Grey vs. gray

Both are perfectly acceptable in modern English usage but someone said that using "grey" which I am doing is British and therefore pretentious. Well maybe but I don't see it that way. In fact, I "see" grey as a mixture of black and white like the grey of an old asphalt road that looks grey from far away but, if you look closely, you can see the little pebbles. What looks like grey is really blacks and whites and in betweens. "Gray" is a blander color with more white in it, a pasty white. So obviously I hope my hair will be "grey" and not "gray".

If that sounds a bit crazy I will tell you that I also occasionally assign colors to numbers. 2, 4 and 7 were the numbers of our old post office box when I was a child. In my mind, the 2 calls up a rose red, the 4 is pure white and the 7 is a china blue. For a more extreme example of something called Synesthesia check out my friend Rae's blog:

http://outside-the-line.blogspot.com/2007/11/another-non-resume-building-skill.html

Going Grey, thoughts

Remember when your brother or your dad or your girlfriend's older brother or somebody would reach down and ruffle your hair? Well, that's what I've been doing. Ruffling, rifling through my hair and finding the grey, looking at it, mixing it up. You can't really see from the photo but there's a lot there now, whiter than the roots have been in the past. It's nice to have the highlights. It lets me gradually get used to the grey and how my face changes with it.

I've taken more photos of myself during this process than I ever have in my whole life. I usually avoid the camera or look stiff and unlike myself in any photos that do exist. So it's been interesting to be forced to study myself mostly without makeup. I think about an old song from Phoebe Snow:

Sometimes this face looks so funny
That I hide it behind a book
But sometimes this face has so much class
That I have to sneak a second look

Get Lost: jumping ahead

trying to work out a key part:

I breathed in the heady smell of cloves and turned to find Max standing beside me. He was watching the stage. Had he seen Alex look at me? He was dressed beautifully again, in a Tom Ford casual elegant way. A snow-white shirt, black jeans and a black jacket. No ruffles. He sipped delicately on his cigarette, blowing out perfect circles. He let me look at him: I could see fine cracks in the porcelain smoothness of his skin, as if he had spent too long a time without humidity.

On the stage, Alex had shed all but two of the scarves. The music soared tragically. I imagined the gypsy violinist was hopelessly in love with her. She did a slow forward bend, her ass to the audience who murmured their appreciation. No shouting here, especially with Max in the room. As she came back up, she looked over her shoulder and saw Max and then me beside him. Her body gave a sharp jerk before gliding into a pirouette.

©NVM

The Ladies Luncheon

When I first moved to Albany, New York, neighbors came to my door with gifts of banana bread and directions to the nearest grocery store. One neighbor came over with a shovel and helped me clear my driveway. But while I was getting my feet wet in my new surroundings, everyone else went back to swimming in their own routine of family, friends and work. I had to make the next move. That winter I invited neighbors and women I hoped would become my friends for a holiday meal and called it the Ladies Luncheon. Eleven years and eleven luncheons later, this annual meal we share is no longer so much about my need for new friends as it is a part of a larger need we all have: for conversation and laughter, for the time to tell our stories, for a place to relax together.

I moved south and since then we have met here, there and in between in New York City, adding new friends along the way. I've moved many times and I've learned that friends are the hidden treasures in any new place and you have to go looking for them.

One of my favorite pre-party chores is setting the table. It reminds me of when I was little and my mother belonged to our small town Garden Club. Every year at the town fair the Garden Club hosted a competition for Best Place Setting. My mother often won. I loved to wander through the tent looking at all the entries. The details were fascinating to me: each setting had its own tablecloth, matching folded napkin, a sparkling china plate with the fork on the left, spoon on the right and the knife with the edge turned in. A cup and saucer to match the plate, a water glass, a salad plate and a vase of arranged flowers. Each setting had its individual beauty within the strict rules of placement. Years later, I was reminiscing with her and I asked her if the Garden Club ever did any gardening. She said no, it was more about getting together for coffee and talking.

So here's to my lady friends, those who showed up this year in Albany and those who couldn't, to friends everywhere and to talking -- we all should do more of it!

To all my friends, thank you!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oao58LsKn64

Get Lost: Chapter 12 excerpt

Balasz turned into the long driveway. It was edged with low lights hidden in the grass. Balasz switched off the car lights and went slowly around the side of the building where we saw there was a loading dock door. Then he turned the car around and pulled up in front of the building. It was only one story and spread out to the left and right of a double door with thick white pillars standing guard in front of it. There was a narrow window on either side of the door. I saw someone peer out at us from the one on the right.

"OK, we're on," I said as I got out of the car. "Break a leg."

Balasz gave me a startled look. "Just a theater expression, Balasz, don't worry."

Balasz put the keys in his pocket and went around to Jack's door which faced the building. He was still sweating nervously but the look on his face was one of determined courage in the face of battle. He was young, not more than 20, and not much taller than Bogi with long, soft brown hair stuffed under his cap and warm brown eyes. His features were still forming but I thought he looked older than he had three hours ago.

Jack was pretending to be passed out on the back seat. I went up to the front door and raised my hand to the bell. Before I could ring it, the door opened.

The man standing there looked more like a janitor than a guard, dressed in a loose-fitting dark green uniform with black, sturdy shoes. He was very thin and pale and hunched his shoulders over a narrow chest. I could see a floor-polishing machine behind him and guessed that he was doing double duty.

"What do you want?" he said this with a pinched mouth and enlarged nostrils, as if he smelled something bad. "We're closed for the day."

"But you must be open for emergencies, aren't you? And this is an emergency, believe me.” I looked back at Jack who was now up and leaning against the roof of the car, groaning loudly.

The guard peered around me at Jack. I stepped closer to him and took a deep breath, letting my breasts swell under the red silk. He would either back away nervously or look. He looked. And then backed away. I moved in closer and put a hand on his arm. He started to blush; faint blotches of red spattered across his acne-scarred face.

I pointed to the Mercedes. "That's Jacques Delaguerre in the car or on the car, actually." Balasz had his head under Jack's arm and was trying to lift him up to a standing position.

"Pity the stranger,” said the guard. I gave him a startled look. He didn’t look like the type to say something like that. He went on, “That’s his best song. I thought he would be older.”

I remembered that Jack had said the name sounded familiar. Great. I moved in close to Elemer again, blocking his view of Jack.

“Everyone says that. He has an old soul.” I pitched my voice a little higher. “What should we do? You can see that he really needs to be admitted. We need to keep him writing and singing. We can’t lose this music.”

He looked doubtful and I wondered just what kind of singer the real Jacques Delaguerre was.

©NVM

I don't think so

I decided to try ads on my site. Google ads scrolls through your blogging site, picking up key words and then matching advertising to what it finds. My last blog was about going back to grey hair and I just noticed that I had an ad for Depends. Lovely.

Going Grey: update

The last thing I did was cut my hair really short and dye it back to my 'natural' brown in hopes of speeding up the whole process and making the transition less startling (as opposed to grey/white growing into bright red).

It's going more slowly than I thought and I got bored so last week I went to the hairdresser and got blonde highlights. I hosted a big holiday luncheon and my hair looked fun and festive. The grey mixes it up nicely with the highlights. I hope no one thought I would go grey quietly.

Many years ago, I was driving in my little Valiant with push-button transmission and the muffler disengaged. I was forced to drive 10 miles an hour down a busy downtown street. I remember looking around at all the little old ladies driving along happily at that speed. I felt like I was in another world that I hadn't known existed.

That's what I'm doing now — looking around at grey-haired women and seeing them. Trying to find women my age who are grey is not easy. It's like being in a secret club; we recognize each other as a rare species. The ones who look best are the lucky women whose black hair is now turning that brilliant gorgeous white. But other things matter: posture, physical fitness, grace, a good haircut is essential, an intriguing personality.

Now that my hair is short and going grey, I find that my face is in the spotlight which is frightening at age 55. But looking young is not the thing for me. It's more what does my face say about me? Am I happy to be alive? Am I curious about the world? Do I know how to have fun? How to forgive? To love? Forget about young.

It's important to take care of yourself mentally, physically and spiritually and to be engaged and be engaging. After a 'certain age' that's what is attractive. And isn't that what every woman wants? Well, it's what I want: to attract interesting people and situations, to be myself with grey hair and not disappear.

Chapter 11: an excerpt

When I was very young, I was a little thief. Not on the scale of the Artful Dodger, but more like a magpie, attracted to shiny things. My mother discovered my nest of treasures and made me return all of it. Most of it was hers anyway but there was a pack of gum that I had lifted from the little grocery/candy store a few blocks from our house in Minneapolis. Bridget didn't allow gum chewing or stealing. I had to go to the store, apologize and give them back the money from my allowance. It was excruciating and I never stole anything again. Or at least not for a long time after that.

But I still had a larcenous heart. I stood in front of a long, black leather coat hanging in the costume room of the ---- Theater. Tiny painted birds cascaded over the shoulders and it was soft and supple and I wanted it. Badly. I wanted to step into it, stuff the pockets with silk scarves and rhinestones and run, run without stopping. It was hard to just stand there, the impulse was so strong.

"What about this?" Jack was wearing a brown leather jacket with a chain of dangling skulls around his neck.

"Try this one.” I said. I took the black coat off the hanger and handed it to him. It was a man’s coat, too big for me. He hesitated and then eased one arm into a sleeve and then the other. The coat fit perfectly but he looked skeptical.

"You want a coat like this,” I said. "Something flamboyant. If you were doing drugs and flying high you would wear a coat like this."

He stood in front of the mirror, shifted his shoulders under the weight of the leather and turned up the collar. He looked like a different person and I could see him adjust to that, turning to the side and starting to shift into the persona of a drug-addled rock star.

"You should be on the stage." I handed him a silver-tipped cane to complete the look. "You're wasted on rock-climbing gear."

He frowned and said, "I'm not a fucking fairy."

Eli had just come up behind me with an armful of scarves. He recognized the word fairy, took it personally and brought up his fists. The scarves dropped in a shower of color.

Jack held up his hands. "I'm sorry Uncle, that was an ignorant thing to say. The truth is, I would make a lousy actor. I couldn't act my way out of a paper bag, as they say."

I translated for Eli. It was a gracious apology. Jack and Eli shook hands but Eli’s face was still flushed as he walked over to a lighted mirror and dresser covered with brushes and pots of color.

"How did you translate ‘out of a paper bag?’” asked Jack.

"I said you didn't know a donkey's head from its ass."


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