Yesterday, the highlight of my day flitted about in the form of a monarch butterfly masquerading as a falling leaf in a local intersection. I embrace, inhale, devour and take great delight in these seconds of beauty caught in the midst of my daily busy-ness. They harness the power of this great planet and concentrate it onto the point of a pinhead for a brief and shining moment. My mind and my body halt in their engagements, sometimes only for a heartbeat or a quick intake of breath, but they are stilled all the same. And I welcome this stillness because I recognize the extreme rarity of its very existence in my life. And I understand the intrinsic value of this stillness as it relates to me as a spiritual being, as it relates to my well-being, as it relates to epiphany. And I wonder who else out there relates to this brand of harmony doled out in quick, highly digestible, necessary-to-quality-of-life bites?
Yesterday, the hope of my day arrived via my iPhone, my Girlfriend who is now devoid of her one eye thanks to the questing sharp canines of my 8 1/2 month-old white lab-mix pup. Like most days, or at least several days out of each week, I talked with Brother Gary. Only, after months of talking with my brother (lowercase), I actually spoke with my Brother. There is a difference, and that difference comes by way of a needle and cooked pills. Over the past six months or so, maybe longer, my emotions have been dulled by blame and anger and apathy. Not my own but that of Gary.
I knew he was in a downward spiral not long after the murder by a patient there at the hospital of a kindly helpful employee with whom my brother was acquainted. It's been almost a full year since that horrific act was committed and changed the inner-workings of the institute . . . and the inner-workings of my youngest brother. For reasons springing from a double-headed source of necessity and fear, the higher-ups clamped down on the rights and freedoms of the patients at Napa State Hospital. Their ability to regularly breathe the fresh air outside the halls of their wards diminished considerably. The presence of the grounds police force increased on all fronts, creating more of a prison-like atmosphere than is desired in a medically-based establishment. Tensions between staff and residents multiplied, with leaking stories to the press and grumblings in the community feeding the gossip fodder, attenuating real life into a Stretch Armstrong version of actual events. In this fishbowl, Gary's emotional and physical health has deteriorated.
I'm not stupid. And the air between me and my brother is always cleared. Neither of us tiptoe around what's going on. That my bipolar heroin-and-meth-addicted sibling had returned to the destructive and painfully familiar source of his lifelong comfort was not lost on me. Though street drugs are unavailable there, there is no shortage of patient- and staff- supplied prescription meds for sale or trade. And Gary lives on a ward where the population consists of either severely mentally ill men -- you would not be off base to picture individuals talking to their inner voices, stumbling along in circles, urinating on themselves, screaming at those around them -- or men not really engaged in their treatment plan. That would include addicted individuals who are not truly ready to tackle their problem.
It's a different animal, this thing of actually dealing with him and realizing the depth of his addiction. Prison did not allow this level of intimacy and awareness between us. I knew he had warts and scars but didn't have to see them almost every day. Because I was more concerned with his survival in prison, I made a conscious decision to accept him, his habits, his methods of getting by, feeling we could deal with all of that upon his release. There was a short period of time in prison, the early months of his short marriage, where he kicked his habit to the curb and stayed clean. That is an accomplishment. But for an addict, the getting clean is merely the beginning. Living with the consequences of that addiction, whether it be hepatitis C or burned bridges, exists as the bigger ongoing challenge. For the loved one of an addict, all the days and weeks and months of the addiction are the ongoing challenge. Maintaining hope in the face of doubt -- whether it is self-doubt, the doubt of friends and family who love me and adore my loyalty but think it misplaced and wasted -- is chief among those challenges. "Keep hope alive!" is harder done than said.
Lately, hearing the ringtone that signifies an incoming call from Gary has stirred irritation within me. If I'm being honest, even a bit of resentment. Sending him pictures or cards, much less ordering a few things here and there, managing the dwindling supply of money gifted to me on his behalf upon his release from prison back in October of 2008, feels more like a burden than a joy. Because those feelings are there, they have to be dealt with. Not ignored but examined. Their basis dug up and aired out. Over the past month or so, my overriding sentiment to Gary concerning his state of mind has been, "If you don't deal with your drug addiction, you will never be able to learn how to handle your bipolarity or develop the skills to overcome your institutionalization." Though his situation is unique, and quite painful, it can not be an excuse to languish, to diminish the core of who he is meant to be, to gnaw away at the taut threads of unity which exist between us. That just plain pisses me off. As anyone who has opened themselves up to relationships well knows, it is possible to both love and hate a thing. I love my brother; I hate the persona he chooses to project to the hospital staff and the men around him. It is demoralizing to imagine him screaming in the face of a cafeteria employee, hurling expletives, his face darkened with rage, the prison ink reflecting back his turmoil, essentially having himself a temper-tantrum because a power-hungry individual who will most likely never change has gotten under his thin skin. The man I support is better than that. He simply refuses to acknowledge this fact because the drugs allow him to wallow in self-pity and bitterness, blaming everyone around him for his lack of progress, his eyes blind to a better future that I can see.
Before Gary called yesterday, I was watching Our America with Lisa Ling -- her show on OWN (Oprah Winfrey Network). This particular episode centered around a drug-addicted couple she had interviewed 18 months previous. Then, they were strung out, thin, looking only for their next score. Upon her revisit at the top of this show, she was stunned to see them both clear-eyed, with meat on their bones, and clean for the past 18 months. But they were still living on the streets. Sleeping in shelters at night. Working where they could get honest money. Carrying around their meager belongings in several bags. Adhering to the judge's orders regarding their decorum as they continue to work toward reuniting with their 7 year-old son who presently lives with a foster family. Listening to their story broke me down into individual units of pain and faith, each one crying for recognition and a need to be reconfigured. I began praying for Gary while my purple-gloved hands continued to wash the pots and pans. The Lord doesn't need a prayer closet to move on a willing heart. And I was on my knees within.
When I answered the phone, I began with a series of questions to each of Gary's short explanations as to why he hadn't called in awhile. Finally, he admitted to being ill in the face of quitting a certain substance he'd been mainlining for a significant period of time. (The cops have been raiding his room every day for weeks since discovering a needle and a makeshift tattoo gun.) I listened as he explained an incident with a fellow client that made him realize he really wanted to be a quitter. Of drugs, that is. "I haven't been one of those users saying to himself, 'I need to quit. I want to quit.' But I am now." There was much more to it all than that but it doesn't need saying here. He wants to leave his ward and start a new program on another ward specifically tailored for users with a true desire to stop using. He wants to live up to the guy living at his core who's only shown his face for brief periods of time to his sister and his mother and maybe every now and again to a prisoner or patient in need. He wants to accept the opinions of the professionals there at the hospital who have repeatedly told him he is worthy and can get out of there alive and intact if he buckles down and does the work.
It's a turning point. If he can stop putting the car in reverse. But either way, it's time that I return to my written contemplations on matters of the heart and mind. Whether or not my brother makes it remains yet to be witnessed, but someone out there may need to read of my perspective and it is simply selfish not to share if even one can be helped through all of this.
Showing posts with label Brother Gary. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Brother Gary. Show all posts
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Thursday, August 27, 2009
GARY - Pop Tarts and Summer Sausage
*This post is quite rough, written as it was between the hours of midnight and 1AM after I had decided to get to bed early. My eagerness over this blog and my excitement over my brother's impending transition out of the California Department of Corrections and 'Rehabilitation' have driven me too far from practicality. I'm attempting to squeeze in my exercise, cooking, kids, appointments, Facebook, shopping, cleaning, laundry, you name it, plus add that extra chunk-o-time for this. I simply must land on a schedule of sorts whereby I strike when the iron is hot, but, then set it aside for a time, returning to finish the job on another day. We shall see. This needs work but the idea is down.*
Though the procedures have changed over the many years of Gary's incarceration in the fine California State Prison system, the basics remained the same. He penned a list, checking it twice, and mailed it to big sister; big sister would review the list, check her pocketbook, fund raise from family members if necessary, and cull what she could reasonably collect. In the later years, he perused a catalogue of items, ranging from food to toiletries to underwear, painstakingly copied the name, item number, cost, weight, and sent the wish list my way, hoping for whatever I could fulfill via online ordering. Before the catalogues and computers arrived on the scene, the list was scratched from his head and from the meager larders of other inmates. Upon receipt, I would shop the aisles, keeping track of ounces and pound, allowing for the box and scales error margin at the post office. Of the two, shopping for the box in person was a pleasurable and tactile experience. I felt more connected to Gary knowing that he would soon touch each item I had touched. The website method, however, was generally easier and shipped out in a timely manner.
The lists varied. There were usually a few regulars. Foods he craved to fill nutritional voids, snack voids, emotional and entertainment voids. Prison life is, and was, notoriously void, overall. Dietary voids were part and par for the course - all of it rough. Meat and real dairy were scarce behind those walls, thus I could count on such items as:
2 - Heidelberg Summer Sausage 8 oz. $2.39 3021-014
2 - Beef Summer Sausage 8 oz. $2.39 3021-013
1 - Cheese Ritz 18 oz. $4.19 14002-018
(this was the closest he would come to cheese on this package; the site's stores were depleted of processed cheese food)
1 - Peanut Butter, Jif 30.50 oz $4.99 3111-523
1 - Dennisons Chili 17 oz. $2.19 3111-856
2 - Cup o' Soup, Beef 3.5 oz. $0.59 3111-550
Often, he hoped to relieve his sweet tooth with such lovelies as:
1 - Sour Gummi Worms 6.5 oz. $1.49 3111-110
3 - Red Vines 3.0 oz. $0.70 3111-074
1 - Chewy Chips Ahoy 18 oz. $4.19 14002-016 (oh,how he wanted these)
1 - Pop Tarts, Frosted 16 oz. $2.99 3111-523
And, when the salt chaser followed the sweet, he longed for:
1 - Pringles, Regular 9 oz. $1.99 3111-252
1 - Flamin' Cheetos 15 oz. $2.49 6027-027
If I could swing it, he suggested supplements he thought might help him either keep from losing more weight, as he tended to inexplicably drop pounds at odd times over the years, probably his liver, and to possibly help him bulk up and get healthy. We, both Gary and I, now realize that he will never 'bulk up.' A tall and thin guy, whenever Gary puts on any kind of poundage, it all goes straight to his belly in the form of an almost perfectly round pot belly, something which belongs more on those pet Vietnamese pigs than on a man:
1 - Century Multi-Vitamin, 130 tabs 6 oz. $8.99 16950-001 pg. 103
2 - Serious Mass, Choc. 12 lb. $39.99 each 3065-221 pg.100
(These expensive supplement items I was unable to ever purchase. Just dreaming, he was.)
With clothing, if it was t-shirts or tube socks or shower shoes, I checked them off and tossed them in, either literally or virtually. Shoes, however, were a continual challenge as each facility had a specific set of guidelines and rules for clothing, especially the larger items, from color to cost. Very strict. It behooved me to proceed with caution when on the prowl for footwear. The advent of website ordering went a very long way in easing the stress of this particular segment of the process. Oh, how I once agonized over my choices, worried the watchful eyes of the intake guards would find a discrepancy and deny Gary this tiny pleasure in his hard life.
1 - Skechers 5114, White B-Ball $49.97 Size 9 pg. 58
Finally, in the entertainment category, his need and passion for music came to a head. He owned a guitar which was bought for him courtesy of a family pooling of money for a holiday or birthday. Thus, music tabs, strings for his instrument of choice, and magazines with slick covers showing hard rockers and jazzy fellows made his cut. I regularly tried to accommodate these sections of the order form, knowing it was an outlet, an escape, a self-soother.
1 - Adamas Strings, Nylon (Black tr.) 1 oz. $6.47 pg. 91
Once a business quarter, Gary and the many men with whom he lived under loveless skies, behind concrete walls, within steel bars and sharp wire, eagerly awaited the small slice of life coming their way from the outside. Upon taking receipt, grown men ripped into the contents of their boxes with the eagerness of kids in summer camp, ferreting out their favorites - coffee, honey, Snickers, Jolly Ranchers, even shampoo - and lined up their feasts by the day. Gary, Mr. Social Director on his good days, planned group meals with several other men, sharing Ramen flavored with hot sauces and crumbled crackers with chunks of summer sausage floating in the broth, all heated on stingers, AKA small personal-sized hot plates. Perhaps licorice and Skittles for dessert. They enjoyed the feast before the famine. They devoured the love represented by the meager contents, repeating the cycle four times a year. As Gary was loathe to see a fellow inmate, bereft of outside lifelines, who never fell into the receiving line, there was a great deal of sharing of his provisions. Thus, his supplies did not often last past the first month.
It has been almost a full year of no packages with Gary out of prison. I don't really miss them. Or the stressful process with its niggling anxieties and worries. While awaiting his fate in jail now, he now does his own grocery shopping. Though his weight remains in steady decline mode, I shoot him a cashiers check each week courtesy of the nest egg gifted to him by friends and supporters in my family and church and pool of friends before his October release. He manages it, spending and saving, and yes, sharing. It is what I can do as he faces the positive prospect of not only feeding his belly under far better circumstances, but feeding his soul and his mind with a diet far richer in nutrients than the one he has endured for almost half of his life. (Ironically, we are hoping for hospital food! Now you know, live through a few years of prison fare and even hospital vittles are enticing.) Jello, anyone?
Though the procedures have changed over the many years of Gary's incarceration in the fine California State Prison system, the basics remained the same. He penned a list, checking it twice, and mailed it to big sister; big sister would review the list, check her pocketbook, fund raise from family members if necessary, and cull what she could reasonably collect. In the later years, he perused a catalogue of items, ranging from food to toiletries to underwear, painstakingly copied the name, item number, cost, weight, and sent the wish list my way, hoping for whatever I could fulfill via online ordering. Before the catalogues and computers arrived on the scene, the list was scratched from his head and from the meager larders of other inmates. Upon receipt, I would shop the aisles, keeping track of ounces and pound, allowing for the box and scales error margin at the post office. Of the two, shopping for the box in person was a pleasurable and tactile experience. I felt more connected to Gary knowing that he would soon touch each item I had touched. The website method, however, was generally easier and shipped out in a timely manner.
The lists varied. There were usually a few regulars. Foods he craved to fill nutritional voids, snack voids, emotional and entertainment voids. Prison life is, and was, notoriously void, overall. Dietary voids were part and par for the course - all of it rough. Meat and real dairy were scarce behind those walls, thus I could count on such items as:
2 - Heidelberg Summer Sausage 8 oz. $2.39 3021-014
2 - Beef Summer Sausage 8 oz. $2.39 3021-013
1 - Cheese Ritz 18 oz. $4.19 14002-018
(this was the closest he would come to cheese on this package; the site's stores were depleted of processed cheese food)
1 - Peanut Butter, Jif 30.50 oz $4.99 3111-523
1 - Dennisons Chili 17 oz. $2.19 3111-856
2 - Cup o' Soup, Beef 3.5 oz. $0.59 3111-550
Often, he hoped to relieve his sweet tooth with such lovelies as:
1 - Sour Gummi Worms 6.5 oz. $1.49 3111-110
3 - Red Vines 3.0 oz. $0.70 3111-074
1 - Chewy Chips Ahoy 18 oz. $4.19 14002-016 (oh,how he wanted these)
1 - Pop Tarts, Frosted 16 oz. $2.99 3111-523
And, when the salt chaser followed the sweet, he longed for:
1 - Pringles, Regular 9 oz. $1.99 3111-252
1 - Flamin' Cheetos 15 oz. $2.49 6027-027
If I could swing it, he suggested supplements he thought might help him either keep from losing more weight, as he tended to inexplicably drop pounds at odd times over the years, probably his liver, and to possibly help him bulk up and get healthy. We, both Gary and I, now realize that he will never 'bulk up.' A tall and thin guy, whenever Gary puts on any kind of poundage, it all goes straight to his belly in the form of an almost perfectly round pot belly, something which belongs more on those pet Vietnamese pigs than on a man:
1 - Century Multi-Vitamin, 130 tabs 6 oz. $8.99 16950-001 pg. 103
2 - Serious Mass, Choc. 12 lb. $39.99 each 3065-221 pg.100
(These expensive supplement items I was unable to ever purchase. Just dreaming, he was.)
With clothing, if it was t-shirts or tube socks or shower shoes, I checked them off and tossed them in, either literally or virtually. Shoes, however, were a continual challenge as each facility had a specific set of guidelines and rules for clothing, especially the larger items, from color to cost. Very strict. It behooved me to proceed with caution when on the prowl for footwear. The advent of website ordering went a very long way in easing the stress of this particular segment of the process. Oh, how I once agonized over my choices, worried the watchful eyes of the intake guards would find a discrepancy and deny Gary this tiny pleasure in his hard life.
1 - Skechers 5114, White B-Ball $49.97 Size 9 pg. 58
Finally, in the entertainment category, his need and passion for music came to a head. He owned a guitar which was bought for him courtesy of a family pooling of money for a holiday or birthday. Thus, music tabs, strings for his instrument of choice, and magazines with slick covers showing hard rockers and jazzy fellows made his cut. I regularly tried to accommodate these sections of the order form, knowing it was an outlet, an escape, a self-soother.
1 - Adamas Strings, Nylon (Black tr.) 1 oz. $6.47 pg. 91
Once a business quarter, Gary and the many men with whom he lived under loveless skies, behind concrete walls, within steel bars and sharp wire, eagerly awaited the small slice of life coming their way from the outside. Upon taking receipt, grown men ripped into the contents of their boxes with the eagerness of kids in summer camp, ferreting out their favorites - coffee, honey, Snickers, Jolly Ranchers, even shampoo - and lined up their feasts by the day. Gary, Mr. Social Director on his good days, planned group meals with several other men, sharing Ramen flavored with hot sauces and crumbled crackers with chunks of summer sausage floating in the broth, all heated on stingers, AKA small personal-sized hot plates. Perhaps licorice and Skittles for dessert. They enjoyed the feast before the famine. They devoured the love represented by the meager contents, repeating the cycle four times a year. As Gary was loathe to see a fellow inmate, bereft of outside lifelines, who never fell into the receiving line, there was a great deal of sharing of his provisions. Thus, his supplies did not often last past the first month.
It has been almost a full year of no packages with Gary out of prison. I don't really miss them. Or the stressful process with its niggling anxieties and worries. While awaiting his fate in jail now, he now does his own grocery shopping. Though his weight remains in steady decline mode, I shoot him a cashiers check each week courtesy of the nest egg gifted to him by friends and supporters in my family and church and pool of friends before his October release. He manages it, spending and saving, and yes, sharing. It is what I can do as he faces the positive prospect of not only feeding his belly under far better circumstances, but feeding his soul and his mind with a diet far richer in nutrients than the one he has endured for almost half of his life. (Ironically, we are hoping for hospital food! Now you know, live through a few years of prison fare and even hospital vittles are enticing.) Jello, anyone?
Friday, August 14, 2009
Nada
I got nothing.
Nothing but a fat, freestyle, PMS fall from grace. I detest these days. I suddenly can't think my way out of a paper bag. Worse, I'm not quite sure if I recall exactly what a paper bag is. (Though to my credit, I don't use paper bags. Makes it easier to forget.) I'm snappier than a snapping turtle. More irritated than an infected dog bite. It feels as if my brain traded places with a bowling ball and a perpetual fog has rolled in, invading all spaces where clear and rational thought once reigned. I'm afraid to hear myself speak. I wish I didn't have to hear myself think. In my household, feel free to multiply those feelings by five.
There is good news today. My Canadian pals and one-time Colorado neighbors, Nathan and Shannon, announced the birth of their first child. That gave me my first real smile of the day. Wait, that would be my ONLY smile of the day. I broke bread in the form of a late lunch with Ashley, my young adult child. Yes, that means she had herself a free lunch. Brother Gary called last night; his court hearing went well. He returns Thursday next for news of a possible resolution. His lawyer still believes that the chances are favorable for avoiding a trial and finding placement in a state mental hospital for treatment. It was the first time in the process where he actually felt that the people put there to help him, to watch out for him, to mete out a conscientious justice, were doing just that. Oh, and I've actually lost a couple of pounds.
But back to the nothingness.
For two weeks, I've eagerly anticipated today's hair appointment. The haircut turned out so 'just-what-I-wanted-but-better-than-I-imagined' sassy, that I was sure I'd be dazzled by an adventurous romp of color. Especially with my pictures in hand and my description so spot-on and meticulous. Brown with chunky streaks of blond around the face with a few thrown in underneath and in the back. Like a soft-serve swirl cone. No brassiness, no reds, no trendy racetrack lines running from top to bottom all around the crown. I'll take a natural, earthy brown with a side of creamy blond thrown in. Thank you.
I've also agonized over this fate with coiffure destiny. I'm hair illiterate. I don't generally DO hair. Usually, it is one all-over coloring job. Semi-permanent. Out of a box or at 6-month salon intervals. For years, my husband performed the honors until it grew too long, until I shaved it, until the grays became more prolific. I wash it. Wear it wavy. Pop it under a cap when I walk. Hang it in a ponytail. Push it back with bobby pins or barrettes. Every now and again, I surrender to the hair straightener at the behest of one of my daughters. Handing over a large sum of money for color and highlights and a tip (gotta tip a good job), even as a splurge, even with the encouraging consent of my husband - "You need it. It makes you feel better. Do it." - causes me to blanch inwardly. Am I that selfish? That vain? That wasteful? Shouldn't I save the cash toward that laptop I would so use the dickens out of? Once I start, I'll have to keep it going. My hair will be damaged. Blah, blah, blah. Somebody shut me up. Ugh-g-g-h-h-h.
After two hours plus of foil and brush, dryer-timings and rinsing, spraying and styling, the unveiling was highlighted by the radiant smile of my hair gal. She was pleased. Tickled at the outcome. And, to her credit and talent, it did, er, does, look good. It just didn't fit the dream, the build-up, the woman in the picture's portrayal, of the whole swirl-cone color combo I was expecting with such eager anticipation. It was somebody's perfect look, just not mine. I struggled not to appear crestfallen. I told her this would be our starting point. In the future, we would make changes as I figured out what I preferred and didn't prefer. But, here's the thing: I know exactly what I prefer. It is on pages 90-97 of MORE Magazine, the April 2009 issue with Olympic swimmer, Dana Torres, on the cover.
(This would be the OTHER thing: for two weeks, this uber-sweet little woman has tirelessly worked on a huge church garage sale event. Squeezing it in between her job and kids and husband. She will be home tonight with several other church friends, making hundreds of beautifully wrapped homemade egg rolls to be fried on-site tomorrow. Doubtless, it will be another in a string of late nights for her. Did I mention she has to be up by 5AM? Did I further mention she waxed my eyebrows for free and they look so pretty; it was my first time and she only pulled an itty-bitty piece of skin from my brow bone. I am NOT going to void my bladder in her Cheerios today, thank you very much!)
I'll tell her next week. When the fog clears. When I'm able to view my head and not burst into sobs - yes! outright sobs, I tell you, in the bathroom to boot - and the bowling ball has rolled out and my brain has moved back in, I will chat with my neighbor/Bunco pal/hair gal. Otherwise, there will be more of the same. Who knows? By then, I may agree with my girls that it looks pretty darned good. By then, I will have taken on human form and my family can go back to looking me in the eye without fear in their hearts. But right now, I feel like my ice cream cone ran beneath a shower of caramel. In fact, I would eagerly consume a giant swirl cone, several, and not mind a bit if it bore a shroud of caramel! Pray I think clearly enough not to mistakenly cannibalize myself in my present state.
Like I said. I got nothing.
Nothing but a fat, freestyle, PMS fall from grace. I detest these days. I suddenly can't think my way out of a paper bag. Worse, I'm not quite sure if I recall exactly what a paper bag is. (Though to my credit, I don't use paper bags. Makes it easier to forget.) I'm snappier than a snapping turtle. More irritated than an infected dog bite. It feels as if my brain traded places with a bowling ball and a perpetual fog has rolled in, invading all spaces where clear and rational thought once reigned. I'm afraid to hear myself speak. I wish I didn't have to hear myself think. In my household, feel free to multiply those feelings by five.
There is good news today. My Canadian pals and one-time Colorado neighbors, Nathan and Shannon, announced the birth of their first child. That gave me my first real smile of the day. Wait, that would be my ONLY smile of the day. I broke bread in the form of a late lunch with Ashley, my young adult child. Yes, that means she had herself a free lunch. Brother Gary called last night; his court hearing went well. He returns Thursday next for news of a possible resolution. His lawyer still believes that the chances are favorable for avoiding a trial and finding placement in a state mental hospital for treatment. It was the first time in the process where he actually felt that the people put there to help him, to watch out for him, to mete out a conscientious justice, were doing just that. Oh, and I've actually lost a couple of pounds.
But back to the nothingness.
For two weeks, I've eagerly anticipated today's hair appointment. The haircut turned out so 'just-what-I-wanted-but-better-than-I-imagined' sassy, that I was sure I'd be dazzled by an adventurous romp of color. Especially with my pictures in hand and my description so spot-on and meticulous. Brown with chunky streaks of blond around the face with a few thrown in underneath and in the back. Like a soft-serve swirl cone. No brassiness, no reds, no trendy racetrack lines running from top to bottom all around the crown. I'll take a natural, earthy brown with a side of creamy blond thrown in. Thank you.
I've also agonized over this fate with coiffure destiny. I'm hair illiterate. I don't generally DO hair. Usually, it is one all-over coloring job. Semi-permanent. Out of a box or at 6-month salon intervals. For years, my husband performed the honors until it grew too long, until I shaved it, until the grays became more prolific. I wash it. Wear it wavy. Pop it under a cap when I walk. Hang it in a ponytail. Push it back with bobby pins or barrettes. Every now and again, I surrender to the hair straightener at the behest of one of my daughters. Handing over a large sum of money for color and highlights and a tip (gotta tip a good job), even as a splurge, even with the encouraging consent of my husband - "You need it. It makes you feel better. Do it." - causes me to blanch inwardly. Am I that selfish? That vain? That wasteful? Shouldn't I save the cash toward that laptop I would so use the dickens out of? Once I start, I'll have to keep it going. My hair will be damaged. Blah, blah, blah. Somebody shut me up. Ugh-g-g-h-h-h.
After two hours plus of foil and brush, dryer-timings and rinsing, spraying and styling, the unveiling was highlighted by the radiant smile of my hair gal. She was pleased. Tickled at the outcome. And, to her credit and talent, it did, er, does, look good. It just didn't fit the dream, the build-up, the woman in the picture's portrayal, of the whole swirl-cone color combo I was expecting with such eager anticipation. It was somebody's perfect look, just not mine. I struggled not to appear crestfallen. I told her this would be our starting point. In the future, we would make changes as I figured out what I preferred and didn't prefer. But, here's the thing: I know exactly what I prefer. It is on pages 90-97 of MORE Magazine, the April 2009 issue with Olympic swimmer, Dana Torres, on the cover.
(This would be the OTHER thing: for two weeks, this uber-sweet little woman has tirelessly worked on a huge church garage sale event. Squeezing it in between her job and kids and husband. She will be home tonight with several other church friends, making hundreds of beautifully wrapped homemade egg rolls to be fried on-site tomorrow. Doubtless, it will be another in a string of late nights for her. Did I mention she has to be up by 5AM? Did I further mention she waxed my eyebrows for free and they look so pretty; it was my first time and she only pulled an itty-bitty piece of skin from my brow bone. I am NOT going to void my bladder in her Cheerios today, thank you very much!)
I'll tell her next week. When the fog clears. When I'm able to view my head and not burst into sobs - yes! outright sobs, I tell you, in the bathroom to boot - and the bowling ball has rolled out and my brain has moved back in, I will chat with my neighbor/Bunco pal/hair gal. Otherwise, there will be more of the same. Who knows? By then, I may agree with my girls that it looks pretty darned good. By then, I will have taken on human form and my family can go back to looking me in the eye without fear in their hearts. But right now, I feel like my ice cream cone ran beneath a shower of caramel. In fact, I would eagerly consume a giant swirl cone, several, and not mind a bit if it bore a shroud of caramel! Pray I think clearly enough not to mistakenly cannibalize myself in my present state.
Like I said. I got nothing.
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