Hair Wars

On Sunday Ken and I went together to get our hair done. Yes, we always go together, because

a) If I book Ken's appointment with mine I get a ride to the Very-Far-Away salon I prefer and

b) If I don't book Ken's appointment with mine he lets his hair grow down past his collar and that is definitely not a good look on him.

These days Ken puts in more chair time than I do because he gets a few bright streaks of colour layered into his naturally black hair. It's totally punk-tastic, for reals, but it takes ages. Anyways, my hair was all done and he still had an hour left to go, so I told him I was going out to window shop and I'd be back for him later.

I shmoozed around for a while, cruising the boutiques and shoe shops. I stopped into a fancy women's clothing store just to kill time, when the girl behind the counter struck up a conversation with me. She was a lovely young thing: perfect skin; big, dark eyes; and an abundance of wavy, glossy black hair twisted up into a loose bun on top of her head. She was also one of the chattiest people I've ever met.

Before long she had broken through my usual keep-to-myselfness and we were blabbing away to each other freely. We came to the subject of haircuts and salons. There were some stories told and comparisons of our worst salon experiences (no shortage of those). She divulged that she has trouble getting what she wants from stylists because she's not comfortable giving them direction.

Huh?

Well, you know, they're the experts, and you have to defer to them, so if your stylist gives you a haircut you don't like, better just go try a different one, and hope that they do it the way that you secretly desire.

I wasn't following her. So, the stylist should be willing and able to read her mind? Or she's hoping to randomly find a stylist who happens to share her exact taste and vision for her particular head of hair?

This gorgeous girl, who had everything else going for her, obviously lacked the basic skills for dealing with stylists. As an older, wiser woman, I offered her some instructions: Tell them what you want! It's your money and your hair! And if they don't share your vision, find someone who does - before they get their hands on you!

My regular stylist was on vacation, so for this haircut I had to instruct a newbie. I was very specific. "I want the back and sides short, but leave these bits by my ears and the bangs long, with lots of layers, and lots of thinning at the top or it grows out into an ugly hair bulge." When she handed me the mirror at the end I said "This is exactly what I wanted!" and she said "Well, you gave a very accurate description." It was a win-win.

I hope that my sage advice will help the salesgirl deal with stylists more successfully in the future.

And now the floor is yours, people. Hairstyle horror stories from all of you please. Go!

My Big Fat Greek Portuguese Baptism

The invitation said to come to the church at 2 pm for the baptism of baby C. Then, after a break, there would be a dinner at 5 pm at a Portuguese restaurant. I didn't know what to expect, but I assumed that it would be fairly low-key. I was so, so wrong.

The baptism itself was more or less what I expected. A Catholic priest in white ceremonial robes spoke of C's future and his parents' faith, many blessings be upon him, etc. The baby fell asleep during the speech and then woke up and cried when the holy water was poured over his head. There were around two dozen relatives and friends clustered at the front of the church to watch.

What I did not expect was for the women to be dressed up for church like they were heading out to go clubbing. In my old church, no one would dare to wear a short skirt or show cleavage. It was all very proper. Apparently this isn't so much a concern in the modern Catholic tradition. Baby's mama was dolled up in a strapless, royal blue, satin cocktail dress. The hemline stopped well above her knees.

Another woman showed up in a leopard print halter-top dress, with a bare back and a swingy little skirt. Man, if she had walked into my old Baptist church in that get-up she would have been the target of some serious stink-eye, especially from all the white-haired board members.

Later in the day, Ken and I showed up at the restaurant where we were expecting to have dinner with the two dozen friends and relatives who were at the church. In fact, we were ushered up to the banquet hall over the restaurant, which eventually filled up with, I'm guessing, more than 60 guests. From that point on, it was like a mini wedding celebration, complete with multi-course meal, drinking, dancing, and gifts for all the guests: each couple received a picture frame decorated with a pouf of gauze wrapped around white almond confetti candy.

Baby C was a trooper. During the entire evening, from 5 pm to 11 pm, I never once heard him cry. Every time I looked up, he was in someone else's arms. Most babies I know would get fussy being passed around so much. In fact, his father made a point of bringing him around to each person for a little one-on-one. I got to hold him, which was a treat. He was very handsome in his special, white onsie with "My Baptism" embroidered on the tummy, with the matching white bib.

Someone had clipped a $20 bill to his soother. His father explained "It's a Greek thing".

Ken and I were seated at a table with a retired teacher and his wife. They were pleasant company. Then Alec Baldwin showed up. Alright, so his name wasn't Alec Baldwin, but this guy looked exactly, precisely like Alec Baldwin. He may have been another Baldwin brother that decided not to become an actor, for all I know.

Fake Alec Baldwin brought a date, but he seemed to enjoy staring at me from across the table. I kept looking up and finding him watching me as if I were a mildly engaging television show. He did not have a winning personality. Literally from the minute he sat down (we were in the middle of a conversation that immediately pressed his buttons) he was argumentative. Sadly, Fake Alec Baldwin was a hater. I tried to ignore him as much as possible.

After the first dessert course (dessert buffet still to come later) a live Greek band got going and there was much energetic dancing. I was encouraged to join a kick-line of dancers, doing fancy footwork to a 6/8 time signature. I barely managed to keep up, but I did, and after a few minutes I even had the steps figured out. Phew! Remember how last week I was all excited that I could walk to the bus stop by myself? Yeah, it's kind of a big step from there to dancing all night, but I did it anyway. I was a wreck for the rest of the weekend, but whatever.

Ken danced the Zorba, which includes dancing around a shot glass full of Ouzo and then picking it up from the floor with only one's teeth to do the shot. Our host performed this manoeuvre expertly several times. Then it was Ken's turn. He managed to flip the Ouzo all over himself, and break his belt into the bargain, but we were all very impressed and gave him full marks for showmanship.

All in all, it was an incredibly fun evening. The Greek and Portuguese relatives were all lively, joyful people, and excellent, tireless dancers. My only disappointment was that no one smashed their plates at the end of the meal. You know, Opa! and all that. Too bad. Everything else was fully fantastic.

CNE Fair Photos

Welcome to the CNE fairgrounds. You enter here, through the lovely Princess gates.

First stop was the petting zoo. This photo doesn't fully capture the intensity of the horse's stare. He wanted some of those Nom Pellets, right now! Yes, that's me under the hat.

I believe that llamas were invented by Jim Henson.

Look at that smile on the smallest piglet. I wonder what she's dreaming of.

Aaaaaaaaah! Attack of the zombie beasts!

The lovely, placid burro. His lips were very fuzzy.

These birds are from the Canadian Raptor Conservancy. (Raptor means a bird of prey.) This little kestrel is called Andre, after Andre the giant.

There was some audience participation.

This is Harley the owl. Ain't she a beaut?

There were also dozens of rides, games, and a huge indoor mall, but all our best photos were of our furry and feathered friends.

Wonderful Normal

I travelled home from work on my own steam for the first time in weeks, and it was thrilling. Look at me, walking to the bus stop! Like a big girl, all by myself!

It's amazing how much coming back from a prolonged illness increased my appreciation for all the little things in life. I went to the Canadian National Exhibition, a giant fair that comes to Toronto at the end of each summer, and it was the best CNE ever. Not because of anything special at the fair; I was just so damn grateful to be out and enjoying myself.

My brain has also come back online. I feel smart again. I swear I dropped around 50 I.Q. points while I was ill. Now I'm busy reading again, and this morning I even watched the news. Wow, all that stuff going on all over the world! So interesting!

In other good news, my employers were quite worried by my illness, and they're actually taking tangible steps to make sure I don't overwork myself. The next Super Stressful Project is scheduled to kick off sometime within the next month or two. Previously it would have been expected of me that I continue to manage my two departments and 13 staff members; advise other departments' managers at their request; complete the writing of our health and safety policies, protocols, and employee training materials before our next Ministry of Labour inspection; and a million other little things; and manage the enormous project all on my own.

This time, having pleaded exhaustion to my bosses convincingly, they have signed on an experienced business associate to manage the Super Stressful Project. I will still be heavily involved, but at least it won't all be on my shoulders. That's an enormous relief. It was one thing for me to run projects on my own when we were a smaller business and my staff was half the size, but we have grown too much for me to be able to do it anymore.

Also fortunately, I know the business associate who I'll be working with, and I'm happy with their choice. He's a very smart, down-to-earth guy with a sense of humour. From what I've seen, he likes to like to roll up his sleeves and get things done efficiently. This is a relief, as I'm sure you all know people whose "help" you could do without. We'll see, but I think he's a keeper!

So, that's me. Just humming along, enjoying feeling normal. Enjoying the freedom to make social plans. Enjoying being able to run for the bus. Have a great weekend, everywebby!

Tripping

10: 30 pm: I drop one teeny, tiny 5mg tab of Imovane into my palm. Place it on a cutting board and saw it roughly in half with a steak knife.

10:31 pm: Down the hatch it goes. OK, I was warned that there would be a "metallic aftertaste", but this feels like the whole interior of my mouth is coated in some kind of deadly, chemical, industrial waste. I fight my gag reflex and wait for the taste to die away.

10:32 pm: I am heading for my bed to lie down when the first jolt hits me. My heart pinwheels. I don't feel so good. Don't panic, just lie down and relax.

10:35 pm: I'm feeling increasingly nervous and giddy. The foul taste in my mouth has not dissipated one iota. I lie in the dark and wait to start feeling sleepy.

10:36 pm - 11:05 pm: I do not start feeling sleepy. My heart pounds and races. Adrenaline floods my body in waves 2 to 3 minutes apart. I sweat. I think to myself "I'm having a bad trip" and giggle maniacally. The giggling amps up my anxiety so I shut that down and concentrate on breathing. Slow, shallow breaths so as not to hyperventilate.

11:06 pm: I realize that this "sleep aid" is not going to suddenly change tactics and allow me to drop off. Gingerly I get out of bed and go back to the living room where Ken is still up listening to podcasts. Fortunately my motor skills are not impaired.

11:07 pm - 12:3? am: I lie on the couch breathing through the horrible, miserable waves of anxiety. Thank God Ken is there to hang out with me, but he'll have to go to bed eventually. Am I going to be doing this all night?

12:3? am - I doze off on the couch.

1:00-ish am - The worst of it has passed. I get into my own bed and sleep the rest of the night. My mouth still tastes like a toxic waste dump, but it's fading a little.

How bad was the anxiety? If a panic attack is 10/10, this little half-tablet swooped me up to a solid 8 for a full 2 hours.

Sleep aid FAIL. Never again. The rest of the Imovane is going back to the pharmacy a.s.a.p. to be trashed. Oh well. I guess it was worth a try.

Post-Appointment Update

The good news: I'm not anemic!

The bad news: I'm not anemic! i.e. We still don't know why I'm so damn tired.

The doctor sayeth: my iron is low but my hemoglobin levels are fine. Anemia is a condition of low hemoglobin, therefore it does not apply to me.

So what now? Now he thinks that maybe I'm having a poor quality of sleep due to stress, which is why I'm constantly exhausted. Therefore I have in my possession an exciting prescription for drugs! To make me sleep like the dead! Par-tay!

Actually it's the lowest dose of the weakest sleep aid on the market*. Imovane. Half a tablet per night to start. Sometimes, he said, the body just needs its sleep habits reset, so after a couple of weeks I might be fine and not even need a sleep aid anymore. Assuming that's actually the root of the problem.

We'll see. In the meantime, drugs! I'm gettin' my downers on tonight, people! Woooo!

Edit: *Or so claimed my doctor. Wikipedia, I have just discovered, has another opinion on the matter. Serious withdrawal effects can occur if it's taken for more than 7-10 days in a row. These withdrawal effects can persist for up to two years. Gah. I will be proceeding with extreme caution. Maybe take it every other night, and not for long. Drugs are scary.

Shuffling Along

Probably the most exciting thing that I've done this week is take a chance on a new kind of cookie. They're maple syrup flavoured creme-filled sandwich cookies. I haven't opened the bag yet. It's one of those things that could go either way: really good or really gross. If they sound good to you, TOUGH LUCK! They're only available in Canada. Since most of you aren't Canadian, you'll have to drool in helpless jealousy of me and my potentially delicious cookies.

I have been watching the movie Rent from a DVD, in installments. I can't handle more than around 45 minutes of sincere rock opera at a time. It's fun, but it's just, it's intense. Two and a half hours run-time. My attention span for we-sing-almost-every-line-of-dialogue theatre-with-a-conscience is limited.

Nothing much else is going on, because I'm still too fricking tired. I've run myself down working 8-hour days this week (Monday through Wednesday). Even getting driven to work and back again every day doesn't help enough. I'm dragging my feet like they're made of lead. CURSES! It's frustrating. Next doctor appointment: two hours from now. Goal: get a referral to a hematologist. This chronic fatigue thing is not working out for me!

Yes, I will be leaving early today and working a short day tomorrow. Yes, I know I shouldn't be pushing myself. But to a certain extent I have to experiment with my limits to see whether I've improved or not. I'm not being a martyr to work; I'm just being a little too optimistic with regards to my stamina experiments.

At least work is back on track. A few people in my department went and lost their minds while I was away. I had to come back and clean up a huge political mess that came up because some folks can't handle themselves or get along with others without my direct supervision. I was disappointed, but not surprised. At least it's been well-established now, in the minds of my bosses, that I'm indispensible. Just in case they weren't already convinced. That's always a good thing.