Okay, I did it.

(I didn't really mean to make it a thing of such suspense---and I find it irritating that I did---but I just wasn't near the computer for very long over these last few days.)

I just got all eh, what the fuck about it and armed with my computer printout of Bitchy MTV Girl, I headed for the salon and Lynn chopped the mane:









The cyclops. I did a mock photo shoot with my sister Bec afterwards and though we were laughing the entire time, I couldn't find a picture where I didn't come off looking like a douche (which is sort of what posting incessantly about my hair makes me so...).

Close?

Whatever similarity was achieved that first day was washed down the drain with my shower the next. Unable to recreate the look, my eh, what the fuck thinking had turned to oh, what the fuck was I thinking?! Three days later, I'm still in haircut limbo and feel like I may look a little like Lord Farquaad. I know I love having less hair. And I love the little Donald Duck butt of a ponytail I have after showering. But I'm still working out how to do it myself which, unless Dan is going to give me a blow-out every morning, is pretty important. (I don't know if the fact that I passed up an easy blowjob joke for one about a cartoon ass means I'm growing or regressing.) The bottom line is that it's going to require---and I hate, hate, hate saying this---practice. If I want it to look like it did when Lynn did it, I'm going to have to arm and familiarize myself with her weaponry. The straightening iron will be my go-to gat. I'll have to invest in a good one because for the past couple of days I've been using one from the 80's (really) I found in a cabinet at my parents' house (thankfully I grabbed the straightener and not the crimper) and every time I've used it on the hair closest my face, my eyes burn like they're being exposed to some sort of chemical. This can't be good. Also, I'm supposed to be using a product called "defining whip" which, I learned the hard way, should be applied with some restraint if I don't want to look like I've been washing my hair in a McDonald's frialator.

But I did it. I manned up. And even if I look a little like Toad from Super Mario Brothers,



I'm glad my sack is in tact.

If not my pride.



Still douchy.

I got a haircut today but I don't have the time to upload the pictures so whether or not I manned up will have to remain a mystery.

And that's all I can say right now because I need, need, need to go to sleep.

P.S. When I googled "really bad female haircuts" to find a image for this entry, the previously featured bitchy MTV girl picture came up...huh.

Feet, Gray, Dove and other things that really matter.

So, I have this favorite book. Perhaps you've even heard of it. It's this little sleeper hit that came out in 2006; something about spaghetti, crying on your bathroom floor and bladder infections. You probably aren't familiar with this work---most aren't--- but I'll mention it anyway. It's called Eat, Pray, Love and it was written by my friend Liz. (As I've said, if we were friends, I'm sure author Elizabeth Gilbert would have me call her Liz.) (Also, technically I'm not ready to pick the favorite book of my life---I haven't quit you Sweet Valley High Volume 22---but in my Oprah interview, Eat, Pray, Love will be mentioned as one of key influence and inspiration in my life and writing career...same goes for The Poky Little Puppy.)

In addition to reading it a few times, I keep the audio recording of Eat, Pray, Love (read by my friend Liz) on my iPod such that when I put it on shuffle for my walks, I often hear a track or two and wind up visiting with random chapters every week. I often quote it. (Recently, when explaining how affectionate Dan is---and I'm sure he's gonna love this---I borrowed Liz's words and gave due credit when I said he was "a cross between a golden retriever and a barnacle.") I draw from and take comfort in Liz's validation, or at least articulation, of some of my own spiritual convictions. ("I have always responded with breathless excitement to anyone who has ever said that God does not live in a dogmatic scripture or in a distant throne in the sky, but instead abides very close to us indeed---much closer than we can imagine, breathing right through our own hearts.") I've never written extensively on why and how this book affected me as profoundly as it did and I don't intend to now (saving it for the card I will hand to Liz when we go away together for a girls' weekend) but I will cop here to having a very personal, very possessive sense of this book. I read it shortly before it became what it was to become to the world (at least that's how I remember it...it was long before she Oprahed it up) so as it shifted to the center of the literary/pop culture/female universe, I took a quiet pleasure but also solace in the fact that I had loved Liz when... (It's like how I felt when I would see a high school boy whom I "discovered" just post-puberty breaking into popularity. This is also, by the way, how I feel about Tina Fey. Also, strawberries. That last one was a joke but I feel like I just came up with an obnoxious vegitrendian character for a book. "Nobody even knew what a strawberry was two years ago," Shira said, an RIP Cows button pinned firmly to her "Farm food makes you Phat" t-shirt.)

Still, when I heard Eat, Pray, Love was being made into a movie starring Julia Roberts, I was delightedly curious and, as I said to Dan as we headed to the theater on Saturday, "This is sort of a momentous thing for me." He asked if I was nervous about being disappointed and I wasn't because I thought I had already mentally separated the movie from the book such that they were two utterly disparate creative projects that could not even be compared. Not so, apparently. Turns out I couldn't help myself. First of all, knowing Liz and Felipe (Gilbert's love interest in the book and present day husband) as I do from both Eat, Pray, Love as well as Gilbert's follow-up memoir, Committed, which documents part of their courtship and eventual marriage, they are real people to me. So, it was distracting to see the events changed and the characters (particularly Felipe) manipulated for the purpose of a script. In the Harry Potter movies, the differences from book to screen don't bother me at all; the characters are fictitious in the first place and this is how movie adaptations work. But, as I know the facts of this story (at least Gilbert's presentation of them), these changes troubled me. Also, I couldn't helpt but note whenever a narrative quote was taken from Liz Gilbert's head in the book and put into the mouth of one of the movie's characters whom I knew hadn't spoken it. Again, because the book is a memoir and not a novel, I felt hung up on this. (This is not at all indicative of the quality of the movie, but just something I was surprised to be so caught on, having seen many book-to-movie adaptations.) The most distracting part, however, was probably my echoing these and many other lines into Dan's ear which I'm sure helped very much with his enjoyment of the movie.

(I should also take this time to say that although he was standing in front of me in the movie line, Dan made me talk to the ticket agent because he could not get himself to speak the words, "Two for Eat, Pray, Love."

"Could be worse," I told him. "I could be making you see Eclipse.")

So, despite myself, comparisons were made. And while, of course, I didn't feel coming out of the theater what I felt coming out of the book, I hesitate to use the word disappointed, particularly since I really had no concrete expectations. Honestly, I feel like I have some sort of cinematic amnesia about the whole thing. I can't remember the movie well (and yes, it was this past Saturday; a mere 72-hours ago). See, because I know the book so well, because I know the themes of the book, I have a hard time deciphering what I felt as a result of the actual film from the impressions I projected onto it. It's like a literary/movie mashup in my brain. Basically, I feel like I need to see it at least one more time to know what I really saw. (Does this make sense?) I mean, I know they covered the three countries (four including her trials in the U.S. that sent her abroad), and I know there were voice-over narratives (my cinematic G-spot) that introduced the story, added insight along the way and tied things up for us, but I can't remember what was said. The only things I can recall for sure are as follows:

---The guy who plays Giovanni (there is no Dario in the film) is one of the hottest men I've ever seen in my life. I mean, um, he's a really good actor.

---The film is, of course, aesthetically gorgeous. (Quoting Liz Lemon as they panned the beaches of Bali, I whispered to Dan, "I want to go to there.") (I don't usually whisper all that much during movies.) (Dan might disagree.)

---It was a long movie, although this perception may be somewhat affected by the fact that I had to pee by the time we hit Italy. Partway through India, I found myself thinking, "Jeez, we're not even in Indonesia yet and---SPOILER ALERT---that's where she gets laid!"

In a larger sense, the clearest opinion I have of the film is that it was a Julia Roberts Movie. Now, hear me out. I know people were criticizing the choice of Roberts versus and unknown actress for the lead role and I really was not one of those people. I like Julia Roberts. There aren't many movies starring Julia Roberts that I haven't liked. (However, Flatliners did just pop right into my head. Though, to be fair, the fact that I was maybe 10 when I saw it and it scared the shit out of me may have something to do with the negative review. Also, it was Kiefer who most ruined it for me and I've never really liked him since...even as Jack Bauer...but that could also have to do with his roles in Lost Boys---another movie I was probably too young to see---and let's not forget the toothpick chewing creep he was in Stand By Me...but I digress.)

I wasn't on the anti-Julia bandwagon. I thought, hey, she can do it. Since the Oscar and the old-lady-named babies, she's been pretty much gone anyway. Maybe she'll seem like an unknown...Um, no. It was total JRM.

The key components of a Julia Roberts Movie:

1) The giant laugh. (And plenty of it...but it really is a helluva laugh. I would walk around tickling myself if I had that endearing of a laugh.)

2) The crying scene where her face shifts from that of a knowing beauty into that of a scared, sniffling child, complete with lost eyes and a quivering frown. The self-deprecation and amusement at her own sorry state, which transitions into that giant sunrise of a smile amidst the tears (and is accompanied by weepytalk; half weep/half talk), is also a Julia Roberts signature move and a Julia Roberts Movie staple.

You know the look:



3) The scene where the camera pans a rowdy room of convivial friends engaging in loud conversations and bursts of laughter over goblets of wine and dinner plates full of decadent fare and then narrows in on Roberts who has momentarily pulled herself out of the rowdiness for a moment of smirking reflection as she ingests the scene herself. In real life, this person would be called the buzzkill or, as I've come to realize, the writer (same thing?) which Gilbert is, so it fits.

This may sound awfully snide, but that's not my intention. These are all the things I look for and love in a Julia Roberts Movie. In fact, this is why I'm unsure whether or not I liked the film. Had I not read the book, I'm quite sure I would be raving about this "seductive, empowering, inspirational movie" (while booking my tri-country flights) much the way I adored Julie & Julia, having not read Julie Powell's memoir beforehand. That said, I do think that if they had cast, say, Broadway's Katie Finneran (whom I've never seen act---in anything!---but just have a hunch would do well in the role), or another little-known actress, that I would feel it was more a film based on the book I love and less a Julia Roberts Movie. It was a big, giant movie starring a big, giant actress based on a very intimate story and this, I suppose in the end, did disappoint me. Still, I think it's probably a great movie. Ya dig?

I'll see it again to know for sure...

However, a much bigger issue permeated my psyche and held me tense in dilemma while watching the film. Amidst all the themes of spirituality and independence and seeking and love and the role of satisfaction in one's life, I found I was stuck and gnawing at one thought the entire time; My gawd, look at Julia Roberts' hair and should I really cut mine?

I could not take my eyes off her mane. She just did so many things with it. There were buns and there were ponytails. She wore it down and she wore it half-up. There were hats and there were scarves. I actually had the thought, "I wish I had long hair," while watching everything they did with hers. I've never seen hair like it and while I wouldn't compare my hair to Julia Roberts' (though I seem to be doing just that and this is the second time it's happened so apparently I would...but maybe shouldn't) it got me kind of excited.



Pretty, right?



And funky...(MB, is that not the purse I got for you that you gave to me?)



Pushing it, I know. (Though, you would not believe how many times I find myself in this exact pose, with that exact amount of bra showing.)

You guys, I'm getting cold feet. I'm just thinking what would happen, well, what it would be like, if I just actually did my hair. I'm not talking about running a brush through it (this I do), I'm talking about styling it. Like, what if I used bobby pins in some capacity or those scary clips that look like they could take an ear off if poorly placed? What if I played with it? What if I watched Youtube videos and bought "product" and tools and just became an adult about the whole thing. It may not even take that much. I see lots of messy up-dos these days and they can't all take hours to accomplish.

There are a couple of other things weighing in to this decision, too. First of all, Dan, whom I've been asking for months and months whether or not he dug the locks, chose this week to say, "I do like your long hair." Huh. That alone would not sway me (he likes my hair short too...he mostly just likes my hair best when my shirt is off), but I also may need to postpone the cut as it overlaps with an appointment with my mom's oncologist that I want to attend.

I know what you're thinking: "But, Laura, what about the Hair Monster? What about the frustration? What about the arm fatigue you experience from having to brush it 100 times every night? (Also, did you just play your mom's cancer card to get out of getting a haircut?)

And you're right (though the scheduling conflict is real). It's a total pain in the ass which is why I'm still undecided. As I said, I think I will have to cancel my appointment for this Thursday, but it's not like getting an appointment with Dr. Oz (though close), I can reschedule. I'm shocked at my ambivalence as I always love the change of a new haircut. A dilemma, indeed; I watch a movie about life's deepest questions and catch my shirt on its shallowest.

I really don't think I can go to God with this one. All-loving as She may me be, I think even God would give me a giant, "What the fuck?" on this one.

The God that breathes through my heart talks like that.

Sunrise, Sunset

I caught the sunrise this morning. It's one of those cloudy mornings where the show only lasts a few majestic seconds, but I caught it. When you forget for a minute, a start to the day like this really offers some perspective. (Yeah, let's see what sort of zen take on things I have later when I hit a wall of tiredness.)

Another blessing? Cross your fingers, but I think the fruit flies that had invaded my home (and spirit) may be gone. When I went to the counter to make my coffee this morning, the halo of near-microscopic floaters that I had grown accustomed to was gone. I didn't even see a mass scatter. I have been struggling with them all summer and when I consulted the highest authority on the matter---Facebook---I was given a handful of options for pest control. I tried almost all of them:

Fruit Fly Trap Pageant 2010

When the majority of suggested solutions involved luring the little shits with cider vinegar, I felt like a real ass as I had this exact product sitting on my counter all week since I've been trying cider vinegar sparklers a few times a day in yet another attempt to find the right calibrations to make my body the high-functioning machine that I dream it can be. (Apparently the cider vinegar helps to balance acidity...results pending. Ate gnocchi with pancetta in a pesto alfredo sauce and penne with gorgonzola, sage and mushrooms last night, so I may have counteracted all efforts.) With the cider vinegar sitting mere inches away, our attempt at FF decimation last weekend when we left an inch of Watermelon Schnapps (I have the liquor cabinet of a Playboy Bunny) at the bottom of a water bottle with a hole punched through the plastic cap and left for CT, failed miserably.

When all-out war was waged on Monday, I tried these additional techniques per my Facebook experts.

1) I filled an empty olive oil bottle with the cider vinegar in the hope that they would go in but ultimately be unable to scale the steep incline of the bottle.
Confirmed kills: 0

2) I put CV in a jar which I then covered with saran wrap and poked holes in the top. This looked promising as there was a lot of activity around the jar at the start, but ultimately the FFs got wise to my schemes and stopped even collecting on the jar's edge.
Confirmed kills: 2
Wounded (but broke free): 3

3) Took a juice glass and poured in a bit of CV and then poured a layer of dish detergent over it without mixing the two. (Now that's an odd combination of smells.)

We have a winner!

This picture doesn't even show the real extent of glorious, glorious death that this method provided. I feel as though I've really gotten to the bottom of this household dilemma.

Your welcome.

One last thing before I head off for the day (driving down for a quick GiG visit before heading back here for the weekend):

Last night, Dan and I attended another book reading/discussion, this time with author Gail Caldwell who is promoting her new book Let's Take the Long Way Home. It's a memoir of her friendship with the late writer Caroline Knapp who died in 2002, seven weeks after being diagnosed with lung cancer. I know, I know, what am I trying to do, beat my personal depression best? But the beauty of this book, of Caldwell's language, of their friendship is so powerful even as it renders you so very weak. I'm 70 pages in and so frightened to go on, but eager to hear more of their affection for each other. I hope I am able to write about this more at length because the discussion was very rich as well. Hearing how Caldwell unconsciously postponed finishing the memoir for several months because she knew how the story ended and didn't want to say goodbye to her friend again ("Oh my God! She's back!" Caldwell said to herself when she commenced to writing about her friendship with Knapp, five years after her death.) was heartbreaking even as it provided such insight into her writing process.

I first read an excerpt from the book over a month ago in a magazine and was shaken and compelled. Then, a few weeks later, rather than ignoring the e-mail calendar announcement from a Portsmouth bookstore as I often do when I'm buried, I scrolled the list of featured authors and was shocked to meet upon this book and Caldwell once again. Meant to read this one, I'm sure.

The sun is much higher in the sky now, the day exposed and I've emptied out and recharged.

On the road again...

Happy Thursday, peeps. Have at it.

Call Dan Ishmael

What I am about to tell you is a true story. The photos have not been doctored nor have names been changed to protect the innocent. (The innocent being Dan and me.)

Six months ago, out bathtub drain was clogged. Very, very clogged. I probably shouldn't be admitting/displaying this in a public forum, but after hours of plunging and snaking and pouring napalm down our drain, this was our white whale:

The horror!

We've never been able to explain it and, as in those summer movies where a bunch of teenagers accidentally murder their peer and get rid of the body, we try not to talk about what happened that fateful day.

But neither of us will ever forget, particularly Dan, who loved the whole experience (and who will be so delighted that I finally put these pictures up...I had my reservations for obvious reasons).

I was going to make an Abu Ghraib joke about this photo but, having revisited those photos, I just can't do it.



The purpose of my bringing this up now, so far after the fact, is because as the drain has become increasingly slugglish lately, the situation more dire, there is a certain exigency surrounding the issue of a haircut. I cannot let this situation become another Hair Monster.

My hair is as long as it's been in a while. I've been keeping it this way mainly for one reason: People have told me to. In fact, when I've mentioned cutting it, all those to whom I am close (with the exception of Dan, who maintains a stubborn lack of opinion), have seemed almost disappointed by the idea, as if they personally don't want to return to the days of having to pretend I look okay with a shorter do. Matt actually told me that he would support me in the decision to cut my hair short, as if he's getting my back as I ready to tell my family about my new career as an adult film star.

But I can't take it anymore. I can't take the clogged drain or the nests that have become of my hairbrushes. More than anything, I can't take the shedding. After blowdrying, my bathroom floor looks as though someone's been shucking red-silked corn in there. I feel like I am picking hair off of me all day and I loathe the feel of a solitary strand sliding down my arm or stuck to my just-moisturized leg. Perhaps, most important, were I to kill someone, my DNA would be all over the crime scene.

I have long battled the issue of hair.

As a kid, I had such meltdowns when it came time to have my hair brushed that my mom did this to me:





Yup, that's a toolset I got for Christmas. The tendency towards such toys coupled with the haircut contributed to my being called "Larry" by my sisters and their friends. The childhood scars from that, resulted in this:

My not cutting my hair again for a long, long time and sporting such a straggly do that I looked more like the frontman of an 80's hairband than a fourth grader. (When I tell my children stories of the time that the priest had to come to the house to exorcise the demons out of me, I will pull out this picture as proof.)



Since then, it's been a series of growing out and cutting back but in recent history the longest it's been is just about to my shoulders. But now it's well past that and stretching like the locks of a witch down my back. It has to end now. I may even pull a Britney and have someone just shave it all off. I've always wanted to do this but just haven't had the sack required for such a bold move. I've offered to do it as a show of solidarity if my mom were to lose her hair with the chemo, but she is adamantly opposed. Apparently she takes a mother's pride in her girls' hair. I can't very well get rebellious on her now, can I?

So, I'm trying to decide what the next look will be and how short I should go. Understanding quite fully that no matter the haircut (or the plastic surgery) I will never look like the women in these photographs, I submit the following for your opinion. (I also understand that while my hairdresser Lynn, whom I adore and schlep to RI to see, may be able to recreate such a look, I will under no circumstances be able to do it myself at home.) Still, I'd like your two cents. Here's what I'm looking at so far:



The Hermione (But can I really get myself to bring in a picture of one of the Harry Potter kids? Plus, I'm much more of a Weasley.)



Scary Model



The bitchy girl from MTV (Leaning...)



And because I'm stuck in the 90's and this is still one of my favorite shows:



Joey Potter #1

Joey Potter #2

And her rival for Dawson's affection:

Jen Lindley #1



Jen Lindley #2 (I know I can't really pull this off without looking like the Disney version of Peter Pan or Julia Roberts right before she dies in Steel Magnolias---the only case in which a person can appropriately compare herself to the gorgeous mega-star---but if I ever get diabetes and risk my life to have a child, I'm going for it.)



Axl



I want to try something new with my hair, just as I want to try something new with this blog. If all goes well, there should be a little poll at the top left of the screen where you can vote on which hairstyle you think I should go for. You can choose more than one selection if you really need to and since my appointment is scheduled for August 19th, we'll close the polls at midnight the night before. (Also, if you're one of those people who can figure out cookies or any of that other computer crappola, you can probably vote more than once.) I can't guarantee that I'll go with the winner but I'll certainly think about it when I disregard your opinion.

So, let's give this a shot. Who knows, this could be a new trick I'll employ when faced with terrible indecision. Other such polls could include: Should Dan and I have kids? Am I too old for Zac Efron? And, of course, Where should I bury my neighbor's body?

So, get voting! Or comment here! Just don't tell me to keep my hair long for the sake of my femininity or I'll harpoon yo ass.

I feel like this is a gift from God just for me.

I know I've been a deadbeat but I'm an hour and a half away from departing for a weekend in Connecticut (to be spent poolside with Dan's family) so I don't have time to make it up to you now. (Next time, I promise to show up with a stuffed animal of some sort.) In fact, once again, I'm supposed to be showering and instead I am here.

But, I just needed an outlet for the excitement I feel about Rosie and My Oprah pairing up for Rosie's new show.

I first heard the news from Mattie who left a message on my voicemail exclaiming, "The queens have come together in the night!"

Indeed.

Because I feel it in my bones that I am supposed to get a job writing for this show (which would give me a reason to move to NYC while simultaneously giving my life purpose) there's a good chance that I may start posting weekly letters to Rosie as part of a Make-Me-Your-Writer campaign. (Campaign name pending...I'm open to suggestions.) We'll see.

But I just needed to let out a little Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah (that is really so hard to spell) before going on my way. Thanks for listening.

P.S. My apologies to my in-laws for being late...We hit terrible traffic.

Today is Dan's birthday!

Missing from photo: Fun Williams-Sonoma watermelon-cutting knife (thanks for the idea Sassy Snell!) that I let him open in bed because I knew (per his trash OCD) that he would want to cut the watermelon up (not sexual innuendo) before the trash went out this morning.

My man is 42 today. 42. An age I distinctly remember my mom being which means, by this twenty-something's standards (holding on to this last year of twentydom with all my life), he's practically a white-beard though he looks like he's about 25. (You'll be laughing at the baldies later, all you baby-faced boys!) I don't mind being married to the geriatric though, we just stay away from the Normandy stories and I just have to help him get that second leg up on the bed every night. I kid, obviously, though I've been giving him a little extra shit lately as he's been likening my infatuation with Zac Efron (that boy is a man!) to borderline pedophilia. Efron is 22! You might want to remember, bud, that when I was a young lass of 22, you were 35...pervert. Anyway, my man suffers this fool gladly and I am looking forward to celebrating his being on the planet. He took the day off from work (today and tomorrow actually as tomorrow is our anniversary) and we're planning to tool around Portsmouth, catch a movie (or three) at the theater and just play hooky on life.

He's at an early-morning appointment right now so he'll walk in the door to the stack of presents pictured above. The idea of this was much more fun when he hadn't yet looked in the closet that he never goes in and seen the stack. Last night before falling asleep he decided to get up from bed to get an extension cord for the bed and came back with a power strip and shit-eating grin. Twenty minutes left in the friggin' day and the surprise was blown. Mofo.

At least the cake will still be (somewhat) of a surprise.

This is the recipe I used.

Jeanne's Heath Bar Cake (Jeanne, known as Jeannie Weanie, is Rosie O'Donnell's best friend since childhood and a regular on her radio program. I almost wept when I heard her talking about this. I'm hoping this cake will get me out of giving him that BJ (not, unfortunately, blueberry jam) that I always feel I owe him on his birthday.)

1 Chocolate cake mix
1 can (14 oz.) sweetened condensed milk
1 small jar butterscotch topping
12 oz. whipped topping (i.e., Cool Whip, though I made homemade whip cream...call me Martha.)
4-5 Heath or Skor bars, chopped

Prepare cake according to directions on the package and bake in a 9 x 13 pan.

While still hot, use a wooden spoon handle to poke holes in the top of the cake. Pour condensed milk evenly over the top, then pour butterscotch topping evenly over that. Sprinkle half of chopped Heath bars over the top. Refrigerate at least 3 hours.

Spread whipped topping over cake, then sprinkle with remaining Heath pieces.

You're crying, aren't you? Well, grab the tissues because I'm giving you a walk-through of the cake-making (at least the latter half) process.



This is the cake after refrigerating it overnight. I was salivating at this point.



Stiff peaks?



Readying for the last touch.



Voila.



What Dan will walk into if I'm out of the shower (and get this blog up!) in time. The grocery store was out of twos (do you love it?!) so I had to improvise.



I'll keep you posted on the tasting...of the cake, not the blueberry jam...oh my.

Happy birthday, bud!

Love, your ever-inappropriate wife.