Monthly Archives: March 2008

Hair Stages

I am sufficiently inspired by the Baba’s latest divine-children-inspired post over at Lesbian Dad (read Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow ) to want to add my two cents beyond the little comment box.

Rocky has wonderfully curly, soft brown hair, prone to dryness and splitting and multitudes of strangers who want to touch it and say, “OH lookatyourHAIR I wish I had curls like that!” Rukan and I are protective of Rocky’s hair, with a daily routine that involves cushioning it from the elements with shea butter and leave-in conditioner, combing out the relentless nest of tiny knots that somehow constantly form, and as a post-ordeal prize, treating our mini diva femme princess girl to braids, sparkly bobby pins, spritzy ponytail holders and myriad pink butterfly- and flower-shaped hair clips.

Occasionally (like, once a week) I dye my hair, because I am the canvas for my artistic self-expression. Upon observing a speckling of grays that have sprouted in the front over the past few years, I’ve taken to dying dark brown everything but the front, so the grays will sparkle in the sun. Yes, I think like that. Hell, I EARNED the damned gray hair. I’m not about to cover it up. (My friend Kirk once gave me a button that said “I’ve survived damn near everything”. I attached it to my orthotic boot and wore it to therapy.)

Rocky sees everything I do, and hears everything that is said in the house. Even if she’s ensconced in a book in the corner of her bedroom, if something is happening in the house that she wants in on, she can see it happening, through the wall or something. She’s very interested in the hair-dyeing process. She helps me choose the right color at the store (“Well Rocky, bright red IS a great color – but I have a job interview tomorrow. How ’bout this nice, cheap box of brown?”). She likes when I put the funny plastic hat on while the color sets. She likes to watch the water in the shower run brown and icky into the drain. She watches, and she waits.

Until the day came that she said, “I want to dye my hair.” It was just a peep, a tiny moment. Rukan and I were very quiet, then changed the subject. Rocky went off in a different direction. But it’ll return, and I foresee mild trouble between the parents, as we have some differing ideas on what is an appropriate level of self-determination in our creative, independent three year old child, as she begins to explore and abuse all that is hers.

Rocky has asked to cut her own hair before. That’s also something she sees me do, with a clipper, scissors and two mirrors. But you know, she actually asked – as opposed to yours truly, who when only slightly older than Rockster sneakily took scissors to bangs and ruined the school photo. Oh, and I blamed it on my older sister. Anyway, we’ve held that one off by agreeing that Rocky could cut her dolls’ and toy animals’ hair with her play scissors and supervision. We’ll see how long that works.

Which leads me to, HOLY CANNOLI . I was doing my bedtime routine last night, brushing my teeth and such. For fun, I tried parting my hair in different places. I swept the front over to the left, and there, hidden all these months under my natural dishwater blonde, was a veritable rat’s nest of gray hair. I mean, not the spattering of grays I’d noticed before – it was a wide swath of metallic shine, like someone had come in at night with a fairy paintbrush and painted a big, wide streak of sparkly silver onto my head. I’m staring at myself in the mirror, thinking, when the hell did THAT happen?? I showed it to Ru, who did not act properly alarmed. She’s been seeing her share of gray for years now, being in her forties and all. If we all follow our elders, Rukan will be 99 and still have beautiful, thick black hair mixed in with her silver, I’ll be 89 and dirty gray instead of dirty dark blond, and Rocky will have curly blue streaks in her self-styled hair, a butterfly tattoo on her shoulder and several piercings she’ll be advised not to show off on her blog.


Happy Zombie Jesus Day

Thanks to my pal Random for that happy image.

Surf’s Up in Austin, Texas

The other day Rocky got really mad at me, walked over, squared her little shoulders and said, “I HATE you.”

Don’t you love the milestones?

Bob is at my feet, begging for Cheerios. Rukan and Rocky are asleep, curled up together in the bunk bed. The dog is licking. The fish are swimming early-morning feed-me circles. And Rukan’s son is fast asleep in the downstairs studio, probably dreaming about surfing in Barton Springs. The sky is blue, the air is crisp and promising, that golden Texas sunlight is slanting in and making shit glow. Life is good.

I have to go clean four houses, and you know what? Life is still good.
Last night I dreamed that I came from a Native American family (I can’t remember what tribe). I got adopted into an Arab family. I was a passionate and talented surfer girl, being scouted (if that’s what you call it) by gear companies and such. I was cleaning a big, big house and had enlisted the help of a few friends. I so did not want to be there. Finally I left, and my beloved Arab great-grandparents took me to college, where my surfing friends (all faces from massage school) were waiting for me. My great-grandparents were very, very proud of me. We entered a huge, bustling cafeteria, and I spotted my friends. I ran over to them and grabbed them in a hug. SA was on Kristen’s shoulders. That’s the way they got around in life. Kristen seemed a little unhappy with the situation.
My friend Bocephus is an English mastiff famous in the neighborhood for his astounding size. He makes great danes look like black labs. I am so not exaggerating. I love him best for his puppy face – you know how puppies look at you with that – well, puppy face? Bo is only a little over a year old, and hasn’t lost the look. He’s adorable and waggy and horse-like, and I love him.

Please send him prayers or something of that nature, because something is suddenly wrong in his body and he’s in a great deal of pain. The vet’s not quite sure what’s going on, but it could be very serious. Hopefully today they’ll have a better idea.

Protected: Blue Ox: making things rhyme with "funky" for 34 years

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Why I Should Never, Never, Ever Be Alone

I went back to my housekeeping job today.

It sucks much less now because it’s only one or two days a week, and I’m not going to do it alone any more. I have a good friend going with me now. It makes a big difference to have a person to talk to, instead of a toilet brush.

Have you ever had clam pizza? It’s kind of gross. I am compulsively devouring a slice at this very moment. See? I shouldn’t be alone. If Rukan were here, she’d be saying, “Why are you eating that clam pizza? You hate clam pizza! Blue Ox, stop eating that clam pizza!”

My cleaning friend pointed out that there are good aspects to housekeeping. You can have time with your mind. At her other job, she said, her mind is occupied the entire day (she works with little kids). For some of us creative types, time with our thoughts is like soaking in a luxurious hot mineral bath at a resort spa. Or rather, what I think that would be like.

So what has it been for me, to be alone with my thoughts at my job, for these past ten years? I should’ve choreographed for the Bolshoi Ballet, written a major screenplay and several books on quantum physics by now.

While I did squeeze out a few good blog entries at work, humans, apparently, are not meant to be alone all the time. I started going batty.

Why did I eat the clam pizza? Why?

I forgot to tell you that I had another whopper of a dream last night. That reminds me, I had this girlfriend from Brazil – Rio to be exact. You know those candies, “Whoppers”? She called them “Hoppers”. Whenever she said it, I fell deeper in love.

So this dream. It was a very long time ago, and the Christian church was trying to wipe out the earth-based religions. I was a High Priestess Warrior. Nice ring to that. Anyway, I was getting ready to lead a group of Priestesses and Priests (whatever the guys are called) into a final battle against the Christian Army. We knew it would be hopeless for us, because we were beleaguered and outnumbered. But we had to take a stand, for history! We had these shawls that were also sort of like pods, and we knew that when things got too hairy, we could pop the shawl-pods over our bodies and instantly transport ourselves to our retreat, a home no one else could get to. It was vaguely Mists of Avolon-y.

The setting for all this was my family’s land up in Maine, with the land winding around the saltwater cove, the moon high and bright, and our bonfire spreading orange light on the faces and tall pines around the circle.

I was giving orders to prepare when suddenly out of the dark woods, the Christian Army charged at us. I let out a fierce battle cry and we began to fight them. I had a broadsword and was swinging with all my might, cutting people down and dodging in every direction. I was strong and tall, and fearsome in battle.

Then I decided I didn’t like this whole war thing, and I made my way down toward the boathouse, where I found a friend of mine hanging out, and we had sex on the shore instead. After all, it was Beltane.

When I woke up, I was covered in moss. So was my friend. My moss was brown, and his was green. We brushed it off ourselves and went our separate ways. The end.

Then I had another dream. In this one, I was in the psyche ward. It was a stark contrast to the woodsy, warm darkness of the battle-sex dream. This was indoors, white walled, florescent-lit. I wasn’t supposed to be there. The mental health workers knew it, and said they’d get me out, but that I had to go through the same procedure as everyone else to leave. They tied my arms down and began to glue my mouth shut. I screamed at them and tried to kick them off me. They kept trying to reason with me, telling me this was the only way it could be done, but I kept screaming at them to stop, feeling like the world was closing around me, constricting my throat and chest so I couldn’t breathe.

Thankfully, I woke up then.

That’s the kind of stuff rattling around in my cage. It’s no wonder I needed to get out of my head, a little, and into the world.

random photos for your viewing enjoyment

Bob and his bunny at rest

Spa monsters


“make a mean face”

“make a love face”

Rocky in the sun

I’m just glad I don’t have to hear the name "Huckabee" anymore

When I got to the little booth, I still didn’t know who I was going to vote for. What tipped it for me, at the last minute: Obama claims to be for equal rights for gays, but doesn’t support gay marriage. Uh, Barack? I’d like to point something out . . . oh, never mind.

I’m not invested enough in either one to caucus. I’m going to bed.