ALL HAIR THIS!

Back in the late 1960s, there was a semi-famous family group named the Cowsills, sort of Partridge Family wannabes, that hit it big with a song called “Hair.” (“….Give me a head with hair. Long, beautiful hair….”) I loved this song because, at the time, I had long, chestnut hair that was about my only claim to sex appeal. Other than those flowing locks, I was, and still am, rather nondescript. Plain Jane.


In order to achieve the glam straight-ish look to my hair, though, I had to roll it up in giant pink plastic rollers that were hell to sleep on, but back then I would willingly endure discomfort for beauty. Once I got married, though, the hair started to get shorter…and shorter. Good looks was no longer a priority. I had my man. Yeah, right. Short hair was easier to deal with than the long. I could just wash it and go.


Well, when I decided to retire, going on three years ago, I also decided to let my hair grow long again just to see if I could. But this time around, I’d be damned if I was ever going to sleep on can-sized pink rollers again. The results haven’t been too successful. My hair is naturally one big, wavy mess of fuzz. Most days I just end up putting it in a pony tail to keep it out of my face.


The other day I walked into a beauty shop and asked, “Anyone here just dying to work with long, thick, tangled, frizzy hair?” I want an inch or two trimmed and a hot iron used to straighten and tame my mop before going on vacation. (Now, I have my own hot iron, but I don’t have the patience or know-how to use it.)


A gal who wasn’t working at the shop this particular day was volunteered by the rest of the staff. When she sees me walk in on Saturday, well, I expect a pained expression on her face--at which point I will burst out into the Cowsill’s big hairy hit song and hope for the best. “….There ain’t no words for the beauty, the splendor, the wonder of my hair!”

HOLD THAT POSE

As one who is interested in photography, I’ve often wondered at what point in time subjects started smiling at the camera. Obviously, it wasn’t 1903 when this picture was taken of my great uncle Raymond, great aunt Ethel, and great uncle Chester. They are as sober looking as can be. Even the baby appears pissed off. All the pictures I have of them as children have similar expressions. Was someone standing in front of them saying, “Frown for the camera.”?

I’ve read various theories as to why vintage photography was usually smile-less. One idea is that having a picture taken was then considered a serious, important occasion. Nothing funny about it. Another is that exposure and camera shutter speeds were slow, forcing subjects to stay extremely still. It was easier to hold a frown than a smile. If you know of any other reasons, I’d be happy to hear them.

“Say cheese” and have a picturesque weekend!

GIRL INTERRUPTED

TEN BLOG IDEAS I RECENTLY HAD THAT DIDN’T GET DEVELOPED

*OMG!!! There was a blurb in America On Line yesterday about a 59-year-old woman who’d given birth to triplets in Paris, thanks to the aid of a fertility clinic. This woman is MY AGE!!!!

*Our Diva Cat Muffin has been displaying a serious behavior problem in recent days…depositing her poop balls in places other than the litter box…like on the bathroom floor and next to the back door. What’s the deal here, Muffin?

*There’s a new comedy out that I can’t wait to see, Hamlet 2. The title is intriguing/ironic since any character of significance died in the Shakespearean tragedy. Who would have thought there could be anything left for a sequel?

*I am upset about high school band shrinkage. The band here probably has under 30 kids in it. I recall one year when there weren’t any trumpet players and the poor director got pressed into service. No trumpet players? What's the world coming to?

*Okay, ladies, what do you think of the Republican vice presidential candidate? There, I said it.

*When’s the last time you participated in a Chinese fire drill?

*Have you ever walked by a store front and purposefully glanced at your image to assess yourself? But you didn’t want anyone to think you’re being deliberate about it? How about looking directly down at a hand mirror? Is that scary, or what? The first time I did that, I thought, “What the hell is that?”

*Well, I finally dragged out my “Yoga for Beginners” tape that I bought five years ago. I watched it for the very first time, and during rewind mode the $#&%* machine ate up the tape!

*Big Bore has started working on his vacation packing list. So far, he’s planning to pack four times as much food as clothing.

*Man, I have some bitchin’ canker sores in my mouth right now. Been eating too many tomatoes from the garden. Guess I'll have to go back on a diet of Little Debbie Cakes.

TRASHED

Yesterday when I went home to visit Mama Bore, she had a new project for me. It’s Clean-Up Week in her burg, a great time to start unearthing what’s in her garage! Music to my ears. Bring out the garbage bags and let’s get with it!

She had already scoped out a maze of garden hose she wanted me to pitch but after that things got complicated.

“What’s in this bag?” she asked.

“Old sponges,” I said.

“Don’t throw those away. I might need them,” said Mama Bore decisively.

Oooooookay. I won’t question that one. After all, she was game about tossing out the next bag, filled with the always-important plastic lids to butter containers.

"Why in the world was I saving those?" she laughed.

My eyes moved on to an item I was sure would get the ol’ heave-ho…a rusted basketball hoop with tattered net.

“How about this?” I pointed to the metal piece of junk.

“Oh, no,” she answered. “That’s got sentimental value. It was your little brother’s.”

Now, my younger brother was no Michael Jordan growing up. He never played high school hoops, having made his swan song in 8th grade when he came off the bench to commit five fouls in less than two minutes so he could be put out of his misery and sit back down. There was no sentiment lost here. But the basketball museum piece stayed.

I had more success getting rid of a heavy lawn edger contraption.

“Yes, that can go. Your father bought that 53 years ago. He never did get it to work.”

Yep, I’d say it’s time to toss it. A busted pair of hedge shears, a good 30+ years old, was not chosen to join the edger at the dumping grounds, though.

“Somebody might be able to repair it,” she speculated.

Uh-huh. She also thought my big sister’s husband could paint something crafty on an old rolling pin and a rusted saw. And the rotten card table that’s top is peeling…perhaps it could be painted, too. I returned to it several times, but, no, she was adamant on keeping it.

Well, this game went on for about an hour and then Mama Bore was ready to stop for “Jeopardy.” I offered to return later for some more excavating on my own, but she didn’t have that much trust in my ability to separate trash from treasure. And I didn’t argue. After all, a small copper pot she tossed out was rescued and has been transformed into yard art at Casa de la Flaming Bore. I can’t wait to go back to that garage to see what else I need.

BACK OFF!

The neighbor across the street has recently chopped down a tree in his yard and has been cutting it up for fire wood. Big Bore says that word in the 'hood is: the man of the house got tired of his wife hitting the tree when she was backing the car out of the driveway, so he just decided to get rid of the problem....which I think is a noble solution.

You see, I, also, am a challenged "backer-outer" and the garage and car have the scars to prove it. BB keeps pleading at me to "use the side mirrors," but I have bad depth perception and don't trust them. No, I would rather crank my head around to the right, also causing me to crank the steering wheel to the right, and then weave out the driveway. Invariably, I have to stop and go forward to make a correction before I hit the wrought iron railing on the porch steps.

Mama Bore lets me drive her car, but usually not until she backs it out. I once took out one her yard ornaments...flattened a wooden tulip, and she hasn't trusted me since. Big Bore and she have compared horror stories, to which my smiling response was, "But you still love me!"

I can back out of parking spaces just fine, but there is something about a long, ominous driveway that just steers me in the wrong direction.

AMAZING GRACE

One of the newspaper articles that caught my eye last week was about an annual pilgrimage some women made to Graceland, the home of rock king Elvis Presley. I once tried to tour Elvis’s home in Memphis, many years ago, but the two guys I was with refused to go along and threatened to leave me, so I had to be satisfied with taking pictures at the driveway gate, a wrought iron maze of musical notes and two gyrating EP’s.

The guys did concede to go inside a few of the tourist trap shops located across the street. I was amazed at what was being sold in the name of our Lord Elvis…not just T-shirts, shot glasses, and records but games, jewelry (lots and lots of TCB bling), blue suede shoes, velvet wall hangings, and huge bolts of material. Just what I wanted…an ensemble made out of “Jail House Rock.” When I started chuckling over the crass merchandising, one of the guys with me, a Memphis resident at the time, got “All Shook Up” and hushed me. Pronto. “This is sacred territory. You’ll get people riled.” (Likely the same reaction I got years later at Branson, Mo. when I chuckled at an Elvis impersonator performing inside a Wendy’s---“Yikes! Elvis is in the building and singing for quarter pounders!”)

If Elvis Presley hadn’t abused his body and was still alive, he would be 73 years old now. Sadly, he is arguably worth more money dead than he was when he was alive. I recently checked the Graceland website and adult tickets for the tour of the home range from $27 to $68. Between 500,000-600,000 people visit each year. Forbes magazine says his estate rakes in about $50 million a year. That’s a whole lot of “Love Me Tender” in my estimation.

Growing up, I wasn’t a rabid Elvis fan. When he hit the music scene, I was more interested in roller skating and playing jacks. My only Elvis possessions are a Teen Idol Special Edition Elvis doll, the early Elvis, that Beans gave me many years ago, and an In Search of Elvis book from the Library Lady. It’s based on the Where’s Waldo books. Scads of chubby Elvii (that's my own plural form for Elvis), dressed in the trademark white jumpsuit, are scattered about ten different settings once actually graced by EP…a Memphis burger joint, Las Vegas casino, Hawaiian beach…places like that. But, alas, oddly, no Graceland. There may be a good reason for such a glaring omission, though. I suspect the home-sweet-home Graceland royalty rights were just too high. Elvis isn’t called The King for nothing, you know!

FACING THE UGH-LY TRUTH

The other day one of my blogging former students was pondering her pimples. I can certainly relate to that. I’d grown up thinking that zits were a malady only to be suffered during the teen years. You can imagine my shock when I turned 20 and the damned red bumps were still cropping up on my face. And then I turned 30, and 40, and 50.…woe is me. They never go away!

As I’ve gotten older, more and more skin problems have appeared. When I started jogging in my ‘30s, sweat-induced splotches developed on my back and chest. I can’t remember the name of these ugly marks, I think it was maybe tinea versicolor, but I still get them from time to time in the summer. The doctor said to treat them with Tinactin…a JOG ITCH and ATHLETE’S FOOT medication!! On my chest!

A few years back, when I was checking myself for evil moles, I discovered a new skin condition. “Doctor, what are these blobs on my back?”

“Oh, that’s just senile keratosis."

“But I’m not senile! ...Yet.”

“They’re found in older people. It’s usually caused by sun damage,” he explained.

Well, welcome to senility and curse me for hopelessly trying to get a tan when I was a teen-ager.

The latest skin condition I have is really embarrassing. I have little whiskers sprouting out from my chin! Now, I’m turning into a man! I’m constantly checking for them and as soon as I feel one I dash for the tweezers and pluck those suckers away. Before long, I’ll have hair flying out of my nose and ears. What’s next? Will I wake up one morning with a chest full of hair?

So, all you young bloggers out there should learn to embrace your pimples and be glad that’s all that is invading your skin. It could be worse. I’m telling you, your time is coming. The clock is ticking. Let’s face it…somewhere inside you a bump or splotch or stray hair is just hanging around, waiting to suddenly burst onto the scene, making its ugly appearance and putting both you and your mirror into a state of shock. I hope you will be ready to pick and choose your battles wisely.