Lessons in hair-coloring

With all the things I had to do in preparation for Bubby's visit, I had to let something slide, and my seriously graying hair that oh-so desperately needed color was unfortunately it.

Which meant I definitely had no choice but to color it during Bubby's visit.

Let me just say that I had forgotten how difficult it is to get much done on a household -- or personal -- level when there's a two-year-old in the house. Especially taking the time to color your hair.

Wait! I never colored my hair when my daughters were toddlers. So attempting the coloring -- with its specific time allotments in which any deviation from said time may have dire consequences -- while in charge of Bubby was a new lesson for this grandma.

I'm proud to say it was a lesson I aced pretty quickly! I just set up Bubby right outside the bathroom door with a pile of cars, truck and motorcycles. While he vroomed and zoomed and lined up the vehicles, I dibbed and dabbed and darkened my roots.

 I thought I was pretty darn bright for figuring out how to successfully occupy my grandson while I catered to my vanity.

Not so bright? Taking the time to snap these photos of Bubby during the coloring process. My far-too-dark tresses and the brown ring on my face around my hairline are irrefutable proof of that.

Oh well. At least Bubby can't revert to calling me Graya anymore.

At least not during this visit.

Today's question:

What's your most regrettable hair-color (or style) experience?

Just walkin' the dog(s)

Most of my friends are pretty active gals. They regularly work out at the gym, fitness boot camp or other similarly strenuous locations.

Not me. I walk. With my dogs. Same time, same route, same five out of seven days each week.

Here are some highlights of our daily fitness routine:

Out the gate and ready to roll, with Mickey in the lead and Lyla working on the "focus" command.

Now she's got it, periscope ear up and all -- proof that she's focused! (Keep an eye on that ear throughout; it does not go down!)

On the road ...

... past the open area where the deer and the fox like to roam.

Up the hill to the house where the maniac dog of questionable breed rushes the chain link fence, providing the best arm workout of the trek as I try to force the dogs to maintain at least minimal composure. (It doesn't usually work.)

 

Back down the hill again.

Trit, trot, trit, trot (with a tangled leash, evidence that composure was lost on the way down the hill).

This is the house of the man who hates Mickey ... and Lyla ... and me ... and every other living being (except his grass, which I think he manicures with scissors).

Up the next big hill ...

... where wondrous views await ...

... of ... Walmart and its busy parking lot ... at 9:30 on a weekday morning! While K-Mart, across the street, sports a nearly empty lot. (Poor K-Mart.) Okay, not the greatest of views, but if you turn the other direction, you get ...

... ta-da! Pikes Peak! This is the view we appreciate most.

Even Mickey can't get enough of the natural wonder. (Lyla can't get over the empty parking lot at K-Mart.)

While standing in the same spot, we need only glance slightly to the left for a full view of Cheyenne Mountain, with NORAD deep within. Well, it used to be the home of NORAD but now they've gone and moved it to a totally unsafe -- in my opinion -- location, with just bits and pieces left deep inside the mountain. But that's another story, for another time and featuring fewer photos.

Continuing on our way, with me searching the field where the fox den is located, ready to provide a detour if a fox comes our way.

Past the house where the nice man likes to smile and yell across the street, "Who's walking who? Ha, ha!" (Like I've never heard that six hundred and fifty-two trillion times before. But that's okay cuz he's nice ... and he thinks it's funny.)

One more view of Pikes Peak ...

... then we're homeward bound.

Ah, home sweet home!

The dogs make sure the coast is clear: No squirrels. No birds. It's a go.

And we're back where we began.

Fitness mission accomplished!

Sure, there are no pushups, no pullups, no plank positions involved. But the yanking of the leashes this way and that way while avoiding fox, squirrel, deer and passing vehicles (which are like crack to Lyla, who's having a difficult time giving up the habit) is more than enough workout for this grandma.

Mickey and Lyla, on the other hand, are ready for more. They dash off into the backyard the second the gate is opened, scaring the cuss out of each and every robin, wren, mourning dove and squirrel who had the gall to relax in the shade, eat from the bird feeders or splash in the water while the dog patrol was out making its neighborhood rounds.

Today's question:

What's your exercise routine?

The grandma I will never be

Jim and I went to see the Leonardo DiCaprio movie Inception yesterday. The movie looked intriguing (and proved to be that and more!) but the prospect of sitting in an air-conditioned theater during the hottest point of the day was the true lure for us. We needed to escape the heat of our NOT air-conditioned house.

Ironically, things heated up quite a bit inside the air-conditioned theater as we waited for the show to begin. Especially for one grandma who grew unreasonably hot under the collar when two women -- late arrivals seeking seats in the packed house just before the previews started -- dared to ask Grandma to scoot down a seat.

Let me stop right here and say that Jim and I always arrive pretty early to see a movie, just to be sure we get end seats, on the aisle. Jim likes to sit on the end; we plan accordingly. So any time one of the theater staff come into a packed house and ask everyone to scoot toward the middle to create empty seats for late arrivals, we don't budge. We got there early; they got there late. Next time maybe they'll better manage their time.

So yesterday, Jim and I were situated in our end seats, with an empty seat between myself and Grandma's movie-watching partner. There was one more empty seat in the row, about five people beyond Grandma.

"Would you mind scooting down a seat so it would open up two seats for us to sit together?" one of the late women -- a 50-something, clean, well-spoken woman -- very politely asked our row of folks.

"Sure, sure, no problem," pretty much everyone mumbled as they started gathering their goodies and preparing to scoot down one. Everyone, that is, except Grandma.

"I like to sit here so I can put my feet up," Grandma said.

"Pardon?" the polite seat-scoot requester said as the 20-somethings next to Grandma leaned toward her to see if they, too, heard Grandma correctly.

"I like to put my feet up," Grandma reiterated in clipped tones as she white-knuckled her seat and refused to move.

Incredulous, the woman requesting the musical chairs simply said, "Real nice ...." and motioned to her partner that they would need to proceed to the front-row, neck- and eye-straining seats.

Most everyone else in our row clucked a "tsk, tsk" and shook their heads as they resumed their original positions. All while self-righteous Grandma faced forward, ignoring the head shaking.

The sad thing is, if Grandma had simply taken a moment to assess the situation rather than being hell-bent on staying in the seat she'd chosen, she'd have realized that all she and her friend needed to do was scoot down one seat in the other direction, toward me, and she'd still be able to rest her feet on the bar in front of her -- saving face and her tootsies while providing two seats together at the other end of the row, leaving everyone happy and cool and things right with the world.

But no, she refused the consideration, sat strong and firm. She was going to get off her butt for no one, no time, no way. In her own mind, I'm sure, she figured she sure taught that late-arriving woman and her companion a lesson in getting someplace on time in order to get what you want.

What she really did, though, was teach those of us witnessing the rudeness what a real inconsiderate cuss looks like. A real inconsiderate cuss of a grandma, at that. A grandma I will never be. I will never be that rude, never be that cold, never ruin the experience for others simply because I jump the gun and refuse to consider other arrangements and staunchly, indignantly defend my position.

Of course I can say that because Jim and I always choose the aisle seats at the theater, so scooting in just one wouldn't make a difference for a couple or crowd. If anyone were to make such a request, we'd have to refuse ... politely ... and kindly wonder aloud what good one seat would do for two or more needing a spot.

Now if there were an empty seat next to me and one late arrival asked us ever so politely to scoot in and let him or her sit on the end ... well ... I gotta admit that we'd still have to refuse.

But we'd do it politely and -- unlike the Grandma at Inception -- consider other options, offering the lone movie-goer the seat right beside me. No, not on the aisle, but, yes, here is a seat, no scooting required.

And no snottiness necessary. Unlike yesterday's cuss of a grandma, the grandma I swear I will never, ever be. Unless ...

... unless a fellow movie-goer talks or texts during a movie. If that's your thing, I'm warning you now: You better simply shut 'er off and slink away. I still swear to not act like the non-scooting grandma. I'll be worse. Way worse.

For sometimes a grandma's just gotta teach folks a lesson or two. Politeness be cussed.

Today's question:

Where is your favorite spot to sit in the movie theater?

Stats, schmatz

The Daily Beast recently featured an article called 15 Signs You'll Get Divorced. It's filled with stats on off-the-wall traits that supposedly predict the likelihood of marital demise.

Either I'm extra special or the stats are a bunch of hooey. First note that Jim and I have been married 28 years, then consider these figures from the article:

If you didn't smile for photographs early in life, your marriage is five times more likely to end in divorce than if you smiled intensely in early photographs. I didn't smile much in pictures. I was shy. I hated my teeth. Braces would have made a difference. Does that mean those who had braces as a child are more likely to have a successful marriage?

If you have two sons, you face a 36.9 percent likelihood of divorce, but if you have two daughters, the likelihood rises to 43.1 percent. Ummm, we have three daughters. What does that mean for our marital bliss ... or discord?

If you're a woman who got married before the age of eighteen, your marriage faces a 48 percent likelihood of divorce within ten years. I got married at 17. It was the week before my 18th birthday, though, so maybe being within mere days of the magical age made all the difference. But then again, maybe not: The article says those marrying at age 18 or 19 face a 40 percent likelihood of divorce within ten years.

If you're a woman who has recently been diagnosed with cancer or multiple sclerosis, your marriage is six times more likely to end in divorce than if your husband had been diagnosed with those diseases instead. "A study of 'partner abandonment' revealed that husbands are six times more likely to leave sick wives than wives are to leave sick husbands," the article explains. Well, I have multiple sclerosis ... have for 17 years ... and Jim's not abandoned me yet. Although that could be chalked up to the fact that he has a grab-bag of health issues himself, and I think I do more caretaking of him than he does of me. (He might refute that, but don't believe him. You know how men are when they're sick!)

In actuality, I'd have to say that having MS saved me from divorce, at least considering this stat: If you're a dancer or choreographer, you face a 43.05 percent likelihood of divorce.  Shew! Because of the MS, there was no way in cuss I would have ever made it as a star on any dance floor. Thank you, MS!

All in all, I have to say stats, schmatz!

Although ... one can never be too sure. So I plan to keep a close eye on Jim's testosterone levels going forward. Get a load of this: If you're a man with high basal testosterone, you're 43 percent more likely to get divorced than men with low testosterone levels.

I'm off to see if Walgreen's offers a do-it-yourself, testosterone-level-checking kit. I certainly wouldn't want Jim getting too manly on me. I'll keep ya posted!

Today's question:

What's one deal-breaker for you, one sure reason for divorce?

My answer: Being abusive to my kids. (Why wasn't there a stat for that in the article?)

Jumping for joy

It was thirty-six years ago this month that my parents, six siblings and I arrived in Colorado by station wagon from Minnesota in search of a new life, one that might keep my parents' rocky marriage together. I was a preteen and pretty excited -- and scared -- about the new venture. The house my parents purchased in advance wasn't yet ready, so we stayed a week or so in one of the log cabin motels dotting the highway of the tiny mountain town we'd call home.

Across the highway from our cabin was the motel office, and outside the office was the motel's coin-operated trampoline. The trampoline itself wasn't operated by coin; it was the length of the jumper's turn that was dictated by quarter. For 25 cents, a kid could jump to his or her heart's content ... for about three minutes. Then the timer would ding and the next one up would plop in his or her quarter and jump for joy. Bouncing past the bell would result in jeers from the others in line; when there were no other kids in line, the motel owner or his progeny (not much older than my siblings and me) would come outside and menacingly enforce the rules.

Despite the limited access to quarters for a family with seven kids -- and a fear of the crabby motel owner and his kids -- it was the beginning of my love affair with the "tramp," as the trampoline became affectionately called by those lucky enough to become well acquainted with it. When our time at the cabin was up, we reluctantly bid farewell to the motel tramp ... and rejoiced upon seeing the tramp nestled in the ground in the backyard of our new neighbor.

It took us a while in our new digs to feel comfortable enough with our neighbor -- a family of five that included three awesomely hip teens that made me shrink in their presence -- to knock on their sliding door and ask for permission to jump. It was okay to do so, our new friends living near the tramp house assured us, as long as the resident teens weren't jumping themselves. For several months, my siblings and I encouraged our friends to do the asking, as we were the new kids in town and figured we were less likely to get a "yes" from the tramp owners.

We soon learned that regardless of who initiated the request, permission flowed freely and the neighboring tramp was ours to enjoy for hours on end. My new friend and I bonded as we bounced, competing against one another in seat wars, back wars, games of add-on. We'd acquiesce to the older siblings when they showed up -- including our older sisters who had become best buds as well -- as they were much more fluent in trampe-eze. Even my older sister, just as new to the sport as I was, had quickly become a pro, flying through the air with the greatest of ease, performing front flips, back flips, swan dives and one-and-a-halfs.

I longed to be as good as the older kids. I'd peek out the window and watch the resident teens expertly enjoy their trampoline, then put some of their moves into play when it was my turn. Little by little I mastered the front flip, back flip, swan dive and, finally, after a few terrifying turns, the satisfying slam of my stomach on the mat when I successfully managed the derring-do of a one-and-a-half. Double flips soon followed. Never before had I felt so in command of graceful moves, a graceful body.

In hopes of maintaining neighborly relations, my dad eventually purchased a trampoline for our own yard. No longer would seven rug rats be knocking on the neighbor's sliding door, begging to jump. We were thrilled to have our own tramp, but it wasn't the same. It was new and stiff and didn't bounce as easily and as high as the in-ground beauty next door. But we and our friends jumped ferociously, purposefully in hopes of breaking it in, all the while doing our best to ignore the screaming and crying and fighting we could hear through the windows, evidence that it was Mom and Dad's marriage that had been broken, irreparably.

After the divorce, my dad got custody of the tramp. Custody of the kids was a far less desirable affair for him, so with few kids in residence and even fewer visiting, the tramp was never fully broken in. It was eventually sold, and we kids moved on, grew up, never dared to look back.

Except that the lure of the tramp couldn't be forgotten. Luckily Jim -- who also had frequented the coin-operated trampoline in town, long before I ever knew him -- fondly recalled the joy of jumping as much as I did. So together we purchased a trampoline for our daughters.

The girls and their friends spent many a summer day bouncing away and several summer nights attempting sleepovers on the tramp, usually ending in mid-night scrambles into the house because of scary neighborhood noises or dampness from the dew soaking their sleeping bags.

My daughters had their own versions of bouncing bliss that included front flips, seat wars, add-on and a game I never really understood dubbed the Uncle David Game, concocted during an extended visit from my brother. The girls never mastered the swan dive or the one-and-a-half -- at least not that I ever saw. Not because they weren't capable but because I had become an overprotective mom and although I wanted them to experience the incomparable joy of jumping, I worried endlessly that one poorly executed flip would break their neck resulting in certain death or at least paralysis, so I limited the tricks they were allowed.

I myself wasn't allowed to do much jumping on the new tramp either, not out of fear of a broken neck but out of fear of how my bladder may perform, battered and bruised as it had become by three pregnancies in rapid succession. So I'd jump carefully only now and then, do a few knees, seats, backs, a stomach here and there. Sometimes I'd even engage in a seat war with the girls.

But never again did I do a flip -- front, back or otherwise. Never again have I felt as in command of graceful moves, a graceful body as I did thirty-six summers ago when I very first mastered the tramp.

Today's question:

When have you felt the most graceful?