i had this dream last night

That I was walking down an Altadena street, one I'd never walked before, with some guy -- a hybrid or tri-bred of guys I've known. And the trees were full of fruit. So much fruit, the sidewalks were littered with plums and oranges and apples. My friend picked an orange from a tree. "Do you think they'll mind?" I asked. But how could they, as there was so much, everywhere. 

My friend offered me a bite of the orange, and it was sweet. Now, though, I wanted an apple, the apples were very apple-y, red and perfectly shaped. But the first bite of the first apple tasted like water. I picked up another from the ground, a red-delicious, and after one disappointing bite, dropped it to the ground. 

All the bushes and flowers were green and flowering. A butterfly bush formed purple flowers right before our eyes.

Isn't that amazing, I said. Every other place around us has turned brown. But we, we 're in bloom. 

Then I saw a macintosh apple under the red delicious tree. Oh, what I wanted -- that macintosh.  I crawled on my belly under the prickly branches and stretched out my hand, touched it with my fingers, coaxed it towards me ... 

And something woke me up, so that was that.

Autism and the National Month

All my life, I've known people on the Asperger's side of the Autism spectrum. I just didn't know it. I didn't even know there was a thing until maybe early in this century. I don't even know if it's such a good thing that I know it now. We can all be shoved into one syndrome or another. 

Me, I dress very carelessly. So carelessly apparently, that people, shocked, will say, "What the fuck are you wearing?" Their shock shocks me. Someday my wardrobe blindness will get slapped with a name, and a syndrome.  Which will make me less me and more that.

I've had friends throughout my life who displayed some classic Asperger's traits -- wouldn't look me in the eye, for example. But I just learned, when we talked, to look at some other corner of the room. Of course, I'd always slip up;  still do -- and find them looking at me and our eyes will lock, and his (usually his) focus will fly to some other place, ceiling or floor, and mine back to my corner. No big deal.

And other stuff. I had a friend, Mr. M, who would do anything on my behalf. Look after my house when I was away on business, take care of the plants, pick me up from the airport, tend to the animals. But when I brought up my feelings after my father died, he immediately changed the subject to one of his Caltech projects, or tennis. 

At first, that one bothered me. But later, I reconsidered. Maybe he was right -- I shouldn't dwell on the death-thing so much. And the tennis did make me feel better.

Sometimes we played doubles. He hated to be on my doubles team. Because while Mr. M just wanted to get in a serve well enough to start the rally and secure the point, I wanted to hit a serve that left everyone stunned and amazed. My serve often missed.

And again this just relates to Mr. M, because I'm sure this varies with anyone categorized with Asperger's, but he didn't have a sense of irony. Not my irony, in any case; and would take what I said way too literally. So then I'd find myself trying to explain something I said and get all tangled up in it and end up with, "We're down 40-Love, M, but watch this."

And he'd be like,"Well, if you must." 

Today is either National Autism Acceptance or National Autism Awareness Month, depending on which side of the controversy you fall. It is a controversy, in case you don't know. Some Autism advocacy groups have a problem with what you call it.

On my side -- I guess I prefer acceptance; but what's to accept?  We're good. We always have been.

Into the madding crowd

I believe it was in the early 2000s that LA Times journalist Jill Leovy first started reporting on the murders taking place in South Central LA.

Not from the aggregate, the usual statistical perspective that keeps murder and violence at arm's length (unless your arm can't escape the thick of things), but she took on the murders, one individual victim at a time. She wrote about his background, his life -- because it usually was a man, though sometimes, of course, a woman or a child. Who killed him and how, and the possible reasons why. Then the response from police to EMT to coroner. Notification of next of kin, the effect on the next of kin and friends, the funeral, the grieving, the aftermath and possible retaliation.

Gut-wrenching is a term that gets tossed about a lot, but maybe that's just because so many things in life do that to the gut. Her stories certainly fit the bill. 

When I still worked at The Times, a small group of us met with Leovy, and we asked some rather typical questions, you know, how did you research each story, gather information, meet with the families, that type of thing. And then one guy asked, "Writing these stories, week after week, does it take it's toll on you, personally?"

And she rubbed her arms nervously, up and down and up and down, and finally said, "Oh, I'm a wreck."

This Sunday's LA Times has Leovy's review of a book about the history of murder in LA from 1840-1870. Before it was a city at all. And like today in LA and the world over, sometimes violence is gang against gang, tribe against tribe, ideology against ideology, and sometimes it's got nothing to do with any of that at all. 

Apparently, the book also delves into the various concepts of justice. Something of immediate fascination since the internet has already proved to be the most successful instrument of mob justice mankind has ever known.

The book is titled "Eternity Street." Even if you don't read the book, read her piece. It's something more than the parts of its sum -- better than a book review; more than a discussion of LA's history, more than just really, really fine writing. 

http://www.latimes.com/books/la-ca-jc-frontier-los-angeles-20160320-story.html

It's a Boy!

For the past couple of days the cat had been sneezing and choking on her food, so I took her to the vet. It was time anyway, as I figured a year had passed and she needed to get vaccinated for whatever it is cats get vaccinated for. I know nothing about cats.

I was rather worried that perhaps I'd put off the vaccines too long. Maybe the vet would say, "You are a horrible, evil person; if only you'd bothered to come last month. But now, thanks to your lassitude, your cat has rabies, AIDS, and pneumonia."

The vet took her temp, listened to her heart and lungs, checked her ears and paws, asked if I'd given her flea preparations (yes), then picked her up and hugged her and asked, "What's his name?"

"His?"

"His name."

"Uhm, it's ..."

"Yes?"

"Billy. His name is Billy."

And the vet and her vet intern looked like they'd heard worse. 

Then they showed me how to give Billy his pills for the next seven days. Tilt the head back and the mouth opens naturally, so pop it down the gullet.

I suppose now I have to retire certain nicknames  -- Swiss Miss, Miss Peepers, and Sweet Girl. Though Jujube swings both ways, in my opinion.

Back home, I broke it to Albert that his best girl is actually his best boy. He doesn't seem to have a problem with that. 

Me and Harper Lee

I wrote this a few years ago, but, To Kill a Mockingbird -- well, as Dill said about something else entirely -- "oh yes, it's in my blood."

IThere’s an axiom that’s been floated for a long time (how long? A century or two?), that the act of reading, in and of itself, is somehow intellectually nutritious. A noble pursuit.

I wonder how many books I’ve read. How many I’ve cracked for a one-night stand, with plots hell bent for leather, salivating to a destination.

I’ve read many books, not beginning to end, but beginning and end, skipping over the middle. From the here to the  there.

I’ve bought books based on the covers alone. Pretty, pretty faces. I’ve read parts of books that have been passed along, for my consideration. Just to get them off the shelf.

I’ve read cereal boxes, comic books, toilet paper wrappers, junk mail, license plates, the labels on my fruit.

Not instructional manuals, I never read instructions. I feel I’m the only one who can write them well. I could be wrong, since I never read instructions.

But I read and re-read stories. For their incidental music.

Miss Maudie, Miss Maudie, in your flower print dress. Eternally watering the roses. Atticus will never notice, I can tell you that now, as I told you ten years ago, and twenty.

But you still call out to him – it is to him, isn’t it? “Your father can make a will so airtight no one can break it!” He doesn’t turn around. He never will. He’ll just raise a hand and say, “You be good, children.”

Maudie will dress up again tomorrow, and fill her pitcher with water. The plants won’t wilt and flowers will bloom.

Holiday Chores: Two to get ready and four to go

Anxiety Makes People Clean Obsessively, scientists find.
Being anxious, stressful, may make people less slovenly. According to a new study, there's a link between anxiety and obsessive house cleaning...
-- Current Biology

All these years I thought I was irritatingly anxious, but now it appears I'm just irritating.

I like a clean house, sure, but more in theory than practice. I find no succor in sucking and sweeping things in that general direction. The process of cleaning, or thought of the process, fills me with ennui -- prone to one of those Parisian exhales, where the eye half-shutter and the lips flap. Of all forms of grease, I dislike the elbow-variety most of all.

Which is such a damn shame. I wish I wanted to do all the things I don't. Cleaning is but a small part of that package. I'd like to like to work at anything with great diligence. Practice to make perfect. Write like there's no tomorrow. Or at the very least, scrub stuff.

But as that's not the case, I have worked out a certain approach to house cleaning.

The window washing bucket sits outside a window, and I plant my industrial-sized shop vac in the middle of the hallway -- both stew in their own juices for a day or a week. The time line between product placement and product purpose proves somewhat variable. A stubbed toe in the middle of the night? Two? A bloody shin? One can't hang a specific date on such things, how much pain will evince a final call to action. But action will eventually occur.

When it does, kicking that cleaning show on the road requires caffeine. Lots of caffeine. Meth-identical quantities of caffeine. And after three or four hours of furious, barely conscious activity, I'm like, whoa, everything looks great, but what happened, where am I, what's my name?

Some people, highly intelligent people, too, get real satisfaction out of the act of cleaning. Maybe "highly intelligent " is the operative here, because I don't get it.

Shame eventually does the trick. Though for me, shame sets a high bar, one I can walk under time and time again without even ducking.

After spending the better part of the day polishing, uncluttering, mopping and so forth, things do look wonderful. Restful. And I think, you know, if I just did a few chores every single day, the process wouldn't be so monumental. But I never do, so it always is.

In a parallel universe, and there might be such a thing, I hope perfect me likes to do all that I haven't but should and don't. And as a bonus, hadn't done all that I have, shouldn't have,  but did.

Intermission

We'll be back -- maybe in another week, give or take. In the meantime, in between time ...

My Darling Lemontime

You like lemons? I've got lemons.



You don't like lemons? I've still got lemons.



And pomegranates. Strange that my notoriously under-achieving trees are suddenly fecund. Strange that I actually have cause to use the word fecund. Always wanted to, but the occasion never arose. Fecund equals fertile plus something vaguely lascivious, I think.

Yes? No?

In any case, worth pondering, while I peel another bucket of guavas.

Altadena Hiking

Ok, Blogger threatened to remove the "hiker" from my name if I failed to post a recent hike. Something I shoulda woulda been doing, except I hate both my cameras and rarely carry them.

So I fired up the mini-cam this morning. Good, good. But forgot to clean the lens. Bad, bad. I realized the error of my ways half-way back down the trail and licked the lens and rubbed it on my shirt. Your lucky day.



This is a nice trail, though not my favorite, as it's exposed to the sun and the elements. Best tackled when covered in fog or clouds. Today there were no clouds. But I like the old Mt. Wilson toll road, as it's wide enough to accommodate both bikers and hikers, so we don't get into squabbles over who stops and who goes, which of us owns eight of the 12-inches of trail.



My hiking etiquette -- when the trail narrows, those going down yield to whoever is going up. Those of us going up faster than the other uppers, pass when it's comfortable for them, so no one has to stop.



And this is just a bite, a nibble, of all the things I've come up with, over time. Life would be ever so pleasant if everybody played by my rules.

Cat nip

Oh yeah, you look nice now -- with your head reclined, whiskers relaxed, sporting your little raspberry nose. But come 3 am, we know, we know.

That's when you'll wander the house like Lady MacBeth. Or no, actually, you'll sound like an extra in Doctor Zhivago, after the Bolsheviks killed your baby and burned the village.

You will sing an A flat minor, holding the note for what seems to be forever. Ewowoooow. Sometimes ending with a question mark: Ewoooow? Or an exclamation point: Ewooow! But most often just ending in an ellipses: Ewowow....Ewowow...etc.

What do you want? To go outside?

--No, are you crazy? There are coyotes out there.

Then are you hungry?

--No, not particularly.

Well, do you want to chase a ball or something?

--No, I want you to understand: It's 3 am, and my heart is filled with music, mystery, opera. What I must do is sing, what you must do is listen.

Ok, so we're going to burrow under the pillows and listen to your aria that way. No offense.

--In that case, I might have to bite your toes.

Candyland: The inside scoop

No one decorated their yard with severed legs, dismembered children, and Day of the Dead tableaux when I was growing up. We were lucky if neighbors remembered to put out a pumpkin.

Half the time, they didn't even bother to stick around. There'd just be a basket of candy on the porch with "Boo! From the Hendersons" scribbled across a piece of graph paper. As the basket held nothing but Smarties, the Hendersons often found an unpleasant return on their investment. But not from my quarter, I assure you.

Me and my friends, we never tricked. That would have taken both too much time and too much imagination. We didn't even bother with regulation costumes after the age of five. A little grease paint, a torn shirt, and we were good to pillage. Sugar. We wanted sugar, and nothing but sugar. Specifically, chocolate sugar. "Open wide for Chunkies!" (Which must be the creepiest ad slogan ever.) No time to chat, just in and out, done and done.

Most parents in the subdivisions spent Halloween watching Gunsmoke, and would answer the door feigning only the barest vestige of interest. But there was always that one house. That house where the grown-ups were way too excited, way too invested in the evening's entertainment. For whatever reason, they had passed through adolescence and teenagery into dotage, somehow blissfully unaware of Halloween's true purpose.



So these -- we'll call them "enthusiasts" -- had a yard decorated with some sort of children of the corn configuration. The mom dressed up as Morticia and the dad as a vampire. While the Addams Family theme played in the background, they'd greet us with a cauldron of Hi-C fruit punch and dry ice and say, "Come into our chamber, my pretties."

We had no choice, we had to go inside, they played bridge with our parents. Thus, we'd waste precious chocolate-accumulating minutes dipping our hands in a bowl of cold spaghetti labeled INTESTINES, peeled grapes labeled "EYE BALLS." We'd smile politely. "Oh, that was real spooky, Mrs. Johnston." And she'd wag her finger and say, "Mrs. Johnston? Who is this Mrs. Johnston you speak of? Gomez, Do you know a Mrs. Johnston?" Then Mr. Johnston would jump out from behind a door and flap his cape, "Cara mia!"

We felt greatly embarrassed on their behalf, and finally understood why their kids had taken up pot at such a tender age.

When we eventually escaped the clutches of Morticia and Gomez Johnston, I'm sure I wasn't the only kid to appreciate my own parents, whose Halloween lassitude suddenly seemed quite sophisticated.

Many of us lived in sugar-restricted homes and any candy we hadn't eaten along the way was confiscated as soon as we opened the front door.

Next spring, we'd set up a stand outside our house and sell the candy back to the original owners. But at a discount. And I suppose they handed it back to us the following fall. Who knows for how many years that went on. Some Dutch scientists recently proved that subatomic particles travel both backward and forward in time. Apparently the same principle applies to candy corn.

A blogger friend died last week

I considered him a friend; maybe you did, too. Birdman -- that's the only name he provided on his blog -- even if you and he had posted back and forth for several years. But he generously shared other sides of his life.

What did we, the virtuals, know about Birdman? He was an English teacher, who on a dare wore a kilt to school. He loved and was loved by his wife Elenka. His family lived in Maine, and he grew up somewhere on the North Atlantic coast. Had kind of a Tom Sawyer childhood, rode his bike delivering newspapers as a youth, protected birds and other wildlife, loved the sea, dreaded the dead of winter, longed for spring, traveled in summer. And most of all, he had the gift of gab, a wonderful optimism, and a talent for photography.

Birdman always struck me as the uncle or cousin you'd want to be seated next to at a Thanksgiving Day dinner. The one who could spin a yarn, tell a joke, at the appropriate time, break up any sort of tension. Kind of the Will Rogers of bloggers.

One of his October posts -- and he blogged every single day -- ended with:

"Always remember...Wishing is important. Sometimes pieces just tumble into place."

His last post is here. If he touched you too, say good-bye.

What I'll never know

If there is a heaven, for my mother's sake, I hope heaven has a skylight roof, six escalators, seven hair salons, eight movie theaters, ten shoe stops, a Sears, Broadway, and a few furniture stores named after famous early American patriots. That might bring her eternal peace.

I never understood mom's love of the grand indoor shopping malls, but then, I never understood my mom. This is true. And the lack of understanding was mutual. We directed eye rolls in each other's general direction from the day I screamed my way onto this planet.

We practiced a certain amount of unkindness upon one another. The reason for this escaped me then, escapes me now. Sure, I have theories, everyone has theories, but the thing is, I could have risen to the occasion, but didn't; been the bigger person in this relationship, but wasn't.

So we gave up on one another very early in the game.

It wasn't until she had Parkinsons that we played nice. Me, because what kind of a shit wouldn't treat someone with this disease kindly, and she -- she had way too much on her plate to bother chewing over an ancient grudge. And both of us, because we only saw each other about once a year.

Not that we ultimately, at the bitter end, liked each other. That Titanic of childhood and parental bonding or non-bonding rarely swings a 180. Still, I do realize I've spent way too many hours in this life thinking about my mother. And after all those ill-spent hours, I've reached a conclusion: I don't believe she screwed with me intentionally. More likely, accidentally -- incidentally. Perhaps inevitably, and from her point of view, quite forgettably.

That's the thing with most intimate relationships -- you generally don't press the save button on similar memories. And why a certain one means so much to you and so little to the other is probably more significant than the incident in question.

But back to the malls.

Our relatives from Europe would visit. As social and cultural coordinator, Mom didn't put the Getty or a national park or the Art Institute on the docket. She piled all who were willing in the Monte Carlo and drove to cathedrals of consumerism called something like West Haven Galleria, Grand Traverse Mall.

I remember one uncle preferred to stay back at our home and play bocce balls. Bocce balls is a tedious, pointless game. We got quite good at it, my uncle and I.

When mom and relatives returned, they didn't drag in trunks full of plunder. Maybe just a modest upscale bag or two. While mom loved the malls, relished the act or the process of shopping, it rarely led to an actual purchase. Same with the relatives. After all, they had shops, likely better shops, back home in Europe.

When the relatives left, so did I. I think the only time mom and I felt some degree of comfort in each other's company was in the leave-taking ritual. We waved, and I ran through the airport like running for my life. When my plane taxied down the runway, I sighed with relief, mostly. And unexamined regret.

Where did we go wrong?

Wasn't there a time? There was a time. When you came to my first grade class, dressed in a beige velvet suit, gold and pearl earrings, with a solje pinned to your white linen blouse. I don't know why you were there -- maybe to talk about Norway or painting, art. But beautiful more beautiful than any movie star. I looked around the room and saw everyone adored you. But you didn't belong to them. You were mine, in all your glamour, and I owned you. After your speech, I grabbed your hand and dragged you out of the classroom to the hallway, tugged at your shoulder so I could kiss your cheek. I tried to tell you something important, but my feelings out-sized any words I knew. "I just love you so much." That's the best I could muster. You looked surprised, but not displeased. Touched a cool hand to my forehead.

This is also true.

Was there a love between us, a love up for grabs? Did you not see me reach for it? Did you reach for it too, when I wasn't looking?

A five block walk

O world, O life, O time. This property rests only a jog away from my house -- three blocks west, two blocks north, one block cross. Might just as well be a continent away.



Some living in the brown might resent all the green. I don't. I'd give every bucket of my shower water to keep it looking thus. Seriously -- I don't wish brown upon this family, I just wish they'd invite me over for cocktails.

On the same block, we have a reality check.



Not that the that is better than the this, except, well, that it is.

In spite of what you may read, SoCal is not a desert climate, we're a Mediterranean climate. Or we were. Something we share with Central Chile, Southern Australia, South Africa, and the obvious. But currently, we're thirsty.

As we're living high and dry, here are some of my Altadena favorites, playing by the rules.







:

Traveling by Trail

Where middle-age starts and ends seems immutable when you're on the outside looking in. But from the inside looking out, that span -- the middle-age time frame -- grows surprisingly elastic.

Still, we all can probably agree 40-something kicks that middle-aged ball in the air and 60-something will likely catch it.

Which is one of the reasons I'll not see the movie version of Bill Bryson's A Walk in the Woods. The book is an autobiographical, picaresque tale about a middle-aged, kind of angsty, definitely out-of-shape writer and his equally middle-aged but way more out-of-shape friend, and their semi-commitment to thru-hike the 2,200-mile Appalachian Trail.

In the movie, Robert Redford plays Bryson. Age-wise, Redford has nearly a two-score advantage on the protagonist as originally written.

Now, this isn't to say 80-year olds can’t walk one of longest trails in the world. They can and do. In fact, every year, all manner of folk complete the AT – men, women, girls, boys, the blind, the homeless. An amputee walked it, which fills me with all sorts of hiker-slacker shame. These are stories worth telling -- it's just not this story.

The other reason I won't see the movie is that, other than free climbing the face of Half Dome, a long walk isn't exactly a spectator sport.

Without hoops, home runs, or triple hand springs, the visual glory of hiking pretty much resides in the eye of the beholder. And what the beholder spends plenty of time beholding is the top of his boots. Look skyward at hawks or treetops once too often, and before you know it, nose meets trail -- there will be blood.

Along the way of course, hikers find intermittent moments of transcendent beauty. Viewing the world from a mountain top is spectacular. But that's a teaspoon of time, versus the getting-up to, and getting-down from.

Knowing that, those who don't hike surely wonder what the attraction might be. I really can’t explain it. There's no particular skill involved, no trophy waiting at the end.

Hiking is basically a self-congratulatory exercise -- and strictly a matter of personal interest how high, long, hard the journey. Trust me, I've been on both the giving and receiving end of those stretchers, and nobody cares.

I think the appeal rests in that you're not out to impress anyone; which is a good thing, as you're not going to impress anyone.

But how liberating, if you think about it. To set the boundaries, goal, and take the measure of your own success. Should you succeed, meet those personal expectations, there will be applause, you betcha. A beautiful noise. You clapping for you.

Tennis: Let's Dance

Of all the US Open tennis I've watched these past two weeks (and I've consumed more than the recommended USDA daily allowance), the doubles matches have been the best. Not the men's doubles; they're as boring as ever. I'm talking the women's and mixed doubles. Mostly due to the return of Martina Hingis.

Along with Roger Federer, Hingis is probably the best chess-playing tennis competitor ever. Though unlike Federer, she ultimately wilted when major fire-power hit the scene; today, if partnered with another great player, her mind-game is magic.

(By the way, her partner in the women's doubles is Sania Mirza from India -- an international star whose courage, both athletically and politically, eclipses every other player other than possibly Serena Williams.)

Just to say, if you're not a tennis fan, or even if you are, and kind of yawn at the idea of witnessing another win by Williams and Djokovic in the singles, catch the doubles. Hingis with Mirza, and Hingis with Leander Paes (he's 42 years old, for god's sakes, old enough to have partnered and won with Navratilova, the original Martina).

It's tennis when tennis looked like no other sport. The prehistoric tennis of the 1990's, and earlier. Before a wild-swinging bat could hit a home run in the service box; when an inside-out forehand or a sweet backhand down the line would make you gasp.

Catch the doubles. It's a beautiful sight.

Live and learn

One of the interesting things I've discovered about cats, aside from their having no conscience (quite like birds in this respect, and quite unlike dogs and horses), is their assumptive ownership over any surface they fancy.



Not just trees and porches, though trees and porches, of course. But anything inside the house, as well.



And should you protest, present a well-argued position against their surface of choice, you're really nothing but a bit of temporary static on their radio.

St. Paul's Prep School Rape Case

You may have heard about this case, maybe not. But a graduating senior is charged with raping a graduating freshman. He was 18 at the time, she was 15. And I'm definitely for letting justice take its course. I'm in the camp where I don't think those accused of rape should have their names published unless convicted. Also, I understand that no one looks at their best in a mug shot (if that is Labrie's mugshot; it might be a student ID, I don't know). Still, I can't help but wonder, what machinations were required to transform someone even vaguely resembling the individual above ...



into this. I hope by trial's end we won't see an example of the best justice money can buy -- that the defense doesn't score a touchdown with a Hail Mary pass based on nothing more substantial than a Harry Potter makeover.

Bad Hair Years

When I was about seven, eight, or whatever age qualifies for third grade, I saw an ad for synthetic hair on the back cover of my comic book.

"Feels and looks JUST LIKE REAL HAIR!" and "They'll think your hair grew OVERNIGHT!" and "NO ONE WILL EVER KNOW it's not yours."

Not a full wig, but per the illustration, a braid as long as my arm and twice as thick; priced at something extremely reasonable -- maybe $2 or $3.50? -- doable, if you hoarded your allowance, which I did.

(I didn't hoard like Scrooge, of course. Or DeeAnne Hartshorne. Her father owned a plumbing business and every night poured his spare change into her giant pickle jar, sometimes dollar bills, too. This money she never spent; the pickle jar was an art installation, one her friends were called upon to admire and total at least once a month. This we did, not because we liked DeeAnne, but because she had a pony. "Hey DeeAnne, let's count it later, after we ride Thunderball.")

At this tender age, my observational, anecdotal research indicated that little girls fell into two categories: Those with long silken locks which a mother would wash, condition, brush, ponytail, pigtail, braid; and those like me who got a quarterly shearing by interns -- or convicts for all I know -- at a local beauty college, freshman class.

I begged my mother to let me grow my hair long, but she claimed, given its texture, cowlicks, and kink, I'd look like a sheepdog. In retrospect, I see her point. But in retrospect, I also see mine.

Eight-year old kids don't have bad hair days, eight-year old kids just have hair and days.

But it wasn't really about the hair, not entirely, anyway. This was one in a series of losing battles for a square-inch of self-determination, and long-hair territory seemed worth a fight.

In elementary school, I always chose a seat in the back of the classroom. Shy? Hardly. I was the annoying child waving her arm, exploding with all the answers. "Meeeeee, call on meeee!" I sat in the last row because if I couldn't be the teacher and see all the faces, then at least I could see all the backs. Which led, contributed to my long-hair obsession.

My friend Kim, for instance, had golden tresses that fell to her waist. Every time she sat down, her back and chair held her hair hostage so she'd have to fling her wrist behind her neck to free it from captivity.

My other friend Lynne had a ponytail situated high on her crown and it would whip around in a dramatic, poetic fashion every time she turned her head. "Whoosh, whoosh," it whispered, when on the journey from left shoulder to right. Oh, how I ached with envy.

So while I did listen and learn multiplication, long division, e.e. cummings, Pippi Longstocking, Native American history, my attention switched regularly between the lessons and admiration for breathtakingly beautiful hair. Hair that could have been, should have been, mine.

Back to the braids. They came in three colors -- black, brown, and blonde. I selected Blonde, and, throwing caution to the wind, sent for two, then anxiously awaited for the box (heavy box, maybe two pounds, I reckoned, to contain them both). According to the advertisement, important beauty tips along with attachment apparatus would be included at no extra charge.

I told no one of my plan, let them all be surprised when I transformed from short to long hair OVERNIGHT. I stalked the mailbox all week.

Turns out, my braids didn't need a box at all. The two wizened offerings fit neatly into one slim envelope. And they didn't feel and look so much like REAL HAIR as real kitchen twine, and the most important beauty tip was not to wear my braids near an open flame.

Did I wear them? Just a couple of times, in the privacy of my bedroom. I swung my head from side to side, hoping for a Whoosh, or at least a whoos, or a whoo.

After a week, I lost interest in my braids, and my attention shifted from glamour to scientific observation, experimentation, and validation. I took my braids to the stove, and switched on the burner.

I'd like to say the braids taught me something -- that personal power, control over one's own destiny, isn't a matter of hair or anything external in general, or that one shouldn't envy friends when they have something you lack. Or that a high octane imagination will never make something out of nothing.

But what I really learned was that the manufacturer wasn't kidding about the open flame. And a dish rag won't remove soot from walls, and it's hard to explain your innermost thoughts and philosophical ideas to a mother when her kitchen is smoking.

I learned that life's lessons may cost more than one's original estimate. There might be hell to pay.

Midweek Matinee -- Greta Gerwig: A short appreciation

Not that my appreciation for Greta Gerwig is short; it runs long. I've liked her in everything, but most especially Frances Ha, which she co-wrote.

She has a new movie, and I was going to just put up the trailer on Facebook and toss out a few words, maybe -- "Can't wait to see." But I didn't like the trailer, though pretty sure the movie is worth the ticket.

So instead, I've decided to put up a clip from Frances Ha.

You know how in the old Francois Truffaut movie, Jules et Jim, you got under the skin of the male characters, but never grasped the female? I mean, you understood why two boys would be fascinated by Jeanne Moreau, but she seemed too mysterious to be lovable, inscrutable to the point of incidental? Finally, just a plot device, someone or even less -- a something. There only to mess with and ultimately mess up the guys.

In Frances Ha, you meet the girl. It's all about the girl.