Straight Hair

May 18, 2012 / roughwighting / 31 Comments

At 14 years of age, I want to look like Jane Asher.

You know, Jane, Paul McCartney’s girlfriend.

Jane of the tiny frame, adorable smile, and long straight hair. Hair as straight as grass.

I have curly wavy crazy hair.

But I want Paul. The ‘cute’ Beatle – the one who I know is my soul mate. If we ever get to meet, he’ll look at me longingly (if I have straight hair) and leave Jane and we’ll be together, forever.

I walk to the drugstore with my friend Judy, where I use my babysitting money for the product I’ve lusted over for months: Curl Free. Judy just rolls her eyes when I buy the box and we race home to my bathroom.

My mom is out, probably playing bridge, so I keep the bathroom door open to dispel some of the smell that is so putrid, we both gag. Once I combine one bottle in the box with another smaller bottle hidden in the bottom, we race out of the room. The upstairs now smells like rotten eggs, my brother’s farts, and sauerkraut, all rolled into one malodorous bouquet.

“You aren’t really putting that on your hair,” Judy exclaims as we inhale huge breaths of fresh air from my back porch.

“For 45 minutes,” I reply.

“I can’t take that smell. I better go home.” Judy leaves, and by doing so, I wash my hands of her companionship forever. Our friendship is finished with one long whiff of Curl Free.

But I still have work to do. My mom is reaching for the front door, holding two bags of groceries. Oh No!

I race to the bathroom and shut and lock the door. The smell has only gotten stronger, but I clench my jaw and use the comb provided in the box to rake the goo throughout my hair. The solution is white and putrid and within minutes, stings so badly I think my scalp is on fire.

I sprint to the sink and turn on the cold water, ready to wash the glop out immediately.

But then I think of Jane.

Turning off the water, I blindly open the bottom drawer underneath the sink and feel for my hidden Beatle magazine, the one with a photo of Jane and Paul attending a play in London. However, my eyes are watering so badly, I can’t see the picture.

“OW OW OW OW,” I scream.

“Pammy, are you alright in there?”

Oh, shoot. I forgot about my mom.

“I’m fine Mom.”

“Are you sure? Something smells funny. Are you feeling okay?”

Face flaming red from embarrassment, and probably from the beginning of second degree burns, I shout out “I’m FINE.”

And then I throw my head into the bottom of the sink and turn on the water, emitting groans as the cold water sooths the burning sensation. I only lasted 10 minutes with Curl Free. Will it make a difference?

I towel off my hair, now as stiff as dry wheat, open the bathroom door and suffer through my mother’s questions about my intestinal problems. Do I have a stomach ache? she asks worriedly.

“No, Mom,” I respond, biting the inside of my lip. My hair is drying rapidly this warm May day, and I do not look like Jane Asher.

I dash past my mother and head to the basement.

I hate the basement, so she is suspicious. “What are you doing now?”

“Ironing,” I answer.

Supposedly, that’s the next best thing for hair straightening.

Buttercups, Bollywood, and World Peace

May 11, 2012 / roughwighting / 14 Comments

buttercup, 60's music Last weekend I attended a wedding in which I barely knew the bride and groom, yet I left the reception thinking of world peace.

My man’s brother’s daughter, just finishing her fourth year of med school, married her college sweetheart, a handsome brown-eyed MBA grad, in their New England college chapel.

The Irish-Italian bride was gorgeous, all wide-eyed and lithe in her white lace gown. The Indian groom was svelte and handsome in his tux. Their splendid contrasts were highlighted by their family and friends: long and short dresses in reds, blacks, grays and purple on the bride’s side, even more colorful and sparkling saris on the groom’s side.

I wondered about the tradition of a ‘bride’s side’ and a ‘groom’s side’ during the wedding, since it separated the two families, instead of integrating them.

The same lack of merging occurred as we were seated at the wedding reception, although I admit I was relieved to be sharing a table with my daughter and son-in-law, my man’s siblings and spouses. No hard work required to talk to strangers.

But then the music began.

The DJ played loud and 60’s.

Proud Mary, Twist and Shout, Bad Moon Rising, the Supremes, Rolling Stones, Beach Boys. By the third song, the dance floor was packed with pre-teen to 35-year-old cousins, mid-20s college pals, relatives from 40 to 80 years old, all whooping it up, raising arms as we sang “SHOUT!”

You know you make me wanna (Shout!)
Kick my heels up and (Shout!)
Throw my hands up and (Shout!)

Cultures, colors, and creeds collided as over 100 people sang lyrics out loud, swinging hips and laughing during the next song – Buttercup:

Why do you build me up (Build me up) buttercup, baby
Just to let me down (Let me down) and mess me around
And then worst of all (Worst of all) you never call, baby
When you say you will (Say you will) but I love you still

As shoes got kicked off and saris twirled, I thought, now this is the way it’s supposed to be.

Then suddenly the music changed to Bollywood songs, more formally known as Hindi film songs. Moving from oldies pop to Indian pop, no one broke stride.

Kat ti nahin hain meri raatein, kat te nahin hain mere din (My nights won’t pass, my days won’t pass)

Mere saare sapne adhoore, zindagi adhuri tere bin (All my dreams are incomplete without you)

Khwaabon mein, nigaahon mein, pyaar ki panaahon mein (In dreams, in my eyes, in love’s arms)

Aa chhupa le baahon mein (Come, I’ll hide you in my arms)

Smiles grew even wider, strangers became dancing companions, and through it all I envisioned world peace.

One wedding at a time.

Humming Along

May 4, 2012 / roughwighting / 17 Comments

I smell it. The sweetness.

I see it. The red food that pops out of the sea of green.

I soar toward it, flitting fast fast fast, my tiny wings as swift as the fairies, pushing me toward the prize.

I attack, in my sensual, feminine way, sucking up the nectar, feeling the juice course through my florescent-feathered body, feeling the strength return as I flitter away, flying into a blue paradise of air and clouds and tall sturdy branches.

But I don’t stop. I never stop. My kind can’t stop – we’re built to live in constancy, in motion that has no pause, no completion, because we’re always searching for the next red or orange or pink bud of desire.

The next driven drink of life.

Humming along with San Francisco in the background.

IT’S ALL GOLDEN

April 27, 2012April 27, 2012 / roughwighting / 27 Comments

The city sparkles after a rain storm, so if you have a chance, drive over the Golden Gate Bridge, around noon, when a Pacific Ocean storm has just blown through the Gate, Marin County, and the mountains beyond with gale force winds and driving, ravenous rain.

By 9 a.m., after a noisy storm-riddled night, the air is clear and fresh; white and gray puffy clouds dot the sky. Some thunder tries to roll over Mt. Tam and Mt. Diablo, but then it sighs slowly, giving in to springtime optimism.

Like me, flying out of the office at noon and racing over the Golden Gate Bridge to meet my 30-year-old son, once my ‘hard child,’ as hard as sleet on soft green grass.

I was the grass.

Sometimes he mowed me down when he was a child and teenager, with his sharp edges and relentless questions. “Why can’t I play paint ball on a school day?” “Why do we have to stay home during school vacation?” “Why do I have to study when I get good grades anyway?” “Why do you always say NO?”

Soft grass was I back then, roughening to a weed-like texture with his bombardment of whys.

So why, now, am I soaring over the San Francisco Bay in anticipation of meeting that same son for lunch?

The day brightens with every mile I travel; the city looms ahead like a white Oz, all new and gleaming and magical. The streets stretch smoothly ahead of me, leading me down Lombard, up Van Ness, over Broadway, and then right on the Embarcadero.

My son calls three times, checking on my progress, assuring himself that I’m coming, that Marin County hasn’t gobbled me up in my activities of work and walking, writing and wearing out by mid-afternoon.

No, No, I insist through my handless cell phone speaker. “I’m on Front Street; I’m parking; I’m walking toward you…”

There.

And my ‘hard’ child, the one who has loved me like an old man loves his 80-year-old wife, the son who charmed me with flowers when he was 10 while I was still gritting my teeth over his demands – that son now waits for me with a trimmed beard highlighting his welcoming smile, his dimple hidden by the thick brown hair, his lips touching my cheek lightly, softly, as he whispers,

“Hi Mom.”

Inspiring!

April 19, 2012June 10, 2012 / roughwighting / 9 Comments

I am thrilled that I was nominated for the Very Inspiring Blogger Award by Wendy Strohm (http://wendystrohm.wordpress.com/), whose blog I discovered through luck. I enjoy her poems daily. Thank you Wendy for this honor!

The rules of the award include that I share 7 things about myself, and then pass the award on to 7 other bloggers and let them know I have awarded them.

1. I live in the San Francisco Bay area (after childhood in southern New Jersey, college in Virginia and Pennsylvania, young adulthood in Delaware, and a 10-year-stint just recently in the Boston area).

2. I read at least a book a week. Almost all fiction. I roam from literary fiction, mystery, romantic suspense, chick lit, and sci fi/fantasy. Love it all!

3. I walk with my pal Henry (a 10-year-old golden) at least an hour a day on paths and sidewalks along the San Francisco Bay, where I hatch plots and ponder the secrets of the universe.

4. My man and I raised our two children in the Bay area, and now enjoy watching them raise their families in the Berkeley Hills and in Boston.

5. I work at the community Landmarks Society, where we small staff of five maintain four gorgeous historic sites, including the chapel where my guy and I were married, and then 28 years later, where our daughter was married. One of these days I’ll write about how we ‘live history.’

6. I’m afraid the 7 things about myself are boring. I don’t jump out of airplanes, sail the world, run marathons in Tahiti, nor do I bike races between SF and LA (all experienced by some of my friends!). Instead, I teach creative writing classes, I write, I read, I play with grandbabies, I walk, I love my man, talk to my kids almost daily, and, oh yeah, ponder the secrets of the universe.

7. I have completed my suspense novel, THE RIGHT MAN, and am in the process of deciding to self-publish. The book is fun, fast-paced, and I can’t wait to share it with you all!

Now, 7 bloggers who inspire me, in no necessary order:

1. http://wendystrohm.wordpress.com/ (accessible poetry)

2. http://compassionateteachersf.blogspot.com/ (delightful musings on the ‘Zen’ life)

3. http://www.hencam.com/henblog/ (a delightful blog about life in the Little Pond Farm coop)

4. http://telltalesouls.com/blog/ (wonderful insights into writing a mother memoir, as well as great book reviews)

5. http://upwoods.wordpress.com/2012/04/19/shanghai-and-away/ (heartfelt writings about life in Lake Superior)

6. http://www.dailylifestuff.blogspot.com/ (beautiful daily life photos and comments of family and nature)

7. http://www.abbyofftherecord.com/2012/04/18/work-worth-and-figuring-out-what-really-matters/ (fun and honest stories on young motherhood and LIFE)

To my readers, THANK YOU for sharing my muse.

Other awards I’ve received this year: