Perform a good deed
February 18, 2010
I am not a generous person. I have a hard time giving up my time, and an even harder time giving up my money. So when it came time to perform a good deed last week, my cavalier side came to the forefront. I noted that February is Pet Dental Health Month and that Robbin Rabbit was at the vet’s to have his teeth trimmed.
Rabbits’ teeth tend to overgrow, and it turns out that Robbin had a couple of doozies. For a while (like, a couple of years), I had seen that his one cheek seemed a little puffier than the other. He has had a chronically watering left eye as well. A few months ago, it began to occur to me that maybe these two things were a result of renegade teeth.
Due to a scratch in his right eye, I finally took Robbin in for a checkup (he’s an active, ridiculously healthy rabbit otherwise). The vet agreed that he needed to have his teeth done, which we scheduled after the course of antibiotics and ointment to treat the scratch.
Early in the day, I interpreted this as my good deed, as it was for a creature other than myself and it would make him feel significantly better.
It didn’t take long for me to begin feeling kind of shallow and frivolous presenting Robbin’s dental work as some sort of altruistic achievement. Maybe I would feel more fulfilled in life if I volunteered and did more good. Yet I don’t get around to it.
So inspired by someone else, I took a rare action and donated to Doctors Without Borders. It was a little baby donation of $20, less than the smallest amount that’s given a radio button on their online form. I could afford to give more, or to give similar small amounts to a number of causes.
I don’t want it to seem like I’m looking for congratulations or pats on the back, but at least I did a little something, and that’s way out of character for me.
[Note: because I haven’t figured out how to replace a photo on an entry, this is a repost with a larger image.]
Personal grooming
February 5, 2010
This photo just about sums up the lengths I go to every morning to make myself presentable. My lengths are shorts. My only goal is to be clean. Beyond that, things pretty much happen au natural.
I shampoo, condition, and wash in the shower. Sometimes I shave my legs. I dry myself off, use a store-brand version of Oil of Olay on my face and some pretty-smelling lotion from Bath & Body Works on my arms and legs along with a few squirts of matching body spray. The first effort I make at looks is to pat on a little undereye concealer and draw a few lines with a black pencil. I clean my glasses with the special cloth that I let Lenscrafters talk me into buying. I apply deodorant, and then I can put on my bathrobe. Then it’s time for the hair. The towel comes off and is shaken in the bathtub. I comb my hair and fluff the furrows with my fingers. Then comes the second effort I make at looks—I shoot the blowdryer at it for about 45 seconds. That’s just enough to get rid of the watery wetness so that the air can take over. I used to dry the shit out of my hair; I was 24 before I realized how curly it had become after puberty. I take a multivitamin and calcium supplement and get dressed, and then I’m on my way.Solitude
December 15, 2009
One of the things about being an only child is that I’m used to being on my own (especially as an only child who’s been single all her life, more or less). I experience solitude most of the time that I’m not at the office. It’s just who I am and I absolutely don’t mind it.
As today has worn on, I’ve realized that there are two kinds of solitude—happenstance and self-imposed. I suffer from the self-imposed. Not suffer, rather, experience, because I’ve chosen it. Suffer implies that it’s thrust upon you. I embrace it. Oh, I can put on the social butterfly face if I must, if I’m well-rested, have psyched myself up, and perhaps, just perhaps, have had a tasty beverage or two.
(That’s what I like about writing these blog entries— suffering? tasty beverage? Where did that come from? This is supposed to be about being a loner and sitting next to big water.)
I tried having roommates way back when. The three of us had rent payment issues. We had “I thought I didn’t have to share a bedroom” issues. I swore I’d never have another roommate until I was, you know, married. I’ll be living by myself forever, it seems.
Right, then.
When I’m in the mood for meta-solitude, I seek out water.
It can be as simple as small running water, such as a faucet, my morning shower, a public fountain. There’s something about that trickling sound, that dance of a stream of water small or large, the feel of it beating against your chest in the shower, the warmth of it flowing over your fingers, the sound of it dancing through the leaves of the trees outside your open window in the summer.
Big water is even better. I used to hang out on the shore of Lake Superior at a friend’s place. You get lost in the lack of horizon. You get mesmerized by the sound. One of the best times of my life was singing Del Amitri songs to myself out loud on the shore of the Firth of Forth in North Berwick. Scottish in Scotland. It was late in the evening, late in June, which meant that there was ample lightness still at 11 p.m. It was just about perfect. It was just about opposite of current conditions.
Boats are good, too. I tend to get seasick on the larger ones, such as ferries going between, say, Land’s End and the Isles of Scilly. But conceptually, I love boats and being on the water and will always say yes. I’ve floated up the Thames to Greenwich; I think it would be very satisfactory to go on a longboat in the the other direction.
Just this morning, I engaged in solitude with my sleeping bag winter coat. When I got on the train, I didn’t push back my hood to embrace my environment. I left my parka snorkel in place and enjoyed being antisocial and diddling on my iPhone.
Antisocial. There’s a whole other topic.
Postscript: I was going to end with the above, but in rereading I realized that I didn’t even mention how much I love sitting on my front step in the summer. I like it when I’ve walked or biked home and been inside to change into something cooler and go back outside, and then am finally still, just enjoying breathing the air, listening to the birds, squirrels and maybe the neighborhood people sounds, and maybe sipping on a tasty beverage.
And don’t even get me started on how much I love roadtripping by myself (apparently you didn’t). I get into tiffs with bowling friends because I refuse to carpool with them to Chicago for our annual tournament. I just love driving alone, staying off the interstates, taking instead U.S. and state highways, going more slowly and passing through every small town. That is so incredibly relaxing to me, a little holiday inside my car for eight hours.
Water and driving, for the win.
I am allergic to babies
December 5, 2009
I am allergic to babies. You heard me. I don’t think they’re cute and I don’t want to hold yours. I am also not a mother. Maybe if I had been, some innate susceptibility to pudgy faces with big doey eyes and 10 little sausage fingers and 10 little stubby toes would have been awakened in me. But I am not a mother and I am uncomfortable around babies.
I always figured I wanted kids—I’m a woman—I’m supposed to—right? And as an only child I always said that if I had one I’d have one more. When I was 25 and going through a dark emotional time, I came to the conclusion that one’s purpose in life was procreation of the species. I figured I’d be helping the cause by the time I was 30. Alas, then my only-child independence began to get in the way, and I know my lack of financial stability was a big hindrance as well. I was emotionally ready to be a mother, and kind of thinking that for me being a single mother would be preferable. However, I have never been in a position where I felt like I could afford to accomplish it on my own. And as I got older, my feeling that it was a necessary part of a currently satisfying life disappeared. I am happy as I am, just looking out for Number One. Selfish? Yeah. That’s one of the things I attribute to onlyness. I never had to share. What I am fairly certain of, however, is that 20, 30 years down the road when I’m a spinster with 37 cats and 3 rabbits, I will have a big hole in my heart where offspring could, and possibly should, have been. I will feel huge regret that I never opened myself up to a family. But that doesn’t mean I will go gaga for your baby. I will not. photo © ShutterstockWhat do you love the feel of?
December 3, 2009
Robbin Rabbit does not love the feel of being picked up, and he is merely polite about it until I release him. I made him endure this holding so that I could mimic the photo another gal took of her and her Rex rabbit. Rex rabbits’ fur feels like velvet.
Robbin is the Satin breed. That’s an apt description. He has an entirely different kind of fine, soft fur—silky smooth with a satiny sheen. And there is no softer fur than the fur at the nape of the neck of any rabbit. My cat Dasie’s white fur feels very fine and soft compared to her black fur. My cat CJ also has very soft, longish black fur which is even finer and softer than Dasie’s white fur. I love how it feels in the morning when I’m half awake and still cozy in bed under my electric blanket, just drifting in and out. That is, unless I have to go to the bathroom. Then I feel anxious and unable to relax until I’ve gotten up. Nothing beats standing under the hot shower. In the summer, it feels really good to depart from the overactive air conditioning in my office to go outside and turn my face to the sun. If the temperature is 75° or less, I even like just sitting in the sun for half an hour. I love the feel of a good wine buzz. Getting loopy on wine is completely different than getting loopy on beer, which is also pleasant, but not in the same way. When I go to bed at night, I always hope that CJ will come with me. If I offer her my arm and get positioned just right, she licks my wrist with her rough cat tongue and the feel of it puts me right to sleep. It works if it’s my wrist or hand; my forearm is too ticklish. I also love the feel of a cat purring when I’m holding her close. Dasie is the more violent purrer, so she’s a little more enjoyable. Those are all physical things. Then I got to thinking that there are a number of things that feel good on an emotional level. I realized that as I finished my Curves workout tonight. No matter how tired I am or what kind of fowl mood I might be in, I just feel happy for a good 90 minutes afterward. Let’s hear it for endorphins. I feel good about myself when I get up the hour earlier on work mornings that I really should do all the time. I get proverbial and literal warm fuzzies when I commune with my sweeties. Both cats like to be held, and even Robbin, if I leave his feet on the floor, will let me smother him in a hug. I’ll probably think of ten more things as soon as I post this, but these are the things that immediately come to mind. And keeping up with this blog makes me feel a sense of accomplishment, however trivial in the bigger scheme.The world is flat
November 15, 2009
(Prologue: I thought this entry was going to be about artistic prowess or lack thereof, but it isn’t. I absolutely never intended for it to be even a third the length it is, but it is. But if you stick with it, you’ll learn a lot about how I got to where I am today.)
Introduction
I made and printed this woodcut at a real-world get-together with people I no longer stay in touch with. I lived in Madison, Wisconsin, for a few years completing my eternal college experience, and for 11 years after I moved away I looked forward to my annual pilgrimage back to Madison in June (usually on the weekend before my birthday) to go make art.
Chapter 1
I went to the University of Wisconsin to obtain on my Masters degree in meteorology, because I’ve always loved the weather. In making that decision, I didn’t take into account all the math and science I had not had as an English major for my Bachelor’s degree, not having taken more than algebra theretofore. (In a completely anomalous experience, I had the highest grade of the class in that course, with a 98.6% for the term. To this day, I’m not sure how that happened. All I can think of is that the instructor was the second best teacher I’ve ever had. We’ll get to the first by the end of this story, I promise.)
Before I could even start taking the meteorology courses, I first had to make up three semesters of calculus, two of physics, and one of chemistry. I managed to squeak by in trigonometry so that I could begin the calculus. I eked out a passing grade in chemistry by the hair of my chinny chin chin. But when it came to the calculus, I failed the class.
By now I was beginning my third semester in graduate school and I had changed my major to cartography, because I’ve always loved maps and I could see the writing on the wall. The math and science requirements were less stringent in cartography, though I did still havbe to get through the first calculus.
I had managed to be hired for an internship in the university’s map lab. They knew I didn’t have any computer experience. They plopped me down in front of what must have been a Mac, because I was to use Adobe Illustrator, probably version 0.5 or something. I hadn’t begun my transformation into geek yet. Bezier what? It was very frustrating, as I was provided with very little guidance. I became convinced that the department was an old boys network.
Meanwhile, I had joined the bowling club, because one of my regrets at the University of Minnesota during the acquisition of my Bachelor’s was that I hadn’t participated in any extracurricular, social activities. My parents had always trotted me off to Saturday morning kiddie leagues, and when I was in highschool, I was in some league or other, so for college I thought, what the heck. I learned that the squad for the college meets was drawn from bowling club participants, and as one of only six women members vying for five spots, I got to compete sometimes.
(Okay, I couldn’t stand it, I looked it up. That would have been around 1992 that I was attempting to use Illustrator. It looks like that would have been about version 4. I’ll stick with my contention that it was on a Mac—well, shoot, I guess I better check that, too—because even with my zero experience, I don’t remember that the computer itself got in my way, so it surely couldn’t have been a Windows machine. What Mac model? I can’t tell anything from these charts.)
Well, I flunked that second try a calculus, too. I attempted to negotiate with my cartography advisor but he was unwilling to work with me and my fate was sealed. I was booted out of graduate school in shame. That of course meant I couldn’t continue to participate in university bowling. That bummed me out. This was the crew that I rocked out to Faith No More’s “Epic” with.
The bowling advisor—I call him that because he was not himself a bowler, he wasn’t a coach, he was simply the guy in charge—suggested that I go to the local two-year school, Madison Area Technical College, to take their calculus course and then transfer the credits back to the UW. He had no idea what a life-changing suggestion that was.
Chapter 2
It was a glorious day when I walked into Madison Area Technical College resolute in my intent to sign up for calculus.
I must have been in some admissions-type area waiting to talk to someone, but I soon discovered a spinner rack of brochures for each of the school’s programs. I idly picked up the one detailing Commercial Art degree. I thought, hmm. I was a graphic design major for a semester during the eight years it took me to get my Bachelor’s degree. I did pretty well and thought it was interesting. Hmm. Maybe I’ll wander upstairs and have a chat with someone. That was the second life-changing action in this story.
(I didn’t stick with graphic design at the University of Minnesota because there is an acclaimed, dedicated four-year art school in Minneapolis and I didn’t feel like I’d be competitive with those graduates. For goodness sake, at the time, the U of M’s graphic design program was in the College of Home Economics.)
I got a quick summary from the department administrative assistant. She had me wait while she went to find one of the instructors who could talk to me more. She came back with Chris Gargan, the man to whom I owe the last 18 (and counting) years. (Wow about the years, when I put it like that. I always put it like that regarding Chris.)
We went down to the cafeteria and got some lunch. He told me about the program, the classes, other instructors, and generally seemed interested in me. That was a complete 180 from how I had been last treated at the University of Wisconsin. I was convinced. And because I already had the Bachelor’s degree, I didn’t have to take the basics, like economics, psychology, and college algebra. I could whiz through the two-year Associate of Applied Arts degree in a year and a half.
What a year and a half it was. The classes were taught by people who had actual practical experience in the areas they were teaching. Classes were small and there was plenty of opportunity for one-on-one interaction. Computers were just beginning to take over in the nascent field of desktop publishing. I learned Adobe Illustrator the right way!
Back to the original premise of this entry, sort of
After I graduated, I worked in Madison for a year, then moved back to Minneapolis. But I stayed in touch with the Madison people, and made that pilgrimage every June.
See, it wasn’t just any art-making get-together, it was Chris Gargan’s Paint ‘n’ Party. It was in his illustration class that I learned woodcutting, along with many other methods, including an architectural illustration of an old Victorian house in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, and an isometric, exploded illustration of a fuzzball shaver. Woodcutting is the one that stuck. It was a crude enough medium to forgive my inadequacies, but the end result usually had a wow factor.
So every summer, Chris hosted this art-making party at his farm 20 miles southwest of Madison. For the entire day, you’d sit in the yard, or find the right angle on the barn, or make a nest in the field and paint the landscape. In the evening, we all came back in to eat, drink, and hang our pieces in the barn for a show of the day’s efforts. Chris was the “judge” and came up with goofy prizes in what became standard categories.
I still can’t draw or paint by hand (unless I’m using my opposite hand, then the drawings have a certain charm, I think; see yesterday’s post), but thanks to Chris getting me to stick around for a degree, I rock Adobe Illustrator at work every day.
My croquet set won the Best Balance award that year, even thought the mallet stand is missing its side supports. I got a little trophy of a gymnast on a pommel horse.
My world and welcome to it
November 14, 2009
Today I lived my life vicariously through some people I don???t know. I???m learning about them as a result of frequenting the same online social space. I know them about as well as this drawing is similar to a photograph.
That doesn???t mean it isn???t fun or satisfying. In the real world, I???m not good at staying in touch. I???m even worse at getting together. So this online business works for me. I get some social interaction without as many demands on my inertia. I get to develop friendships with people who like me back in the same way. Sometimes I even feel popular.
I???m an only child, and I???ve always been good at amusing myself with no outside help. As the years go by, I seem to be getting better and better at it. Now I would adapt that statement to say that I???m very good at keeping busy with little face-to-face interaction. Maybe I???m becoming one of those antisocial internetter statistics. Maybe in 10 years I???ll be up to 42 cats.
I???m not saying I don???t like being around people (well, maybe a little). Sometimes I do just want to go out and do something. Some of you will remember a few weeks ago when I was wailing about not having somebody, anybody who I could call up for a spontaneous outing. Usually I am pretty okay with keeping to myself. I felt lonely that night.
I would say I have two generations of online friends. My first-generation circle consists of people who are friends with someone I actually know in person, who moved to California a few years ago. There is him, and also the people I think of as his first tier of friends because they do stuff together all the time. Then there is what I think of as his second tier, the friends of the friends who he doesn???t hang out with as often. I have met the first tier in person. And I have someone in the second tier to give a great big thank you to for introducing me to the website where I am now getting to know my second generation of online friends.
I don???t really know where I???m going with this. I like getting to know my online friends better; today I had a video chat via Skype with two of my second generation friends who are in London. I thought that was pretty exciting, and it provided a small consolation for the impossibility of my being able to join the group for their evening outing. Some of them in more geographically friendly circumstances are taking advantage of the opportunity to meet each other in person.
The drawing is how I imagine the evening might have gone.
Hamming it up (Smile, part 1)
November 12, 2009
You may have noticed that I have a propensity to post self-portraits on Facebook. It began to happen when I had two roadtrips to Illinois in short order last spring, which roughly coincided with when I embraced Facebook, and also when I figured out that I really was coordinated enough to touch the shutter button on my iPhone even though I couldn’t actually seeing what I was doing.
I had used Twitter for two years prior, but the whole TwitPic thing never really caught on with me. The other thing that I then figured out was how to caption photo uploads to Facebook. And that roughly coincided with when several of my friends began simulposting to FB and Twitter, because those two services play nice together now. Personally, I think it’s a little bit of a copout to post to one and have it auto-update to the other. I tell my Twitter friends different, more personal things than I tell my Facebook friends. Sorry if you’re a friend on one but not the other. That’s the way I like it. Or no friend at all. I like it that way, too. Anyway, I think the self-portraits were borne out of boredom on the road. Just because I can, I will. I’m trying to keep myself amused, and I have a faint notion that it might be slightly more interesting to others if there’s some goofy half-shot of my face to go with it. My personal favorite is the highlighted photo, which is the confluence of half my head, the Hobo typeface, and doughnuts. It doesn’t get any better. (Actually, I like my Sierra Nevada Pale Ale Home Happy Hour shot, too, because my hair looked awesome! I’m not above a little vanity now and then. Sometimes I delete the photos, sometimes I leave them on. These are the ones that were still on the iPhone last night.) I’m a little bit of a ham.
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Please also check out Smile, part 2.
Work out, work hard
November 11, 2009
Here’s where I wax enthusiastic about how I’ve actually stuck with working out since the end of March. If you’ve read the Inertia and Inertia 2 posts, you’ll know I’m not the most motivated person in the world. But I do like being healthy.
A couple of years ago, my weight had crept up to the highest ever. Not outrageously high, but higher than it should be. It was then that I began to embrace the South Beach philosophy of healthy eating. In a nutshell: eat lots of veggies and salad, cheese and eggs, moderate portions of meat. Small portions of whole grains. Avoid the white versions of things (flour, sugar, rice). Red wine is permitted. Potatoes and beer are the devil. Beer is the devil. For a couple of months I was very diligent and the pounds melted away. Then I became complacent because it seemed so easy. I’m still about 15 pounds down from that high point. About five pounds come and go, depending on how I’m eating and what time of the month it is. That old cliché? Well, if you’re a woman you know it’s true. The devil is in the details. I would say I’m about 50% compliant to the South Beach guidelines. If I gave up beer, that would rise to about 75%. Uh oh. I just need to have a little willpower and then I could make the food/pounds part of my healthy self kick back into gear. I don’t have willpower. I let myself not have willpower. Maybe that’s part of the problem with other areas of my life that lack accomplishment. This entry isn’t meant to be about weight and pounds. I want you to be amazed that after seven and a half months, my lazy self is still on a regular workout schedule of usually three times a week, always at least two, and only two or three times, only once a week. It’s never been more than seven days in between workouts. The magic bean? Curves for Women. About five or six years ago, I had belonged to Curves. I stuck with it for five months that time and loved it. Then I faded away, and then I moved. Last March, my coworker mentioned that she had joined her local Curves and I thought, hmm. I’m as out of shape as I’ve ever been, I like Curves, there’s one near the office, okay I’m signing up again. Plus this time around, my health insurance reimburses me about 40% of the fee if I go at least eight times a month. Not a problem. I love Curves even more now than I did then. For those of you unfamiliar with Curves, it’s a 30-minute workout. There are 12 machines, each of which works a different muscle group. You do a machine for 30 seconds, then move to a recovery station where you step or run or box or whatever in place for 30 seconds. Then on the next machine for 30 seconds, recover for 30 seconds and so on, until you’ve been on machines 22 times. That’s a total of 11 minutes working your muscles. Doesn’t sound like much, does it? That’s why I like it. It doesn’t seem like much when you’re doing it, either. But boy, is it a workout. You get what you give. The harder you push, the more resistance there is in the hydraulic pistons. Technology has stepped in since I was previously a member. New is the CurvesSmart Coach, a tag that you put in each machine that tells it how hard to work you based on your previous efforts. Everything saves to the computer so that you can easily track your progress. That’s what the report up top is. Within a month, my improved strength and stamina were obvious as I biked up long, gradual hills on the path along the Mississippi River, the same hills that the previous summer I had had to walk the bike up. It didn’t take me nearly as long to get loosened up for bowling. I jogged up stairs at the Metrodome during baseball games and wasn’t winded when I got to the top. Within the last month or so, I have realized that although I haven’t lost any weight to speak of, my wobbly bits are redistributing. I actually had to buy a smaller belt. I work hard at Curves and I’m beginning to see visual results. I know I haven’t been this fit for a long, long time. I’d really make progress if I could exorcise the devil.A mouse by many other names is an entirely different concept
November 10, 2009
How would my life look through the eyes of a mouse? There are a surprising number of things to see.
Obvious
I have cats. Several of their toys are in a pleasing mouse shape. Some are filled with catnip, some crinkle, and some have wheels.
I am a graphic designer, therefore I sit at a computer all day using a mouse. Both at home and at the office, I have ancient Microsoft mice, because those are the ones that are ergonomic for me. They’re basically the same, but the one at the office is a little beefier. My boss affectionately refers to it as the rat. For home, I saved $10 or $15 and got the less steroidal version.
Clichés
Although I am quite prodigious in my online posts of status updates and photos and social community participation, in person I don’t always say a lot. Sometimes I am quiet as a mouse.
I also don’t like confrontation—who does? If an issue needs to be addressed I’ll do that, because it’s something that should be taken care of. If it’s walking up to a stranger in a social setting, quite often the very notion of introducing myself terrifies me. You could say I’m timid as a mouse. You can at least say that I am not a shmoozer.
I have to go to work every day. I never feel caught up. I never have enough money. I have personal-life issues. It’s one big rat race.
I do love cheese. I guess it’s not so much a cliché as a mouse stereotype. My current favorite is pepperjack (Monterey Jack with flecks of hot peppers interspersed, for you European purists). I also like cheddar of any persuasion, mozzarella, Asiago and Parmesan, Gouda, brie, and hard and soft goat cheese. I don’t like bleu cheeses at all. Well, that’s not 100% true. I will tolerate a really generic bleu cheese salad dressing if it’s accompanying spicy barbecue chicken wings. That’s the only circumstance.
Cartoon mice
My two favorite cartoons are mice. No, not Mickey and Minnie. I’m talking about real mice—Danger Mouse, and the Brain (okay, Pinky was an accomplished foil). You heard me—Danger Mouse. I have the complete DVD collection. Still so, so funny. I think my favorite is when the washing machines tried to take over. Since I’ve become more of a James Bond fan, Danger Mouse is even better. And, don’t try to tell me it’s just a coincidence that Austin Powers’ middle name is Danger.
Music-related
The artist Stanley Mouse (along with partner Alton Kelley) illustrated the covers for three of my all-time favorite albums: “Infinity” and “Evolution” from Journey, and “Book of Dreams” by the Steve Miller Band. Yes, I know Mouse also did Grateful Dead covers, but I’m not a fan of the Dead so I don’t care.
I like the band Modest Mouse well enough when I hear them. Also, I know there is the producer Danger Mouse. I wouldn’t know his style from anybody else’s, but I guess he works with Gnarls Barkley and I like them just fine.
Cultural icon
Again, I am not talking about Mickey. I understand Mickey’s place in world cultural history, but as with the Grateful Dead I’m not a particular fan or non-fan. This time I’m talking about—drum roll please—Rat Fink. In fact, Rat Fink was created by Ed Roth to be the antithesis to Mickey. The photo above is of my actual Rat Fink, snapped only moments ago. I still have him, though he would be more valuable as a ‘70s collectible if I hadn’t eaten half his tail (I chew my fingernails, too, so what?), and nibbled the tops of his ears and then trimmed them with a nail clippers (yes, I remember that I did that).
Personal details
I first started coloring my hair 14 years ago because it was really long and I wanted to do something different but I didn’t want to cut it. After that first color grew out and I could see the true shade again, I realized just how mousy it was. The fact that I was starting to get grey hairs didn’t help either.
My cat Dasie’s nickname is Squeaky due to the sound she makes when I squeeze her. She has since revealed herself to have a quite nice voice when she sits on the toilet seat and meows at me while I’m in the shower. She is fascinated by the running water and three days ago I was sure she was going to jump in with me. Her front feet were halfway down the side but she chickened out.
Last and least, my car is a nondescript mousy grey.
Kelly’s Unnecessary Blog 