I lost my rose colored glasses for a bit

Last week was an emotional one. You are all very lucky I didn't decide to post about every loop, twirl, twist, and flip. You may have ended up with a stomach ache and I probably don't have enough Tum*s to go around. The week began with Mother's Day, about which I thought I would write a what-I-loved-about-my-mom type post in her memory but every time the thought eeked its way into my consciousness, on came the water-works. I think I'll save that idea for next Mother's Day, or maybe Mother's Day 2015.

The next day was my birthday. The big two-six. During the days prior to this, my day of birth, friends asked what I wanted to do in celebration. My response consisted of a quick shoulder shrug and subject change, in one fluid motion. I was really quite good at it. When the day finally came to fruition, Bridge Man was out of town on a business trip and my friend, J, whom I dub Moon Beam was in St. Louis signing her life away. (We will get to that little gem in a bit.) So I spent the evening walking around Tar*get until a disembodied voice told me that the store would be closing in five minutes and I should make my final selections and head to the front of the store.

The next day, Tuesday, I went to work in my continued state of funk. The work day went on as usual; me and my uber fake, uber cheese smile and overly-perky attitude to appease the man. I fooled them all. (Insert evil laugh here.) When I returned home, Moon Beam stopped by to wish me a belated birthday and share her thrilling news. (Sense the sarcasm.) She had just signed up for the National Guard for six long years. I realize that Moon Beam is a big girl and can make her own decisions and as a good friend, I should support her and her endeavors but this news couldn't have come at a worse time. I don't know if you remember so let me give a quick recap: me = funk. Therefore I was anything but the good, supportive friend that I should have been. That evening after I found out that my little sister, Smash, had coincidentally also signed her life away that day, but to the Navy, I inappropriately said to Moon Beam that they would both be dead by next year. Judge all you want. I judge myself for that doozy of a statement. There is no excuse. Fortunately, M.B. seems to be very understanding of my attitude. She has experienced the wrath of my bad moods in the past and is being very understanding, no matter how undeserving I am.

The remainder of the week was fairly uneventful other than my continued funk-a-fied state, from which I've since moved on. We did take a quick trip North to visit the family this weekend. It ended up being just the thing I needed to turn my mood around. In an effort to keep from taking you, the reader, down in my funk here are some pictures of the hilariously, fun frisbee game I played with my sibs and Bridge Man this weekend.
This is Bridge Man in action.
My youngest brother doesn't like to have his picture taken, and his solution to the sister (me) with an over-zealous photo finger is to bend over. HA!

I told Bear to pretend like she was going to throw the frisbee since I wasn't fast enough to play the game and take action shots at the same time. It's realisic, no?
This last image was taken through the lense of my rose colored glasses. Those are my two brothers in the midst of our fabulous frisbee game. It's moments like these that remind me that I should quit feeling sorry for myself, put on my big girl panties, and remember to live.

Me Too

I met my twin last night. She's a 54-year-old Jamaican woman with a thick, thick accent. She came into school last night to have her hair done and I happened to be her stylist. Was it fate? Eh, maybe. A coincidence? Quite possibly. Utter insanity? Yes, yes, ten-thousand times, yes. Yes, I realize I don't remotely resemble that of a 54-year-old Jamaican woman. But after talking to her for the three hours it took to color, wash, blow dry, and style her hair, we found that we have enough in common for it to be a little unbelievable.

Our conversation began like those of every stranger that sits in my chair. Is it still cold/raining/sunny outside? Did you just get off work? What do you do for a living? Normally, at that point something comes up to spark a conversation that hopefully lasts throughout the hair process. There's nothing like the awkwardness of not knowing what to say to someone with a head full of foils that have to process for another 30 minutes.

I asked her about her job and her response was polite but short. She works part-time as a teaching assistant. The conversation went on like this for a few minutes. Then something struck a chord and her guard lifted. Her family of two brothers still lives in Jamaica where she grew up. After working for two years as a flight attendant in her twenties she decided to move to the states to go to college and work in elementary education. This part of the conversation was all well and good. Fairly normal. Then she mentioned her mom.

Her mother passed over in November.

I responded with a generic, "I'm so sorry for your loss" response. At this point there isn't much else I can say without losing my composure.

She then went on to tell me about the difficulties she has experienced after such a loss. She had to drastically cut back her work schedule in order to maintain her sanity. Working with young children while grieving the loss of her loved one was simply too much.

The similarities between our stories were so remarkable that I broke down and told her about my mom. How she passed in November and how the situation affected my career status. I told her about my writing and how I use it as a venue to express my feelings about my loss and other things going on in my life.

She too is a writer, a poet. She recited one of her poems about her experience with loss that was published in several local publications. In the poem, palm trees from her home in Jamaica represented her spirit; while a palm tree stands tall and strong on a warm, sunny day, it will bend and break under the stress of something as destructive as the Mother Nature.

I too am being published. It's something I have shared with a select few people because I don't want to jinx it but I chose to share this news with the stranger in my chair. When I told her the authors name her eyes got wide.

Her brother had, just last week, mailed her one of said author's books.

Now, at this point in my life, the idea of fate is a blurry subject for me but our meeting was the closest thing to fate I've experienced. And while hair dye continued to stain her ever greying roots she excitedly proclaimed that our meeting was nothing short of destiny. It was meant to be. No matter how much I'd like to believe that we are more than a big ball of chaos and pollution plummeting through space until our inevitable doom, my faith in destiny/fate has dwindled to confusion. And this meeting did nothing more than increase my confusion.

Who's to say that she and I were destined to meet on that Tuesday night to talk for three hours about our similar life experiences or our shared passion for jewelry making, photography, and Project Runway? If anything, it could have been nothing more than a chance meeting of two genetically polar people on a similar life path.

At the end of the night, after she was properly primped, she left me with a hug and a scrap of paper containing her contact information. It is now up to me. Do I contact her? Was this meeting fate or simply that of two grieving souls desperately seeking solace from someone who can understand?

Pardon me while I gush

I had the most amazing weekend. There was one tiny flaw but it rated a 0.5 on the flaw Richter scale. It was nothing really. So, I'll move on to share the shear amazing-ness of my weekend. I went to the Discover 2008 Hair Show in St. Louis. It's put on every year by State Beauty Supply, a national beauty supply company. The show consists of new hair products, tools, and techniques. There are platform artists that demonstrate the new products, tools, and techniques. And there are great sales on the products, tools, and- well, techniques in my case. But I'll get to that a little later. It's a cosmetologist heaven. And I took full advantage of everything available. I picked up professional products for one-third of the retail price! It. Was. Amazing. I scrounged for free samples all over the place. So much so, I won't have to buy shampoo and conditioner for over a year.

Now that I've officially bored you to tears talking about amazing sales on flat irons and shampoo... (They were amazing people, did I mention that?)

The best, most amazing, most fabulous part of my weekend was that I got to be a hair model for the Farouk Systems platform artists! (The parent company for CHI and BioSilk.) A fellow cosmo girl and I took a chance and got the opportunity to be on stage with Mickey and Bradley as the opening act. It was like a rock-n-roll concert. There were girls in tiny outfits dancing around on the stage with guitars while Mickey and Bradley danced around me, hacking away at my hair. A friend of mine captured the entire thing on her camera and I'm waiting (ever so patiently) for her to upload it so I can share it with you, my bloggie friends. Until then, watch the video I linked above to capture the full extent of what happened to my head. Oh the insanity!

For now, I hope you can be satisfied with a before and after picture.

That's me on the left, looking all blah with my blah hair and my friend K.B. on the right looking fabulous as always.

Check me out people! All, I can say is that this is probably one of the best hair cuts I've ever had. It's so easy to style and I love the way it looks! (Could I be any more smitten over my cut? YES, I COULD!) The video will be posted once I get my anxious little hands on it. Until then, be jealous. Be very jealous*.

And to those people who look at my new do and gasp, "But you're getting married in less than four months!" Please calm down for a sec. Am I not allowed to get married with short hair? Is this a new law I'm not familiar with? I don't think so. The minister isn't going to turn me away at the altar after measuring my hair with a yard stick and finding that my hair is just too short for me to be wed.

*I'm not normally like this, but I seriously cannot stop gushing!!

The Circle of Command

Now pay attention.

I go to cosmetology school.

I work at a salon.

The two are owned by the same people.

This can get confusing. Especially when I tell stories about school, or work.

The same things happen at both places.

Hair cuts

Perm waves

Pedicures

Facials

The chain of command is especially confusing.

One of my instructors at school is a nail technician at work. This means she is my boss at work and kind of a boss-type at school. Not so confusing.

One of the lead receptionists at work is a junior student at school. I am not a lead receptionist at work but am a senior student at school. She tells me how it's done during the day, I tell her how it's done at night.

My boss at work was student with me at the cosmetology school. This made us equals until she became my boss. Now she is my boss at work and training to be an instructor at school. At work, she's in charge. At school, she's not allowed to tell me what to do. This is a little more confusing, no?

Another instructor at school is a frequent client at work. This means I get to serve her bottled water while she waits to get her hair colored during the day and then she critiques the placement of my perm rods at night.

Sometimes I work from 8am to 4pm and then go to school from 5pm to 9pm all in the same day. The roles have to change that quickly. On the most confusing of days I go from being a pee-on at one moment to the big man on campus the next. Fortunately I've gotten used to switching roles appropriately.

The whole thing kind of reminds me of the old folk song, I'm My Own Grandpa. See if you can figure this one out.

The Luckiest People

I just wanted to announce it to the world that Bridge Man and I are undoubtedly the luckiest couple in the world. Before your gag reflex kicks in, please take a moment to let me explain. But before I explain, I'm going to take a quick detour.

The lottery.

What are the chances of winning the lottery or the Publishers Clearinghouse sweepstakes? How many people actually win these things? What would you do if you won mega millions? Would you turn to Ed McMahon and say no thanks, I'm not interested - My five-figure salary will suffice for now. Can I get you something to drink Mr. McMahon? Would you say that winners of these lotteries have defied the odds? I think you would. Well then, ladies and gentlemen, Bridge Man and I have defied these minuscule odds - five times! No, we haven't won the lottery. Ed McMahon hasn't shown up at our door with a really big check and some balloons. Not yet anyway. I may already be a winner after all.

Let me explain.

The moment Bridge Man and I got engaged our names and addresses were instantaneously sold to wedding vendors across the globe who immediately took it upon themselves to mail us every pamphlet/brochure/magazine/coupon they could stuff into our mailbox. And those who were really lucky somehow managed to get a hold of my cell phone number. One of my personal favorites from this really lucky lot, is A*merican Presti*ge. They like to call and tell me how I've been randomly selected as the winner of a four-day, five-night vacation to the location of my choice. All I have to do is attend a presentation that night about Tupperware and pay my own airfare. That's all!

The first time I got this call, I listened to the nice ladies mantra before I graciously declined. The second, third, and fourth time they called to tell me that I was picked out of millions as the winner of this fantastic vacation package getaway I was at work and unable to answer the phone. They would call three and four times in a day because the day you are selected to win you must go in to see the Tupperware presentation that night or you are disqualified to receive the amazing prize. So you'd think that I'd be disqualified after the second or third or even the fourth go-round.

Oh, no. In fact, my name was miraculously chosen out of millions for the fifth time as the winner of this dream vacation. Only this time I answered the phone. And as I sat there silently listening to the nice lady tell me about this great prize, I wonder if I should stop her before she gets too deep into her script or if I should be polite and listen even though I already know my answer. I decide to forgo manners if for no reason other than to make her job easier. I interrupted her to very nicely decline. Why should I make her go through the entire five minute monologue when I already know that it's a waste of her time? Anyway, like I said, I was polite and said no thanks. To which she abruptly said, OK, and hung up. (Which makes me so glad I gave it so much thought.)

So I ask you, is there anything luckier than being randomly selected to win a dream getaway FIVE TIMES? I think not. Bridge Man and I must be some of the luckiest people in the world.

Ten Fingers. Ten Toes.

It was inevitable. Everyone in my family has them. I was genetically destined to inherit the short, stubby fingers and the wide, fat feet of those who came before me. It was a running joke in the family. ‘Flintstone feet’ we called them. And as a five year-old child, I can remember wishing that my hands would someday develop into long, graceful fingers with perfectly shaped nails. But it was my feet that bothered me the most. They were so wide that they could only fit comfortably in shoes made for little boys, one size too big. You see, what my tootsies make up for in width, they lack in length. This nixed any capability I had to wear the jelly sandals I so coveted as a child.

Throughout my adolescence, I never failed to point out my distaste for the feet that I have been doomed to lug around. I would wrap them up tightly with strips of material in order to make them skinnier, or at the very least, prevent them from getting wider. When my mom noticed this for the first time she questioned me about the odd footwear I had donned. When I told her of my intentions I remember seeing a flicker of sadness flash in her eyes before she informed me I should be glad to have all my fingers and toes and then she went about her business. I couldn’t understand why I had made her sad. Why would anyone want to walk around with feet like mine?

In the summer of 2007, I flew out to visit some relatives from my mom’s side of the family in California. I spent five wonderful days there and on the last night we had a small get-together to spend my last night there as a group, as a family. We all sat around in the backyard, barefoot, soaking up the warm, California evening talking, laughing, crying, and simply spending some long overdue time with each other. While the conversations flowed, I sat silently for a moment to look at the special people around me. I looked for similarities in our features. The one thing we all had in common was our feet. This was the first moment in my life that I had ever felt a sense of pride for my fat, wide appendages.

The following November, my mom was hospitalized when the cancer that had seized the last two years of her life, took a turn for the worst. On one particularly late night, I sat next to her hospital bed holding her hand. It was just the two of us. Her temperature was high so she was covered her in a light-weight blanket. Her feet were uncovered, exposing a fresh pedicure and a simple anklet. My mind wandered from her respirations per minute to her physical features. We had the same chin, the same nose, the same hands, the same feet. And while she appeared thin and frail, her feet still had that short, wide shape that notoriously runs in our family.

It didn’t occur to me at that moment but now that I look back and continue to seek out anything to provoke memories of her and her life – movie ticket stubs, journals, jewelry – I’ve realized that one of the best things my mom left behind are the her traits. I’ve come to love the fact that she and I have the same nose, chin, and hands. I love the fact that we have the same Flintstone feet. She gave them to me. And I am reminded every day that a little piece of her lives on with me.

One hundred and thirty-one days

Last night Bridge Man and I finally booked our honeymoon. In exactly one hundred and thirty-one days, I will be basking in the sweet, sweet sights and sounds of Maui.


We'll be taking a bike tour on a volcano, tasting some native wine, and learning to surf. One hundred and thirty-one days and counting!