Well, alrighty then. Tomorrow will be a very exciting blog day, because tonight, tonight, yes tonight – tonight is the night that I go speed dating. Not only am I going speed dating, but in feverish preparation for speed dating (and the party that I’m going to this weekend, okay) I’m getting my hair cut AND my eyebrow waxed. Yes, eyebrow. I only have the one. This is supposed to confer upon me great psychic powers (Really. At least that’s what this one fantasy novel I read one time said) or let me paint like Frida Kahlo – but mostly it makes me look like my father, an Irishman of what was once called the Whiskey variety. Which in turn meant that he was large, a bit red on occasion and had giant whiskery eyebrows that looked good on him but are kind of woeful on me. Thus, the waxing. Let us all hope that the redness produced by the waxing has subsided by the time of the speed dating an hour and a half later or I know what I’m going to be talking about during my speed dating 7 minutes: “Yeah, I know, it’s because I just got my eyebrow waxed. Oh, oops, yeah, I meant eyebrows, really, I do have two. No, I’m not that insecure where I would go do it just for speed dating – seriously, I’m not – and my face isn’t always this red – hey, where are you going? Come back here and let me quiz you aggressively about politics!”
Yesterday, I went to my zen guru therapist and as usual, he had many good points to make. It seems that he actually knows me very well, which unnerved me a bit: my instinctive response to being known well is to flee and when I say flee, I mean fleeing of the dye your hair, have plastic surgery and move to Idaho variety. He told me I had to stop putting things into one of two boxes since I seem to fit everything into either the I Can’t Have That Because Good Things Don’t Happen To Poor, Poor, Pitiful Me Box of Suffering or the If It Isn’t A Completely Magical Perfect Thing That Passes All Understanding Than I Don’t Want It Anyway Box. There is some horrifying truth to this and it alarmed me a bit. Then, however, my therapist started telling some story about how crows give warnings and how there are warnings within us that must be heeded only you have to know the difference between a crow freaking out since there’s a hawk around or a crow freaking out just because crows like to occasionally freak out and my mind started wandering and I thought, well, for my generation, this crow metaphor is just too pastoral. Personally, whenever I think there may be danger ahead, like a speed date says he loves Bush or I meet a guy I really really like who would be perfect if he had, like, a place to live, I don’t hear crows at all. What I hear is the robot from Lost in Space, yelling “Danger! Danger, Will Robinson!” and then, since my name isn’t Will Robinson, I get to choose whether to ignore it or not. That comes in a lot handier than having to get all Wilderness Family Meets Don Juan (Daddy! Mr. Grizzlys says try the blue mushrooms!) and trying to figure out if a crow is just a crow or if it is, in fact, my highly exasperated spirit guide.
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2 comments:
Oh, the crows versus Will Robinson about made me cry. Fricking hilarious.
I want to hear about your speed dating night. I'm thinking about writing an article about the local speed dating business. Not sure if that requires me to try it or not. Can you imagine? Well, I'm not really looking for a date because I'm already responsible for one grown man, two children, a dog and two cats, but I just wanted to try it, because I'm going to write about it. Wait, come back. I won't write about you specifically, just about the experience...
i'm a big Carlos Casteneda fan and sometimes a crow is just a crow and sometimes it's a buick charging towards the living room.
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