Sunday I volunteered at a community immunization event. The event was held on Mississippi Avenue SE, a part of town that I've visited perhaps three times in the 10 years I've lived here, and the previous times were only because I made a wrong turn.
I helped process the preschool age children, pulling their immunization records and getting them lined up by a mobile vaccination unit. At one point I found a two year old boy wandering around the parking lot. I asked him where his mommy and daddy were, but he said his mommy wasn't there. "My daddy left." That couldn’t be true, so I held his hand until he was comfortable, and then picked him up. I walked around asking people, "Does he belong to you?" No takers. I carried him for about 10 minutes when a little girl says to me, "Um, that's my brother." She had a five year old boy with her who I assumed was another brother. I finally figured out there was yet another child and that dad was probably with that child in the outpatient center at the other end of the parking lot getting his vaccinations.
The four of us walked to the outpatient center and just as we entered the dad was walking out of the exam room with his son. He looked at me and asked innocently if there was a problem. My brain was saying, "The problem is you left three children unattended to roam around a parking lot in the scorching sun (the oldest was at the most seven years old.)" I was incredulous, but gently handed the little one to dad and walked back outside.
I later saw him walking away with the four children. He looked up at me as I passed, fatigue in his posture, and thanked me. "That's quite a clan you have there!" I said. He smiled and turned to head home. I shouldn't have been so quick to judge. He was doing the best he could. Isn't that all we can expect of one another?
The day was full of memorable conversations with strangers, like the lovely lady who recently moved here from Riverside, GA. “What a blessing, what a blessing this is,” she said to me of the free immunizations. Having recently moved to the area, she couldn’t get her children in to the doctor’s office for vaccinations until the end of September. The children can’t start school if their vaccinations aren’t up to date. She didn’t know what she was going to do. “Then I heard an announcement for this event on the radio,” she said. “What a blessing.”
I sat and talked to her for at least a half hour. I told her all about my girlfriends from Georgia. “Georgia peaches, that’s what they are!” she exclaimed as I told her about their obsession with the University of Georgia (naturally) and their kind hearts.
At Mass on Sunday I heard something, or felt something, I'm not quite sure. Either way, I’m heading to the Mississippi gulf coast next month to help build a house for a Vietnamese family of five who lost everything in Hurricane Katrina. My parish is sponsoring the project. When the hurricane hit, the dad was at work. Mom and the three kids, one of which was 2 days old, survived by living in the attic for two days.
Mississippi. Who knew?
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Gump Brain Fart
There was something really funny I was going to comment on, but I forgot what it is. That's all I have to say about that.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Mind Boggling
Mullings and observations on mind boggling and other random things:
1. An illegal immigrant is holed up in a Chicagoland Methodist church seeking "sanctuary" with her 7 year old child who is an American citizen. The pastor supports her. The MAYOR supports her. There is no law in the U.S. that says a church is a sanctuary FROM THE LAW. What is so difficult to understand: Enter the country illegally? Be deported legally. Feel sorry for her child? Blame her. She's the one who put him in the situation.
2. The ACLU. No need for elaboration.
3. Paris Hilton had a four minute spot on the Today Show this morning. Why is she famous?
4. North Korea is preparing a nuclear bomb test.
5. Hezbollah is paying to build new homes for people in Lebanon affected by the recent war with Isreal. Hezbollah started the war. Hezbollah used residential areas as targets for Israel. Now the Lebanese are praising Hezbollah for their generosity and naming their newborn children after the terrorist organization. Do I really live on the same planet as these people? Oh, and by the way, the war was the fault of the U.S. Of course.
6.A federal judge ruled that the U.S. government's domestic eavesdropping program is unconstitutional and ordered it ended immediately. Guess who brought that suit. See #2 above.
7. Haley Joel Osment caught driving drunk with marajuana in his car. Now who didn't see that coming?
8. This is worth the read...all the way through: http://news.bostonherald.com/editorial/view.bg?articleid=153289&format=text
9. The new season of The Office premiers September 21. Good stuff.
10. I got up at 5:45 this morning to work out. Mind boggling.
1. An illegal immigrant is holed up in a Chicagoland Methodist church seeking "sanctuary" with her 7 year old child who is an American citizen. The pastor supports her. The MAYOR supports her. There is no law in the U.S. that says a church is a sanctuary FROM THE LAW. What is so difficult to understand: Enter the country illegally? Be deported legally. Feel sorry for her child? Blame her. She's the one who put him in the situation.
2. The ACLU. No need for elaboration.
3. Paris Hilton had a four minute spot on the Today Show this morning. Why is she famous?
4. North Korea is preparing a nuclear bomb test.
5. Hezbollah is paying to build new homes for people in Lebanon affected by the recent war with Isreal. Hezbollah started the war. Hezbollah used residential areas as targets for Israel. Now the Lebanese are praising Hezbollah for their generosity and naming their newborn children after the terrorist organization. Do I really live on the same planet as these people? Oh, and by the way, the war was the fault of the U.S. Of course.
6.A federal judge ruled that the U.S. government's domestic eavesdropping program is unconstitutional and ordered it ended immediately. Guess who brought that suit. See #2 above.
7. Haley Joel Osment caught driving drunk with marajuana in his car. Now who didn't see that coming?
8. This is worth the read...all the way through: http://news.bostonherald.com/editorial/view.bg?articleid=153289&format=text
9. The new season of The Office premiers September 21. Good stuff.
10. I got up at 5:45 this morning to work out. Mind boggling.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Hey Tommy, I Remember
I watched a documentary about 9/11 on the History Channel Sunday night. I expect there will be more like it as the fifth anniversary draws near. Five years later and it’s as if it were yesterday.
There’s a show on FX called Rescue Me starring Denis Leary. Leary plays an alcoholic New York firefighter named Tommy Gavin who is occasionally visited by the ghost of his cousin who died in the twin towers. Leary’s life is a mess. His only son was hit by a car and killed, he’s separated from his wife, and now his brother is having sex with his ex and she’s pregnant.
On a particularly bad day, he wanders into a bar and asks for eight fingers of their best Irish whiskey. After chugging the $125 shot, he tells the young bartender he has only $2.25 in his pocket. Before the bartender can kick him out, he yells, “I’m FDNY!! I’m FDNY” hoping he’ll get cut some slack. As the whiskey takes effect, he yells out to everyone in the bar, “I bet every single one of you can name five American Idol finalists, but how many of you can name five of the 300+ firefighters who died on 9-11? Who can name one?” Silence. The bartender let him finish off the rest of the whiskey.
I recalled the one name I remember from that day, Father Mychal Judge, the FDNY chaplain. Here’s his story so that if you’re ever asked, you’ll know a name and his story.
THE DEATH OF FATHER MYCHAL JUDGE
Condensed from "The Fireman's Friar"
by Jennifer Senior; New York Magazine, Nov. 12, 2001.
Perhaps the first wisp of real poetry to emerge from the devastation of the World Trade Center was the tale of Mychal Judge's death. Within hours of the collapse, a story began circulating that he'd been hit by falling debris when he took his helmet off to give last rites to a firefighter, a man who himself had been crushed by someone who'd jumped from Tower One.
Seven weeks later, it seems that the story is at least partly myth, though perhaps a myth necessary to the demands of the day. For one thing, Judge's body was found in the lobby of Tower One, not on the sidewalk outside. For another, one of the firefighters who carried Judge out of the building, Christian Waugh, says he saw the chaplain standing upright by the emergency command post just seconds before they and scores of others got caught in a monsoon of rubble. "I'm assuming he gave last rites to the guy in Company 216 and then ran into the lobby," says Waugh. "Because I was with him in that lobby. He was standing right there, a few feet away from me."
But it's understandable how the myth bloomed. Those who knew Judge -- and he knew hundreds, if not thousands, of people -- wanted him to die gorgeously and aptly, in a way that expressed the depth of his faith. It was how they imagined him. Such a death suited a legend.
As it happens, the unembellished story of Mychal Judge's death is just as moving -- and an even more telling tribute to the chaplain, as well as to the men he served.
Bill Cosgrove, a lieutenant in the Manhattan Traffic Task Force, was in a car on West Broadway when he heard on his radio about the first plane hitting the World Trade Center. He raced to Tower One to help guide rescuers in and out of the area. Later, inside the building, he found a group of firemen, including Christian Waugh, clustered around a granite desk at the tower's emergency command post. "I was just about to tell them which way to drive," says Cosgrove. "That's when the whole building shook. The lights went out. And there was this giant vacuum sound." Waugh dropped to the ground. Others, including Cosgrove, ducked into the nearby stairwell. "We thought it was our building that was collapsing," says Cosgrove. "It wasn't." He's now pretty sure it was Tower Two. "The pressure was sucking the windows out of Tower One."
The men waited in total darkness. Abruptly, they were enveloped in plumes of smoke, fireproofing, and pulverized cement. "You couldn't breathe," says Cosgrove. "You couldn't see. It was totally dark. Someone shouted, 'Everybody hold hands!' "
Gasping, their eyes stinging, the men reached out for one another and started a slow, awkward march out of the stairwell and back through the lobby. They had proceeded no more than twenty paces when it happened. Cosgrove tripped over something. A body.
Everyone stopped. One of the firefighters aimed his flashlight low across the ground. A halo of light framed a man's face. Everyone saw it. "Oh, my God," they began to shout. "It's Father Mike."
He wasn't buried under much rubble; his body, even his face, was still perfectly intact. They took his pulse. Nothing. "I took an arm," says Cosgrove. "Someone else took an arm. Two other guys took his ankles." Waugh grabbed him by the waist, and together the men carried him out of the building. They found a bunch of broken chairs on an outdoor plaza and nestled Judge in one of them, so that they could carry him down a staircase to the street.
That was the moment a Reuters photographer, Shannon Stapleton, snapped the picture that Christopher Keenan, one of Judge's closest friends at the friary, now calls "a modern Pietà ."
As the first tower continued to burn, Waugh, Cosgrove, and the others carried Judge over to the corner of Church and Vesey and laid him out on the sidewalk. An EMT pronounced him dead. Cosgrove, pulsing with adrenaline, began to shout at the top of his lungs. "Somebody get this man a priest! This man is a priest!" The firemen ran back to the scene.
At that very moment, José Alfonso Rodriguez, a 28-year-old third-year cop on the downtown beat, was rounding the corner. "I know where there's a church," he told Cosgrove.
So off he went -- up to Church and Barclay Streets, and then into the 163-year-old St. Peter's. A woman inside was tearing up sheets, handing them to people who needed something to cover their mouths. "I need a priest to give someone last rites," he panted.
"They're all out," she said. "Are you Catholic?"
"Yes."
"You're allowed to give someone last rites."
Cosgrove had laid Judge's black fireman's jacket neatly over his head. Rodriguez reappeared and grabbed the lieutenant by the arms. "All the priests are gone," he shouted. "But the lady told me that if you're Catholic, you can do this. Are you Catholic?"
"Yes."
"Me too."
The men looked at each other for a split second. They were both wheezing, covered in ash, and trying desperately to see through the smoke. Tower One was minutes away from collapse.
They knelt down on the sidewalk.
Rodriguez gingerly grasped Judge's hand. Cosgrove laid his hands on Judge's head. Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven . . .
Somehow, Judge's body got from the sidewalk at Church and Vesey to St. Peter's. When Christian Waugh went back to look for him, he found Judge lying regally on the altar, his helmet and badge perched in mute tribute on his chest. Tom Ryan found him there, too. "I walked into this church," he says. "And in a world that was gray and dark, there was color, and laying on the altar was the body of Mychal Judge. In a horrendous moment, it was a beautiful sight."
The pastor at the church called the cardinal's office. The cardinal's office called the friary. An ambulance picked Judge up. He was slipped into a body bag and brought back to Engine 1-Ladder 24.
The firefighters placed their chaplain on a cot in the back of the station. Then they cordoned off the area with a clothesline and some sheets, creating a small, private shrine. The men formed a circle around him, got down on their knees, and started to cry.
Keenan sat with Judge until he was taken to the morgue. His death certificate bears the number 00001 -- the first official casualty of the World Trade Center.
There’s a show on FX called Rescue Me starring Denis Leary. Leary plays an alcoholic New York firefighter named Tommy Gavin who is occasionally visited by the ghost of his cousin who died in the twin towers. Leary’s life is a mess. His only son was hit by a car and killed, he’s separated from his wife, and now his brother is having sex with his ex and she’s pregnant.
On a particularly bad day, he wanders into a bar and asks for eight fingers of their best Irish whiskey. After chugging the $125 shot, he tells the young bartender he has only $2.25 in his pocket. Before the bartender can kick him out, he yells, “I’m FDNY!! I’m FDNY” hoping he’ll get cut some slack. As the whiskey takes effect, he yells out to everyone in the bar, “I bet every single one of you can name five American Idol finalists, but how many of you can name five of the 300+ firefighters who died on 9-11? Who can name one?” Silence. The bartender let him finish off the rest of the whiskey.
I recalled the one name I remember from that day, Father Mychal Judge, the FDNY chaplain. Here’s his story so that if you’re ever asked, you’ll know a name and his story.
THE DEATH OF FATHER MYCHAL JUDGE
Condensed from "The Fireman's Friar"
by Jennifer Senior; New York Magazine, Nov. 12, 2001.
Perhaps the first wisp of real poetry to emerge from the devastation of the World Trade Center was the tale of Mychal Judge's death. Within hours of the collapse, a story began circulating that he'd been hit by falling debris when he took his helmet off to give last rites to a firefighter, a man who himself had been crushed by someone who'd jumped from Tower One.
Seven weeks later, it seems that the story is at least partly myth, though perhaps a myth necessary to the demands of the day. For one thing, Judge's body was found in the lobby of Tower One, not on the sidewalk outside. For another, one of the firefighters who carried Judge out of the building, Christian Waugh, says he saw the chaplain standing upright by the emergency command post just seconds before they and scores of others got caught in a monsoon of rubble. "I'm assuming he gave last rites to the guy in Company 216 and then ran into the lobby," says Waugh. "Because I was with him in that lobby. He was standing right there, a few feet away from me."
But it's understandable how the myth bloomed. Those who knew Judge -- and he knew hundreds, if not thousands, of people -- wanted him to die gorgeously and aptly, in a way that expressed the depth of his faith. It was how they imagined him. Such a death suited a legend.
As it happens, the unembellished story of Mychal Judge's death is just as moving -- and an even more telling tribute to the chaplain, as well as to the men he served.
Bill Cosgrove, a lieutenant in the Manhattan Traffic Task Force, was in a car on West Broadway when he heard on his radio about the first plane hitting the World Trade Center. He raced to Tower One to help guide rescuers in and out of the area. Later, inside the building, he found a group of firemen, including Christian Waugh, clustered around a granite desk at the tower's emergency command post. "I was just about to tell them which way to drive," says Cosgrove. "That's when the whole building shook. The lights went out. And there was this giant vacuum sound." Waugh dropped to the ground. Others, including Cosgrove, ducked into the nearby stairwell. "We thought it was our building that was collapsing," says Cosgrove. "It wasn't." He's now pretty sure it was Tower Two. "The pressure was sucking the windows out of Tower One."
The men waited in total darkness. Abruptly, they were enveloped in plumes of smoke, fireproofing, and pulverized cement. "You couldn't breathe," says Cosgrove. "You couldn't see. It was totally dark. Someone shouted, 'Everybody hold hands!' "
Gasping, their eyes stinging, the men reached out for one another and started a slow, awkward march out of the stairwell and back through the lobby. They had proceeded no more than twenty paces when it happened. Cosgrove tripped over something. A body.
Everyone stopped. One of the firefighters aimed his flashlight low across the ground. A halo of light framed a man's face. Everyone saw it. "Oh, my God," they began to shout. "It's Father Mike."
He wasn't buried under much rubble; his body, even his face, was still perfectly intact. They took his pulse. Nothing. "I took an arm," says Cosgrove. "Someone else took an arm. Two other guys took his ankles." Waugh grabbed him by the waist, and together the men carried him out of the building. They found a bunch of broken chairs on an outdoor plaza and nestled Judge in one of them, so that they could carry him down a staircase to the street.
That was the moment a Reuters photographer, Shannon Stapleton, snapped the picture that Christopher Keenan, one of Judge's closest friends at the friary, now calls "a modern Pietà ."
As the first tower continued to burn, Waugh, Cosgrove, and the others carried Judge over to the corner of Church and Vesey and laid him out on the sidewalk. An EMT pronounced him dead. Cosgrove, pulsing with adrenaline, began to shout at the top of his lungs. "Somebody get this man a priest! This man is a priest!" The firemen ran back to the scene.
At that very moment, José Alfonso Rodriguez, a 28-year-old third-year cop on the downtown beat, was rounding the corner. "I know where there's a church," he told Cosgrove.
So off he went -- up to Church and Barclay Streets, and then into the 163-year-old St. Peter's. A woman inside was tearing up sheets, handing them to people who needed something to cover their mouths. "I need a priest to give someone last rites," he panted.
"They're all out," she said. "Are you Catholic?"
"Yes."
"You're allowed to give someone last rites."
Cosgrove had laid Judge's black fireman's jacket neatly over his head. Rodriguez reappeared and grabbed the lieutenant by the arms. "All the priests are gone," he shouted. "But the lady told me that if you're Catholic, you can do this. Are you Catholic?"
"Yes."
"Me too."
The men looked at each other for a split second. They were both wheezing, covered in ash, and trying desperately to see through the smoke. Tower One was minutes away from collapse.
They knelt down on the sidewalk.
Rodriguez gingerly grasped Judge's hand. Cosgrove laid his hands on Judge's head. Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven . . .
Somehow, Judge's body got from the sidewalk at Church and Vesey to St. Peter's. When Christian Waugh went back to look for him, he found Judge lying regally on the altar, his helmet and badge perched in mute tribute on his chest. Tom Ryan found him there, too. "I walked into this church," he says. "And in a world that was gray and dark, there was color, and laying on the altar was the body of Mychal Judge. In a horrendous moment, it was a beautiful sight."
The pastor at the church called the cardinal's office. The cardinal's office called the friary. An ambulance picked Judge up. He was slipped into a body bag and brought back to Engine 1-Ladder 24.
The firefighters placed their chaplain on a cot in the back of the station. Then they cordoned off the area with a clothesline and some sheets, creating a small, private shrine. The men formed a circle around him, got down on their knees, and started to cry.
Keenan sat with Judge until he was taken to the morgue. His death certificate bears the number 00001 -- the first official casualty of the World Trade Center.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Perfect Fall Saturday in August
What a gorgeous Saturday. The weather was perfect - just like a mid-September football Saturday. Hit the gym this morning. When I was young my dad was like a broken record when it came to my exercise of choice: running. "You'll need knee replacements by the time you're 40." I'd shrug, afix my headphones and hit the concrete. Now when I walk down the stairs, sometimes my knees give out. I'm only 34. I might beat dad's prediction.
Two more great activites rounded out my day. I went to Georgetown and saw a terrific movie with my friend Chris (aka "Body By Jake"). "Little Miss Sunshine" is a great movie about...I don't feel like explaining it. But it's a "must see" in my book.
Then I visited the shrine to all that is beautiful or wants to be: Sephora (cue allelujah chorus). Bought a Smashbox eyeshadow trio and some tinted lip gloss. Then off to The GAP to make my first fall wardrobe purchase of 2006, a pair of straight leg "boyfriend" jeans. Whatever.
Why does my IPOD keep losing battery juice? How come it didn't come with any instructions? Every time I plug it in to my computer to charge it, it cautions "Do Not Disconnect." Is it charging? Am I shutting it off correctly? I would know if it came with instructions.
My niece is 5 1/2 and weighs 30 pounds. She's fully caught on to the fact that she was born premature and is now using it as a martyr tactic. When she feels she's being asked to do too much, she yells, "But I'm a premie!"
Why is Nicole Ritchie famous?
Two more great activites rounded out my day. I went to Georgetown and saw a terrific movie with my friend Chris (aka "Body By Jake"). "Little Miss Sunshine" is a great movie about...I don't feel like explaining it. But it's a "must see" in my book.
Then I visited the shrine to all that is beautiful or wants to be: Sephora (cue allelujah chorus). Bought a Smashbox eyeshadow trio and some tinted lip gloss. Then off to The GAP to make my first fall wardrobe purchase of 2006, a pair of straight leg "boyfriend" jeans. Whatever.
Why does my IPOD keep losing battery juice? How come it didn't come with any instructions? Every time I plug it in to my computer to charge it, it cautions "Do Not Disconnect." Is it charging? Am I shutting it off correctly? I would know if it came with instructions.
My niece is 5 1/2 and weighs 30 pounds. She's fully caught on to the fact that she was born premature and is now using it as a martyr tactic. When she feels she's being asked to do too much, she yells, "But I'm a premie!"
Why is Nicole Ritchie famous?
Friday, August 11, 2006
Hair: Diversion From Reality
August 11, 2006
A quiet but busy work week in August culminated in an early Friday departure to make a 4:30 appointment with my stylist. Not nearly as pretentious as it sounds, it's a guilty pleasure I've enjoyed since I was eight years old. With all the money I've spent on my hair, I could easily have made a down payment on a single family home in one of the most expensive housing markets in the country...and have a BMW idling in the garage. But instead I invest in cut, color, blow out and volumizing products in a futile attempt to improve what cannot be changed: fine, flat, mousy brown hair.
In the fifth grade, I instructed Romaine, my stylist at the time, to cut off my shoulder length hair and, in keeping with the latest trends, perm it. And so my hair went from long and stringy to short and curly. I can still see my mother's face when she walked into the salon, which by the way, was housed in my neighbor's converted garage. She took one look and cupped her hand over her mouth in an effort to suppress the gasp. Mom managed to sputter out an "I love it," but bless her heart the damage was done. I made a poor choice and this was only the beginning of the fallout.
Even then I knew the importance of product, so I left Romaine's with two cans of mousse: one vanilla scented to highlight the "blonde" strands and one chocolate scented to accentuate the "brunette." Armed with my products, I headed home to face the ultimate judgement: my dad and five brothers. I still can't remember their reactions. The brain is an incredible organ with it's ability to block out memories involving shock, trauma and humiliation. What I do remember, however, is walking into my fifth grade classroom and one boy pointing at me and yelling, "Hey, it's Annie! Annie! Annie!" Unfortunately for me, "Annie" had recently been made into a major motion picture starring Aileen Quinn, Carol Burnett and Burnadette Peters. And so my first "bad hair day" left an indelible mark. And yet, there would be more perms in my future. Those who do not learn from their mistakes are doomed to repeat them.
But back to today. Within the last year I started coloring the mousy brown hair. It's straight now - haven't had a perm since college. But the new color, a deep, rich brown (so adventurous), conjures up another cinematic icon - Sally Field in "Steel Magnolias." Her daughter, played by Julia Roberts (ick), says it's not hard to fix her hair, "Just tease it and make it look like a brown football helmet." Yep. That's pretty much my hair. But mine isn't big. Instead it resembles the leather football helmets of the 1920's.
I could go on and on about the many adventures I've had with my hair. From the seventh grade mullet to the eighth grade bob to the uneven "mod do" in the later high school years. But I won't. However before I conclude my first posting I must make one final hair point: I never had big, teased up, AquaNet fire hazard hair. Never.
And so I'll conclude this mindless post. But I desperately needed some mindless mullings today. I live in a world where Islamofascists want to destroy everything and everyone that doesn't conform to their world view. Thank God for the Brits. They uncovered a terrorist (Muslim) plan to blow up airplanes traveling from London to the U.S. as they flew over the Atlantic Ocean. The plan was to be carried out next week. The rage and hate I feel are frightening. My four year old nephew once admonished me after I proclaimed my hatred for snakes. "Aunt XXX," he said, "we don't hate." I know baby. I know.
A quiet but busy work week in August culminated in an early Friday departure to make a 4:30 appointment with my stylist. Not nearly as pretentious as it sounds, it's a guilty pleasure I've enjoyed since I was eight years old. With all the money I've spent on my hair, I could easily have made a down payment on a single family home in one of the most expensive housing markets in the country...and have a BMW idling in the garage. But instead I invest in cut, color, blow out and volumizing products in a futile attempt to improve what cannot be changed: fine, flat, mousy brown hair.
In the fifth grade, I instructed Romaine, my stylist at the time, to cut off my shoulder length hair and, in keeping with the latest trends, perm it. And so my hair went from long and stringy to short and curly. I can still see my mother's face when she walked into the salon, which by the way, was housed in my neighbor's converted garage. She took one look and cupped her hand over her mouth in an effort to suppress the gasp. Mom managed to sputter out an "I love it," but bless her heart the damage was done. I made a poor choice and this was only the beginning of the fallout.
Even then I knew the importance of product, so I left Romaine's with two cans of mousse: one vanilla scented to highlight the "blonde" strands and one chocolate scented to accentuate the "brunette." Armed with my products, I headed home to face the ultimate judgement: my dad and five brothers. I still can't remember their reactions. The brain is an incredible organ with it's ability to block out memories involving shock, trauma and humiliation. What I do remember, however, is walking into my fifth grade classroom and one boy pointing at me and yelling, "Hey, it's Annie! Annie! Annie!" Unfortunately for me, "Annie" had recently been made into a major motion picture starring Aileen Quinn, Carol Burnett and Burnadette Peters. And so my first "bad hair day" left an indelible mark. And yet, there would be more perms in my future. Those who do not learn from their mistakes are doomed to repeat them.
But back to today. Within the last year I started coloring the mousy brown hair. It's straight now - haven't had a perm since college. But the new color, a deep, rich brown (so adventurous), conjures up another cinematic icon - Sally Field in "Steel Magnolias." Her daughter, played by Julia Roberts (ick), says it's not hard to fix her hair, "Just tease it and make it look like a brown football helmet." Yep. That's pretty much my hair. But mine isn't big. Instead it resembles the leather football helmets of the 1920's.
I could go on and on about the many adventures I've had with my hair. From the seventh grade mullet to the eighth grade bob to the uneven "mod do" in the later high school years. But I won't. However before I conclude my first posting I must make one final hair point: I never had big, teased up, AquaNet fire hazard hair. Never.
And so I'll conclude this mindless post. But I desperately needed some mindless mullings today. I live in a world where Islamofascists want to destroy everything and everyone that doesn't conform to their world view. Thank God for the Brits. They uncovered a terrorist (Muslim) plan to blow up airplanes traveling from London to the U.S. as they flew over the Atlantic Ocean. The plan was to be carried out next week. The rage and hate I feel are frightening. My four year old nephew once admonished me after I proclaimed my hatred for snakes. "Aunt XXX," he said, "we don't hate." I know baby. I know.
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