why I don't write

Like anyone cares.

In December, my computer died a slow death. I took it to my usual computer shop. "It's the charger." They know more than I do. "Okay," I say, and hand them money for a slick new charger with every style of plug I'll never need. I took the computer home and it died in exactly the same way . I took it back. "Its the battery." Their voices calm and assured. "Okay," I say, and  hand them more money for a new Norton subscription and a battery. I took the computer home and it died. It is now early February. I'm not kidding. So I, slow learner, take it back, third trip. "It's the motherboard." This spoken in hushed tones: final, eulogyical. That probably isn't a word. So this means I have to buy another computer. So I hand them some more money and they sell me this piece of crap Lenovo with a keyboard that is so sensitive that I can't use it. CANNOT. So I take it back and by now they hate me. And I secretly hate them but have to be nice so they'll keep helping me. I used to have a sign on my desk at work that said, "If things don't get better around here I'm going to have to ask you to stop helping me." So. So I take it back again because Cliff, the tek wizard who has been robbing me for three months, can make my computer less sensitive. The way he says it is as though he is creating a special slow-witted computer just for me because I am so sensitive. Fine. Just make it so that every time I hover over the mouse pad it doesn't erase every word I've typed. "Okay," I said, "but I reserve the right to decide this isn't the computer for me."

It is working fine now.

homesick

I am taking a day off. Two, actually. I can't tell what is wrong with me and won't take the time to list my symptoms, but let it be known that I am tired of medicine. Tired to death of pills. There is a new one on my growing list and I don't want to take it and I don't think I will. I know what ails me: an appetite bigger than I am. I hate diets. I hate dieters. I hate plans for living that are "not diets." I hate new ideas about food like paleo and gluten free and all the other shit that makes fat women act special at food events. As my terrible doctors keep saying: Eat less, move more. I hate simple solutions to complex problems. I like quick fixes and immediate gratification. There..Jesus.

My house is torn to bits. I have no home. We have stairs emerging from the ceiling, now, and a proper way to move items between floors. I think we finally actually, almost have a two story house with a basement. More to decorate, which would seem like bliss if I felt better. So, I am not at home at home.Clearly, this is destabilizing for me.

It is spring already, and this also concerns me. I know the foolhardiness of a false spring and planting early. I've murdered my fair share of tiny baby flowers. But this year, this evidence of climate change year, has had a false spring so long that the first day of spring is coming Saturday. I think it was less a false spring than a non-winter. My daphne is done, in fact, we're getting a second bloom; the bulbs are up and confused, the lilac is holding out for the right date, I think. She is the wiser of my perrenials.

My husband has nearly survived his time off and the surgery. He does more than he should, but he also seems more and more like the guy I married. It is good to see glimpses of him.

blonde and back again

I've been gray since August. When I had a little white mohawk, I grew fond of it, but it curled and fluffed into old lady gray with bits of white. At work I made funny jokes like, "when my hair grew back in after cancer it didn't have any bleach on it." So Ifinalllllly made an appointment with my stylist. Truthfully, she is my neighbor, and she walked past my house last weekend and I yelled from my porch, "Bleach my hair." I arrived at the salon. In salon-speak, which I never have understood, she explained that any real color will accentuate the spots of scalp not yet filled in by hair. Oh. Okay. So I asked in non salon language, "Can't I just have what I used to have?" The short answer was yes. But what I'd meant was blonde. Brightwhiteblonde. What she heard was: the color that lives under the gray. My natural color.

Make sense so far?

So, I leaned back, closed my eyes and waited for the magic to happen.

Or not. Turns out what lives beneath the old lady gray is a dark steely blonde, kind of like dishwater from cleaning camping pans. So, what I ended up with was an exact duplication of my darkest hair woven in between the gray. Steel blonde. She did a really nice job. She lives next door. Had I mentioned that?

So, after a rough night's sleep, I got up, drove to Target and bought a box of platinum dye for the absolute maximum lift. I got home, begged Nicole to help me -- this is her area, making people not feel like shit after stupid mistakes -- and she counseled me through the process. Midway, I had to take out the trash and who should be coming down her stairs? My sweet neighbor, Emily. I always thought her name was Abilene. Another story . Beings I was in a corner and visible, I was honest. "I couldn't hang with the dark ." She was so nice. "I would have done that for you." I assured her I knew that. I knew I got what I'd asked for. Only I'd asked in the wrong language.


My husband, who I now hate, says I look like a q-tip. I think I look better than gray. I just couldn't have gray hair. Not yet. If I'd come out looking like Asha, that would be one thing, but she's had white hair since she was five or something ridiculous.

So, my hair is blonde again. I will say that much. Exquisitely so. Now, instead of highlights, I need lowlights, but according to the specialists, I can't have them until tomorrow at the earliest. I'm learning the language of vanity.