Squawk!

So yesterday morning was my first appointment with a personal trainer.

And before I get all the emails telling me how I’m just fine the way I am, listen!

I am not A) trying to lose weight or B) trying to lose inches.  Yes, I do realize that all my clothing tags say 'small.'  The main motivation here is 1) strength, 2) tone and 3) more energy. 

Perhaps you’re different and could totally self-motivate yourself into these results.  In my case, however, while the occasional arm jiggling disturbs me, it’s not upsetting enough to keep me on the elliptical.  What is enough is the fear of disappointing someone.  This is the beauty of accountability.  I might be more lax in wasting my own time; but I don’t want to waste CJ’s (my personal trainer’s) time.  -Man!  It suddenly hit me that I’ve reached a whole new level of manipulation.  I’m actually manipulating my people-pleasing self!  It’s about time that I use these powers for good!

After working out to the point of nausea (it really doesn’t take much), I hit up a couple grocery stores.  With more exercise comes more appetite; and I wanted to be prepared with healthy snacks.  Halfway through the second grocery store, I got a phone call from my big sis, Mandy.  She surprised me and drove 1 ½ hrs. to my house to drop off some birthday goodies; but she didn’t want to disturb me in case I had more pressing plans for my day off. 

Nothing trumps sister time.  Nothing.

Groceries were quickly purchased and I sped home to hug on her and her best friend, Rachael.    In addition to birthday goodies, they also brought along a gigantic bag of hand-me-downs (thanks to my brother’s fiancée).  Closet space is quite limited in our house; so we went from digging through the hand-me-downs to purging my own wardrobe.  Clothes were flying in every direction!  After about an hour we all had new looks to wear and none of us had spent a dime!

Then it was time to fuel up on caffeine and do some extra browsing for Mandy.  If you haven’t met Mandy yet, you’re missing out.  We have an equally hard time summing each other up, but I’ll do my best to begin.  You need to know, though, when I’m discussing Mandy in an endearing sense, her name changes to Manny.  Keep up.

Manny is… loud.  Very loud.  You might think she has some bizarre form of tourette syndrome thanks to all the random bird squawks, but I assure you she’s just getting a kick out of herself.  She’s expressive and loves to laugh.  One of the best things about writing Square Piece is knowing that somewhere in Virginia, Manny is laughing.  Manny is strong, compassionate and fiercely loyal.  As much as she beat me up as a child, she’ll beat you up worse if you mess with her Sunanna (um, that’s me).

I’ll end there for now, but there are novels to write about Manny.  And if I did, I think you’d fall in love with her.

Did I mention that she's brave and gorgeous? 

Here's a photo of us from a couple years ago when she was sporting a mohawk.  Brave and sexy!

When we reclaimed the bed.

This morning I sat on my couch for some coffee and Bible time.  Esther and Beau jumped up to join me. 

Meet Esther.

Meet Beau.

My heart swells with contentment and joy when I get to snuggle with these pups.  You see, a few months ago Brian and I embarked on the difficult journey of reclaiming our bed.  We haven’t had Beau as long, but we got Esther several years ago as a wee puppy.  Upon watching a Dog Whisperer marathon, I concluded that crate training was the responsible approach to our bedtime.  Unfortunately we had a Certain Roommate who threw a wrench in my plans.  Esther very loudly let it be known that she, under no circumstances, preferred being in a crate at night.  Certain Roommate cherished his sleep and therefore would let Esther out of her crate every night in order to hush her up.  It’s very hard to crate train a pup when every time that she cries she ends up getting her way.  I asked Brian to talk to Certain Roommate.  All along, however, Brian secretly wanted Esther to be able to sleep in our bed.  He never talked to Certain Roommate and we gave in.  Pretty soon we became the people with little dog steps next to the bed.

I already sleep with a cat on my head.  And eventually we got Beau (who was recently weighed at 76.8 lbs).  This put five bodies on our bed at night.  Many mornings I’d wake up with back pain from having contorted to accommodate the dogs.  The solution was obvious and dreaded: we had to start over.

One Monday evening we took the little steps away and replaced them with dog beds at the foot of our bed.  Bear in mind that Monday nights, for me, are the nights that lead into my Tuesday-Saturday work week.  Couple that with the fact that I had spent a majority of that weekend working on hair for my family.  Was I rested?  Not in the least.  Regardless, that was the night that we decided to reclaim the bed. 

Oh the dogs went gaga for their beds!  They’re gigantic, plush and smell like cedar.  Yes, these beds were divine… until we turned out the lights.  Esther and Beau immediately protested, crying, whining and standing against the bed with faces that said, “What?!  Aren’t you forgetting something?!”  Needless to say, I had to get up just about every hour that night to lead the dogs back to their beds, pet them, soothe them and comfort them until I heard them *sigh* themselves back to sleep.

That morning I was exhausted, but I knew we had probably been through the worst of it.  Brian also felt like we had achieved something monumental.  So what did Brian do to reward Esther?  He put her on our bed.

Yes, I freaked out a little.

And then I went to work for 12 hours.

That night, being night number two, I turned to Brian and requested, “Honey, I am SO tired and I really need some rest.  Could you please take care of the dogs tonight?”  “Sure,” he said.

Beau was pretty much over it.  Esther, however, would not be deterred.   So sure enough, she walked over to my side of the bed (the first of many attempts that night) and began the pathetic begging and heart-breaking pleading for us to let her back on .  Assuming that Brian had this, I desperately tried to tune out the noise and get some rest.  However Brian’s version of taking care of the dogs was not the same approach as mine.  Rather than getting out of bed and reminding her that she had her own, he didn’t move a muscle and barked, “QUIET!  GO LAY DOWN!  Bad dog.” 

Um, show of hands if you think that I actually got any rest that night. ??

The next morning I turned to Brian and gently addressed this issue.

Me, “Brian… I really don’t like the way you’re yelling at Esther.”

Brian, “She’s making me so mad!”

Me, “You need to understand, she’s not being bad.  She's not getting into the trash can or the litter box.  She'd not being bad.  She’s communicating that she’s confused and worried and wants on the bed.  And dogs only have so many ways to communicate.  So if you’re mad at 3:00 in the morning, you need to call your friend, Certain Roommate, and tell him this is his fault.”

Brian, “Well, what am I supposed to do?”

Me, “You need to Get.  Out.  Of.  Bed.  And lead – not drag – lead Esther back to her bed.  Pet her.  Comfort her.  Soothe her.  And when you hear her go *sigh*, then you can go back to bed.”

Brian, “It doesn’t take all that.”

Me, “Yes it does!  You know, this is what it’s going to be like if we have kids.”

Brian, “No it won’t.  This is totally different.”

Um, show of hands… well, never mind.

So I handled night 3 and 4, getting up about 4 times each night.  I was so tired that I was delirious.  I thought, “If I think about how tired I am, I think I’m going to cry.”  So I plugged along, pretty much doing hair on autopilot.

On the fifth night they rested.  That morning I woke up and once again thought I’d cry, this time from relief.  Then panic set in for a minute as I considered that the only possible way I could be so rested would be if something had gone wrong!  Did I sleep in?  Was I late for work?  None of the above.  Esther and Beau were still fast asleep on their beds.

Except we don’t call the beds beds.  Bed has always referred to our bed.  Their beds are now called sleepytimes.  Every night we sound like complete idiots as we sing to each dog, “Go to your sleepytime!”  Oh, well.  At least my back doesn’t hurt anymore!  And my bed feels like an island!

Wobbily bobbilies.

I am about to attempt a blog that is probably one of the reasons why Brian warned, “Be careful,” when I began Square Piece.  You see, I work with the public; and with the public comes lots of material for writing.  As I’ve mentioned Square Piece to my clients, I’ve gotten a lot of, “Oooo, I bet you have LOTS of stories from working at a salon!”  It’s true.  I really, really do.  And while I would never want to make light of the relationships that I have with my clients, there are many moments that are too amusing to not give story telling a careful try.

So today let’s discuss the wobbily bobbilies.  A wobbily bobbily, to me, is a man, woman or child who consistently reveals an extreme inability to keep his neck and head straight while I’m performing a hair service.  It’s my opinion that if it weren’t for my "back straight/chin up" mantra, wobbily bobbilies wouldn’t even realize that they’ve got this tendency.  It's quite unintentional.

There are two kinds of wobbily bobbilies.  You’ve got the A) moving target wobbily bobbilies and the B) loosey goosey wobbily bobbilies.  The moving target wobbily bobbilies are often children, but not always.  These are the beloved clients whose eyes wander during a hair service.  And it’s normal to people watch at a hair salon (heaven knows there’s plenty to see!); it’s when you begin to turn and face the people that you’re watching that all the uneven haircuts begin (a lesson I learned a long time ago).  The rule that applies when you’re driving - you look with your eyes, but not with your steering wheel – also applies during a haircut: you look with your eyes, but not with your face.  The other day a woman suggested to me that I put a dot on the mirror on which everyone could focus.  This would keep her head straight.  Really?  I couldn’t suppress my chuckle. 

Me, “As opposed to just looking at your face in the mirror?” 

Her, “Oh, is that what I’m supposed to be looking at?” 

Perhaps some of this is my fault when I assume that certain expectations are common knowledge.

Then there’s the loosey goosey wobbily bobbilies.  These are the beloved clients that go where the comb takes them.  What I mean is that if I comb the left side, the head leans left; and if I comb the right side, the head leans right.  When children are loosey goosey wobbily bobbilies I tend to have a lot of fun with correcting them.  First I demonstrate what happens when the head goes where the comb takes it; then I make it a game and if they “resist the pressure,” they win.  With my adult clientele, however, I gently place the fingers of my two hands on the sides of the head and center it again.  This made me laugh the other day during a haircut because I realized just how difficult this can be for expressive communicators.  Communicating is such a major element of the salon experience that I can see how those of us who gesture more have a hard time keeping our heads still. 

So there I was working on a mature client.  Comb.  Measure.  Snip.

Readjust her head.

Comb.  Measure.  Snip.

Readjust her head.

Comb.  Measure.  Snip.

Readjust her head.

Once I finished trimming the back and moved on to the sides, she looked at me and with all sincerity asked, “Do I still have to keep my head still?”

“Yes… You’re still getting your hair cut.”

You see, all my cutting was getting in the way of all her talking.  Perhaps I should have just stopped right there and poured us two cups of coffee.  Because, at the end of the day, sometimes the conversation is really why we’re both there.

$27.99

Once upon a time my mother requested that, for her birthday, she receive a daily five minute phone call from her children.  Moms are good at suggesting the sort of gifts that money can’t buy.  This evening during our daily chat she asked what age I’ll be turning next week.  We all know that she knows how old I’m turning; it’s just bizarre to actually hear the number twenty-eight out loud.  Isn't it fascinating the way that our minds can lock in a person’s age and throw away the key?  I have clients that started coming to me when they were in high school.  So even though they've graduated college, every year around their birthday they remind me hold old they really are; I'm still bewildered that we're discussing careers instead of discussing prom.  It's like an annual punch in the gut.

I don’t really mind getting one year older.  I can’t remember the last time I actually felt my age anyway.  (... if I had a nickel for every time that someone told me that I’m an old soul…)  When I was 13 yrs. old I was tested in order to be placed in an enrichment class.  The examiner informed me at the end of the day that my mind functioned about the same as someone who’s 21! 

No, it’s not the fact that I’m getting older that gets to me.  It’s that my next age is an even number, not an odd number.  Call me crazy, but I really get the feeling that odd numbers are more pleasant, more forgiving and more lighthearted.  Even numbers come across as rigid, angular and generally off-putting to me.  When shopping, for instance, I’d be more inclined to purchase a dress that cost $17.99 than a dress that cost either $18.00 or even $16.00.

What’s up with that?

I’d love to continue telling people that I’m 27, or even jump the gun and claim 29.  If I go ahead and put the number 29 out there, then I'll feel slightly less deceitful in that my motives are truly about odds and evens and not about seeming younger.  The problems lies in that we all know that 1) I have a terrible memory and therefore avoid lying and 2) if I tried to get away with always being an odd number, I’d end up explaining and reasoning all the time during the even years.  Perhaps, beginning on Tuesday, I'll initiate a new age campaign for myself.  Perhaps I could carry around a laminated, detailed explanation of my age for those occasions when people ask, “How old are you?”  Or maybe I can just answer, “$27.99”- like I’m a price.  Hmmm, except that could definitely be taken the wrong way.  Goodness, I’d hate for anyone to think I’m for sale…

This is so square piece of me.  And I wish you knew what that meant, but I’m hanging onto that story until I have some childhood video footage to back it.

Sir Sam-a-lot

This morning I awoke to my cat Samson pacing back and forth across my head. 

Meet Samson:

I guarantee that if my hair starts thinning, it’s because my orange tabby is pulling it out.  Every morning he somehow manages to press my hair into the pillow with all of his body weight.  (I cringe to think where his paws have been.)  My alarm clock has been quiet for ages thanks to this morning routine.  Most cats, if they wake you up, do so because they’re asking for breakfast.  In our case, however, half of the time Samson doesn’t need food.  He needs me to show him his food.  The cat will not even check his bowl without my escorting him.

Samson was my birthday present when I was 13 years old.  Even though he was a kitten, I knew he would grow into his name.  He’s a little skinnier now that he’s elderly.  There was a time, however, when vets referred to him as the “linebacker.”  He was the pudgiest, cuddliest, heaviest cat you’ve ever seen.  You think I'm joking?  Meet Samson's belly:

 Not convinced?

How about now?

Do to our unique bond, I was convinced that I was a cat person… Until I got dogs.  And it’s not that I liked my dogs better than my cat.  It’s that I realized that my cat is really a dog trapped in a cat’s body.  Follow?

And in this household, Samson is the top dog.  Literally.  If my dog Esther is occupying my lap, Samson isn't inclined to wait his turn.  He'll just sit right on top of her.  And I remember when Beauregard, our other basset hound, first met our cat.  Beau cautiously inched closer and closer until they sniffed each other, nose to nose.  I’m still not sure what Beau sniffed that day, but he then timidly backed up and avoided all eye contact with Samson for the rest of the night.

Consider yourself warned.

The Miss Piggy incident.

The last week and a half has been the longest amount of time I’ve ever taken away from the salon.  In about an hour I’ll once again be knee deep in hair appointments, fully invested in catching up with each client.  Currently I feel like I’ve got one foot in the real world and another in la-la-land.  (Have you ever been to la-la-land?  It’s divine.)

It’s critical that I focus, and fast.  I’ll give you an example of the sort of thing that can happen when I’m distracted:

When I was an apprentice, I spent a lot of hours using our nail technician as a guinea pig.  She enjoyed having hair services and I enjoyed having nail services.  I chuckle to think that she and I would exchange the exact same $5.00 bill after every service, just to acknowledge our thanks.  Neither one of us got rich off of each other; but I feel that I benefitted the most in technical understanding and moments of hilarity.

Take a highlighting service, for example.  Nowadays most stylists use foils to highlight the hair.  But for a long time highlighting caps were the means to a sun-kissed end (I believe this method possibly originated as an ancient form of torture).  If you’ve ever had a “cap highlight” you know that a tight, plastic bonnet is secured to your head.  Once snug, what looks like a teeny crochet hook punctures the bonnet to grab a few strands of hair at the scalp and pull them through to the other side.  (If you want to know what you’ll look like in 50 years when all your hair falls out, the end result of all this hair-hooking is a good preview.)  All the hair on the outside of the bonnet gets slathered in bleach while all the hair underneath the bonnet remains untouched.  Old terminology refers to this effect as “frosting.”  (I affectionately refer to it as the “struck by lightening” effect.) 

Well, our nail technician wanted to be frosted, so I grabbed a plastic bonnet and proceeded to secure it to her head.  There is a finesse – an art, if you will – to doing this.  In order to get all the hair moving in the best, slicked back direction you begin at the forehead, even though you’re holding the backside of the bonnet, and slide the bonnet back to the nape of the head (much like you’d probably put on a swim cap).

Unfortunately my eyes were fixed on the back of her head as I tugged and pulled and tugged some more to get this plastic bonnet as snug as possible.  The nail technician cried, “no… no.. No.. No.. NO!”  When I looked up, I realized that I had accidently hooked her nose into the bonnet.  The more that I tugged down the back, the higher her nose lifted.  Not only did it look like I had plastic wrapped half of her face, unfortunately this also ended up resembling Miss Piggy.  Tears of laughter streamed down my face as I started over, this time being sure to avoid her nose.

Here’s hoping for a focused day!

When I outsmart myself.

We’ve all been there. 

You need something.  You walk to the room at the other end of the house to get it.  And upon entering that room, you come to a screeching halt.  Wait, what am I doing here?  I know I needed something…

You might not believe it, but I have a terrible memory.  Give me about a year and I’ll probably be reblogging the same stories I’ve already posted.  I come up with many ways to describe my limited memory.  Sometimes I like to say that I’m “losing my marbles.”  On my most optimistic days, however, I decide that it’s not that I’m losing my marbles; it’s that I’m already at full-marble capacity.  Anything extra just spills over the sides.

Other times I’ll address this issue by saying, “I’ve outsmarted myself.”  In these instances, I realize that I’ve forgotten a brilliant moment that I’ve had in the past, but from which I am presently benefitting.  In fact, that happened just yesterday.  Brian and I had intended to drive home from vacation on Monday and arrive in the middle of the night.  Instead we got a late start and ended up needing a hotel room so that neither of us fell asleep driving.  Brian could sense my disappointment.  This would have been the first time we’ve returned from vacation while giving me 24 hours to regroup before heading back to work.  But rather than arriving on Monday night, we arrived on Tuesday afternoon.  *sigh*  I had to be back to work on Wednesday and had about 8 loads of laundry to do, not to mention all sorts of camping gear to put away.  I called the salon to see at what hour my first appointment was scheduled on Wednesday.  The receptionist informed me that, much to my surprise, I was marked OFF for Wednesday and would resume work on Thursday.  Really?  When did I do that?  I must’ve known we’d probably run behind.  But I definitely don’t remember giving myself that cushion.  Then I patted myself on the back for being so forgetfully wise.  Yet another case of me outsmarting myself.

But there have been attempts to get this under control. 

Once I heard on the radio that ginkgo biloba can sharpen your mind and improve your memory.  I was already in my car, so I immediately steered myself to the nearest drug store and promptly purchased a bottle of the supplements.

*ahem* 

It does NOT improve your memory if you Can’t.  Remember.  To take them.

One strategy that I have to manage this condition is to always be honest.  What a hassle it is to keep up with lies when you’re forgetful!  Another strategy is to always be true to myself and to my God.  This helps me maintain consistency in relationships and in life.  I never have to remember what face to put on in any given environment.  Not everybody I meet necessarily prefers the regular me, my everyday face; but thankfully this prevents me from wasting time developing relationships that are shallow and ingenuine (which I’ve just discovered isn’t really a word, but I’m making it one today).

By the way, I forgot to blog yesterday.

Did I mention the part about losing my marbles?  Oh, yeah.  That’s right…