It's been a few months since I wrote an ode to earhairs. It's sad but I long for the mysterious intrigue of earhairs. A tickly, thickly curling wisp that flutters in the wind. It's hooked and I can't stop starring! Of course, there have been a few memorable chin hairs and a mole hair or two, but nothing worth a dedicated blog to my outspoken affection for such furry occurrences. I have been trying to rise above the physical foibles of those around me. But what is it they say about the best laid plans?
Upon returning to my regular cop shop gig I have seen a few wily whiskers, but have taken the high road- for the most part. Ignoring a hair collar sticking out above shirt necklines, and avoiding eye contact with caterpillar brows. Honest I was trying to be good. Until yesterday, I discovered a giant ear hair...you will never guess where. In MY own EAR. I couldn't believe it. It was awful. Possessed by a tickle I felt in my ear canal. A creepy crawling, fluttering feeling that I couldn't shake. Literally I couldn't shake it off. Heading to the loo, I thought I would discreetly pull all the hairs from both ears, you know, all those tiny fine hairs that cover a human. The fuzz that reminds us we're not too far from being the animals we were. And trust me if I'd had a razor I would've shaved myself from the eyebrows down! Getting to the washroom I studied, inspected, looked and leered at my ears- seeing nothing, but I knew it was there. I started plucking blindly. Oh did I mention that I carry tweezers with me? Cuz, yeah I do. Everywhere I go, just in case. That's when it happened. The tweezers clamped down on something. And like deep sea fishing, it was a struggle to reel that hair in- or out as the case may be. When I finally triumphed over my well rooted foe, I was .5lbs lighter and my hearing had amplified 4 fold. How long could it have been growing there? As far as I am concerned- any length of time is too long. Now, I must turn my obsession inward, I have become my own earhair-enemy.
But it could have been worse, I guess. The group I associate with at work are a mature crowd. Their eyesight isn't like use-ta-be and most have earhairs of their own, earhairs they can be proud of. So, I figure as long as I can still see, feel and pluck my own unruly rogue hairs I am ahead of the social grooming curve. But maybe we could all use a little help from our friends. One of my colleagues has asked for a lady's agreement. Using my 20/20 vision I am to alert him to any strays I may spy...though to prevent hurt feelings I have been collecting a few hairs to alert him of all at once, instead of a daily hair check-in. It's better for us both that way. I get to marvel at those wiry wonders for a few more days, and he gets to think his super power is growing multiple magnanimous hairs in an afternoon. So my fair earhairs- it's been a while since we wrote, but you are a familiar friend. Honestly though, I could do without you whispering in my ear. Literally.
Unless you've been living under a rock the last month you've probably heard about the strange behaviour of one particular 'merican fast food chain. And I say strange because it's not something I would associate with chicken. You say chicken, I say fingers. You say gay marriage, I say chicken burger... nope one of those things is not like the other.
Having grown up in an artistic community, I know about the fabulous gays. And going to a theatre school meant I knew most of my classmates were gay before they wanted to tell anybody. But I love them and not because they're gay, but because they're wicked. On the religious front, growing up amongst the United Christian folk, I was taught that everyone is equal and deserves love, no matter what. A puppy murderer, a Disney villain and me: we all deserve love. The greatest of these gifts is love. I guess the problem I have is, didn't anyone tell this "Christian" restaurant that it's not nice to be bigots?
In a time when there is so much prejudice, why would a self-proclaimed community leader want to lead anyone astray? Who gave chicken the divine right to pick who to love? Or marry? Or even who can get married? What's love got to do with a marinated filet, other than being a typically dry dinner choice at a convention centre wedding, obviously. Let's try this again: you say gay marriage, I say "hells ya!". Now, that's more like it.
I know it's hard to be judged, but why should a dick-head chicken place have any opinion about marriage - gay, straight or otherwise? My Momma taught me that people who don't like you, aren't worth your time. Chick-fil-A obviously has their priorities bocked. Considering more than 50% of marriages end in divorce, why would we think that gay marriage could make those numbers different? Plus, if anyone knows how to throw a great wedding it's the gays. I mean, look at how many top shelf planners they have! In the end, I think if Chick-fil-A had their way, we'd all be fat, stupid, judgemental, narrow minded morons. But wait! They already are. As for me, I will dance the chicken dance at any celebration of love and marriage, as long as there's a vegetarian option.
Okay, so a recent informal poll I conducted suggests that if there is something wrong with you, you'd like to know. I don't mean if something is wrong with you- in my opinion specifically. I mean- if you have food in your teeth, waving it's spinachy green fingers at me, you'd like to know. Things that are wrong include but are not limited to: ear, cheek and nose hair, downed flys, boogers, flipped clothing tags and other embarrassing but easily repaired esthetic flaws. So, now that we all agree we'd rather know; why do I still worry how you're gonna take it?
Well Doctor, you see that's because nobody likes to think that they have been walking around like an a*hole with their barn door wide open. I might as well take all the confidence you had at that moment, tie it to the biggest anchor I can find and throw it overboard while shouting: 'That'll teach ya for getting too big for your britches. ' cackling all the way back to shore. Pointing out flaws is a terrible feeling for all involved. The victim's "Oh no, I ate 2 hours ago and I've had a hydroponic sesame garden growing in my mouth since" feeling and the messenger's "I wish I didn't have to do this, they'll wish I'd done it sooner." feeling. It stands to reason, you're better to hear it from me, than to head to the bathroom and spot it yourself half a day later. Though reason is seldom applied to vanity.
The strangest thing about this awkward social situation is even if I am part of a much larger group; the responsibility falls to me. I can be at work as the problematic Bat in the Batcave twists in the wind- while the cave dweller tells an emphatic story- everyone sees it. EVERYONE! But nobody says anything... So I wait until the story ends. Either insert a laugh or sympathetic head shake whichever seems appropriate; because I wasn't listening- I was starring at their nose. At the next private oppurtunity I pull them aside and pretend that I just noticed the offense. "You've got a little" *insert the universal signal for get that thing outta there! Don't kill the messenger is an adage quickly brought to mind. Yesterday I found myself in this type of situation; I made the furrowed brow "what is that?" face at my co-worker, with a pinching gesture at the rogue earhair that's been driving me nuts for 30 days. He didn't get it & all I could think was; how universal is this gesture if he doesn't know it...Then I thought maybe it was a familial shorthand, an obsession 4 generations in the mating. Needless to say I gave up on that hair, but only after multiple failed attempts. Hubby says if it doesn't bother them it shouldn't bother me. HA!
Alternatively, I want people to tell me when something has gone horribly array. If I were to arrive at my Momma or BFF's with my fly down, burrs stuck to my shirt and in my hair, dark flapping booger hanging from my nose, white bread mush glued between my teeth and giant eye gunk- they would laugh first; ask me how my night was; then get to work at reno-ing this fixer-upper. As for most other people? I am pretty sure they would let you walk around in that state, assuming it was either a purposeful decision to be a disaster or I was too far gone already to be helped by a Kleenex and some floss. Either way I will keep worrying about you and your fixable flaws and worrying about how you're gonna react, so there's that:)
Mother's Day is Sunday May 13th. What have you got planned? Is it something special enough to give to the woman who carried you around all those years? The physical carrying, the emotional carrying and the financial burden that you are? Have you thought about her, I mean really thought about what she gave you? My mother is an apple tree. A giving tree I fell from.
They say you can't avoid becoming your mother. That makes sense, she is the woman I've lived with the longest and we're related. My mother's mother was a Lady, except for stepping on all those ducks and creaking floorboards*insert fart joke here. I am a proud third generation lady. Every time my Grandma Far would visit, my Momma would go on a warpath of housecleaning and general fretting. Now, my childhood house was never dirty; but I am my mother's daughter and we like to pile- especially papers- they pile amazingly. So, when G'ma Far arrived there was no mess in the house, though G'ma often cleaned the oven; just to keep busy. When my Momma visits my grown up home, I am go on the same rampage; hiding piles in drawers and dusting every surface- the difference? My oven is self cleaning.
My Momma was OCD about finding all the toy set pieces. Counting them before they went back into the box. Which paid off, because now we have full sets of almost vintage toys. She was adement about no elbows on the table, which helped me with posture and decorum. She was determined to stop me from biting my nails, and did so using the world's strong drug- vanity. The person I am is because of my Momma. She is the strongest and most tender leader I have ever met. Her grace and dignity in the face of adversity are truly something to wonder at. But so is the blinding light of her rage- a halley's comet passing with a serious aftershock. Brief, beautiful and horrifying.
People love her. I mean, LOVE her. She attracts the attentions of the lost, lonely and confused; helping them see the brighter side of things. The attention she gives to each person, makes them feel special. She listens, really listens. In the last 5 years I have seen my Momma blossom; becoming a pillar of the community. She was voted Citizen of the Year, is now an elected Town Councillor and the Grand Dame in charge of Everything (a self appointed position). I have that quality too; I know that no matter what, I could do a better job than- that guy... the only problem? I don't know when I reach my limit. *insert Ah-ha moment.
The fact that I love her as much as I do, I wish I could do something uber-special for her. Something grand and extravagant. To thank her for some of my quirks and qualities. There are also things I want to give back to her; like my plucking addiction. In the whole wide world; she is in my top 2 favourite people. I look forward to her rushing me off the phone because she's heading out the door to something. Being late because there was just one last thing she had to do. And waiting for the time she promised to me, which is often double booked. She's a busy woman; but I know how that works- cause I am a busy woman too. So, spanks Momma; well for most of it. And THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU for the rest. I am ready to carry you, if you need a break.
This next story is a secret, so I changed the names, the location and everything but myself.
Once upon a time there was a background performer named Melicious. I work on film sets, commercials and tv shows. Though I am just a measly little extra, I am determined to make every experience on set a good one. So I pitch in, tidying wardrobe and fixing hair. Desiring each project to be as great as it can be. Sometimes, I meet famous people. National figures, actors, musicians and directors- cool people. Sometimes, I get to spend time with them face to face and when that's the case it's very close. (For those of you who don't know a whole lot about the film world, there is usually 10 people on set at any given time; say a wardrobe person, 5 lighting guys, hair and make up, assistant directors etc, to help keep shooting on time and looking good) This past weekend little Melicious was working with a very special woman- to remain nameless (as I signed a confidentiality agreement, not because I am not dying to tell you who it is) as I sit across the cafe table from her I notice a hair on her blouse. It's a white blouse and a black hair, so I make the international sign for "Hey you've got a little something- right there" which she doesn't understand and asks me to "get it", so I do with a sweeping gesture. Happy with myself I sit back down to get this scene in the can (film term for finished). Action! The director starts calling out directions on how she says things, how fast she says it, where the emphasis should be....ad nauseum. As we are shooting, she turns her head and I see a hair sticking off of her lower left cheek. Oh no! A black hair stuck to a light face. A black hair- dancing in the oscillating fan's breeze, taunting me...The director finally yells Cut and I make another gesture "Hey, there is a giant black hair stuck to your lower cheek, it's right there...Please get it!" to which again she doesn't understand and gestures for me to get it. So I do. It's attached*insert rueful head shake. This giant black 2 inch cheek hair has been attached to her face all day. They have been shooting since 6:30 am and it's now the last scene of the day and I am the first to discover this? You gotta be kidding, the hair person didn't see it? The makeup person didn't see it? The camera operator? The 10 people staring at the monitor DIDN'T see it? WTF! Holy Miley- you gotta be kidding. Me! Melicious, I am the one who tries to prune this Super high profile woman's face fern? It's not in my job description and we both know it, and now I have to sit here, for the rest of the day knowing that I tried to pull a hair off her face and it's still there. That taunting SOB, Roddamn it! It's hard to lower your profile, once you've become the failed face plucker. Sad, stupid little extra- keep your hands to yourself!
So that's my true, but unprovable story. I think it is finally time that I take my Hubby's advice: Stop plucking people's hairs- ear, cheek or nose. And I've tried but I just can't. It is a horrible addiction. And I mean honestly, wouldn't you rather know that you have a column of hair growing from your face? The one part of you that is literally facing forward? How are we going to think you can take care of anything... if you can't take care of your follicle farce?
My day is separated into capsules of time; 20 mins to shower, 15 mins to do my make up, 40 mins to choose what to wear. Then there is the never ending list of things that no matter how often you do or for how long, you have to keep doing over and over and over. For example....Laundry. If life had a top ten list of things that don't stop until you do (meaning when you croak), it might look like this.
1. Making the bed- every time you get out of it, it needs to be made again. And washed- folded, flipped, and so on.
2. Sweeping/Mopping/Swiffering- Just cleaning the damn floor, cause you're always walking on it, making it dirty again, finding tumble weeds of fur that have been driven into corners by the flow of traffic and spills from moving a hot pot too quickly into the sink
3. Walking the dog/cleaning the kitty litter/pooh-duty- HA I said duty (oh wait, that joke doesn't work when you're reading it *insert sigh & shrug)
4.Dishes- including but not limited to all the pots and pans you cooked with and the plates and silverware you ate off of. And would you just wash that glass that's been beside the bed for the last 2 days? It has dust floating in it.
5. Groceries- if you want something to make your dishes dirty you need to go out and get groceries, carry them home, cut or chop, clean and store. Make room in the fridge, cupboards and on shelves, don't forget that organizing can help your digestive system!
6. Bills, taxes, receipts and just general bookkeeping and life management. If you want to know how you're doing life-wise, this is a good place to start and keep up with, cause people will hound you for $17. 86 (FED EX, I'm talking to you)
7. The Bathroom- clean, sanitize, polish and scrub. This room is always getting used by bums and naked bodies. It's important to clean it often and well.
8. Laundry- Clothes, towels, sheets and whatever else needs to be de-grossed, de-haired or just freshened up. A light, fresh, clean scent creates an air of country in the city.
9. Swiffer- Before I even get to number 10 it's time to Swiffer again, I mean Jilly and Lucy are eager for a little sister I guess. A baby Dat or Cog...I haven't decided, unless I just start knitting a fur sweater, which would be ecologically responsible, but really creepy.
10. Myself- I need showers and shaves and scrubs and de-fur-ing and plucking and tweezing and clipping and shaping and stretching and warming ad nauseam, though I do consider myself a pretty clean person. (Ironic emphasis on Pretty*wink)
Life is an ongoing holding pattern of mundane activities, but the one thing that isn't mundane is life....Wha? That sounds very Zen of me. I am always surprised to find myself happy with the little things, but I would be happiest if I didn't have to keep SWIFFERING!
While working in the aesthetic industry I was entranced by a multi-step dermal care system. Like a un-exfoliated snake charmed by the sweet sounds of the skin flute (oh wait, that's a different story) I bought into the practice of wash-rinse-remove-cleanse-massage-rinse-exfoliate-massage-rinse-re-rinse-spot treat-age target-moisturize and seal. Though I have all these products with their various accessories scattered, stacked and stored in my teeny condo bathroom, none of these products are the same shape or size, oh no, they are as irregularly shaped as they are infrequently used, stacking, tumbling and taking up space much to the cha-grin of my hubby. And surprise, surprise, I am not easily motivated to do un-fungrueling things for myself (ie: gym, taxes, multi-step systems of any kind), especially after a grueling day of thinking about what I will write for you tomorrow, I can barely muster the enthusiasm to rinse and remove my under eye concealer, which has become a crutch, spackling my newly acquired uber-dark-bags, though it was not long ago I could go without a stich of make-up *implied shocked mock-cheerleader voice (I say mock as I worry about someone actually remember I wasn't a cheerleader, or that my high school didn't actually had a squad). Speaking of cheerleaders, I could start wearing football eye blacks- they might actually create the perfect diversion to what's happening up here* implies a circular gesture to dilapidated** face area. It seems I might actually be getting older, though I thought older/wiser were part and parcel- in fact not so, just the older part is ensured, Older/wiser requires pre-registration. Soooo....let's get a bit more honest than you might like, while watching "THIS is tha Vo-ICE!" I was picking, one might even say digging, at my dead dull lifeless skin, each cell precariously clinging to my face, snuggled up against the winter winds and displaying a serious lack of vitamin D, why? Why won't it just go away, slough off would ya? With you gone I am free to reveal the radiant creature my 3D dermal-dimension-insert D-word here, product line promises is underneath many-MANY layers of contaminated surface skin, I'm like an old gas station, applying for a building permit. Hazzah, I realize with relish- step 7 is my only hope, though step 7 alone cannot rescue this post-February-still-Blah-late-Mardi Gras-early Leprechaun mask, it will take the Tenacious Twelve to save me now. Twelve time consuming steps to the rescue, swooping in to save the day. With this team of super-stringents at my side and on my bathroom counter, I begin grooming the H-E-double hockey stick out of myself! Plucking and prodding, massaging and scrubbing, moulting layers of dead snake skin, finally unveiling the skin within, my face renewed and dewey, which my mother says is the key to youthful beauty. Soft, satisfied and sealed I slither into bed, ready to Face (see what I did there?) the coming morning. With a theme song I awake- a bright and cheerful morning- Whoa wait, what do I spy? Three white-headed friends who've taken up residence: Olivia, Janice and Pusie, which I feel is grossly fitting. Are you kidding me? Alas no joke, though today's theme song continues reminding me 4 heads are better than one... and they are growing on me:) though hopefully not for long.
**Side note: I thought the word was delapitated, it's not, your welcome.
After a weekend spent plucking and prodding and picking people to pay the bills- I realized that I have a serious addiction to the grosser things ON life. I truly relish finding and plucking that stray earhair blowing gracefully in the winter breeze. It has gone too long unnoticed under that hat, masquerading as part of your flowing locks. Growing for MONTHS to reach such lengths transforming into a curly, one might even say coarse fiber, diverting precious nourishment from your other follicles. Sadly, It- no, you know something of this magnitude deserves a name, shall we say Clancy, heretofore we will refer to your earhair as Clancy. Clancy has reached the end of his "short" life, but this won't be a simple pluck and run. I tenderly grasp Clancy with my trusted tweezers, then tug gently, exclaiming in false awe "Oh, it's attached!" - YEAH he is and he's amazing, an incredible achievement, the diameter of this bristle gently rolling between the tines of my tweezers. You exclaim with embarrassment- "Get it!" and of couse I will, because I love Clancy! I grasp this conifer in preparation of true extraction. Breathing deeply and with one smooth motion and a sigh of gratitude I unroot this truly magnificent specimen. As Clancy remains in the strangle hold of my tweezers, I absorb all his glimmering glory, he is a testament that Darwin wasn't far off; that Man and Monkey share an ear-ily similar genetic make-up.
RIP Clancy, you might not be missed, but I think I saw your cousin on my neighbour's ear...
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