Day Away Salon . . . I'll Be Back

I have written before of my dislike for the hair basin at the salon. Nothing good happens there. Today was no exception.

My salonist was doing a wonderful job of massaging my head, helping me relax and NOT think about how awkward it was to lie with my neck in some sort of porcelain urinal while my head hung over a toilet basin. (Sorry for the descriptors there). And it was working wonderfully.

Her hands moved all along my cranium. Back and forth. Really expert-like and professional. It felt heavenly. Too heavenly. And I got to thinking ...

She does this to maybe 20 heads a day. Massaging out all the stress. Rubbing out all the worry. Pushing away anxiety. Person after person melts beneath her expert hands. Twenty people. Twenty heads. Every day.

It was this thought--this realization that my salonist was some sort of head expert that caused me to have a total (yet silent) freak out. Because one who knows heads so intimately, is also able to know their flaws.

And my head, in all its roundness, is flawed. Majorly flawed.

I found it two, maybe three years ago. This robot/Terminator-like bump on my skull. A bump that if John Connor were present, would result with a gun in my face and a surgical team looking for the answer to how I appeared so lifelike. So human.

Now before you disregard my claim and insist I stop blowing things out of proportion, allow me to describe this alien life-form to you. You see, the bump isn't really a bump, as head bumps go, but instead a perfectly round protrusion that is the exact size of, say a screw head. Yes, you heard right. Jutting out from my skull, covered perfectly by skin and hair is a bump that feels and looks like the top of a screw. Making it seem like my head was pieced together by scientists or some factory worker or maybe even Dr. Frankenstein.

After I first found it, I tried my best to imagine what else it could be. A tumor. A cyst. A random accumulation of iron or similar fancy element. But I always came back to the same conclusion. It was a screw and I was probably a robot. Or a Terminator, if that is your preference.

I've kept this to myself, telling only Tad of my strange possible mechanical past, but today, my salonist discovered my secret. As her hands moved back and forth over my head, there is no doubt in my mind that she felt the screw, realized who (or what) I was, and then made the decision that sealed my fate while I sat/reclined in horror.

She said nothing. Absolutely nothing. No reference to Skynet. No fingers digging in the back of my neck. Not even repetitive rubbing right around the location of the screw. Absolutely nothing. Instead, she nonchalantly moved me over to the barber chair as if I was made of flesh and blood. As if I was just like her.

I was speechless. What was there to say?

The tip did the talking for me.

Making Fun of Jack London

Character versus nature. A narrative conflict seemingly perfected by Jack London. At times it seems if it weren't for his paving the way for dog-obsessed literature, civilization would have gone without canine-focused classics such as Old Yeller. 101 Dalmations. And Beethoven's 2nd.

But Jack was so much more than that. So much more than the inspiration behind Lassie and Cujo. He was a master storyteller.

So, what was it about this successful American and his 'wildly' verbose fiction that spoke to the reader so?

Recently, Tad felt compelled to experience a bit of the nature boy's wonder, committing himself to listen to White Fang on audio cd. His findings are astonishing, and may help unravel the secrets behind Jack London's success.

1) Rope them in in the first 75 pages. Rather than introducing the main character within the first fifteen minutes, Mr. London knew best to keep his audience at the edge of their seats. In the audio version of White Fang, the protagonist, of the same name, is not born until disc 2. What brilliance!

2) Bring the story to life with descriptions that take just as long to read as they would to act out in real time. Reality and believability is the essence of a story. With that being said, what is more appropriate than a thirty-minute description of Fang's first frolic in a field? With London, you never feel left out!

3) Repetition is key. Jack knew too well...Americans are suckers for frostbite and feral dogs. And once he found the recipe to a bestseller, he used elements of it over and over. Did you think it was by chance that each work includes a character with missing fingers or toes?

An Opinion on Opinions and Idea on Ideas

Let's take a moment to consider the people who ask for your opinion but don't really want to hear it.

How is it that these sorts of people exist? It's quite baffling. They do, after all, ask for your opinion out of their own free will. And one would assume, then, that they understand the issue of tomato, tomahto. Potato, potahto. And yet your opinion comes as a total surprise.

Why I had no idea you thought I looked fat at all, let alone in this dress!

How could you possibly think my novel needs work? I've been toiling away for three months!

And, of course . . .

But the rest of the world has nationalized health care!

The truth with these people, I have found, is they aren't asking for your opinion at all. They're asking for your assurance.

That dress looks P-H-A-T!

I couldn't put your book down. Really. It was that good.

And . . .

Of course I want hospitals to run like DMVs! I LOVE re-newing my license and was hoping to have a similar experience when my leg is falling off!!

They ask for your assurance, because deep down, they don't believe there is any sort of problem. If there WAS a problem, they wouldn't ask. They wouldn't need to. They'd know. And they'd fix it. And try the dress thats a size bigger. Or take a second stab at editing the novel. Or step back and re-evaluate government's role in health care.

But it's a vicious circle. Because once they've done this and gotten to the point where they feel victorious, they'll ask for your opinion. Expecting rave reviews.

And pout when you disagree.

But maybe one day, instead of asking for opinions, people will ask for ideas.

How would this dress look even better on me?

What can be done to make this book more marketable?

And, the winner . . .

Share your ideas on how we can improve the current health care bill.

There is power in ideas. And death in opinions.

Putting 26 in Perspective

As if I'm not having a hard enough time dealing with my entrance into the middle ages, Facebook seems to have taken it upon themselves to remind me.

Every click. Every ad. 26. I guess these days only 26 year-olds are eligible for car insurance. And Victoria's Secret shopping sprees. And Mac products. And enrollment at the University of Phoenix.

I suppose I should be thankful. Glad that I just so happen to be at the perfect age. But I'm not glad. I'm not thankful. Because I'm getting old.

To put my age in perspective, I though I'd compile a list of individuals with whom I would have gone to high school had we been in the same school zone (and social status):

Sasha Cohen -
Born: October 26, 1984
Difference: Younger than I by 10 months
Translation: She's already proven people my age do retire (and then pretend it never happened) . . . THAT'S how old I am.

Lady Gaga -
Born: March 28, 1986
Difference: Younger than I by 2 years, 3 months.
Translation: We would never have even been present at the same prom . . . THAT'S how old I am.

Prince William of Wales -
Born: June 21, 1982
Difference: Older than I by 1 year, 6 months
Translation: If I were British and certain royalty dead, I could be Queen . . . THAT'S how old I am.

Britney Spears -
Born: December 2, 1981
Difference: Older than I by 2 years
Translation: She's been divorced twice and has two kids . . . THAT'S how old I am.

Jay Cutler -
Born: April 29, 1983
Difference: Older than I by 8 months
Translation: If I had my act together I could be quarterback of a so-so pro football team. (This just may be the saddest of all)


Beyonce. Justin Timberlake. Jodie Sweetin. The list goes on. And on. And the only good part about it is the small satisfaction one gets out of knowing that we all could have chilled in study hall or suffered through PE together (except for Sasha, of course).

I won't even get into the list of peeps who are too young to have gone to High School with me . . .

Taylor Swift, Taylor Lautner (he's like 9 years younger than I, by the way) . . .

Experimenting with Size 8

Tomorrow I find out if it's possible for a person to go on living without breathing for, say, six hours. In anticipation for this big event I have:

1) Worked out less
2) Eaten more
3) Blogged less
4) Worked more
5) Worried way more

I expect to go into a state of shock approximately one hour into the study. By hour two, I will begin to feel dizzy, accompanied by possible waves of nausea, neurosis and psychosis. By hour two and a half, I will lose all feeling in my feet and hands. This will slowly spread to my legs and arms and by hour four, I will, unbeknownst to those around me, move in and out of consciousness. At a quarter past hour four I will enter a preliminary stage of nirvana, and by hour five I will be frolicking in fields of wildflowers and dancing with sea lions. Only to come back to reality once hour six hits and my dress is unzipped.

Yes. Tomorrow is Ashlee's wedding, and my dress is way way way too tight.

Usefull Talents

So I just found out that Tad can kick high. Really high. Chuck-Norris-above-your-head high. And he doesn’t take Pilates. And he’s never been in sports. And I swear he can’t touch his toes or even sit Indian-style, for that matter.

Just a few stretches and BAM! His foot comes up above his head. Again. And again. And a fourth time, if he desires.

It’s the strangest thing. And while some may call this a useless talent, I see it as huge life-potential.

My husband is destined to be an NFL kicker.

I’m going to start having him practice. Then, as soon as he’s mind-blowingly good, we’ll find a team who could not only use a better kicker, but whose current kicker has about a year left on his contract. Then, we’ll make our way into one of their pre-season practices and Tad will kick for them. And they’ll see such potential, they’ll add him as a walk-on and groom him to take over the position after the year is up and their current kicker’s contract has run out.

And then I’ll sit in the section where all the wives sit and look extra concerned when the camera is on me and Tad will have action figures and replica jerseys because he’ll be the ever-loved underdog and he’ll be in video games (certainly one of his dreams) and I’ll cause scandal by wearing Bears jerseys (even though Tad will play for the Vikings or the Bengals) and crashing White House events (take THAT Secret Service) and showing up to restaurants without my wedding ring (this is very possible considering the number of times I have lost it to date).

The sky is the limit.

So now I’m compelled to compile my list of useless talents…but in the meantime, what are yours? And how could they be turned into useFULL talents?

Exploding Hands for the New Year

"Look what I got at work!"

A bowl full of mini cheeseball, crackers, and a champagne bottle party popper.

"And I'm giving it to you," he said, handing me the bowl.

Needless to say, the cheeseball was gone within seconds. But the popper...

"YOU do it," I said, handing it to him.

"What? Why?"

"I've never done it before."

"Well, that's why YOU should do it."

"But . . . but I'm scared."

"Of what?"

"I'm scared I'll explode my hand."

"You can't explode your hand, Amanda. It's impossible."

"Oh."

But I changed the topic anyway.

**FAST FORWARD TWELVE HOURS**

"Ten, Nine, Eight . . ."

We were at a New Year's party with friends, watching the countdown on the television while the host and hostess frantically passed out party favors in anticipation for 2010.

Their main favor of choice: champagne bottle poppers. They tossed me one.

"Seven, Six, Five . . ."

I gripped the string, ready to pull.

"Four, Three, Two, One, Happy New Year!!!!"

Poppers popped all around me. And, impressively, hands were kept in tact. So, boldly I pulled the string.

Fire. Lots of fire.

A burning sensation shot across my palm as a heap of colored string landed in my lap.

"Ow," I said quietly, and sent Tad an evil glare that went unnoticed.

I had succeeded in exploding my hand.

My flaw? I had ignorantly held the popper with the neck of the bottle pointed out and the base gripped tightly in my hand.

I now know that it is in fact the base of the bottle that blows off and NOT the top. Apparently, this is common knowledge. (Although I insist it makes absolutely no sense, considering that it is the cork of a champagne bottle that is most likely to go haywire).

Huff.

I told Tad what happened later when we were home. He shook his head at me. He may have laughed.

I continue to defy his reality.