Shampoo Solo

I have been busy with working, at the real workplace and also on a fall fashion project I took on to allow myself to indulge in fall fashion. (Actually, that’s a lie; the freelance cash is all going toward a cleaning service, which will improve my life exponentially.)

Other things that have been happening, which may or may not have been Twittered about already, I can’t remember:

–Scott did his final presentation of his thesis, which went well — now it’s just a matter of collecting his diploma, but he’s done with his masters. The same day, I got an unexpected promotion at work. We went out to a fancy restaurant to celebrate, and aside from the wine list and skanky Tila-Tequila lookalike sitting next to us, it was awful. The only food I enjoyed the whole night was the cheese plate … and that was “dessert.”

–I planned a whole big surprise for Scott, involving secret instructions and a mysterious 5:30 p.m. “appointment” … it was really tickets to see ‘The Dark Knight’ in iMax, but I made it seem like a much bigger deal. At the prescribed time when he was supposed to leave work and meet me, he discovered his car had been broken into (which was not, as BetheBoy suggested and Scott momentarily thought, actually the surprise). Stereo was gone, cell phone was gone. We filed a police report, bought him a new cell phone, and missed the movie. Of course making the insurance claim is more costly than replacing everything outright. We might be getting ahead, but it’s in fits and starts.

–I didn’t really think Christian Bale was hot until I read that he roughed up his mom. Now that is what I call hot.

–I caught a sinus infection. Am now on antibiotics.

–My Dad’s birthday is on Thursday. It’s pretty much a guarantee around any holiday or celebration that when I ask him what he’d like, he’ll say nothing, and then I get him movie passes. This time, I suggested that maybe I’d make him a mix CD, and either I’d pick songs for him (I was thinking hits from ‘74 and ‘77, the years his kids were born), but he asked if he could send me a list of songs. He listens to the radio at work and writes down the song title and artist of anything he hears that he likes, so of course I said yes, and this list, it seriously makes me want to squeeze him so hard — it’s adorable. Actually, let’s put it this way: I now know that my love of Fergie, Pink, Liz Phair and Fontella Bass is at least partially genetic.

I think that’s all. More regular updates to resume once freelance gig is put to bed. But, in the meantime, if you’re bored, here are some other articles I’ve written recently: some advice about having sex after you have kids, some advice about being a good stepmom, and some really cheap ways to give gifts.

Oh, and one more thing … where does this little corner of the Internet come down on current Wired cover-girl Julia Allison? I, for one, am very pro, for no other reason than I have a soft spot for the media savvy, those people who take magazines and the internet and even wee little bloggers like me and wrap them around their pinkies (I also have a secret love for Heidi and Spencer, having never seen an episode of ‘The Hills’ — those photos of them with guns were straight out of ‘Glamorama’). Anyway. Love? Hate? Never heard of her?

But I finally just got this photo scanned into digital format — while in Mexico, we went horseback riding on the beach, and you were also allowed to unsaddle your horse and take it into the ocean for a swim. It was my first experience both riding bareback and swimming with a horse. Apparently horses love to swim, but they make really weird grunting noises while doing it. Anyway — there is Scott (isn’t his farmer tan so adorable?!)! On a horse! (A horse whose name was either Wizard or Weezer!) And, while it appears that the horse is smiling, he’s actually grunting.

Scott had joked the whole ride that once we got to the beach, he wasn’t just going to swim with the horse, he was going to drown it. And, well, unfortunately for Wizard/Weezer, Scott succeeded.

(Just kidding.)

Before I go into this long-ass recap of the late-night fire alarm, know this: The fire alarm seems to go off frequently in our building. It’s not unusual for me to find the big heavy fire doors locked shut in our wing when I leave for work early in the morning. It’s not unusual for firetrucks to roll up to the lobby in the evenings.

I will also say this: Each unit in our building is equipped with a security announcement system so that, I guess, if a tornado or Godzilla or something is imminent, everyone in the building can be notified to take cover.

I have never heard the in-condo announcement system used, ever.

(Before 1 a.m. on Sunday night, that is.)

We had spent the night playing Rock Band (shocker), and I went to bed a little bit after 10 p.m. I have no idea what time Scott came to bed, because I immediately fell asleep, and the next thing I knew, all I could hear was THERE IS A FIRE IN THE BUILDING PLEASE EVACUATE IMMEDATELY WOOOOOP WOOOOOOOP WOOP WOOP THERE IS A FIRE IN THE BUILDING PLEASE EVACUATE IMMEDATELY WOOOOOP WOOOOOOOP WOOP WOOP THERE IS A FIRE IN THE BUILDING PLEASE EVACUATE IMMEDATELY WOOOOOP WOOOOOOOP WOOP WOOP. And repeat non-stop, for the next four paragraphs.

There was a lot of sleepy fumbling around (I remember thinking that I needed to put on a sweatshirt, because I wasn’t wearing a bra, and wondering ‘Where are my pants?’). I stopped to pee. (I know.) I’m not really sure what Scott was doing (peeing? [we pee A LOT, ok?]), but after peeing I started to wake up a little bit, and it’s important here for me to express how shocking it was to be woken up like that, given the amount of previous data we had on fire alarms: This kind of thing didn’t happen. This was unusual. This must be serious.

This realization led me to the office, where we keep the cat carriers. I pulled both down off the shelf and went searching for the animals. They were hiding under the bed; Scott and I tag-teamed to get them out and into the carriers, which was surprisingly easy, and then we bolted. I paused for a split second in the living room and wondered if I should grab photo albums (which is ridiculous because we don’t really have photo albums), and then we left.

We walked down eight floors to get outside, and somewhere around the seventh floor I started losing my shit. The stairwell was all loud evacuation announcement and flashing lights and angry mewing cats, and it suddenly hit me that I was terrified. I hadn’t grabbed my wallet. I had surprisingly not grabbed anything except for husband, keys, phone and cats (those are the important things, yes, I know, but once out I started thinking about my new Marc Jacobs blouse and the Wii — I am an evil person, I know). Plus, I was barefoot. I was completely discombobulated.

I wasn’t the only one.

The scene outside in the south parking lot was a lot of people just like me — freaked out, teary, holding kids and leashes. We were only out there for maybe two minutes when we heard sirens; we took the cats to Scott’s car and settled them in the backseat with the AC on (it was about 90 degrees and humid — the sweatshirt I put on was a bad idea). He went to check out what was going on in the front of building. I couldn’t see anything odd about the building, except that almost every light was on in our wing, the east wing, while the south and west wings seemed darker. Scott came back after 15 minutes or so with nothing to report; firemen were still milling about but no one seemed overly frenetic. We sat in the car for another 10 minutes (it’s worth noting how GOOD the cats were; they aren’t fans of being in their carriers, or the car, but they both immediately sprawled out and rolled around goofily once we had them settled), and then I volunteered to walk around to the front. I only got about halfway there when our next-door neighbor stopped me and said we had been cleared to go back inside.

And so we went back inside, where we wandered around the place for about two hours, wondering if it was OK to go to sleep. When I finally did go to bed, I tossed and turned, and, at one point, I had a dream that the in-condo alarm clicked on again, but there was no announcement playing — we could just hear that static hum — so that we went to the lobby and screamed at the security guard. (I’m pretty sure it was a dream.) I think I slept, maybe, a nervous 20 minutes all night.

This was a pretty long story, eh? I’m still not sure at this point whether or not there even was a fire — I sent building management a note asking about it, but they didn’t explain (though they did tell me that the in-unit announcement is a zone alarm that turns on in all common areas as well as the affected floor, and above and below the affected floor, anytime there’s an overall alarm). I do know this — when I got home from work on Monday night, there was a firetruck outside, but all was quiet inside.

I feel like this story needs a bow of some sort, so here goes: Things I learned in the fire/non-fire:

Lesson No. 1: Calamities make Scott and I silent. We don’t remember speaking to each other at all until we got outside the condo. We just grabbed cats and left like robots. (Though maybe that was because we were half asleep.)
Lesson No. 2: I am a crier. Although Scott nicely pointed out that at least I didn’t collapse or anything like some dumb chick in an action movie.
Lesson No. 3: Update Twitter after emergency (and/or leave cell phone behind). I needlessly freaked people out because I was freaked out.
Lesson No. 4: We live in a big building. Even if it’s a zone alarm, if we hear the announcement again, we could probably look in the hallway, look for smoke, etc. before rushing outside.
Lesson No. 5: Keep pack of cigarettes and flask of Maker’s in car. They would’ve come in handy.

The backup generator that powers the emergency lights and whatnot for our 12-story building is insanely loud, and creates a slight wind tunnel effect. So, of course, when we got home tonight and discovered that power was out in the building AGAIN, it made perfect sense to me to scream at Scott.

ME: GET ON THE CHOPPER, SAWYER!
HIM: WHAT?
ME: THIS IS OUR ONE CHANCE TO GET OFF THIS ISLAND!
HIM: WHAT?
ME: GET ON THE GODDAMN CHOPPER!
HIM: WE HAVE TO LEAVE THE CALICO BEHIND — THERE’S NO TIME!
ME: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

And then we trudged up eight flights of stairs for the 854th time so far this summer. And ever since we got upstairs, he’s been working on his thesis in the living room, and I’ve been working on freelance stuff here in the office (two down, two to go!), but we did manage to shout the following things at each other:

Me: Man. I can’t believe Angelina Jolie gets to have unprotected sex with Brad Pitt. What a lucky bitch.
Him: So … does Leona Lewis have her period?

And with that, it is 9:33, the Stop Working and Have Glass of Red Wine time of day, and also tonight the Battery Power Getting Awfully Low time of day.

See you in hell, Monday.

We are questioning everything. Why we love the things we love. If this was a mistake; if that was a mistake; if the whole thing was wrong from the start. We bargain, we argue, we cry; we try and fail to make the whole thing add up. We grieve; we eat sandwiches of guilt, shame and tomatoes. We made a mountain of of this molehill, and then made the mountain into a state and the state into a country. Eventually, we stopped asking questions and started pointing fingers at each other. And, more carefully, at the people around us.

These are the best of times; they are the worst of times.

We are trying to remember to be gentle. And kind. And trying to remember that often nothing is gentle or kind.

I don’t know what to say, so I am saying nothing at all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There is no way The New York Times will publish this letter, because it’s crazy talk, but it’s where we ended. It is our solution. We are not the only ones; we wish we could say we were done, that we are walking away, that we are turning our backs, but we cannot. We cannot put an end to pain by ignoring it.

To the Editor:

Re ‘So Young, So Strong, So Fast and Oh So Very Sad’ (essay, May 4)

My husband and I, lifetime racing fans, watched the 134th Kentucky Derby from the Churchill Downs grandstand; afterward, we watched brokenhearted fans sobbing in their seats. We’ve been soul-searching since.

We agree with Jane Smiley; having watched Barbaro, Pine Island, George Washington and now Eight Belles crumple, horse racing must change. It is a matter, now, of convincing breeders and buyers. Our proposal is this: Create a race that is more important than the Triple Crown.

Stop rewarding speed and start rewarding longevity with new race open only to six-year-olds with at least 20 starts, held at Keeneland – or another track that has switched to synthetics – with a purse of $8 million, run over a mile and an eighth, in honor of Eight Belles.

Perhaps by creating a loftier goal, breeders and buyers will stop creating brittle, precocious speedsters – and curate stronger, sturdier horses built to last. It’s a longshot, but this sport loves a longshot – and only when this shift in thinking begins can horse racing truly begin to change, and heal.

I haven’t quite figured out how to describe, understand or feel about our Derby trip, but there is this: The first thing we noticed when arriving at Churchill Downs was that all the flags were at half mast, and we had no idea why. Eventually we learned that a soldier from Kentucky had been killed in Iraq earlier in the week and the governor had ordered them lowered; we had no way of knowing then that the day would be bookended by sadness. It doesn’t seem fair to focus on the end of the day; it also doesn’t seem fair not to. For starters, here are some photos.

The Twin Spires of Churchill Downs.

Newlyweds at the track.

At our seats. We were just below the fourth turn, meaning the Derby post parade trotted right by us, and the horses broke from the gate almost directly in front of us.

If you paid really, really close attention, we were actually on the TeeVee for more than a minute.

The mad dash out of the starting gate. Big Brown, the 20 in pink, is closest to us.

The top of the stretch, with Big Brown in the lead. You can also see Eight Belles making her move on Recapturetheglory.

A panoramic view from our seats.

So obviously we have been thinking about Eight Belles endlessly, talking about it and just … trying to figure it out. We can’t; I can’t. Sally Jenkins for The Washington Post has the best op-ed that I’ve seen:

There is no turning away from this fact: Eight Belles killed herself finishing second.

Thoroughbred racing is in a moral crisis, and everyone now knows it … Horses are being over-bred and over-raced, until their bodies cannot support their own ambitions, or those of the humans who race them.

According to several estimates, there are 1.5 career-ending breakdowns for every 1,000 racing starts in the United States. That’s an average of two per day.

Part of the trouble is the makeup of thoroughbreds themselves: They are creatures physically at war with their own nature. … Anyone who has spent time around a barn understands that horses love to run. They do it for fun.

I don’t have a fancy bow to put on this post; I wish I did. Clearly, this isn’t what we were expecting from our trip; we didn’t want to witness what’s being called the most tragic Kentucky Derby in history (nor did anyone else, I’m sure), but we did … and the thing is, that’s racing. And that’s also life — tragic, heartbreaking, ugly and unfair at times.

That doesn’t make it any easier.

Scott has a black eye. How did he get it?

A. He wouldn’t listen / He was asking for it.

B. Hockey.

C. Our latest bank heist went south.

D. A frisbee hit him in the face.

E. None of the above.

Last night, in the very, very dead center of the night, I woke up to the sound of Scott screaming in his sleep.

This happens frequently; not that he has frequent nightmares, but when he does, he will scream in his sleep. It used to scare the crap out of me, but now, after years of it, I tend to find it amusing.

Last night, he started with a long scream, and then a “Jesus Christ!” — the loud, terrified way you’d say it if the ‘Cloverfield’ monster was staring you down. (No, we haven’t seen that movie.)

Normally, he doesn’t manage full words, just screams, so I woke him up and said, “Pet, you’re having a nightmare. What are you dreaming about?”

And, I’m not lying, he said, in a scared little-boy voice: “Indy … she was running right at me.”

He fell right back to sleep, but I couldn’t, I was giggling so hard the whole bed was shaking. Because, you’ve all met Indy, right?

She’s ferocious.

I’ve had a life-long love affair with Polaroid photos (longtime Internet readers may remember the Polaroid-shot casts of characters); so it comes as no surprise that they were a big part of our wedding day. The Husband and I spray painted a series of signs that said things like ‘WE’RE SO GLAD’ and “YOU’RE HERE” and then took Polaroids of each other holding them, and placed them on the welcome table at the ceremony.

We thought it would be a nice way to be with our guests during the times when we couldn’t be with our guests, because of traditions and formal photographs and whatnot. We also brought the camera to the reception and tried to take photos of all our family and friends; we have one of us that served as the only real proof (other than rings and dented savings accounts) that we had gotten hitched during the weeks we were waiting for the official photographer’s photos.

The bottom line is, we got a lot of compliments on the Polaroid touches. One friend told me he steals an idea for his wedding at every one he goes to; the signs were what he planned to steal from us. Which was neat, and nice, because the Polaroids were something that was really just us, and not inspired or lifted from Martha Stewart or InStyle.

When it came time to write our thank-you notes, The Husband had the brilliant idea of including Polaroids of ourselves actually using some of the gifts we’d been given. Most were simple, and boring; him mixing cocktails with the shaker into the highball glasses. Me sipping wine from the Cabernet glasses, the decanter nearby. And, et cetera.

One lucky friend — who is a big fan of our gray tabby — got this Polaroid:

(Oddly enough, I’m wearing the same sweater right now. And my hair is six inches shorter.)

It makes me wish we had made the rest of our thank-you notes just as sassy. The tabby disagrees.