PM2 25: Painful price to pay

What's the most you ever paid for something you didn't want?

Preamble: I had to think long and hard for this one, and while there were several recent purchases that came to mind, I was looking for horror. Once I honed in on that emotion, it came to me.


It was 1988. I was twenty. I was living in Frankfurt and loving life. I had reached the pinnacle of young adulthood, gained enough self-confidence to be dangerous. I prided myself on my propensity to get up and go around the bustling city, to hop a train to some - any! - random village, to drift along on a cushion of curiosity. I spoke rudimentary German, never turned down a beer (that would be rude!) and avoided anything American. In this phase of self-discovery, I decided to give myself as physical of a makeover as I was experiencing internally, and booked an appointment at a chic hair salon in the city.

I was nervous when I arrived, knowing that the language barrier potentially posed a problem, but the energetic stylist was eager to please, and between our broken communique, I described my desire to turn my weighty, unkempt half-asian/half-irish mop into grand orchestrated waves. Grosse, I said, gesturing in sweeping motions along my limpid locks. Big curls. The stylist nodded approvingly, then went about prepping solutions, draping protective cloaks, and making short work of winding isolated sections of hair around plastic framework. Even at her dizzying speed, the process took some time. I knew I had legendarily thick tresses, a blessing from both genetic pools, but soon I began to wonder. The plastic clamps proliferated from my crown to my nape, tight against my scalp. It was my first perm, and while I knew in concept what the process was, I was woefully unfamiliar with the actuality. The waiting. The odor. The slight itch and burn. The slowly emerging dred of 'what have I done?' that was sprouting its way up my spine. While my discomfort reached crescendo levels, I had no words to express my concerns. I had no translation for 'wait a minute' or 'how will this turn out'. I simply sat, petrified by misgiving.

Once the torturous time had passed, and the setting and rinsing had concluded, the stylist cheerfully unfurled, coil after coil, chemically induced curlique. My heart was pounding, and yet still, I had no words. I didn't know how to ask for the corkscrews to be calmed down, in either language. As the lingering moisture evaporated from the ringlets, the thickness of my hair began to take on a life of its own. I stared, aghast, in abject horror, as the carnage was puffed and teased. My previously timid tresses had transformed - into a half-asian afro. I'd turned into Gilda Radner's slightly yellow-toned cousin. Still in shock, I'd paid the bill - a reasonable number until I you applied the exchange rate to Deutchmarks - and turned sideways at the doorway to exit my explosion of grosse - MANY - curls.

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PM2 143: When were YOU last in a church?

Write about the last time you entered a church - what brought you there?

preamble: this was a hard subject for me, so I chose to write it in the third person, for a little emotional distance. I may try it in the first person at some point, but I'm not there yet...


The assembled group sat in scattered clusters amid the rows of rigid folding chairs. You could guess at the connections - family cloaked in black, coworkers in their somber suit coats, social acquaintances united by subdued yet street-wise fashion sense. The mix was diverse, and noticeably contrasting. It was, in fact, a snapshot summary of Mark's life: varied and seemingly contradictory aspects, combined yet segmented. The church hall itself held the same sense of contradiction. A modest - downright sparse - rectilinear space (perhaps a renovated warehouse?) surprisingly graced with horizontal rows of elegant stained glass, high up on the flanking walls. The lavender paint, iconic rainbow flag wall banners and pointedly non-denomination symbolism all highlighted the dichotomy of alternate lifestyle and religious piety.

There was no viewing. The body had been discovered much too late for that. At the front of the hall was a folding card table draped in velvet cloth, where photographs of all shape and sizes had been assembled. Classically framed portraits (high school graduation?) adjacent to inkjet printed snapshots. A family photo album, opened to images of Mark surrounded by siblings. Mark skateboarding in a vacant parking lot. Mark, richly illustrated by an encompassing tattoo never seen under his broadcloth button-down work attire, clowning for the camera. Mark smiling that infectious, ear-to-ear grin, carefree and happy-go-lucky. But that these were the only remaining traces of that smile revealed a darker, hidden facet of Mark that no photo had captured.

The ceremony was short. The minister read a passage, the organist played a piece. Two life-long friends each took to the podium for a brief address, both tributes heartbreaking yet humorous. Amid the underlying current of pain and grief, the divergent guests seemed joined in a collective sigh of release, of peace. Then, in the clusters they arrived in, they spilled forth, out of the shadowy cloister into the bright mid-day sunshine.

:::

PM2 77a: Define an object

Define and describe a common object in 20 words or less.

Symmetrical and cylindrical, tapering and textured. Dimpled, for a purpose. One size fits on at least one of your ten.

:::

PS. My object? A thimble. Tell me you figured it out! [wink]

PM2 127: Take a trope and shake it

Think of a familiar trope (I had to look that up, btw) that could use some shaking up. How about the Mild, Mild West? The Cesspool of Eden? Prince Obnoxious? Make a list and run with it.

The Competent, The Pathetic, and the Tenured (Good, Bad and the Ugly)

The Puddle of Infatuation (The Sea of Love)

Tchotchke of My Disdain (Object of my Affection)

Lemon of my Lharrnyx (Apple of my Eye)

Satellite Stream (Moon River)

Genius' Graphite (Fool's Gold)

The Nanosecond of Nonsense (The Age of Reason)

Lurch, Flail and a Thump (Hop, Skip and a Jump)

Schizophrenically a Psychopath (Three Times a Lady)

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PM2 77b: Define an object

Define and describe a common object in 20 words or less.

Round and flat, to soak up splat.
Under glass, it's advertisements crass.
Cork or pulp, witness to each gulp.

:::

ps. object: coaster
Yes, limerick style! *snap!*

15-ten, 15-ten, and Three of a Kind*

S's parents stayed at his house over Thanksgiving weekend. So did I. During their visit last Christmas, we got over the uncomfortable moment when they realized that their son is dating a hussy who is 'loose with her favors', so this year, they didn't blink an eye when I came rolling downstairs in the mornings, stumbling directly towards the coffeepot.

The weekend has gone remarkably smoothly. His parents have more humor than any other boyfriend's that I've been exposed to, and despite their voting history, are quite liberal-minded. After all, they ARE allowing their son to date a Bi-Racial Hussy.

The greatest bonding tool has proven to be my request for them to teach me to play cribbage. During the afternoons, I would run errands and head back to my apartment to keep my cat alive. When I'd return, S's parents would invariably be sitting at the dining room table, playing cribbage. Masterful players who follow the Hoyle Rules to the T, their scorekeeping rattle sounded like so many foreign phrases that incorporate soundbites that you THINK you understand, but why in the heck don't they actually make sense? And so I asked for a lesson.

The debate ensued over which of them should teach me. After the lessons began, they couldn't keep from interjecting, interrupting and over-ruling each other. S stood in the background, rolling his eyes and clearly staying out of it.

And we played. And I learned. Game after game, I scored well, had luck on my side, and by the end of the night, they declared that they'd 'created a monster'.

Which is a slightly better perception than hussy, right?


::
*10 + 10 + 6 = 26

Grocery Shopping (or, how long ago 21 was)

Last night S and I shopped for Thanksgiving Dinner. We have 12 mouths to feed, and several dietary restrictions to work around, so our menu is diverse and encompassing. I'm not a glutton (for punishment, anyway) so I compiled recipes that were delicious, but fell under the EASY to MODERATE catagory. 80% can be prepped early and slid into the oven as guests arrive.

I had compiled a list of the needed ingredients into catagories of when to buy: a week ahead, 3 days ahead, 1 day ahead. I have a gant chart identifying when each item must be prepped, compiled, and when it goes into the oven. I've verified that all the racks and casserole dishes and baking sheets will fit in S's extra-wide convection. I've noted which serving dishes are for what, so when the potatoes are ready to be split between bowls, we don't find them filled with crackers or ice.

S laughs at my micro-management, but that's because this is his first time hosting a large group for a formal dinner. I know better. I've done this before, and learned a heap of lessons.

Back when I was 21, newly engaged, and eager to prove myself as Happy Homemaker despite also being Full-Time Student/Architectural Intern/Waitress, I agreed to host my future husband's family for a holiday dinner. And my fiance and I nearly didn't make it past the grocery shopping.

Our schedules had left us shopping the day before Thanksgiving, which in itself was pure chaos. I'd made a grocery list, and we lassoed a big cart for the task and headed down the aisles. At each item, we'd pull up to the rack, and eye the options. I'd grab one, while he grabbed a similiar, yet generically branded version. And we'd face our dilemma. I wanted the brand, which to me represented quality, while he wanted the generic, which responded to the reality of our household economy. At each item, we'd pause, then cringe. At each item, we were in conflict.

This was completely foreign to me, as I'd never faced the dilemma of disagreeing over something as mundane as cream of mushroom soup. In terms of a relationship, I was prepared to debate religion and politics, but was inept at negotiating concensus over toilet paper. I didn't know how to vocalize my emotional need for my soon-to-be-inlaws to approve of my cooking - and thereby approve of me. I didn't know how to negotiate to reach a compromise - my choice for certain items, his choice for the others. It wasn't even a fight, because in all honesty, we didn't know how to. I didn't know how to do anything more than to stand in the aisle, clutching my perferred item, and be frustrated. And he didn't know how to do anything more, either.

Our conclusion on that shopping fiasco, so many years ago? We split up. Split the list and split into two shopping carts, that is, and each shopped our own way, to meet later at the checkout line and secretly grudge against the other about not getting what we wanted. In retrospect, that 'splitting and grudging' approach didn't mature much over our 8 years together, and ultimately, we reached the ultimate split.

That tell-tale episode of grocery shopping was when I was 21. Now, so many years later and hopefully so many ways wiser, S and I got one cart, one list, and defined some parameters, before even starting down the overlit aisles. Organic where it really mattered (meat, veggies). For everything else, basic was better. We turned it into a scavenger hunt, text messaged our next quest, and laughed.

Nearly $400 later (that's why they call it WholePaycheck!) we wearily carted the bounty back to his house, sorted it out, and stared at each other in a daze. And then he said some of the sweetest words I've ever heard:

Don't tell anyone, but I had fun shopping with you.


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