I guess I am going through the five phases of grief.

Over my car. It is a Volkswagen GTI, V6. The first car I have gotten speeding tickets in. (two)

The denial has been building for a while. I have been nursing this relationship for years, knowing it would eventually end, but not really certain when. In a vague sense, I figured it would be another year. The car has been paid for since I bought it brand new in 2001. I was leaving my Big Person’s Job to start grad school and needed something that wouldn’t kill me with repairs.

Save for oil changes and normal stuff, the car treated me well for the first few years. Weird stuff happened, like the plastic lifters for the electric windows collapsed, shattering the glass inside the door. Mercifully, it was under warranty.

After moving to Way South Texas in 2004, things started going wrong. I remember spending the better part of my first full summer here, at the repair shop. The check engine light kept coming on. The mechanics seemed to diagnose the problem and I was good to go. Until it came on again. And again.

The heat here is unlike anywhere else I’ve lived. I think this took a toll on the vehicle’s delicate German engineering. (never thought I’d describe German engineering as delicate, but that’s what it is)
The handle for the glove box came off. Interior moulding came off the door handles. My leather seat, cracked and split from the heat and sun.

And then came the “Little Miss Sunshine” phase (which it hasn’t outgrown). I discovered that the car’s alarm system would start up if I got in the car and didn’t fire up the ignition within 45 seconds. It was exactly like that scene in the movie where the VW bus’ horn begins honking at will, incessantly.

Whenever I had passengers, I would tell them to hurry up and get in so I could start the engine or there would be trouble.

That wasn’t all. The sunroof opens at will. No idea why. The keyless entry (which was a big selling point for me) stopped working and then began working again. It was baffling.

Last fall, while driving a group of students to Austin for a conference, it grew warmer and warmer inside the vehicle. We discerned that the a/c had crapped out. Luckily, it was October and a front was coming through, so it wasn’t too bad.

In March, knowing I needed to drive another carload of students to Kerrville for another conference, I sucked it up and had the a/c fixed. By the time they were done, I was $873 in the hole. Ow.

The anger came last month when, after going in for what I thought was to be an oil change. Seems the gasket cover and some hose were broken and $524 later, it was fixed.

I knew that I would be needing to get another vehicle, eventually. Hell, this thing only has less than 75,000 miles on it. I really wanted to drive it for twice that much mileage. I guess this was the bargaining stage.

On Sunday and Monday, depression began. I was on my way back from the beach and I noticed the check engine light was on again. This was it. I took it to Auto Zone and the diagnosis was something about a faulty air combination valve.

WTF?

If it was something normal like transmission or brakes or a clutch (it still has the original), I would be understanding. But this weird stuff is wearing on me. The car’s adorable-ness was shallow. It was becoming a nuisance, an embarrassment.

I cried for a bit on Monday, realizing that a new car and, more importantly, monthly payments were in my immediate future. I was not ready for this part yet. I wanted to do this on my terms, not the car’s.

But I can’t put up with the hassle any longer.

Acceptance came on Tuesday when, after researching vehicles I can afford, I found something I could love. I went for a test drive. It doesn’t feel as solid as my VW and the steering wheel feels less sturdy, but the visibility is remarkable and it looks sporty enough so I don’t feel like a soccer mom. And, I can get it with a manual transmission, which is a must in my book.

Today, Wednesday, I found my current car’s title. I don’t know how much I’ll get for it, given the check engine light and the upholstery issues. But I am hopeful it will be enough for a decent down payment and affordable monthly payments.

Tomorrow, I return to the dealership to make my bid. I won’t be driving it off the lot just yet, because they don’t have the one I want. But I will be getting it, and hopefully, a number of years without headache-y maintenance.

And I was at peace about my hair color until my mid-20s, when I decided to jazz it up a little with highlights.

I went to Mitchell’s, one of the swankest salons in Cincinnati and had this bubbly stylist named Cheryl work her magic. This consisted of me putting on a plastic shower cap with holes in it. She’d take a crochet hook and pull out strands of hair. Then, she’d cover the naked hair with a bleach/color solution, while I made “blonde thoughts” as she put it.

After about 20-30 minutes, the cap mercifully was pulled off and the hair washed and dried and, voila, I was a new person.

Most men cannot appreciate the mentality that goes into changing one’s hair color. Most guys I know get it cut wherever and then let nature take its course.

For women, especially brown-eyed brunettes like me, we become viewed as Ordinary. The ones who get second looks are ones with striking shades of red or blonde. Brunettes are in the background, like camouflage for the rest of the world to stand out against.

The trouble with coloring one’s hair is once it grows out, you get those telltale roots. Then, the internal debate begins: do I grow it out or get it highlighted again?
For about four years, the latter argument always won.

Then, when I was 28 or so, I stopped coloring it.

That lasted about a year. I was about to turn (gasp) 30 and thought the dark hair made me look older. I immediately went back to the old salon…

…except this time, we moved up to a harder drug in the world of hair color: foils.

Foils are, exactly that, pieces of foil that are placed on small sections of hair where color is applied and kept separate from the other strands. This is done over and over until you end up looking like you could contact Mars with your head.

The dork factor is about equal, when considering the cap versus foils, but foils have a better street cred: models and actresses and the beautiful people use them. Caps are for rookies.

This ritual would be repeated every three months or so (the general rule is six weeks, but I can’t afford that, so I deal with roots).

For the most part, everything went pretty well until I moved to Way South Texas where many colorists were unfamiliar with Caucasian hair. They would look me over, mix up a concoction, foil and color me up and I would alternately look like their idea of Jennifer Aniston or Charlize Theron.

I was generally too polite to correct them and smiled wanly afterward and lied, “It looks great. Thanks” And I would pay and give a 20 percent tip.

This went on for a while. Then about a year or so ago, on a visit home, my sister looked at me and hissed, “Your hair is too light. It’s yellow.” I agreed.

So, I went to a salon in a lower-end department store whose name rhymes with Lenny, and asked the stylist how I should best combat this crazy yellow hair. Her solution: covering it all with a really dark, Cruella de Ville-style dye. She said it would eventually fade and look like my real color.

OMG. It was too dark. I felt like I’d entered the Three Bears of Haircolor and Just Right was nowhere to be found.

I washed and washed the dark dye with Prell, trying to speed up the part where I would look like me again.

I walked into my classroom the following Monday and heard gasps. Of course, I had to give them the Reader’s Digest version of the tale so they wouldn’t think I was going through a Goth phase.

Mercifully, in time, the hair color returned to something like normal.

And all was well until right before spring break this year.

I felt like my roots were getting dark and I wanted a change. I went back to a salon that had done my color a couple of times previously. The usual person couldn’t do it, so someone else offered. Desperate, I agreed.

The bad part is, the person who’d done my color before couldn’t remember me or the formula, but sort of winged it. This colorist was simply following the other person’s instructions. I’d been confused with someone else.

An hour and a half later, as I sat before the mirror with wet hair, I could already see my hair was too light. But I paid and went home and got ready for that day’s lecture.

A couple of hours later, as I was getting ready to leave for campus, I looked at myself in the mirror and my hair looked almost white. This would simply not do. I called the salon and asked if the colorist could add a toner (by now, I was an old hand at their code-talk). She could. So, I raced to the salon, she did her thing and it was sort of better. At least I could walk into class without giving them a shock.

But as the weeks passed, and when I saw myself in photos, I was taken aback. My hair was yellow.

I endured this for a few more weeks and yesterday, after getting paid for the month, I marched into a new salon and talked to the colorist. I noted she had a northern accent. She asked me where I was from originally and I said Ohio. She’s from Michigan.

She noted that there was no depth of color in my hair and that it was basically the same color as my skin. She added that there are a lot of colorists in this part of Texas who haven’t had a lot of experience working with different types of hair. I was glad she understood the difference.

She also noted, to my delight, that I have no gray, so fixing this would be easy. She added lowlights, which is a shade close to the natural color and a few highlights (but not yellow). Two hours later, I looked like me again.

I know this is probably sort of narcissistic, but people judge you on your looks. And I always cringed when people referred to me as a blonde. I am a brunette and proud of it.

last week

this week

]]> http://donnapaz.wordpress.com/2010/05/08/you-are-your-hair-color/feed/ 0 donnapaz last week this week http://donnapaz.wordpress.com/2010/03/19/the-bartender-wore-flames/ http://donnapaz.wordpress.com/2010/03/19/the-bartender-wore-flames/#comments Fri, 19 Mar 2010 14:32:15 +0000 donnapaz http://donnapaz.wordpress.com/?p=2800 ]]> Last night I met up with a few of my staffers at this bar in downtown McAllen called The Vintage Room. The drawing card was that, as Kevin put it, the World’s Coolest Bartender works there.

This guy blows flames and all kinds of cool tricks.

I’m afraid of fire, but I was game as long as I didn’t have to touch it.

I got there around 9:20 and Kevin was already there talking to this guy behind the bar. He said his name is Lucky. I doubt that’s a real name, but I played along.

Blue margaritas were free to the ladies on Thursday nights. Me and tequila don’t really get along, but I couldn’t say no to free. And, surprisingly, it wasn’t too bad. I just knew enough to stop at two, lest I’d be regurgitating blue drinks later.

Soon after, Daniel and Santa showed up.

Lucky looked to be the kind of guy who gets bored if he has to stand still for long. He has this slyly mischievous look on his face most of the time. Throughout the evening, he fiddled with dabbing bits of alcohol into patterns with his fingers and then he’d set it afire. Mind you, the bar is made of wood.

Miraculously, the bar did not catch fire. Bored with that, he’d upturn shot glasses and fill the bottom of the well with alcohol and set it afire. He experimented with putting a ring of salt around the perimeter, creating a sort of fire-free DMZ.

Once, he put a little chunk of ice in the well and poured alcohol over it. The blue flames spilled over the sides of the glass. I wondered aloud if the glass would break. He quickly extinguished the fire, realizing that the ice and the fire could create an explosion of glass. I felt slightly smart.

I noticed some napkins strategically stuffed in the top of an empty rum (I think) bottle. He lit the end of the napkins and then took a sip of alcohol and blew.

A ball of fire blew up.

Whoa.

Later, when there were more of us around the bar, he blew fireball after fireball. He was like an alcohol-induced Puff the Magic Dragon.

Then, he dipped his fingertips in alcohol and set them afire. Yow. And then he set his hand afire.

It was quite a spectacle.

The best pyrotechnics I’d seen prior to this were in Key West at sundown, when all of these crazy showmen come out and urge cats to leap through hoops of fire or the guy who ate fiery swords. All of that was outdoors.

Inside, this stuff seemed more dangerous.

I think Lucky’s wild side comes out when he’s in front of a group. Ten bucks says he’s a full-on Leo. He says he doesn’t practice this stuff at home. And he didn’t grow up on the wild side: he went to Sharyland High School, hardly the stuff of deprivation or neglect.

When he grew bored of playing with fire, he played little mental puzzle games with us. He placed four straws in the formation of a football goal. He directed Kevin to move one straw to make a goal, or two straws to make a formation.

Then, he placed a dollar bill on the bar and upturned an empty Miller Lite bottle. Without touching the bottle, he urged Kevin to remove the dollar bill.

I won’t divulge the secrets to these games, and I’m sure there were dozens more after I left. Common sense and the fear of getting drunk on blue margaritas urged me out of there at a fairly early hour. Which is something I doubt Lucky would do.

but first, i offer my conclusion: i think it is extraordinarily difficult to do away with something that is part of your normal routine, while you are in your normal routine.

for instance, when i’m on vacation or out of town, i spend far less time doing certain things i’d have done at home, simply because i’m not at home. so, i give my class two thumbs up for at least attempting this.

well, i did have at least one person who apparently flouted the request and simply watched tv, with no explanation of why he chose not to give it up. maybe he misunderstood or was being a rebel. i was not amused.

a lot of them love reality shows and a couple complained they didn’t know what to wear because they couldn’t turn on tv to hear about the weather report.

one guy admitted he had to give up watching porn. (extra credit for honesty!)

the majority of people reported that they struggled with the assignment and made it for most of the days.

a lot of people slept. or spent time with their families or significant others. a few took up reading books. a lot of them finished schoolwork or went shopping.

a couple of people cried. i felt horrible about that.

the majority of them admitted to watching too much television and that this exercise afforded them a rare peek into their lifestyles and made them aware of how they spend their time.

and for me, it’s very true. if i have to explain my goofy, offhand point to someone, it kills the fun of making the reference in the first place.

a couple of weeks ago, one of my staffers accidentally turned his google buzz update into a chat with another friend. i read it, bemused by the randomness of it. later, i found out they were quoting lines from “billy madison.” sorry, haven’t seen that one enough to have caught on that they were having a cultural slingfest.

he later explained that he and his best friend “own” three of the top 10 stupidest conversations of all time.

and i got his joke.

hell, i go around quoting “national lampoon’s vacation” : “this is YOUR car…” and “Davenport!…yes, Mr. Ed….where is Mr. Griswold’s sports wagon?….i don’t know sir.”

or bridget jones’ diary, “here is the man we like to call Mr…(tits pervert, tits pervert)….uh, Fitzherbert, because…that’s his name!”

and this sort of silliness can be found on people’s status updates on facebook or twitter.

sometimes, i will notice the odd post and google the phrase, wondering where it came from. and i am bothered, somehow, because the person has kind of ripped off the phrase without attributing it.

maybe i’m being overly fussy because of being a journalist. i believe people should attribute where they find things or at least admit that they found it somewhere.

what’s most bothersome, though, is can’t we have an original thought? are we so concerned about looking foolish that it is simpler to take someone else’s words and just….steal them?

One girl noted that she really wanted to watch the Olympics on Sunday night, but decided to read about it via Twitter. How novel.

Others have been reading more.

There are some, however, who normally don’t watch much TV and have found that this experiment was having the opposite effect. As Josh put it, when he’s told not to do something, it makes him want to do it more.

I know the feeling.

Last night was a big challenge as I have the only weeknight off from teaching at the gym. That means from 4 pm, when I get home from school, until I go to bed, is left unstructured.

So, I graded papers. I swept the floors. Played with the cats. Read blogs and gossip online. Leafed through magazines. And reacquainted myself with one of my favorite radio stations, WOXY. I listened to “vintage” WOXY, which meant hearing Blondie, the Ramones and The Clash. It was a fun trip down memory lane and, having the house to myself, afforded me the opportunity to dance around the kitchen whilst doing dishes.

It was a pleasant enough evening, but I felt like I was overcompensating — like doing too much when being quiet and still would have been enough. This is a strange feeling, but it will pass.

but i need to be honest here, that’s how i get forgiveness, right?

well, on Day Two of the no-TV experiment, I stumbled a little. I watched a couple of You Tube videos and was lured, I tell you, to watch a little bit of TV. How could I resist the legendary Iggy Pop as he was asked, straightfaced, by the equally legendary Tom Waits, if he wanted to go to Taco Bell in the movie “Coffee and Cigarettes.”

It was actually worth it to see Iggy (or is it Pop?) attempt to suppress a laugh and reply, “You callin’ me a Taco Bell kind of guy?”
The idea of these two walking into a Taco Bell together would have been fun to see. But, alas, it did not come to pass.

And, I caught a few moments of the trippy sci-fi film, “Sunshine,” when I was asked to take a look at the screen and guess which movie it was.

I repented by blaring “Peggy Sussed,” the incongruous, but wonderful electronica piece that opens up the closing credits..

In fact, music has been sort of a solace. When you share quarters with a TV fanatic, as I do, obeying this experiment’s rules can be difficult.

As a kid, I remember our priest, Father Dittman, telling us that if we had an impure thought, we should replace it with a good one and God will forgive us. (I think he was telling us hormone-charged seventh graders not to think about sex, but I was a late bloomer and missed the point until years later.)

So, I’ve taken the old priest’s words to heart this time and whenever I think about watching TV, I’ll soothe myself with music. In a weird way.

For instance, all this talk about “Family Guy” made me think about the funny part of an episode where Peter goes to the Sweaty Clam gym and these two Hanz-and-Franz guys talk about proper nutrition. Then they bust out into song, “Steak and Eggs and eggs and steak, that’s what we’re having for breakfast (delicious)….”
I wanted to pull up the clip and sing.

Instead, I’ve walked around the house, singing it, instead. (I’d post the clip, but that’s a violation)

And yesterday, when I was looking up some music clips to recommend to a friend, I stumbled upon a clip of Jeff Tweedy (lead singer of Wilco) and his son, on the tour bus. It’s from Sam Jones’ excellent Wilco documentary, “I am Trying to Break Your Heart.” The moment was lovely, but I had to atone — again.

So, I put on the headphones and cranked up the album, “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.”

Today will be better as I go to school all day. The night poses a problem, but I’ll try to stay strong.

Pardon the pun, but, stay tuned.

But each Thursday, I summon my skills and attempt to be entertaining and funny (which I am good at) and figure out a way to engage this group. Luckily, I already know many of the people in the class. They’re sort of groupies (we all get them) who take as many courses with me as they can. Sometimes that familiarity can become a toxic stew of personalities as people jokingly heckle me or the loud ones who overwhelm the quieter ones.

Well, this past Thursday, everyone — even my quiet ones — took note when I assigned their first mini-project.

The mini-project is my way of assessing how they think, write and interpret what we’re learning. Rather than assign a 10-page research paper, I devised this way to achieve the same ends and hopefully make it better on them and me. There are four of these assignments.

The assignment?

For five consecutive days, they are not to watch TV or videos.

I knew it would be a tough sell, but the looks of shock and cries of disbelief were hard to take.

One of them said she uses TV to help her sleep at night. Another said she is a YouTube “addict.” Another complained that the Olympics are on. Still another deduced that we couldn’t have current events in next week’s quiz because they couldn’t watch TV. Nice try, but what about radio, newspapers or the Internet.

The purpose of this exercise? To see what else you can do with the time you would otherwise be spending watching TV or videos online. Would they pick up a book? Spend more time interacting with people? Or cave in?

Midway through this discussion, an idea popped in my head: as an act of solidarity, I would give up TV/video with them.

Of course, I didn’t tell them that I am not a big TV-watcher. In fact, I mainly just listen to it in the background while I do other things. But, I do have a few programs I watch and enjoy finding some decent movie on HBO or Showtime in the evenings. Maybe it would be harder than I thought.

I decide to start today because I knew I had to watch the season premiere of Bill Maher’s show last night.

Here I am on Day 1: No TV in the morning, no problem. But, dang, there are a LOT of videos online. Blogs, news sites, Facebook all have videos. I never realized this was such a commonplace thing. My fingers twitch. No. No. No.

I am on Facebook chat when Josh, one of the students in my class and a member of the magazine staff, sends me a message about going to New York City to track down a visiting professor here who is homeless up there. As we bandy the idea around, he sends me a link with a video interview he’d done with the writer.

I almost click on it.

Josh! We aren’t supposed to be watching videos.

He acknowledges this and apologizes.

Then, as I am perusing Facebook, I notice that a few of my students have posted videos on their profiles today, encouraging people to watch.

Ack. When do they plan to start the five-day clock? Or are they aware that this is already a violation of the rules?

I can already see this is going to be a loooong five days.

i have been in love more times than i care to admit. i have been the dumpee much more often than the dumper. and while some breakups have rendered me unable to function for days, my heart managed to go on.

the worst breakup ever (and i had a half dozen viable contenders) had to have been when i was insanely in love with a guy whose ex was seeing my ex. (drama, anyone?) we had a torrid, brief affair that pretty much overshadowed anything i’d been in previously or since. yeah.

but he was tormented by the possibility that his ex, who was now conflicted about my ex, might still be The One.

i returned from 10 days in cuba to three romantic voice mails on my answering machine (this was 1996). i called him back only to find out he was conflicted about his ex.

i was devastated.

worse, he dragged me along while he vacillated between me and the ex.

finally, one thursday night, he came by after work and said he couldn’t be with me anymore. i was planning a romantic dinner and evening with him (stupidly). as he left, i could see him walking down the front path, and i dialed my friend, debbie, who lived in north miami beach. i told her i needed to see her and explained what had happened.

i packed a bag, planning to stay the night. i couldn’t BE in my house that night for the memories.

i got to her place, a high-rise condo near the bay, and she’d summoned joanne, another friend who lived in the building. i’d sheltered joanne months earlier when her live-in boyfriend fell in love with someone else while in haiti on assignment.

we sat up all night, drinking cuban rum and eating chocolate.

the next day, i called in sick. i couldn’t bear the idea of having to work. i stayed at debbie’s another night and finally mustered the wherewithall to return home.

many, many years later, the guy who shattered my heart rekindled our friendship. he has apologized again and again and i have forgiven him. he didn’t end up with his ex, either.
but it still makes my heart hurt when i think about that period of my life.
***********************************************

then, there has been great romance or something.

in 2001, i went to cuba in july, before starting grad school. i took the train across cuba to santiago de cuba.
while there, an acquaintance from the train, a british girl named paula, and i hung out at casa de la trova.

casa is a renowned club there that hosts bands all day and night.

during the day, the old people come out and dance to the classics and at night, a younger crowd inhabits its unremarkable building.

the first night we were there, we were listening to a band and i saw this man with a beautiful face and incredible brown eyes. it was like something out of the movies: we searched for each other when the group had a break. he reminded me of a young george harrison, with a fine, thin nose and high cheekbones. he was black and had short drealocks (santiago is closer to jamaica than any other country, so this cultural thing was the norm).

paula (who was tall and black and looked like a native, but spoke zero spanish) managed to attract a lot of guys. she indicated that i was interested in this guy in the band.

well, before i knew it, her admirers were dragging this poor guy over to me.

it was a little embarrassing.

still, it was something i will never forget.

his name was ednar, and his nickname was piki (short for “pequeno,” or little). he was about 5-feet-5, which was nice for me, as i am 5-feet-3.

my spanish was miraculously good. we hung out that night, the next day and the night after.

the final night before i had to go back to havana, we went to a party with his friends. i told him i had to be home by 11 because the people i was staying with might worry.

we kissed and kissed.

then he said the most romantic thing any man has ever said to me:
“quiero tenerte“

to translate it into english does no good. it means “I want to have you,” but it has a deeper meaning in spanish.

i wanted him, too, but held back.

that was the last time i ever saw him.

but the memory of him still remains.

i am among the last 10 people on the planet to finally see the damned movie today. i didn’t know really what to expect, except there were these weird-looking blue people living in some utopian other world. i had also heard how some people fell into depression after realizing that the make-believe world didn’t really exist.

ohhhhhhkayyyyy….

so, i settled in with my popcorn and soda and 3-d glasses and got sucked into the film.

the protagonist, a wheelchair-bound marine who is sent to pandora in place of his dead twin, is a likeable average dude.

and then we meet the rest of the characters: the nerdy buddy-sidekick, the tough on the outside, but warm and fuzzy broad with whom he reports to, the military commander who’s so tough he looks like he’d consume nails for extra iron and the smarmy little business dude who has no moral compass.

the problem is, none of these characters ever really grows or changes beyond their idiotic cartoony persona.

that was annoying, but not nearly as annoying as when the smarmy guy tells our soldier, with a straight face that they’re on pandora to mine for the biggest supply of “unobtainium.” i laughed aloud.

seriously, it was like that scene in “thank you for smoking” when rob lowe’s character is pitching an idea to the PR guy about how to have people smoke in space. PR guy is like, “wouldn’t they explode in space?”
and lowe’s character replies, “it’s an easy fix…thank god we invented the whatever device.”

and while the film was beautiful and fairly compelling, it just couldn’t rise above the incredibly over-simplified stereotypes.

you finally get to the point where you can figure out how it’s going to end and then it takes another drivelly hour to get there.

how this was nominated for best picture is beyond me.

for my money and time, i’ll vote for cameron’s ex-wife, kathryn bigelow’s film “hurt locker.” there is a wonderfully drawn cast of characters you can really care about and are surprised by. shit blows up in this movie, too, but it’s not gratuitous and silly as in “avatar.”

i didn’t hate this movie, but i don’t see where everyone is all lathered up about it, much less feeling depressed because they can’t exist in this fantasyland.