sleep sitting up, propped uncomfortably against a banquette of pillows (sounds more romantic than it is). Entering and exiting bed involves a whole body pirouette that I've yet to master. So, I'm looking at weeks of catnaps on my couch to make up the all night wrestling with my sling.
In the meantime, I am giving thanks for my many lovely friends who have suffered with me through the drug days (truly awful; just say no to Percocet), and continue to offer generous assistance on many levels. My laundry is picked up and delivered, my hair is wash and blown dry weekly, my daily bread is regularly supplemented with home-cooked meals. In some ways, being quasi-disabled has been a vacation from drudgery. In others, it's a constant reminder that a whole body is a blessing and a responsibility. Use it right and use it well.
With any luck, I'll have learned that lesson this time 'round.
I have discovered from multiple trips to the orthopedist, that the shoulder is a very unstable joint. The top of the long bone in your arm sits tentatively in a skeletal cup, and is anchored by muscles that originate in the back and chest. Keeping these muscles fit and strong is not a high priority for many people (note many fellow humans with flabby upper arms and sagging posture), and a fall can easily "unseat" the bone from its precarious perch. No championship tennis for me: just a plain head-long crash.
So, back to the problems of one-armedness (one of which is spelling it). Have you ever contemplated the elegant concert of your hand and arm movements? One always complements the other, until one arm is encased in an immobilizing sling (and a pretty ugly immobilizing sling, it is). From the inside out (applying undergarments, teeth flossing, blow drying, jeans buttoning, shoe tying), the whole process of readying oneself for the world is dominated by teamwork. (Although, I would recommend the benefits of sucking in the stomach for the jeans buttoning exercise. Almost as good as sit ups.)
Then, there's eating. Today, at the farmers market, my friend wanted me to split a two-for-one melon deal. Ever try cutting anything with one arm/hand? A melon (or any cylindrical object) can roll a long way before I'd catch up to it. I'm concentrating on hand-held foodstuffs like peaches ('tis the season), plums, cherry tomatoes and corn (everyone needs a challenge). And, I can see a lot of soup in my future. On the other hand (bad pun), half the capability will hopefully mean half the calories, and some good may come of that.
Sleeping through the night is impossible. First, the sling takes up half the bed. Then, you have to sleep sitting up, propped uncomfortably against a banquette of pillows (sounds more romantic than it is). Entering and exiting bed involves a whole body pirouette that I've yet to master. So, I'm looking at weeks of catnaps on my couch to make up the all night wrestling with my sling.
In the meantime, I am giving thanks for my many lovely friends who have suffered with me through the drug days (truly awful; just say no to Percocet), and continue to offer generous assistance on many levels. My laundry is picked up and delivered, my hair is wash and blown dry weekly, my daily bread is regularly supplemented with home-cooked meals. In some ways, being quasi-disabled has been a vacation from drudgery. In others, it's a constant reminder that a whole body is a blessing and a responsibility. Use it right and use it well.
With any luck, I'll have learned that lesson this time 'round.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Farmageddon
I wish I could take credit for the clever title. Alas, there is someone more clever than I. My brother David (countnefariousjunior.blogspot.com) and I were discussing the never-ending duties of home ownership and he mentioned this joke with his brother-in-law. They call their urban garden efforts "Farmageddon."
The special irony here is that I don't own a home. I just maintain my mother's property, which is located in a central California growing zone far away from my cool coastal domicile. When in residence in Sonora, I become a dedicated Farmageddon lifestyle apostle. In fact, I'm a regular weekend Johnny Appleseed. Except that he went somewhere. I stay in one place, and my sowing doesn't yield the same results.
However, when it comes to Farmageddon, I cannot afford to think negative thoughts. While Nature is fickle and trying, she also delivers small and wonderful rewards. This year, I perched six strawberry plants in one of the charming, but terminally silly, containers called "strawberry pots." After a great loss of potting soil and much hue and cry, the plants stayed in their cubby holes and proceeded to flower and fruit. I've eaten [twelve, tiny] strawberries that I grew myself. For the city dweller, such results are almost unbelievable and incredibly satisfying.
Into the tub of the frost-bitten—sadly, to death—lemon tree, I've plopped five Early Girl tomato plants. Thanks to liberal doses of tomato food (who knew there was such a product?), I've been gifted with lots of delicate tomato blossoms and some fledgling tomatoes. Someday, the tomatoes might be red, too.
My friend Bruce came to visit one weekend, and spent it in the trenches planting a fruiting quince tree. Since I started my preserving binge, I've been obsessed with quince, an old-fashioned fruit favored by the 49ers who settled the area. Lately, I've seen it return to menus, but, for the most part, it's a misunderstood and troubled fruit. I mean to change that perception in my own small way. (Check back in two years and see how I'm doing.)
In between my vegetable and fruit endeavors, I've been on a crusade to save the hydrangeas. Since we felled the ailing tree in front of my mom's deck, they get blasted by the scalding rays of the morning sun. As a true practitioner of Farmageddon, I purchased a market umbrella and installed it in the garden to shade the hydrangeas. While the effect is very upscale restaurant, the solution failed. I didn't take into account the angle of the sun, which slips under the umbrella with laser precision. Even worse, anyone coming up the walk toward the house hits the umbrella head on. Practicality aside, Wolfgang Puck would be proud of the look.
The "save the hydrangeas" project needs rethinking, but that will have to wait until after the "death to the volunteer plums" campaign. Currently one of the wild plums has wrapped a heavily fruited branch around the power line into the house. The one next to it drops fruit onto the flagstone patio. As soon as Steve the Tree Guy (master of the three word text) can manage it, they're toast.
True, Farmageddon is as overwhelming as the name suggests. Once the plums are gone, I'll have an ivy-covered bank that will need attention. Followed by a serious attack on the vinca and other noxious vines. The weird thing is: I didn't even start this garden. Since saving the world and curing cancer aren't options, I guess I've found a commitment I can really dig in to.
The special irony here is that I don't own a home. I just maintain my mother's property, which is located in a central California growing zone far away from my cool coastal domicile. When in residence in Sonora, I become a dedicated Farmageddon lifestyle apostle. In fact, I'm a regular weekend Johnny Appleseed. Except that he went somewhere. I stay in one place, and my sowing doesn't yield the same results.
However, when it comes to Farmageddon, I cannot afford to think negative thoughts. While Nature is fickle and trying, she also delivers small and wonderful rewards. This year, I perched six strawberry plants in one of the charming, but terminally silly, containers called "strawberry pots." After a great loss of potting soil and much hue and cry, the plants stayed in their cubby holes and proceeded to flower and fruit. I've eaten [twelve, tiny] strawberries that I grew myself. For the city dweller, such results are almost unbelievable and incredibly satisfying.
Into the tub of the frost-bitten—sadly, to death—lemon tree, I've plopped five Early Girl tomato plants. Thanks to liberal doses of tomato food (who knew there was such a product?), I've been gifted with lots of delicate tomato blossoms and some fledgling tomatoes. Someday, the tomatoes might be red, too.
My friend Bruce came to visit one weekend, and spent it in the trenches planting a fruiting quince tree. Since I started my preserving binge, I've been obsessed with quince, an old-fashioned fruit favored by the 49ers who settled the area. Lately, I've seen it return to menus, but, for the most part, it's a misunderstood and troubled fruit. I mean to change that perception in my own small way. (Check back in two years and see how I'm doing.)
In between my vegetable and fruit endeavors, I've been on a crusade to save the hydrangeas. Since we felled the ailing tree in front of my mom's deck, they get blasted by the scalding rays of the morning sun. As a true practitioner of Farmageddon, I purchased a market umbrella and installed it in the garden to shade the hydrangeas. While the effect is very upscale restaurant, the solution failed. I didn't take into account the angle of the sun, which slips under the umbrella with laser precision. Even worse, anyone coming up the walk toward the house hits the umbrella head on. Practicality aside, Wolfgang Puck would be proud of the look.
The "save the hydrangeas" project needs rethinking, but that will have to wait until after the "death to the volunteer plums" campaign. Currently one of the wild plums has wrapped a heavily fruited branch around the power line into the house. The one next to it drops fruit onto the flagstone patio. As soon as Steve the Tree Guy (master of the three word text) can manage it, they're toast.
True, Farmageddon is as overwhelming as the name suggests. Once the plums are gone, I'll have an ivy-covered bank that will need attention. Followed by a serious attack on the vinca and other noxious vines. The weird thing is: I didn't even start this garden. Since saving the world and curing cancer aren't options, I guess I've found a commitment I can really dig in to.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
The Peculiar Happiness of Preserves
My friend Pinky recommended a book to me called The Peculiar Sadness of Lemon Cake, or something like that. It was a sad little book about a girl who could taste and experience the emotions of a person in the food they prepared. From the title, you can guess that this talent wasn't personally felicitous.
For me, it would be different story. Lately, I've gotten on a preserving jag. There's something so magical about turning beautiful fruit into gleaming, translucent jelly. Then, even better, I can give this glorious, jewel-toned creation to a friend and feel really excited about it. I made it and they can eat it: literally spread the joy on toast or whatever.
For an apartment dweller (as I am for most of the year), these few moments of feeling connected to the earth and constructive in a pioneer-like way are amazingly satisfying. I'm insanely proud of myself, even if I use pectin instead of a candy thermometer. Maybe I'm turning into an artisan. That would be cool.
For me, it would be different story. Lately, I've gotten on a preserving jag. There's something so magical about turning beautiful fruit into gleaming, translucent jelly. Then, even better, I can give this glorious, jewel-toned creation to a friend and feel really excited about it. I made it and they can eat it: literally spread the joy on toast or whatever.
For an apartment dweller (as I am for most of the year), these few moments of feeling connected to the earth and constructive in a pioneer-like way are amazingly satisfying. I'm insanely proud of myself, even if I use pectin instead of a candy thermometer. Maybe I'm turning into an artisan. That would be cool.
Which Sixties?
My brother Donald is disappointed that my blog isn't about the Sixties: that fabulous decade between the 1950's and the 1970's. Personally, I don't have many fond memories of the sixties. To start, I try to blank out the hip-huggers, bell-bottoms and bouffant hair styles that never flattered my well padded figure. Plus, high school constituted a four-year nightmare for the intellectual fringe such as myself. Why would anyone want to recall ten years of purgatory, even if most of it transpired in a bucolic small town?
Apparently, my entire high school class is in collusion to do just that. Through the modern miracle of Facebook, the Sonora Union High School Class of 1966 is connecting like mad. William Sandy Richter, who I'm certain has matured into a lovely, respectable man, has given of his time to coordinate the project, and must spend many a day hounding SUHS outliers who have escaped the noose of the internet. First order of business? Your birthday. I'm getting copied on birthday greetings to people who's names I haven't heard of in forty-five years. Not only does Bill/Sandy send greetings. The classmates themselves add to the cacophony of well wishes. My email inbox isn't big enough for all this good will.
I'll admit to some curiosity about the actual reunion event, and I've fallen in that trap before. I could relate the dreary and dire happenings of the 5th, the 20th and the 35th, but I'll spare everyone the pain. I don't doubt my classmates are nice and lovely people; they just aren't my people anymore. I've drifted too far away to want to go back to those less than halcyon times. I have a different life, great friends and a satisfying career. Resurrecting high school memories doesn't jingle any bells for me.
To end on a less curmudgeonly note, I wish my classmates a happy time as they reacquaint themselves. My friend Pinky has committed herself to the Friday night cocktail party, so I'll get the gossip without any expending any effort. And maybe I'll raise a glass in a solitary toast: Hail Sonora High School. Hail, hail, hail.
Next, si
Apparently, my entire high school class is in collusion to do just that. Through the modern miracle of Facebook, the Sonora Union High School Class of 1966 is connecting like mad. William Sandy Richter, who I'm certain has matured into a lovely, respectable man, has given of his time to coordinate the project, and must spend many a day hounding SUHS outliers who have escaped the noose of the internet. First order of business? Your birthday. I'm getting copied on birthday greetings to people who's names I haven't heard of in forty-five years. Not only does Bill/Sandy send greetings. The classmates themselves add to the cacophony of well wishes. My email inbox isn't big enough for all this good will.
I'll admit to some curiosity about the actual reunion event, and I've fallen in that trap before. I could relate the dreary and dire happenings of the 5th, the 20th and the 35th, but I'll spare everyone the pain. I don't doubt my classmates are nice and lovely people; they just aren't my people anymore. I've drifted too far away to want to go back to those less than halcyon times. I have a different life, great friends and a satisfying career. Resurrecting high school memories doesn't jingle any bells for me.
To end on a less curmudgeonly note, I wish my classmates a happy time as they reacquaint themselves. My friend Pinky has committed herself to the Friday night cocktail party, so I'll get the gossip without any expending any effort. And maybe I'll raise a glass in a solitary toast: Hail Sonora High School. Hail, hail, hail.
Next, si
Thursday, May 5, 2011
In A Nutshell
Who knew Ted Danson would be my hero (at least for today)?
I read The New Yorker "On The Town" piece about his commitment to Oceana, a non-profit dedicated to ocean conservation, and his relish playing in a TV series filmed in Manhattan called "Bored to Death." In the series, he plays an aging bon vivant named George. Through the vagaries of George's superficially glamorous life, Danson says there runs a constant: "a desperate need of a sixty-three-year-old to still be relevant in the world. I love that. It resonates with me."
Well, Ted, I have to say it resonates with me, as well. Thanks for the thought.
I read The New Yorker "On The Town" piece about his commitment to Oceana, a non-profit dedicated to ocean conservation, and his relish playing in a TV series filmed in Manhattan called "Bored to Death." In the series, he plays an aging bon vivant named George. Through the vagaries of George's superficially glamorous life, Danson says there runs a constant: "a desperate need of a sixty-three-year-old to still be relevant in the world. I love that. It resonates with me."
Well, Ted, I have to say it resonates with me, as well. Thanks for the thought.
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