Another stranger story...I'm sitting at the airport talking to a charming older gentleman from New Jersey who tells me he's just been to see his son in Martinez, CA because his daugher-in-law and grandson both broke their legs in seperate accidents and ends up telling me his daughter is lesbian professor in Chicago and he's worried about her being alone in her old age and his wife recently died. I told him to move to California and he said he's thinking about it. When it's time to board my plane, I say nice talking to you my name is Ruth. "My wife's name was Ruth," says Tom. Something tells me she made us sit near each other so I'd encourage him to move near his son.
The plane had a great movie about Jane Austen, who was called a "spinster" back then and I couldn't help but admire her indepence, hitting a cricket bat, writing and turning down a wealthy suitor. She is still a role model today. Even in 2008, what is it about women that makes us turn over our lives to men and forget that we are daring, exciting, unique individuals? It's so much easier now for women to make their own fortunes and yet I still hear young gals in college say they'll just marry a wealthy man. I guess they think that's easier than earning their own way...but what if the man goes bankrupt or he cheats or the wife just goes insane in her gilded cage?
Well Kuhl is being very serious these days- good thing Bella has a lighter touch (and better prose too!).
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Friday, March 7, 2008
Bella's Beauty Adventures
I am 46 years old; one would think in all that time I might have gotten a clue about my hair, mais, au contraire mes amie. Let's review my brief history of hair in San Francisco, where we've lived for three years now.
Step one: Go to the most expensive salon; they've got to be good. Instead, I feel like a chick in one of those God awful, assembly-line chicken processing factories where they cutoff the beak, send the fuzzy little chick sliding down a stainless steel funnel to the conveyor belt where some lunatic in a paper jumpsuit, hair net, face mask and latex gloves clips the wings. At Yosh they tossed a smock at me, shoved me in a chair, slapped some dye on my head then ushered me to a back room crammed with old SF money: lots of laser treatments, botox and big gold jewelry. A lightening shampoo to wash out the color, then wham-o! Into the chair for a cut with a razor. People, they only use a razor when they are in a hurry, and on this assembly line it was "Get 'em in. Get 'em out. Ye-haw raw hide!"
Steps two and three: random salons around town recommended to me, but were mediocre, and left me looking either matronly or stupidly trendy -- think, Shag.
Step four: Hugh, the most gifted colorist who could not cut my hair to save his life, and he was a bit of diva. I think he told me once, "don't touch me!" OK, not a problem. I would have stuck with him for the exquisite blow-outs alone, then he charged me $125 for a color. I knew I had to break-up with him, which was traumatic, not just because I loved my Sandra Bullock movie-star-color, but I loved Ron, the owner of the salon. Bye, Ron.
Steps five, six and seven: no one is cutting my hair until the awful cut Hugh gave me grows out. I go to three more random salons that do a crap job with my color; Hugh is a hard act to follow. I feel depressed and consider returning to the Pixie cut of my youth: the one my mother forced me to have after our hippie cousin gave all the rest of the cousins head lice at one family reunion.
Step eight: I am two years older, and with more bad hair days than any woman my age deserves. Well, last night I tried a salon in my neighborhood, and today I look, for the first time in ages, pretty darn good. The color is nice, not too brassy or dark. The cut is cute, on the edge of too young for me, but not too much. I think -- dare I speak it out loud? -- I've found a keeper. And it only took three years!
Don't even ask me about how long it took me to find a decent dentist. People think moving to France or San Francisco is so glamorous. It's not. It takes enormous effort to reassemble your life. You have to find a bank, doctors, the post office, a place to live, schools... the list goes on an on. And frankly, it takes so freaking long to find a good stylist that I'm just not moving again, because I refuse to go to my grave with bad hair.
I am 46 years old; one would think in all that time I might have gotten a clue about my hair, mais, au contraire mes amie. Let's review my brief history of hair in San Francisco, where we've lived for three years now.
Step one: Go to the most expensive salon; they've got to be good. Instead, I feel like a chick in one of those God awful, assembly-line chicken processing factories where they cutoff the beak, send the fuzzy little chick sliding down a stainless steel funnel to the conveyor belt where some lunatic in a paper jumpsuit, hair net, face mask and latex gloves clips the wings. At Yosh they tossed a smock at me, shoved me in a chair, slapped some dye on my head then ushered me to a back room crammed with old SF money: lots of laser treatments, botox and big gold jewelry. A lightening shampoo to wash out the color, then wham-o! Into the chair for a cut with a razor. People, they only use a razor when they are in a hurry, and on this assembly line it was "Get 'em in. Get 'em out. Ye-haw raw hide!"
Steps two and three: random salons around town recommended to me, but were mediocre, and left me looking either matronly or stupidly trendy -- think, Shag.
Step four: Hugh, the most gifted colorist who could not cut my hair to save his life, and he was a bit of diva. I think he told me once, "don't touch me!" OK, not a problem. I would have stuck with him for the exquisite blow-outs alone, then he charged me $125 for a color. I knew I had to break-up with him, which was traumatic, not just because I loved my Sandra Bullock movie-star-color, but I loved Ron, the owner of the salon. Bye, Ron.
Steps five, six and seven: no one is cutting my hair until the awful cut Hugh gave me grows out. I go to three more random salons that do a crap job with my color; Hugh is a hard act to follow. I feel depressed and consider returning to the Pixie cut of my youth: the one my mother forced me to have after our hippie cousin gave all the rest of the cousins head lice at one family reunion.
Step eight: I am two years older, and with more bad hair days than any woman my age deserves. Well, last night I tried a salon in my neighborhood, and today I look, for the first time in ages, pretty darn good. The color is nice, not too brassy or dark. The cut is cute, on the edge of too young for me, but not too much. I think -- dare I speak it out loud? -- I've found a keeper. And it only took three years!
Don't even ask me about how long it took me to find a decent dentist. People think moving to France or San Francisco is so glamorous. It's not. It takes enormous effort to reassemble your life. You have to find a bank, doctors, the post office, a place to live, schools... the list goes on an on. And frankly, it takes so freaking long to find a good stylist that I'm just not moving again, because I refuse to go to my grave with bad hair.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Luck of the Irish
Tonight, it happened again...I won a raffle prize-yawn. I know what you're saying, "I never win anything." I can't help it-it's in my genes. My dad was the same way-he was half Irish and everyone in Dubuque where I grew up said he had the luck of the Irish. I inherited the trait. It was embarrasing how often Daddy would win raffles-especially when they were work-related or with his many volunteer groups like the Knights of Columbus. I'm the same way. I'm shocked when I got to events and don't win. I always enter those cheesy things that say, leave your card, you could be eligible for a prize or buy a raffle ticket (incidentally doesn't seem to matter if I buy one or 10 tickets). Among my prizes: a TV, spa treatments, a cell phone, a designer purse, wine, gift basket, clothes and tonight a trip to Canada from the tourism board. This is a real prize-not those stupid "free" trips you get in the mail-throw them away! My colleague that attends Chamber events with me refuses to buy a raffle ticket or put his card in the hat for a free prize because he knows I'll win. My thrifty husband is very jazzed about my lucky streak -he makes sure we buy raffle tickes, enter our business cards at events, and fill out those pesky cards, but he doesn't understand why I don't win on that rare occasion. I can't explain it-the lottery doesn't work for me and neither does Vegas-just like my dad-it's all about raffles.
Unfortunately my winnings are just extras-they don't pay the rent-so I have to get back to work now. The good news is being a winner-no matter how small time-sure makes life more fun!
Unfortunately my winnings are just extras-they don't pay the rent-so I have to get back to work now. The good news is being a winner-no matter how small time-sure makes life more fun!
Bella Time
I pray for days like this, days where my time is all my own, days when I can "get things done!" and then, when they get here, I wish like hell I had something planned. Because cleaning out my son's closet of all the clothes that don't fit him anymore, watering the plants, or even doing my blog entry, these are all tasks without enforceable deadlines: and I need a damn deadline. I wasn't a TV reporter for nothing. I need a real and very active threat, like, oh say, getting fired or beaten to a bloody pulp -- I was in TV after all -- to make me get anything done. So today, instead of cleaning closets, I am farting around trying to log onto the blog, and I can't, and it's pissing me off, and Kuhl's hubby who set this whole thing up for us is still asleep -- did I mention it's nearly noon? KBH (Kuhl's beloved husband) WAKE UP! The clock is ticking. I only have two more hours before I have to go and fetch BC (beloved child) from preschool, and then this free day, this day where I had nothing planned: no dentist, no grocery shopping, no errands to run, this day of which I dreamed of finally getting to the projects that have been hanging over me -- I did mention that my plants are going on week three, or is it four without water? -- will be over, and I won't have accomplished squat. I should have gone to the gym. Then, even though my house would still be a dump, I would feel like I did something. Free time is so vastly over rated.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Bella Watch
One of these days my gal pal Bella is going to join me so the website and my photo will be complete. She's a very funny writer but her darn 3-year-old keeps getting in the way of her creativity. Kids are so selfish-they expect you to do everything for them! My husband Rich honestly once said "Why can't you just lock a kid in the closet while you go out?" Now you understand why I am chidless.
I just got back from Sacratomato, Bella's old city, which is surprisingly groovy these days...I used to dread going there for work but now it has trendy restaurants-more hotel choices-and boutiques that are cutting edge in their way-they carry classic suits and I don't know any store that does that anymore. If you still want to see people dressed up to the nines, visit the state capitol.
There's something about the power charge I feel in this city that makes me want to live in one of their downtown lofts. Of course once I move, I'd be attending lots of receptions with Ahnold. Our governator is a big flirt-I sat in the front row of a press conference in a short skirt and boots and he made a point of shaking my hand afterwards-maybe it was the marching boots. I never considered Mr. Pump You Up my type (over muscled men don't usually do it for me) but when Schwarzenegger stares in your eyes it's mesmorizing. I have a girlfriend who workd with him in the movies and she said he was honestly very interested in the crew and aksed about their future plans. When his Austrian buddies from college visited the movie set, practical jokes were common and my grilfriend helped them out by putting sparkly markeup on Arnold's face without his knowledge. She was getting back at him for an earlier joke when he pretended to be cradling her face in his hands but was really applying dark makeup. He took the sparkles joke well and his buddies loved calling him a girlie man or whatever that term is in the Austrian language.
In my opinion he is doing a great job for our state (I am an independent voter) and think he should be allowed to run for President. None of us are really Americans-except Native Americans-anyway and being born here hardly seems a loyalty test. Anyone who goes through the arderous process of becoming an American (like the hilarious Craig Ferguson) is more patriotic than most of us-just as converts are usually more religious. We're losing a lot of potential leaders by excluding them and we need all the help we can get-look who's in the White House right now-or don't-it might warp your mind irreparably.
I just got back from Sacratomato, Bella's old city, which is surprisingly groovy these days...I used to dread going there for work but now it has trendy restaurants-more hotel choices-and boutiques that are cutting edge in their way-they carry classic suits and I don't know any store that does that anymore. If you still want to see people dressed up to the nines, visit the state capitol.
There's something about the power charge I feel in this city that makes me want to live in one of their downtown lofts. Of course once I move, I'd be attending lots of receptions with Ahnold. Our governator is a big flirt-I sat in the front row of a press conference in a short skirt and boots and he made a point of shaking my hand afterwards-maybe it was the marching boots. I never considered Mr. Pump You Up my type (over muscled men don't usually do it for me) but when Schwarzenegger stares in your eyes it's mesmorizing. I have a girlfriend who workd with him in the movies and she said he was honestly very interested in the crew and aksed about their future plans. When his Austrian buddies from college visited the movie set, practical jokes were common and my grilfriend helped them out by putting sparkly markeup on Arnold's face without his knowledge. She was getting back at him for an earlier joke when he pretended to be cradling her face in his hands but was really applying dark makeup. He took the sparkles joke well and his buddies loved calling him a girlie man or whatever that term is in the Austrian language.
In my opinion he is doing a great job for our state (I am an independent voter) and think he should be allowed to run for President. None of us are really Americans-except Native Americans-anyway and being born here hardly seems a loyalty test. Anyone who goes through the arderous process of becoming an American (like the hilarious Craig Ferguson) is more patriotic than most of us-just as converts are usually more religious. We're losing a lot of potential leaders by excluding them and we need all the help we can get-look who's in the White House right now-or don't-it might warp your mind irreparably.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Breathing is Over-rated
My friend E lives in a different zip code and different world than me. She’s refreshingly down to earth and great fun--grew up middle class in the Midwest like me-- but her neighbors are very 90210, Desperate Housewives of the O.C. Let me give you a few examples. We went shopping the other day on our lunch hour in Los Gatos and stopped in one of the many ridiculously over-priced boutiques in Los Gatos. Naturally, I made a beeline for the 75% off rack where a black Malandrino wool jacket I am lusting over has been marked down..drum roll, please..to a mere $500.00!!! I try it on every time I visit, and they keep telling me what a great deal it is-the last time a button popped off so I'm hoping they'll keep knocking down the price.
This time I decided to try some clothes on for fun-a purple dress resembling one that Kendall Hart has been wearing in brown on All My Children and I convinced E to be Greenly and try on a short black dress with huge brooch-like stones around the high waist. I tried to squeeze into this low cut number, but couldn’t zip up the back. My Pilate-sized friend looked like a movie star in the LBD but said she couldn’t breath. “Breathing is over-rated,” said the sales clerk with a straight face. I tried on a pair of size 29 jeans but decided I needed a bigger size and the same clerk said with disgust that they didn’t carry any size larger than a 29! (I’m a curvy size 8 for those of you trying to figure out how much an elephant I am). E spotted a girlfriend from her kids school (another mommy boys would like to you know what) while we where there who was drinking wine. She buys couture and as soon as the clerks realized we were all buds they brought out a bottle and told us they have full bar in back! They never told me that all those times I dig through the ten-dollar bin! I grabbed a pair of Boob-eze as a gag gift for my flat chested girlfriend’s birthday and the clerk said that was cheapest pair of boobs she’d ever seen-hers certainly cost a lot more she confided. I tried on an extra small fuchsia silk strappy top and it squashed my boobs so much that I had to come out from the dressing room and parade around the store, telling E that I thought it was a perfect fit and I was going to buy it. I don't know what was better-her shocked face trying to break the news to me gently that it was hideous or the horrifed clerks who told me they were not under any circumstances going to sell that to me. lt's a joke I said, as they formed a huddle and whispered. Who knew they have fashion Nazis in Silicon Valley that determine whether or not you can buy an item-I'm surprised they let an elephant like me in the store. Maybe the next step will be a tiny door with a sign like you see in amusement parks: "If you are too big to fit through this slot, you are denied entry."
E decided that she didn’t need to move for the few hours she’d wear the dress and as we waited to check her out the young teen in front of us racked up a crdit card charge of $1,300! A little different from the gals I see in Santa Cruz at Crossroads selling their old clothes to buy used Betsy Johnson dresses. E asked for the dress in a bag not on a hanger-easier to hide, huh, I said and she nodded. It's nice to know that no matter your income all women share the same issues--hiding new clothes and price tags from our husbands.
This time I decided to try some clothes on for fun-a purple dress resembling one that Kendall Hart has been wearing in brown on All My Children and I convinced E to be Greenly and try on a short black dress with huge brooch-like stones around the high waist. I tried to squeeze into this low cut number, but couldn’t zip up the back. My Pilate-sized friend looked like a movie star in the LBD but said she couldn’t breath. “Breathing is over-rated,” said the sales clerk with a straight face. I tried on a pair of size 29 jeans but decided I needed a bigger size and the same clerk said with disgust that they didn’t carry any size larger than a 29! (I’m a curvy size 8 for those of you trying to figure out how much an elephant I am). E spotted a girlfriend from her kids school (another mommy boys would like to you know what) while we where there who was drinking wine. She buys couture and as soon as the clerks realized we were all buds they brought out a bottle and told us they have full bar in back! They never told me that all those times I dig through the ten-dollar bin! I grabbed a pair of Boob-eze as a gag gift for my flat chested girlfriend’s birthday and the clerk said that was cheapest pair of boobs she’d ever seen-hers certainly cost a lot more she confided. I tried on an extra small fuchsia silk strappy top and it squashed my boobs so much that I had to come out from the dressing room and parade around the store, telling E that I thought it was a perfect fit and I was going to buy it. I don't know what was better-her shocked face trying to break the news to me gently that it was hideous or the horrifed clerks who told me they were not under any circumstances going to sell that to me. lt's a joke I said, as they formed a huddle and whispered. Who knew they have fashion Nazis in Silicon Valley that determine whether or not you can buy an item-I'm surprised they let an elephant like me in the store. Maybe the next step will be a tiny door with a sign like you see in amusement parks: "If you are too big to fit through this slot, you are denied entry."
E decided that she didn’t need to move for the few hours she’d wear the dress and as we waited to check her out the young teen in front of us racked up a crdit card charge of $1,300! A little different from the gals I see in Santa Cruz at Crossroads selling their old clothes to buy used Betsy Johnson dresses. E asked for the dress in a bag not on a hanger-easier to hide, huh, I said and she nodded. It's nice to know that no matter your income all women share the same issues--hiding new clothes and price tags from our husbands.
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