July 11

Things to love

Believe it or not, there are things I love here, unexpected, mundane everyday things that have called for my attention, and I have carried throughout the day like a sigh of relief. They are as follows:

A beautiful breakfast sandwich, made with mozzarellas (I will never want one with cheddar again), eggs (white only), and bacon from Grandpa's Farm in Ohio (a tourist stop, not my Grandpa). Lightly toasted and delicious.

Summer wild flowers-- they are heftier than the spring ones were, and they wave at me from the sides of the roads, like hitchhikers beckoning me to take them home with me. I am convinced the purple one is a wild onion, and is has a sweet smell that has filled my dining room.

New hair color, paired with great grandma's beads I have never worn. I needed to touch up the color, and with a new cut, I thought I would start with a clean slate altogether.

I had been slightly influenced to change my color by the fact that, last weekend at a 5th of July party, I was being confused with "the other blond lady in the art department." Perhaps the greatest problem with teaching at an all male college is women are rare enough, folks (OK, only the men were doing it) surrender to their temptation of distinguishing us by the tones of our tresses. At the time, someone shouted, "no, she isn't that one. She's the one that saved the man from the river." OK, at least a more exciting a description than 'the blond.'

Anyways, I was ready to change my locks' shades. Last night I took the plunge into the bottle, this morning, unleashing my new color on the masses. Today, I had a technology meeting with a friend from across campus, who happens to have a similar color of hair as my new one. Oh, now I can be confused with her! I'm starting to see that this is not the answer to being a unique woman in a small town in Indiana.

I am at work right now. The evening security guard came by to lock up the doors. He's seen me before, usually just says hello and moves on, but for some reason, stopped in just now and asked if I was the new Costume Design person. No, I'm not. "Oh, because I ran into her husband and he said they just moved here." Nope, not me. "Oh. Then you're the one who saved someone from the river." It is so hard to distinguish women around here.

July 10

July 9

There is a lot of corn here

and it is way higher than my knee.

There are also bugs I can see from across the street, and not just the kinds that light up.

It is hot, and kind of sticky, but I need a coat to go into my office.

The sky keeps lighting up, though the fireworks have long since run out.

July 8

The perfect photo

When I was 18, I was a lifeguard. It was the summer time, and I was about to leave for college, to the great hippie-oasis of Northern California. I was gathering clothes for my new (used) wardrobe, and decided I would crochet myself a purple parka-wrap similar to ones I had seen in photos from my mom's youth, and period movies. During my breaks as a lifeguard, I worked on it. It took a couple weeks all together, and even now I can't believe I would lay it over my lap, like a blanket, in a California summer. The stitches were immaculate, the pattern consistent and reflected the constant tension I held on that yarn all summer.

For whatever reason, I never wore it in Santa Cruz or after. Because of how warm I made it, it makes the wearer about twice their normal size. I think that's why I never wore it. But I was so proud of its craftsmanship, I held onto it.

As I was cleaning out my house, preparing to sell it and move to Indiana, a neighbor would volunteer to take my extra things to a shelter she ran, where everything was given for free to the poor. When she saw the funny purple hat I bought at the Renaissance Fair, she told me about a sweet old woman who loved the color purple and who would love it so much. I was working on a performance project ("Yard Sale") at the time, so I asked for a picture of her in the hat. I never got one, but later she told me again about how much this woman loved the hat, and how she had recently been hit by a car. I suddenly remembered the wrap I had made ten years earlier and never worn. I sent it with her for this woman, and was glad someone would get use of its warmth.

Last month, I received a letter in the mail. In it was this photo. At first, I didn't recognize it. Who was this ancient woman? What is this strange pose she is holding? But the whole thing is such a strange, amazing photo. It seems so perfect, her gesture, the heart-shaped window bars, the tilt of her head, and this wild purple parka. I can't tell you how it made my day.

July 7

July 6

A series of unfortunate events

I have been trying to come up with how exactly to write this post for twenty-four hours. Well, just under twenty-four. I am looking at the time on my laptop, and I can't believe it hasn't been that long yet. The events of those twenty-something hours have a certain poetry to them and I want to make sure I capture that poetry, as macabre as it is. I should warn you it isn't a pretty, fun, or uplifting poem, but one the likes of Edger Allen Poe.

The poem starts with us listening to an episode of "This American Life," about Prom, but that segment was about a prom disrupted by a tornado. I was thinking it was pretty funny, because Proms are lame anyway, and the teens had a video camera at the time, so their audio of being jerky-drunk teens was hilarious. And we know ahead of time it is a tornado, so we know houses will be knocked down and that will suck, but somehow it doesn't strike me as sad. Toward the end, one of the kids they keep interviewing was talking, recapping all the bad things that had happened in the past year. His dad had died on his birthday, his mom couldn't afford their east-end home so they moved to the west side where the new house was destroyed by a tornado. He says he feels doomed. The narrator explains he is going to college in the fall, but wants to work on an oil rig instead and give the money to help his mom. By then, the story was sober enough, we weren't laughing at them any more. To drive home the fact we were jerks for laughing at all, the main narrator, Ira Glass, comes on at the end, and says this same kid died in a car accident a few weeks later. I guess some people are just doomed after all.

That is the moment we pulled off the freeway into Crawfordsville, fighting little tears at the futility of this poor kid's truncated life.

The town looked the same with the exception of the number of fireworks stands set up in the empty lots. The house was where we left it-- someone had moved the lawn by the sidewalk, but weeds were chocking the cracks of the walkway to our porch. A contractor had installed a new lock and replaced the kitchen ceiling while we were gone, so I didn't have a key. J dug for it in his bag while I made trips from the car, anxious because the next-door-neighbor-sex-offender was in his yard watching me (I know he only likes children, but I don't like making eye contact with him--I don't want him to see how disgusting I think he is). We finally get inside. In the house, I sigh in relief, but "it smells a little in here," then go to switch on the light. But the light doesn't go on. There is stuff all over, moved about by the contractor (and paint on the floor, and grease in the bathroom sink-- but that is a different story). On the table by the door is the pile of the last mail my friend took in before the vacation hold stopped the delivery. Right in the pile is the notice we owe $25 and if it isn't paid by the 20th, they will shut off the power. Fourteen days ago. There was a little of this "I thought you paid this," "No, you were supposed to" kind of nonsense, but it was futile and we both knew it.

Hesitantly, we approached the fridge to reveal the smell. We happen to be the kind of people who rarely have a stocked fridge. That should have worked in our favor. However, before I left, J had surgery and I had stocked the freezer with frozen food for him. He ended up going to California before eating any of it.

The fridge smelled bad, but nothing like the freezer. A vomit-inducing odor lay in wait there, the tiny fruit flies hovered over it eagerly (I think they were vivaciously celebrating their revenge against me for the genetic experiments we did on them in college-- I was tempted to check them for the classic mutations we were supposed to document in our lab books). J put on gloves to carry out the contents of the fridge, while I moved the rest of our belongings into the house. The lack of power, the fact our bathrooms were window-less, and my desire for a shower quenched any of my longings to join the 4th of July festivities we had planned to attend. The smell wasn't any better, and now had escaped the freezer and was at-large in the house. (I didn't discover until today, the panel at the bottom of the freezer, hiding the dripping ooze and maggoty remains of our food.)

So, we left to check into a hotel. The cats had food and water, so all was well. I said to J, "the only thing I want from a hotel is a pool. That can make this better. And beer. Lots of beer." Driving down the road to the grocery story, we passed this.

We pulled over to take this picture, and I was picturing this post, how to express how I was feeling about this town and being back and the chaos that is living in a rental, when a woman (townie) walked up to ask what I was doing. I was feeling so defensive, I was curt with her and wanted to take my pictures and run. She was persistent, and before I could stop it, was going on about the fire and the town. She kept saying, "this is an historic landmark, it was built in the 1950s!" In a town where everything was built before 1880, this didn't seem impressive to me. And she kept talking about all the animals in the pet shop that burned up, how they died in vain. I couldn't imagine how else they could have died, other than being eaten, but it was cruel and unusual. She wanted me to walk around the building with her to try to see the burned remains. I was suddenly worried about leaving the cats alone in our house. In a town like this, it could catch fire any moment.

By the time we got to the hotel, it was 9:50, and the pool closed at 10. Forget it, I said, I want to just go drink all this wine and sleep in the king-sized bed.

But the fireflies on the way their were amazing.

July 5

July 4

Cute overload

Chasing bugs

Here is the Hair before and after shots. So much better, I think. Inspiration!

After the talk last night, several of us met up at a bar on the beach of Lake Ontario. It was very fun with only minor bug bites from the sand. After, J, Lisa, Pants, Marleen, Tammy and I went on an adventure to hunt Fireflies. This may seem a simple and childish thing, but the whole existence of fireflies is crazy (they're bugs that light up at night!) and they are unique to the east, south, and midwest. I guess that means they aren't that unique, but they weren't in Florida, they aren't in California, and I never saw them in Hawaii. Ergo, they are amazing. We drove to this remote trail, walking way off the main road, into the dark (a few drinks to the wind), and marveled at their twinklings. I am sad to say, the evening was cut short by mosquitos attempting to carry me away. (I swear I have had more garlic this month in an attempt to be less appealing to them. I guess that doesn't work.) Even so, what's a few bug bites? Thank you guys for such a wonderful last night in Rochester!

Minus Twelve Inches

My haircut took a long time-- I was almost late for the talk. And I had such mixed feelings as I was waiting in the lounge area of the salon about what I would allow to happen-- all clouded by fear. Every few years, I usually cut off about six inches of hair, and no matter what idea I came in with, I would leave with the same haircut and tears of regret.

So while I was sitting in the salon, my printed pictures in hand, casually thumbing through a haircut magazine for other ideas, I became afraid. In a fit of conservatism, I selected a back-up cut that would meet my needs and be less dram-/traumatic than the one I had selected.

I saw a person come out of the cutting area, with a cut cute for her but something my mom would get and I feared. She had a young girl with her, maybe in her teens, with the exact same haircut. I shuddered. Then the young girl paid for her cut and left, and I realized the older woman was one of the stylists. My fear shoot up. Is this the woman who would cut my hair? Could she possibly create the fun, young, chunky haircut I desired, or would I also have the feathered beehive that would turn into a mullet in the Indiana humidity? I hid my printout under the magazine, turning to the page with the longer (easier-to-grow-out) cut, even imagining that after all this, I still might say, "Just an inch off the bottom, please." The stylist went back behind the curtain. Sigh, not for me.

Eventually, I young woman with medium length, thick hair, and a big tattoo on her arm. Good, I thought. A young woman with a tattoo could get it right. The print-out came back out.

As she began talking to me, looking at my profile to judge the length, massaging my scalp, I started to see how young she was, and I started getting nervous again. At one point, she said, "ok, now I am going to consult with Chi-Wah. That's what we do here." Chi-Wah turned out to be a person, not just the name of the salon. And she turned out to be the woman I had seen earlier. Perhaps I was wrong? Perhaps that young girl wanted an older haircut?

As the cut progressed, it also was revealed my stylist was Chi-Wah's daughter, and while Chi-Wah was checked the other stylist's progress also, she hovered near, checking on the progress of my hair. They both said, "Would you like to keep the ponytail?" I have kept them in the past, but always had to ask. This was so formal! Sure! The hair was carefully pony-tailed, and attention drawn as she cut it off. It was dramatic, but not tramatic like the last time I had had that done. ("You're too old for long hair, I'm just going to chop it off.") She did it, and I didn't cry. It felt good, lighter.

So, blah blah, the girl starts cutting, and at one point, Chi-Wah comes over and starts critiquing, then offers to help, and soon both are flat-ironing my hair and when it is time to cut the layers, Chi-Wah takes offer, talking her daughter through the steps, and referring to me as "the client." When it was done, I was shocked, but not unhappy. I flipped it around. I liked it more.

Here is what it looked like the next day. It was still holding the shape/style/ironing of the cut yesterday, although my atrocious roots still need attending.

And here is what it looked like post-shower. My hair has some natural waviness, and I had asked for a cut that could work straight or with this wave. I'm pretty pleased!

July 3

Last Day

Today is the last day and night at the residency. This evening, I will give a talk on my work, followed by a restaurant celebration, then off to Indiana in the morning. I was sad for it to be over, except that Saturday-past marked (unbeknownst to me) the last day I would have a hot shower. I have made three attempts at the cold shower since then, but today I just couldn't make myself do it, public speaking engagement or not. I have been meaning to get my hair cut, so today, I will be paying someone to wash my hair.

Public speaking engagement rule #3 will be broken tonight: never do any drastic personal hygiene/appearance adjustments within 48 hours of an event (or job interview). These include facials, waxing, hair-dying, sunbathing/fake tanner, and new haircuts. It probably includes other things I would never do, like plastic surgery, giving birth, and becoming a nudist. I got my eyebrows waxed 36 hours before a job interview once, just long enough to have a really good, self-consciousness-inducing rash in time for my spotlight.

I have been planning this haircut for months, and because I don't trust salons in Indiana to not give me a mullet, I was saving it for New York. (Not to say that is what salons in Indiana WOULD do, but I do have trust issues.) I am really excited about my haircut, but if it turns out to be a disaster, I will be dealing with my emotional fallout from it in front of a room of gaping faces.

That said, I hear you asking what rules #1 and 2 are. There are many rules to public speaking, but for your personal growth, I will give you the first two. #1 is show up early, but do not announce your presence until under five minutes before the engagement (if you have to set up equipment and sound check, fine, but then leave and don't come back until the five minute mark). #2 is to be nervous, then do ten to twenty jumping jacks right before, so your blood is pumping, your checks are healthy, your nerves are slightly diluted, but not so you are out-of-breath. Sounds funny, but trust me. #3, no crazy spa treatments, like I said.

Yes, I did mention the hot water problem to the building folks. No, the problem wasn't fixed.

*Update* Apparently, the gas was shut off, and in old buildings, sometimes you don't turn something off because it might not turn on again! Parts had to be tracked down, and the morning after-- a hot shower!

July 2

Time Flies

Hopefully it is well-spent. I haven't anything really to add here, but this image was beautiful. I was saving it, but why hide it? I hope it makes your day too.

July 1