Galloping Nelly

Tonight I got my hair highlighted, which has become my 10-week ritual. I think it started back at the end of high school. And quite frankly, it’s depressing how mousey my hair is getting. Sigh.

But forunately I have a great colorist who makes me appear blond. I found her two years ago after a color mishap over the 4th of July in Kansas — where my hair was literally turned to patches of yellow straw. I was mortified. But Connie was able to fix it, and I’ve been indebted to her ever since.

That was definitely my worst color job ever. But the worst cut ever — well, that was even more traumatic.

Somehow or other during the first week of my freshman year in college, I got a certificate for a “free consultation” at the “hot” salon in Manhattan (Kansas, that is). Being that I was now wild and free and on my own, I decided to take the plunge and go see what they had to say.

Mind you, Mom had been cutting my hair for ages at this point. I’m sure I hadn’t had it professionally cut more than 10 times.

My first clue should’ve been that the guy that greeted me for the consultation looked like Jose Eber, except two feet taller and no cowboy hat. I think he was one of the owners.

He got super enthusiastic about giving me a very cutting edge doo. He said he do this. Do that. Voila!

I got so swept up in his drama that I just about stood up out of my chair to yell, “Yes!” (Think Herbal Essence.)

So he started cutting. And pretty soon, I had a shorter rendition of a layered 80s hair band mop on my head. He was looking very proud. I had to run out to cry.

This must have happened on the Thursday before Labor Day, because I clearly remember going to the farm the next day (where my parents were quite polite), and then on to the high school football game, where the boys were NOT polite.

Yes, it was hideous. There was nothing I could do to style it any differently. So the next day I cut it off, which is why I have short hair in all of my freshman photos.

My poor little Nette has been vomiting incessantly for two days now. She’s not moping around, though, and her puke is basically water. But clearly something is wrong with her.

But worse, I have to wipe it up every hour, or throw her our of my bedroom the moment she starts to gag.

Which in turn makes me gag. Especially when I discover that she’s puked on the bathroom floor, just as I’m brushing my tongue. (I’ve been known to gag on my toothbrush a time or two.)

So this morning, I happened to get up and decide that I wanted to go to church. I laid in bed until the last possible moment, though, and then frantically got ready in 5 minutes. I was trying to multi-task by brushing my teeth at the same time as I was looking for my shoes. And what did I come upon? Another pool of cat vomit. I just about had to run for the toilet. Ick.

Despite this minor (yet horrifying) setback, I made it to church via taxi with a few minutes to spare before the procession of robed folks began. Then we sang. We stood up. We recited. And then came the sermon.

You should know that the main pastor has been on sabbatical for a few months, so the assistant pastor was presiding.

And when she went to give the sermon, she realized she didn’t have her manuscript.

Seriously, the woman was engulfed in panic. She decided to pray for help. A search party of two members of the congregation flew to the front of the church and through the exit doors toward her office. The pastor told us that this was her worst nightmare — one that she’d been fearing for 15 years.

I had to sit there and ask myself how it was possible for her to have 15 years of experience in preaching, yet freak out so much without her manuscript?  Personally, I think she did a better job in the first three minutes without it than she did by reading the rest of it.

But clearly the cat had her tongue. Or more likely, it was holding her confidence hostage.

Once a year (if I’m lucky) I find a book so good that I just can’t put it down. I literally keep looking at the clock…midnight…1…2…3. I keep telling myself that I’m crazy, but I just can’t stop.

On July 4th, I was about 100 pages into The Machiavelli Covenant. I picked it back up when I got in bed at 11:30. Pretty soon it was 3:30 a.m. and I was on page 500.

And, of course, I finished the book halfway through the plane trip back to Kansas the next day, which meant I had to twiddle my thumbs for an hour. So silly.

Right now I’m 150 pages into Harry Potter #7, and if I weren’t still at the office at 9:30 p.m., this would probably be one of those all-nighters. (Fortuantely this one isn’t a slow starter.)

So if you’re looking for a good way to torture yourself, try the two books I’ve mentioned above. Or Memoirs of a Geisha, Atlas Shrugged or The Red Tent.  All have left me in need of many cups of coffee the following day. 

Today I went to Unabridged Books to buy the new Harry Potter book, then went to the library to read People magazine. Then I came home and made a family portrait.

(Make your own at www.simpsonizeme.com.)

Now I think I will watch some reality TV.

At 2:57 this afternoon, I was nearing the end of my leisurely 1/8 mile walk home from the gym, and I noticed a sign on the front gate of one of the big houses on my block:

Garage parking space for rent, $175/month with opener.

It’s the perfect location. Literally three doors down from my place. AND it’s cheaper than the going rate of $195 in the public garages two blocks away.

This is a dream come true, except for one thing: I don’t own a car.

I’m sure I’ve mentioned that I’ve been carless for over four years now. Most of the time a car is more trouble than it’s worth, especially in my neighborhood, where you’re certain to drive around for 30 minutes trying to find a parking spot on any weekend night. And it’s a big expense, even compared to taking cabs on a fairly liberal basis.

Last fall I’d given some thought to getting a car, and then ultimately decided the costs far outweighed the benefits.

But a month ago, the psychic-detective-entertainer at Jenn’s “girls night” told me I would be getting a car soon, and it would be either black or green.

Perhaps this is fate?

I still haven’t decided on the car, and it will probably take me several months to come to a conclusion. But, by that time it will be cold and snowy in Chicago, and there’s no way I’d get one without a garage nearby.

So…to call about the garage, or not to. That is the question.