Peninsula Highlights

Last week one of my coworkers came in with a new haircut and color. A magical, double-take, is-this-the-same-person cut and color. Said coworker lives in Bremerton, on the peninsula. Exotic territory to me. The hair salon she went to was even further out. After two and a half years in Tacoma, I'd only made it as far west as Gig Harbor, right over the Tacoma Narrows Bridge. It was time to see the peninsula, and it was time to get my magical cut and color. I'd had my hair dyed about three weeks ago. The shade of red approximated vomited-up tomato soup. I hadn't realized I hated it that much, but yeah, it was bad. The Asian stylist was not impressed with my cut either. "I hate your bang" she said, flicking at the thick, blunt-cut curtain over my forehead. "You look like eight year old." She shoved my bangs aside disdainfully. "Who do this, Super Cut?"

She was more charming than I'm making her out to be, and I trusted her. I shrugged and told her to do whatever she wanted. "I always do!" she laughed.

She worked faster than anyone at the more glamorous salons I usually frequent. After spending 20 minutes or so slapping thick purple goo onto my hair, I was sat under a dryer so hot it turned my face burgundy. Will suffer for good hair. When the timer went off she removed one of the foils and studied a strand. "Too yellow! I hate yellow!" Back under the helldryer I went.

When she was drying my hair, she held up a lock to show me the bold highlights. "You see this? Now you can see this, right?" I had to agree. It was like seeing a thick stripe of white paint on a red barn. From outer space. I knew I was going to love it.

She then went on to cut my hair. The aforementioned 'bang'? With one diagonal swoop with texturizing shears, a giant chunk of hair fell onto my lap. I picked it up with detached, morbid fascination. More volume got razored out, which was fine with me. My hair is more than thick enough, and less drying time sounds delightful.

The cut and color came out awesome. The peninsula was pretty cool too. I have pictures of neither for you. But I do have a map:

Driving Directions from 319 N Tacoma Ave, Tacoma, WA to 9222 Silverdale Way NW, Silverdale, WA

Stepping on it

I think I know why I've been photographing stairs lately. Stairs represent climbing toward something. Incremental but steady progression. Moving up toward a goal. Everything I've haven't been doing.

Career-wise, relationship-wise, everything-wise, I've been waiting for escalators - Yes, escalators! - to appear out of nowhere and with their gleaming pearl banisters transport me to my lofty, nebulous, extremely-unrealistic goals,

Should happen any minute now.

Autumn

Zen Autumn

"Where do I go from here?"

Get it? The puffin is on a cliff, overlooking the sea (Ok, a ledge at the zoo) and he's wondering if he can fly...and if he can't, then where is there for him to go? It's a metaphor for my turning 50 and...

I really shouldn't post such silly drivel on my blog.

I otter know better.

In My Element

Divided

Romance

Want to hear all about how depressed I am?

I didn't think so.

You get to anyway: I'm stuck in a holding pattern with my job and have no idea how to get out. I miss Adam. A lot. Ever gone two or even three nights without sleep? I don't recommend it.

Also not recommended: turning 50 when you still - after all this time- can't figure out what most have figured out by 30 (or certainly 40).

Some of the platitudes hurled at me regarding 50 have been vaguely amusing. Most have just underscored how odd I am. My 50 is not your 50.

I have two months and two weeks to go. A lot can happen in that time. Maybe my 50 will not be my 50.

Fair Assessment

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Slalom

Wish I Had Brought Some Fish

Hello, I Must Be Going

How To Be Happy

Maybe they like Styx too

Phone being held out, music in the backgound:

"I'm at a Foreigner concert with your parents!"

More indiscernable music in the background.

"I know you're jealous!"

Voice mail from my 28 year old nephew, currently visiting my parents.

I guess I'll hear the story tomorrow.

Yes, that would be a good day

Online conversation last night with a pilot friend:

Me: What's the best thing that happened to you today?
Him: I made an equal number of take offs and landings.

Alert the Media

A student I recently enrolled writes a column for a small local paper. For this month's column, he chose to write about starting college at the age of 57. He wrote that he plans to continue his education until he has his doctorate at 65. Pretty cool, huh?

He also chose to write about the "beautiful lady" who enrolled him, and how great she was.

It's nice to be recognized and appreciated. Duh. Of course it is. Who doesn't like being recognized and / or appreciated? (Some capricorns seem to be able to live without it as long as they are acheiving world domination, but that's neither here nor there...)

I once read an article in a business magazine about 'Orchid letters' vs 'Onion letters'. Onion letters are the nastygrams people enjoy writing when they are petulant / pissed off/ not made the center of the universe / whatever. Far fewer letters of gratitude get sent. I hope I won't succumb to laziness,as I have in the past,the next time I'm motivated to write an orchid letter. I hope you won't either- especially if you're writing it about me.

Leaving

Educe

Asleep

That would be you. Not me.

Happy 2:23 AM.

I think there's a giant can of sugar-free Red Bull in my tomorrow.

Yes, I've tried everything to be able to sleep. I've tried Ambien several times over the years. If you ever receive an email from me that is unfathomably weird and ends in LLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL, that's me on Ambien. If you walk into my kitchen in the morning and find a colander full of half-cooked spaghetti - which I have no recollection of making- that's me on Ambien. What would I do next on Ambien? It would likely be something freakish and wrong at 3 AM. It certainly wouldn't be sleep.

I may be lucky enough to fall asleep in the next hour. Then I get to get up 3 1/2 hours later. Good times.