Back to Brown We Go

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I'm a brunette again. I love the magic of the hair salon where you sit in a chair and 50 minutes later emerge as someone you barely recognize. SO wish I could have that experience with the bathroom scale.

The truth is, I never meant to go blond in the first place. I agreed to some "gentle highlights to brighten up your face" and left the chair resembling Malibu Barbie. ('Tis okay. I love Malibu Barbie.) I enjoyed my summer blond but as we settle more fully into the pasty stages of winter, I thought it best to return (literally) to my roots.

I had a blast at the salon last night. At 5:30 PM, I was one of the last clients. My stylist--who I've been friends with for years--asked if I cared if she touched up her roots while we were waiting for my color to take hold. "You can do jazzercize while we wait, for all I care," was my reply. So she splated some color on her scalp. Then the two young shampoo girls decided they wanted to color each others hair. In the end, all of us were walking around with foil and hair dye--ho, ho, ho.

Blair and I grocery shopped for our ALL VEGETARIAN holiday meal yesterday. If you look up the definition of "good sport" in the dictionary, Blair's picture will be beside it. We are making the cover meal of the Nov/Dec. Vegetarian Times issue -- mushroom strata, garlicky mashed sweet potatoes, green beans with crispy shallots, and spicy sausage stuffing.

We were going to make the Cranberry side dish, but as we started to gather ingredients (crystallized ginger - $7.95) we realized this "simple" side dish was going to run about $25. Thank you, I'll just pry open a can and plop some cranberries in a dish like I do at Thanksgiving...

Cooking healthy is expensive. Which is fine if everything turns out well and leftovers are eaten. But I made a rather pricey chicken-less chicken pot pie the other day and while it was...okay... it wasn't a taste we cared to revisit and I threw about a pound of perfectly good food away. I hate that.

Pies and cookies and chocolate-dipped apples are pouring into our home from neighbors who--God love them--use REAL butter and sugar when they cook. I need to become one with the treadmill this week.

Right now I'm sitting at my desk looking out the window at a sunrise full of dark pinks and blues--stunning. Great way to start a Tuesday.

"You Just Missed Jesus..."

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Blair and I are back from a weekend spent with relatives in Fayetteville. We were listening to NPR on the way home and found Rick Steeves interviewing people from around the world on Christmas traditions. One aspect that intrigued us is that, in many countries, the Christmas tree is hid from the children until Christmas Eve when it appears fully decorated. The guest from Hungary explained that children are told the baby Jesus (versus Stanta Claus) brings the tree and gifts. Rick Stevees asked how parents managed to sneak a fully decorated tree into the home without kids noticing.

"Oh, they do it while kids are napping or else they send the kids for walks," said the guest. "Then we'd come home from our walk and the tree would be there and our parents would say, 'Oh! You just missed Jesus and the angels...'"

Blair and I had to laugh. It's like, "Ooh, if only you hadn't done that extra lap you and Jesus could have chatted!"

The International Christmas interview was fascinating. Check it out online here.

The Night of the Sticky Floor

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About 6 months ago my friend Melody asked if I had any interest in hearing live bands.

"No," I said.

I am the last person you want to go hear live music with. I don't like the smoke and crowd of bars. I resent having to yell to have a conversation with a friend. And most of the "music" sounds like instruments being thrown down stairs.

Which is why Melody and I were both surprised when, last night, I agreed to go hear--are you ready for this?--PUNK bands at the restaurant/bar across the street from where we'd just come from a meeting.

I had fun. I felt old, standing in a room with 21-year old kids with mohwaks, green hair, studded belts, and--God love them, they're so young--a fedora or two. I wanted to rip the cigarettes out of their hands and say, "Sure, you look 'cool' now, but in fifteen years you're going to be a stale-smelling, pucker-lipped, nicotine addict. Don't do it!" But I enjoyed some of the music and it was fun to be out and about, talking girl talk and pointing out which guys we would have been interested in if we were twenty years younger and single. I rolled in about 11:30, which is equivalent to 3 AM in most peoples worlds.

I've showered and I swear I still smell like smoke. But as I said, it was fun. Great fun. I'll probably become a regular on the punk band indie scene.

Holla.