Well, I cut my hairs off.
And that’s that.
Author: approximately
Fluffy stuff
SINCE MOVING INTO THE NEW PLACE, I’ve acquired a new, “big girl” bed. It’s wider and fluffier than the rock of a twin bed it replaced, which is in my book, completely exciting.
The one thing about this bed is, while it’s incredibly comfortable, it’s also completely BORING. It’s nothing but a frame, granted I did outfit it with an adorable bed skirt (“Vintage Chic” from SAVERS, no less). This bed CLEARLY needs a headboard.
Now, I don’t know if you know this—actually, I didn’t really know this until right now, but I’ve got a thing for headboards. So when I recently ran across this beaut, well, there was no question in my mind that I. Must. Find. A. Way. To fabricate it!
Many amazing things about this headboard:
1. First of all, it’s ORANGE, one of the most glorious colors in the universe.
II. It’s velvet, I think. And even if it’s not, it looks LUSH and fuzzy as heck.
c. It has an incredibly curious shape.
4. I will never hit my head against the wall AGAIN.
V. THINK OF HOW GOOD IT WILL LOOK with my colorific afghan! Ajgsdfjkj!!!!
Amazing. Simply lovely. So, this is my undertaking once I get all this so-called “school” jazz outta the way.
Furthermore, a pillow like this would be the icing on the bedding cake:
Gahhh. Love love love.
Ramen Noodles
A GIRL CAME THROUGH MY LINE TONIGHT with a stack of Ramen noodles.
Ramen noodles! I thought, “Now there’s something I haven’t had since Clinton was in office!”
I recalled the days when the circumference of our lazy susan was chockablock with Ramen, Campbell’s soup and Kraft Mac ‘n Cheese—”The Cheesiest”—in an assortment of pasta shapes.
I glanced at the price. THIRTY-THREE CENTS?! Thirty-three cents for that pack of Ramen delight, boy-oh-boy do I know what I’m having for dinner…
I punched out and bought a pack. It was “Oriental” flavored, the only flavor my mom used to buy, the only flavor of Ramen I’ve ever known.
I microwaved it for five minutes. I ever-so-carefully strained the dish to just the right water/noodle ratio, then delicately dusted the cuisine with the packet of fine “Oriental” spices the folks at Maruchan so kindly provided with my noodles.
And I ate those suckers, somewhat barbarically. I had to taste it again.
They were, probably, one of the 200 best meals I’ve had since Clinton was in office.
The Squirrel and the Chipmunk
The squirrel and the chipmunk had been dating for two weeks when they ran out of things to talk about. Acorns, parasites, the inevitable approach of autumn. These subjects had been covered within their first hour, and so breathlessly, their faces had flushed. Twice, they’d held long conversations about dogs, each declaring their across-the-board hatred of them, and speculating on what life might be like were someone had put a bowl of food in front of them two times a day.
“They’re spoilt rotten, is what it comes down to,“ the chipmunk had said. And the squirrel had placed his paw over hers and said, “That’s it, exactly. Finally, someone who really gets it!”
Friends had warned them that their romance could not possibly work out, and such moments convinced them that these naysayers were not just wrong, but jealous. “They’ll never have what we do,” the squirrel would say. And then the two of them would sit quietly, hoping for a flash flood or a rifle report. Something, anything that might generate a conversation.
They were out one night, a little bar run by a couple of owls, when following a long silence, the squirrel slapped his palm against the tabletop. “You know what I like?” he said. “I like jazz.”
“I didn’t know that, “the chipmunk said. “Thank goodness! Jazz!”
She had no idea what jazz was but worried that asking would make her sound stupid and unworthy of his affections. “What kind, exactly?” she asked, hoping the answer might narrow things down a bit. “Well, all kinds, really, “he told her, “especially the earlier stuff.” “Me too, “she said. And when he asked her why, she told him that the later stuff was just a little too late for her tastes. “Almost like it was overripe or something. You know what I mean?” And for the third time since she had known him, the squirrel reached across the table and took her paw.
On returning home that evening, the chipmunk woke her older sister, with whom she shared a room. “Listen,” she whispered. “I need you to explain something. What’s jazz?”
“Why’re you asking me?” the sister said.
“So you don’t know either?” the chipmunk asked.
“I didn’t say I didn’t know,” the sister said. “I asked you why you’re asking. Does this have anything to do with that squirrel?”
“Maybe,” the chipmunk said.
“Well I’m telling,” the sister announced. “The first thing tomorrow morning, because this has gone on long enough.” She punched at her pillow of moss, then repositioned it beneath her head. “I warned you weeks ago that this wouldn’t work out, and now you’ve got the whole house in an uproar. Waltzing home in the middle of the night, waking me up with your dirty little secrets. Jazz, indeed! You just wait until mother hears about this.”
The chipmunk laid awake that night, imagining the unpleasantness that was bound to take place the following morning. Just as she thought she’d calmed herself down, a new possibility would enter her mind, each one more terrible than the last. Jazz was the maggot-infested flesh of a dead body, the ochre crossed on an infected eye, another word for ritual suicide. And she had claimed to like it.
Years later, when she could put it all in perspective, she’d realize that she’d never really trusted the squirrel. How else to explain all those terrible possibilities? Had he been another chipmunk, even a tough one, she’d have assumed that jazz was something familiar. A kind of root, say, or maybe a hairstyle. Of course her sister hadn’t helped any. None of her family had.
“It’s not that I have anything against squirrels, per se,” her mother had said.
“It’s just that this one, well, I don’t like him.” When pressed for details, she’d mention his fingernails, which were a little too long for her tastes. “A sure sign of vanity, “ she warned. “And then there’s this jazz business. That was what did it.”
Following a sleepless night, the chipmunk’s mother had forced her to break it off. “Well,” the squirrel had sighed, “I guess that’s that.”
“I guess it is,” the chipmunk said.
He headed downriver a few days later, and she never saw him or spoke to him again. “It’s no great loss,” her sister said. “No girl should be subjected to language like that, especially from the likes of him.” “Amen!” her mother added.
Eventually the chipmunk met someone else, and after she’d safely married, her mother speculated that perhaps jazz was a branch of medicine, something like chiropractic therapy that wasn’t quite legitimate. Her sister said no, it was more likely a jig, and then she pushed herself back from the table and kicked her chubby legs into the air. “Oh you,” her mother said, “that’s a can-can!” And then she joined in, and gave a few kicks of her own. This stuck in the chipmunk’s mind. She never knew her mother could identify a dance step, or anything associated with fun. It was a way her own children would eventually think of her. Dull, strict, chained to the past. She had boys, all of them healthy and only one prone to trouble. He had a habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but his heart was good, and the chipmunk knew he would eventually straighten himself up. Her husband thought so too, and died knowing that he had been correct. A month or two after he’d passed on, she asked this son what jazz was. And when he told her it was a kind of music, she knew immediately that he was telling the truth. “Is it…bad music?” she asked. “Well, if it’s played badly,” he said. “Otherwise it’s really quite pleasant.” “Did squirrels invent it?” “God, no!” he said, “Whoever gave you that idea?” The chipmunk stroked her brown and white muzzle. “Nobody,” she said, “I was just guessing.”
When her muzzle grew more white than brown, the chipmunk forgot that she and the squirrel had had nothing to talk about. She forgot the definition of jazz as well, and came to think of it as every beautiful thing that she had failed to appreciate. The taste of warm rain, the smell of a baby, the din of a swollen river rushing past her tree, and onward to infinity.
—David Sedaris
Untitled
For
years
I
have
believed
that
the
only
reason
it
was
never
possible
was
because
i’m
being
honest
and
no
matter
what,
time
always
solves
everything.
Irving Penn
Mrs. Rhinelander Stewart,
New York
1948
This portrait resonates as one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, portrayed by one of the greatest photographers to ever live. I’d say darn near perfection. I could only strive to be this elegant!
A Hairy Subject: Hair
MOST ANYONE THAT KNOWS ME would likely, probably describe me to a stranger in several words: “Curly hair” and “short.” I think that most people that don’t know my name think of me as, “That girl with curly hair” (sometimes the word “petite” is tossed in there for good measure). The word “curly” will always be a descriptive, and I like that. A lot.
The problem is, curly hair is the most bittersweet thing. It’s a blessing, as one of my customers told me today, “Your hair is gorgeous. Natural, I bet. God bless it.” On many occasions I’ve had strangers approach me in public, ask to touch it, and stroke it before I can give them a yes or no answer (I would probably say “no”…because it’s usually STRANGE!) And of course there’s the classic “Is that natural?” always followed by, “My daughter/niece/best friend’s sister has curly hair…” (to which I never know how to respond). What’s un-cool about curly hair is you shed. A LOT. I can’t escape it. Other people get to enjoy/stroke it, but I have to carry this hot mess on my head all day, every day—and it’s a hot, hairy and highly frizzified mess.
I’m starting to think all good things must come to an end—or, in my case, split ends.
Should I cut it really short? Judges? My last cut was in March and it’s getting dangerously gnarly.
Recyclination
Recyclination: The inclination to recycle.
Holly and I started a recycling blog as an assignment for one of our classes. The task was to design a project that explores the idea of making our university greener. We decided to create our blog and advertise it around campus, as well demonstrate the dent that “just two people” can make in the game of recycling. We feel that often times the act of recycling is not given a fair chance because an individual might assume, “I’m just me, just one person, and this one bottle that I throw in the trash isn’t going to matter.” So from now until December, we’ll be saving recyclables from their displacement in trash cans, parking lots—whatever crosses our paths—then returning them to their rightful recycling bin. We’ll be keeping track of how much we collect and posting photographs of our finds each day. We’ll be glorified bag ladies. We’ll probably get dirty looks. But by the end of our project, if all goes as planned, we hope to shed light on how much two people in one community can, in fact, make a difference.
Check out our project at http://recyclination.tumblr.com/
approximatelyes.com 