Growing up, everyone struggles with something. My teen years were no different. Concerns that ranked the highest on my barometer of importance are clearly superficial in retrospect. That’s kinda the point. Nothing was clear back then.

Marked with a special kind of awkward, I experienced the typical insecurities regarding body image that made it tough to feel comfortable in my oh-so-problematic combination skin. As if being flat-footed, flat-chested, knock-kneed and woefully uncoordinated weren’t enough, right?

Apparently not. Some people complain about bad hair days; I had bad hair years. This era spanned a decade and not unlike the dark ages from days of yore, there was much suffering. One well intentioned hairdresser in Braintree, MA (the bang capital of Boston’s South Shore suburbs) gave me what I dubbed “the mushroom cut”. This unfortunate hair condition now has a name and hopefully a U.N. resolution to ban it will follow. The trauma to which I refer is now called “the she-mullet” by beauty industry trend analysts. At the time of my affliction, there were no support groups for unsuspecting clientele stricken with the emerging social plague. I suffered alone, albeit not in silence. (I would provide a picture but I put media black-out into effect.)

Funny enough- the biggest missteps were of my own choosing. Crimpers, curling irons and hot rollers were like gateway drugs leading down the primrose path. All of the cool girls in junior high had permanents. It was “the thing” to do and yes- if all the girls at school were gonna to jump off a bridge, my knees woulda been knocking as I ran behind, breathless and squeeking: “Hey guys- wait for MEEEEEEE!!!!”

My mother gave up trying to protect me from myself on the heels of a Sun-in indiscretion which left uneven light orange streaks throughout once lovely chesnut locks. I was a pain-in-the-ass and she gave the stylist the go-ahead. What followed was the perfect storm of ugliness: the poodle perm joined with the straw-like streaks. I had spiral-curled to rock bottom before the tender age of thirteen. Served me right: I followed the herd and came out looking like a sheep.

Oh well. Learned that lesson. No biggie… even a perm grows out eventually, right? Usually, but nope – not this one. It was the most permanent of permanents. Twenty years later, my hair is still curly. There are two schools of thought regarding how this came to pass. Buckle up: both of ‘em drop some serious science.

EXPLANATION #1: Nurture
• Somewhere between the chemical and neutralizer phases, the solution leaked through my scalp to the root.
• Double-helix boo-yakasha – At that very moment the stars aligned: Mercury was in Uranus causing the ammonium thioglycolate to fuse to the follicle, thus altering the genetic material otherwise known as the hair chromosome.

EXPLANATION #2: Nature
• Dormant ringlet curls (from my short-haired-tater-tot phase) were reactivated after the hormone tsunami hit at age thirteen.
• The sheer force of angst unleashed scared my hair curly and permanently made “boy crazy” a default setting.

This debate has divided the scientific community, both sides equally entrenched in the validity of their argument. Will we ever ever have an answer to this query?

I dunno… I’m quite busy in the lab conducting cutting edge research on the whole chicken/egg thing.

I leave it for you, the reader, to decide. Good day and God’s speed.

***For the uninitiated, here’s a crash course in PRMT 101 to get you up to speed:
1. Tightly wrap hair on curling rods. When the client is unable to blink proceed to the Chemical Phase.
2. Apply ammonium thioglycolate lotion. Allow 30 minutes for the chemicals to break open the disulfide linkages between the polypeptide bonds in the keratin (the protein structure) in the hair. (The disulfide bonds give hair its elasticity and breaking this bond allows hair shape to be reset.)
3. Grab a seat and some popcorn and watch as the perm recipient’s wide-open eyes tear from the noxious chemicals permeating the air. (Good times.)
4. Apply the acid neutralizer to bring down the pH of the solution and close the disulfide bridge. Hair rebonds and is reformed to the shape of the rod. Voila!

Tags: Boston, Braintree, chemicals, curling, noxious chemicals, United Nations, well intentioned hairdresser

Date of Original Publication:
Mon 07 Aug 2006 06:35 PM EDT
Multiple Choice Section of Your Pre-Flight Examination

TSA Officer: Do you have a butter knife in your bag?

Winnie:

A) I butter not.
B) All the better to eat you with!
C) Allah Akbar?

(Upon finding and confiscating said knife)
TSA: Technically, I’m supposed to call a state trooper over to clear you for your flight…

Winnie:
A) Is he single?
B) Will this involve a full body-cavity search? In that case, there’s something I need to tell you….
C) Go ahead, tell him there’s a Sheriff in Nevada that’s got dibs.

Tags: body-cavity search, Nevada, Sheriff, TSA Officer

A friend, whom for the purposes of this blog I shall name “Jenny”, woke up one recent morning to find a pimple of preposterous proportions developing smack-dab in the middle of her cheek. Like a bad boyfriend, this pimple was simply not going away until it had robbed poor Jenny of any self-esteem.

A colleague of Jenny’s, noticing her pimply predicament, suggested that she “dab a bit of urine on her cheek- a doctor said it would clear acne right up”. In the name of scientific research, I went in search of evidence to support this claim. I humbly submit to you the hyperlink below.

Urine, a cure for all diseases.

Tags: acne

The piece pictured above is entitled “Atomic Love” by Sandy Skoglund. I originally wrote this piece as a part of an essay about my own relationship to creative expression. Upon finishing that essay, I realized that what this particular image evoked several important thoughts warranting a place of their own.

The set and props are covered in orange marmalade with raisins and I find it inspiring for reasons beyond aesthetic. What do I see when I look at it? For starters it exemplifies inspiration transforming “ordinary” items in a concrete and visual way. How many times have you put jam on bread? What is it about how this woman’s brain works that drove her to use this as her medium?

Imagine what you could do or create in the world with things already at your disposal. Imagine the possibilities if everyone used planning and execution paired with the permission to communicate the goings-on of their inner world. This is what I find compelling. This is what resonates. Take away the B.S. peddled by synchophants and the marketing of art as a commidity and what you are left with is a vehicle for connection, alienation, appreciation and defiance.

But that’s about art in general. What resonates for me is that the perishable nature of the materials paralells the very nature of the life cycle. You start with something fresh and new. It ages. Maybe the colors and textures deepen. It is no longer what it was Sometimes the changes produce great beauty. Sometimes changes stink up the room much like rotten food. The set must be stricken and it’s time to start again. Maybe this next time you’ll appreciate while it’s in front of you instead of after has passed through. Hopefully, it will inspire you to build a foundation that allows you to always be surrounded by that which you love.

Beyond the theoretical, I am also struck by the excess. Something beautiful was created but at a cost. Trade off is clear: food is being wasted. Granted, there is no fine print on the food pyramid indicative that putting a hungry person on a jam and raisin diet is anything less than absolute cruelty. Seriously. But it does get me thinking… The money spent could have bought more nutritious food to nourish hungry people in third world countries… or for that matter, those closer to home.

All that from a single photograph. I know, deep – eh? I talk a good game, but what really drew me in is what appealed to my baser side. Raisins? GET OUT! Fruit preserves? FOR REALS? How brilliantly quirky… If there were a monkey and a ninja included, I would be all set. Secretly, I’d wanna live there. I am not kidding. Keep the jam and raisins on the top shelves and hide the step stool.

Tags: food, food pyramid indicative, nutritious food, rotten food, Sandy Skoglund

I frequently get ideas for things to write about while I’m driving. Don’t worry Boston-area motorists: I do not write while I drive.

My brain is like turbo powered revolving door. As such, these musings rarely make it to press but they always fall into one of four categories:

1. Ideas so hot and relevant that they are immediately seared in brain tissue and burn like a son-nuv-ab-itch until recorded, notarized and endorsed by 4 out of 5 dentists
2. Keywords jotted down that eventually make it to a brainstorm list. The lucky ones receive top billing as an entry draft which may or (in all likelihood) may not be turned into a real entry by Gepeto.
3. Those forgotten shortly after inception discrete enough that I don’t even remember thinking them. These could be of the multi-million dollar book deal ilk. There is such sweet beauty in the simplicity here.
4. Then there are the ones that haunt me. I thought about it long enough to have been flagged as a “great” idea with a clever hook and several supporting wordplays. The little bastards are forgotten soon enough after inception before I can get to a pen. (Brings to mind a classic Mitch Hedberg joke that I’ll link to if I find a clip.) I can’t remember what it is that I’ve forgotten… but I know that I’ve forgotten something and am tortured by the thought that I can’t remember the thought I’ve forgotten. You follow? Good. Me neither.

Hopefully by excercising my memory muscle with a passing thought that came to me while heading south on I-95 will help me avoid the dreaded scenario #4.

Tags: Boston, Mitch Hedberg, USD

As a senior in college I was poised to be the first member of my family to graduate in fours years from the same institution matriculated as a freshman. Every now and then I like to surprise with the fam with a little razzle-dazzle. As proud as they were, I have to admit that I pulled it off by the skin of my teeth. I took two accelerated schedule courses (Micro & Macro Economics— at the same time) over the summer and added an extra credit during my final semester. But for the evil Chem 010 (the first zero in the course # stood for how much interest I had in the subject), I had a wide berth in making up the remainder of my schedule. There was a definite creative bent to my choices:

• With the guidance of a generous mentor, my work study job from the semester became into a credited internship. Post-graduation this morphed further into my first “real” job.

• A directed reading on the subject of gender and discourse with one of my favorite professors
• Intro to Photography (where I learned a great many things… not the least of which was that I am, in fact, allergic to fixer)
• Visual Design (or something like that) – A painting course held at the school of continuing education focused on exploring how line, form and color are used to express and evoke distinct concepts or moods.

The last of which was the biggest stretch. Prior to this, experience with creating anything using own hands (as opposed to???) was limited to the following:

• Coloring books – consistently straying outside of the lines
• Watercolor books – I was the Gutenberg of this particular medium. I filled the bathtub with a shallow pool of water, briefly submerged the pre-colored sheets and hung them to dry on the towel rack. This is likely more indicative of an emerging talent for streamlining workflow than creative prowess.
• Doodling – I have the God-given ability to draw a squirrel holding an acorn. It is a special kind of cute. I also sometimes sign notes with a curly-haired smiley face.
• Mrs. Murphy’s art lessons in grade school. Once a week she entered homeroom, wheeling a cart stocked with paints, markers, glue, construction paper and bottomless supply of critical comments for the less promising students in the class. Let’s put it this way: I was never sent home with a note to my parents about how she was concerned that my ear wasn’t gonna stay attached to my head.

You may be able to infer from negative experiences in your own formative years that this made taking a painting class more than a little challenging. (I’ll save the trauma of gym class for now. One day that book will jump up straight out of my chest and write itself.) Showing others bits of my creative expression soemthing I am very tentative about. Still working on that… but back then? Forget about it.

I’m not sure how came to to see that for the limitation it was at age 21. Allowing myself to be uncomfortable was the master plan in selecting planning that semester’s studies. Most weeks it was pure torture having two classes based entirely on creating things on assignment instead waiting for divine inspiration.  The next step was equally taxing: suppressing the temptation to shove the damned whatever-it-was into the back of a drawer instead of bringing it to class and <gasp> SHOWING it.

That’s actually why I did it: to push myself into pursuing something I found compelling yet simultaneously scared me shitless. It’s the same thing that drives me to write here instead of the privacy of my own journal. When I’m not writing or completing pieces, it’s that same rationale applied in reverse. Instead of being a catalyst for action and expression fear serves to paralyze any and all forward motion.

On towards my point… the instructor of the painting course I took in college was of similar mind as Mrs. Murphy about my artistic potential. Granted, she didn’t sneak up behind me spook me with an un-enthused “Hmmmph” like her predecessor. Each one of the assignments was handed back with a paragraph or two of notes skirting around the crux of the message, “This sucks.”

It’s not that I didn’t see her points. However, I don’t have aspirations of being a painter. Both ears are firmly attached and that’s how they shall stay. (Though I would be able to wear mateless earrings again if I went down that road…)

Chances are that I took the comments more to heart than I should’ve. I do that with lots of things so it’s entirely likely. When I can remember where I stashed the original of the above painting, it’d be interesting to see if those words were what I remember them to be.

Now that I’m further down the road of sorting out my own professional ambitions, I can empathize with those two teachers. I’m sure that they had/have their own ambitions and disappointments that would make teaching anyone other than a prodigy feel tedious. I am going to further increase my range and demonstrate that I can switch my default setting from ‘cynical’ to ‘unicorns, rainbows and warm woolen kittens’.

In closing, I’d like to share the following points from my ‘one to grow on’ file. Ultimately, what these two women thought is irrelevant. The point here is putting oneself out there without apology. Believing that anything I express has intrinsic value as a part of my own experience, regardless of interpretation, is the essence of freedom. Most days I’m pretty far off the mark, but I am hopeful that I’ll get there someday. Preferrably soon.

In the vein of half-full glasses:
• I really had fun with Mrs. Murphy’s apple-head doll project in 3rd grade. It was cool to see those carved, peeled fresh apples turned into smushy old man faces after sitting in the janitors closet for a few weeks. To my recollection, she did not say anything bad about my moldy apple masterpiece.

• That college instructor broadened my horizons and exposed me to artists that I would not have otherwise seen. The Worcester Art Museum mounted one of those a wack-a-doo esoteric post modern exhibitions using food stuffs and we took a field trip that week to attend. It was a room full of trunk freezers. One was filled with fish eggs, another had some sort of horror movie sized fish. My favorite was the freezer filled with Kool-aid. The block of punch leaked across the floor though I’m pretty sure that was an unforseen equipment malfunction and not a part of the gimmick. I seriously doubted her judgement as to what should qualify as an ‘educational experience’.

After viewing the exhibit, there was a lecture given by Sandy Skoglund – an off-beat installation artist whose pieces use mass quantities of items found in your pantry. The slides shown as part of the presentation had such a striking visual impact that I remember them to this day, 11 years later. I look forward to seeing her work in person when there is museum exhibit in my area.

Tags: first member, instructor, Misty Watercolor Memories As, Murphy, off-beat installation artist, painter, Sandy Skoglund, That college instructor, wack-a-doo esoteric post modern exhibitions using food stuffs, Worcester Art Museum

It was the day the world tilted in the opposite direction of it’s axis. I don’t know that it’ll ever be set straight. Life has moved on, real estate has been re-allocated, building plans commissioned and construction contracts brokered. We move on though most have yet to heal.

The tragedy isn’t in the moving on, it lies with all those who stopped that day, or any other day, in a similarly grotesque and pointless manner. The real tragedy sits next to the discontent found in the hearts of those still (or rather barely) living. A collective benchmark has taken route where two beacons once stood. Where money once changed hands, people mourn. Some mourn the loss of a loved one. Others cast remembrances for a time when security was an unexamined feeling instead of a foreign concept. Yet time still passes as several of the priorities set straight in the wake of the storm have once again fallen askew. It’s no wonder when the low hum of news ritually consumed with a morning cup of coffee serves to deaden the part of our brains caffeine can’t awaken. Caffeine may make you feel alert, but it does not make you feel.

Case in point, this post has been in draft for three years. The anniversary has come and gone several times over and I every year I assume that somehow this year will be different and the words that can speak my peace will be channeled through the keyboard before C.O.B. on the 11th. It doesn’t work that way and perhaps that’s a good thing. This morbid fascination of re-traumatizing the public cut it’s teeth with rubber-necking at highway accident scenes. I consider this one of many reasons this anniversary should never become an excuse to fire up the grill. A gruesome sight becomes water cooler fodder once the weather and the score to last night’s game are covered ad nausceum (“You’ll never believe what I passed on my way to work.”)

You don’t have to believe what I on saw on the way to work six years ago. You’ve seen it for yourself. Within an hour of waking, I rushed out the front door (late) to catch the bus and ended up stepping into a lucid dream. Finding the perfect look to carry me to into from day-to-evening for an after work alumni event took three outfits. Red shirt, navy skirt with a demure ruffled side slit all pulled together with my favorite multi-gemstone necklace. At the time I considered it an hour well spent. It wasn’t. The event was cancelled.

Three blocks after I boarded the bus, the dispatchers voice on the radio announced that the Lincoln Tunnel was closed. Usually silent, this brief ride was marked with hushed interaction amongst strangers. Across the river, streams of smoke were now billowing grey clouds. Everyone exited the bus and watched with mouths agape. The towers were still standing, but my cell service was down. Before knowing the extent of what had happened, one thought was looped in my head: “People are dying. Right now. Right there.”

I ran back home to try to get a line into work. It was there that I watched the towers visible from two blocks up the street collapse on an ABC News Special Report. I went back outside, hoping it wasn’t true. The buildings that had dutifully served as my compass when moving about in the city were gone, just like that.

Who the fuck cares what I was wearing? I’ll bet the people in those stairwells weren’t wishing they had picked up more swag at the last Barney’s sale. Once all of my friends, colleagues and acquaintances had been accounted for I exhaled with force realizing that there were others nearby gasping upon receiving bad news. This fact makes the events of the rest of my day irrelevant so that is where I am ending my account; with silent respect for those who put so much on the line and lost even more.

Tags: ABC, Lincoln Tunnel, real estate, rubber-necking

Question:
• Who wants to be a millionaire?

Preliminary Assumption:
• Who doesn’t want to be a millionaire?

Hypothesis:

• Billionaires, trillionaires and kabillionaires – self promotion Trumps demotion ‘cause the dollar being down definitely ain’t money.

Procedure:

• Employ reckless conjecture.
• Lather, rinse, repeat as necessary.

Materials/Tools:

• Supermarket tabloids
• Cunning intellect impervious to super marketing.

Results:

• [Billion/Trillion/Kabillion]aire is to quantification as [Act/Design/Sing/Parti]er is to qualification. (You can trust that funds are not being spent on panties.)

Conclusion:

• When million dollar ideas get to be a dime a dozen, a pair of ≤ $100 shoes is gonna cost ya ≥ $800 bucks.

Tags: USD, Who wants to be a millionaire?