Recently in If I Don't Look Is It Still There? Category

Wow.

Evidently that's a more frightening picture than I had originally thought. I believe I can HEAR people averting their eyes.

Fair enough.

If you know me, you've probably heard me say that I'm The Whitest Woman in The World (with the exception of Faith Partee*). I should add that it's with the exception (WARNING: Over-sharing ahead) of the times that my OLD HORMONES cause flushy-red-face-weirdness. But never mind that. I am, usually, The Whitest Woman in The World (except, though I've not seen her in years, I trust, Faith Partee). Ah - but then - look at THIS:

Yes. That's me. Un-retouched. Okay - I did darken the white spots in my pupils because I think the image is creepy enough. I know, I know, I have rules (self-imposed) about showing my image on my blog that I've only broken maybe twice in over five years. Moreover, for going on half a decade I've strongly maintained that I did NOT want to memorialize this era in my life in pictures including me at all. And, as many of you know, I hate pictures of myself PERIOD. That is, in part, because I am not photogenic - no I am NOT; any picture with my eyes open is a small miracle in and of itself.

But I've given up. Don't get me wrong - THIS IS NOT OPEN SEASON FOR PICTURES OF KATE. And I can only write this because my Father will not read this. He has no sense of "personal space" whatsoever when it comes to taking pictures.

So what changed my mind? Well, first, I thought - WHO REALLY CARES. Secondly, I saw a surreptitious shot my Father had taken on Christmas morning and I had, I kid you not, a moment of, "Who is that Lady?" before I realized it was ME. And I do think that despite anything and everything, one SHOULD recognize one's self in a photograph.

But let me back up a little. AH, the magnanimous spirit of the Holiday season. My Dad had a new camera. And though it was three billion times easier to use than his previous expensive model (which he somehow broke), he still didn't quite get it. On Christmas Even, I believe, I walked into the office and he BEGGED me to let him take a picture. I believe he bandied about the word "festive" regarding my appearance (sheesh). I rolled my eyes and said, "FINE," and let him go at it, despite the frizzed/smushed, snowed-on hair and whatnot.

Then I saw the picture and wondered if I should be so laissez-faire about my new photography policy. Remember how I'm The Whitest Woman in The World (with the exception of Faith Partee)? Well, if one is to take this picture seriously, I beat Faith Partee hands down.

It's a miraculous shot, I must say. It erases my eyebrows to some extent AND my under-eye luggage (I can't complain about that). Any semblance of colour in my lips - gone... Odd contour shadows about the outside of my face... Oh -but I want everyone to know that despite all my flaws, I do NOT have jowls. Rather, my jawline does not extend forward into a logical, strong conclusion. Instead, I have this pointy little chin THAT I AM NOT AFRAID TO USE. Perhaps it's to match my pointy tongue... (not FORKED - pointy). But my very favourite thing is that my Father has bestowed open me Owen Wilson's nose. HOW? I couldn't tell you. In real life, if you must know, my nose resembles a little potato. Yes, my Father is always funniest when he does not intend it.

So there it is. What the hell.

*Faith, if you should, by some miracle, happen to read this, I mean no offense when I say that you are The Whitest Woman in The World. In fact, I would vote you the head of the Flawless Victorian Complexion Society and would be deliriously happy to be a member (with breaks for when I'm oddly flushy).

Yes, it is December, but if I close my eyes REALLY tight and chant, "Punkin, punkin, punkin, PUNKIN, PUNKIN, PUNKIN*!!!!" I am magically transported back to October. I had some things to get done then, so I don't need any new items on my to-do list (which exists only in my ginormous noggin, and that is unfortunate, indeed, given the unreliable nature of the contents thereof).

*While I wantonly sprinkle "u" into words (honour, colour - you've all seen it if you've read ANY ENTRY WHATSOEVER in this blog) in a delusional British wannabe manner, I rarely if ever use the word "pumpkin." I'm entirely too fond of punkins. So sue me, gourd people.

I keep promising "Part II" and updates and I haven't managed it. I will, however, share an interesting fact that I learned but SECONDS ago: My blog has a janitor.

Who knew.

My hair has surpassed the Schubert-like Schwammerl phase. I am now in the stage where I emulate Beethoven's late-life hearing-impaired deteriorating-into-madness coiffure.

The upside is that it might inspire some brilliant and revolutionary string quartets (hey - I actually composed a string quartet once - and a REAL string quartet played it...once - and that was enough. It was called I Laugh Like Chester Bean).

Confusing, you say? Let me introduce my new theory - created this very minute: Beethoven's late-stage, ground-breaking compositions were a direct result of the status of his hair.

I'm going to give everyone time to mull that over for a while.

My dear friend, Kathleen, The Goddess, informed me of the following horrible, unspeakable tragedy:

Blaze toasts cheese and the semi it was in

PROVO — A truck laden with cheese burst into flame early Friday morning after a mechanical malfunction, said Utah Highway Patrol officials.

Just after 7:30 a.m. Friday, as a semi more than half filled with aged dairy product rounded a bend on U.S. Route 189 in Provo Canyon near mile marker 14, a fire broke out near the axle, said Utah Highway Patrol trooper Cameron Roden.

The driver pulled off the road. He was not injured.

Both lanes of traffic were shut down for about half an hour, then opened to one controlled lane while fire crews cleaned up the charred cheese and melted truck .

— from the Deseret Morning News, published: Oct. 20, 2007 12:08 a.m. MDT.

I cannot even comment because I must sit and weep awhile. OHHHHH - charred CHEESE, melted TRUCK! And this was near the Heber Valley - the Dairy Eden of Utah; what must the poor cows be thinking?

The World has lost a whole contingent of plush, squishy friends. I am bereft; I probably won't leave the house for days (and let's just pretend it's about the Blobbies). It was just yesterday that I received this very disturbing email:

Dear Party People,

This is the end, my friend. You may have noticed our neglect of Blobbyfarm.com since, oh, around April of 2006. At that time we moved (again), started new jobs, and just got busy. As we got more and more entrenched in our new lives, we found that there were a number of other things that trumped Blobbies in our lives - curating exhibitions, teaching, getting ready for our first child (woo-hoo!), locksmithing classes, frosting graffiti, etc. Blobbies fell by the wayside.

We recently received an email from our domain registrar notifying us that the URL Blobbyfarm.com expires on October 5th. We have made the decision to just let it go. Blobbyfarm.com will no longer exist. Sure, we'll make a few Blobby related items for our new baby (we just got a silkscreener after all), and we can make a Blobby every now and again for our friends and family members. But as far as the general public is concerned, Blobby Farm is extinct.

We sincerely appreciate all the support we've received and friends we've made because of this goofy endeavor. As a final thank you, between now and October 5th, you can purchase anything on the Blobbyfarm.com website for 50% off the original price (sale price is as marked). It's not like we were ever really in this for the money anyway. Make sure you download your coloring book pages and send your last Blob-E-Grams before October 5th when everything disappears.

Thanks again and we'll catch you on the flip side.

Thanks and Cheers,
Maria and Chris
(The Blobby Farmers)

Yup. Just like that. Putting their fetus and jobs and house and other such shallowness ahead of building cuddly, stuffed companions for me The World the CHILDREN.

I find that I'm a little verklempt. However, as I've said before, you'll have to chose your own damn topic and talk amongst yourselves.

P.S. If you act REALLY quickly (Blobby Farm) you may still be able to buy some postcards, greeting cards, mittens or buttons. The last of the Blobbies sold right away. And I didn't get one. All is not right with the World.

And then I went to war with the fruit flies. There have been minor skirmishes in the past few weeks (since Dad put the PEARS IN THE DISH DRAINER FOR TOO LONG). The Kitten Children are desperate to catch the little beasts, but those damn fruit flies tend to soar too high and too fast and my Children are often frustrated.

I'd just had it today. The main infestation of the little critters has ended up around the mirror in the guest bathroom. This doesn't make sense. Many of them seem to prefer the BATHROOM to the kitchen even though that room is always clean and contains ABSOLUTELY NO FRUIT WHATSOEVER.

I readied myself for combat. Luckily, I was already dressed for battle; I was wearing a sports bra, tank top and sporty-type pants (in which one can "move easily"). I'm a tiny bit smelly rank, which feels mightily warrior-like.

Then a soldier most arm herself. I chose the Oreck XL® portable vacuum that has a shoulder strap - OH YEAH - you can wear it like an automatic weapon.

Armed and ready, with my weapon slung boldly over my right shoulder, and with JUST MY RIGHT HAND I took that vacuum hose and started my campaign. It was AWESOME.

Soon, with just the one hand (the other holding up my pants - but that's a story for another time) I was after the flies with the flexible hose. Then, I actually found myself shouting (yes, shouting), "Fly all you want, you little bastards, I'll get you," and "Ah HA!!!!" and "HA!!!!!!" and "BAH!!!!!" - it's an explosive battle cry, I'm telling you - and OKAY, just once or twice, "Boop." The best is when I managed to suck up the little wretches in mid-flight. Too cool.

This mayhem really frightened the Kitten Children, but they are afraid of the vacuum. And perhaps Warrior Kate. 'Cause that's who I was: Warrior Kate (Warrior Princess Kate?). I am related to Boadicea (though after the whole Shakespeare debacle I intend to do more thorough verification on that one), but one way or the other, I am KATE, CELTIC WARRIOR QUEEN, CONQUEROR OF ALL DROSOPHILA MELANOGASTER.

Unfortunately, since the damn beasties have a life cycle of about ten minutes, in the time it's taken me to write this entry there will be a whole new generation of them in the bathroom when I go back.

That's why I left the vacuum out...with a little toilet paper stuffed in the nozzle so none of my prisoners could escape (who knows?). BACK TO THE TRENCHES.

I had plans - and I'm not talking in the earth-shattering sense - I meant blog plans. First, I have sadly neglected to cover the 2007 Cheese Rolling at Cooper's Hill in Gloucestershire.

And then there's my new-born fascination with the idea that I might have Amish Ancestors (because in my Euro-mutt mix there are ancestors with the right type of names who emigrated from Europe at just the right time and came to precisely the right county in Pennsylvania...). Perhaps the fact that I'd just finished reading Plain Truth had something to do with it. OR it was performing in the Amish musical in high school oh-so-many years ago (Plain and Fancy).

THEN I became very interested in seeing if I could figure out which of my ancestors died of the "Black Death" - well, and obviously somebody survived, too, so I thought I'd try and figure out who those hardy folks were. Maybe the fact that I'm reading a book about the medieval plague has something to do with that.

Yes, I purchased this book on purpose. I like variety. For instance, I packed Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows and the well-known Elie Wiesel (Founding Chairman of the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum) Trilogy - Night, Dawn and Day - for the Park City Short Course.

But I have realized that there was a much more pressing issue. There should and must be a handbook for any and all interactions with me - Crazy Kate, Kate the Safety Dog, Crazy Heathen Aunt Kate, plain Kate, And bonny Kate and sometimes Kate the curst - any and all variations of Kate (don't forget Jessica Biel). It might prove very helpful to the few people I encounter when I manage to leave the house. Because I feel great pity for them. Oh - I feel very sorry for them indeed.

This comprehension was hastened by painful realizations I've been having over time culminating into an epiphany of grand proportions on Friday. That night I subjected an old friend who I had not seen in well over a decade to what could only be described as a protracted stream-of-consciousness epic nightmare complete with sweeping hand gestures (dangerously close to poking out his eyes) and many "Uh - thanks for sharing" moments.

I'll use great restraint and make these instructions short and sweet. Okay, I'll TRY to use great restraint and make these instructions short and sweet:

1. When the stream-of-consciousness has starts to look like a scenically transcontinental - NOT express - train that is derailing (which it WON'T - I must assure you that despite all appearances it will keep going even though by all rights it should dive right off the track and explode into a conflagration of unequaled proportions - it is the LITTLE TRAIN OF THOUGHT (thought?) that COULD), please feel free to use a gently halting phrase. I suggest, "Shut up, Kate." It needn't be shouted, just stated in a resolute and firm tone. "Shut up, Kate." It's not mean, I promise you; it's a matter of self-preservation.


2. There's also, "Get out of the car, Kate." Same thing - not yelled, not desperate - just a firm, resolute, "Get out of the car, Kate." Throw in a "please" for fun if you're so inclined, but strictly speaking, in these emergency situations it is not compulsory.


3. No excuses are necessary. I understand what I'm like right now (though I prefer to delude myself into thinking that this was not ALWAYS so) and I'd rather everyone just told it like it was. You needn't say, "My bladder might explode if I don't get to a bathroom very soon," unless, of course, it's the truth. I'll even take, "My head might explode if I don't get some rest VERY SOON."


4. A fun change of pace could be a finger to my lips à la Dianne Wiest in Bullets Over Broadway with a, "No, no, don't speak. Don't speak. Please don't speak. Please don't speak..."

That's all. I'm open to suggestions if I've neglected anything.

It occurs to me that this entry should be dedicated to Grettir, who, more than anyone else (I'm not disregarding my family, I just seem to be more deranged when I leave the house), has patiently suffered through, well, about twenty years of my day-to-day type lunacy and has, even more admirably, had the forbearance to still associate with me during what I might label my non compos mentis epoch. Thank you, Grettir.

A wise man once said:

ASSUMPTION makes an "ASS" out of you and "UMPTION."

Insightful words, indeed.

I haven't been "back East" since I chopped off my hair. I ASSUMED that the humidity would make it more curly and frizzy. I was prepared to tame the wild curl, I was ready to battle wanton frizziness. I was an idiot.

The first time I washed my hair and utilized my various products was on LIVESTRONG® Day - the day that we were to go visit the legislators and have a press conference and all that.

It was not long before, "OH, the horror, THE HORROR!" And that wasn't just because I hadn't realized until it was too late that someone had "lightened" my luggage by removing my antiperspirant/deodorant. MY HAIR HAD TAKEN ON A LIFE OF ITS OWN. Now, as many of you may know, this isn't the first time that has happened. But this was EXTREME. It wasn't super curly. It wasn't even exactly frizzy. It simply had taken on, root to tip, an unimaginable VOLUME defying every law of gravity old and new. I was speechless (imagine that) and awestruck.

But doesn't everyone DREAM of having a bunch of very important meetings and being part of a press conference when they look and smell their very worst? I thought not.

Throughout the wretchedly hot/humid day, I kept trying to calm my tresses (I spoke gently to them, touched them softly - I was the "hair whisperer"). I continuously tucked and re-tucked the whole lively shebang behind my ears. The gallons of sweat seemed to weigh it down - don't think I'm going to pretend for one moment that I was merely "glowing" and not drenched in my own wretched FUNK and FETOR.

At our rest building - WHERE I WOULD REMOVE MY JACKET AND LET PEOPLE SEE MY ARMS IN A SLEEVELESS BLOUSE - THAT'S HOW HOT I WAS - I had a couple of moments here and there in which, from the front, my coif still looked really horrible, but it seemed I had domesticated it just a little - smushing and sweat soothe the savage beast?

Then the "official" pictures, taken by the professional photographers, were released. Here's the one that let me know that truth - the entire, awful reality:

Delegates Mill About Prior to the Press Conference

Perhaps you don't see it? Get a little closer. I've blurred the unessential parts:

Kermit & Kate Confer
(I somehow blurred off my own nose. I'm talented like that.)

Still can't see it? I doubt this very much. But just in case, let me REALLY focus in on the ghastly part:

I wouldn't have thought it possible, but I made it even more grotesque. Now EVERYTHING is blurry, even the sections I did intentionally "soften," and I somehow made it look like I'm bleeding from the ear and that I have a mole on my jaw the size of a quarter (American).

I thought I'd "tamed" it, while it had just HIDDEN from me. I look like I've affixed a wild animal to the back of my head. Dead? Alive?! You decide. But WHAT IN THE HELL IS THAT THING?

I'd have loved to say which animal, but I honestly couldn't think of a genus and species that repelled me so much that wasn't in the arachnid family; this is quite obviously a mammal. I'm open to suggestions.

On a more positive note, my skin, for the most part, liked the humidity. My knees have never been so very soft. My hands were spotted and irritated on and off (I never did figure out why - perhaps an acute case of temporary leprosy), and I was bitten by several DOZEN anonymous creatures (of the insect variety*, no doubt), but for the most part it was pleasant not to have the flaky dry places - 'specially under my nose, because MY ALLERGIES DID NOT COME WITH ME - rather a miraculous thing. In fact, I just laid in bed sometimes, luxuriating in the fact that I could BREATHE THROUGH MY NOSE completely unencumbered and giggled with delight.

As for the *insects, David, in his über-unflustered way, almost SIGHED one day because of the fifty-third time I'd cried out, "I don't know what it is, BUT IT IS GOING TO EAT ME!" or something else along those lines. He calmly said, "Kate, it's like being in National Geographic."

He lived in Brazil for two years. I had never thought of Maryland as that...mysterious. Perhaps all the nature film crews should now quietly crawl through the gardens and bathrooms and attics and guestrooms of houses there whispering, "I have NEVER seen anything with so many legs that moves so FAST."

Now I'm finding a certain logic to the idea of moving LIGHTENING-fast if you have three million legs. You think I exaggerate? Ha!