Farewell, old friend

My in-laws had a garage sale the other day. Personally, I'm not big into garage sales, but I'm also not opposed to getting junk out of my house, so the Hub, Daredevil, Drama Princess and I scoured our respective spaces for any trash we thought someone else might consider treasure.

Turns out we didn't have much. Oh, there's no shortage of useless stuff in our house. We just didn't have much that we thought anyone would be interested in.

So we hauled it all over to the folks' house early Saturday morning, and helped them set up card tables and boards atop sawhorses in the driveway. We arranged attractive displays of our merchandise, checked our supply of cash to be used for change, pressed a couple of lawn chairs into service, and sat down to wait for the crowds we just knew would be flocking to our transitory emporium.

It was a long day.

Like I said, I'm not really into garage sales, so I have no idea what I was expecting, but I'm pretty sure I thought we'd have to break up fights over the picture frames and holiday wreaths. I was convinced that at least two bodybuilder types would duke it out over the NordicTrack or the antique weight bench. No doubt one of Martha Stewart's faithful followers would find a use for the framed mirror or the practically-brand-new drapes.

Didn't happen.

I wasn't too worried about it. After all, we didn't want this stuff, so we shouldn't be too upset that no one else wanted it. I was completely okay with sitting on the edge and merely watching the whole thing, until a man put Daredevil's cello into the trunk of his car.

Daredevil had acquired that cello when he was in the fifth grade and decided he wanted to join the school orchestra and play cello, like a certain girl in his class. With a little help from the school district, we unearthed a somewhat battered cello. Not much to look at, but it was in pretty good shape and sounded okay, so Daredevil was all set.

He lasted two years. Maybe three--I really can't remember if he stuck with it in seventh grade. But once he decided he didn't like that girl any more, he also decided he was no longer interested in the cello, so it sat in his room, untouched, for something like four years. I didn't say anything when he decided to put it in the garage sale, but inside I was all mom-sad. I'm a singer and a lover of music, and I was really hoping there was a budding Yo Yo Ma in my boy. Not so much. So, I couldn't really protest when he decided to get rid of it.

But it was like watching a little piece of his childhood disappear when that trunk lid closed. I wasn't surprised to find my vision all blurred at that moment.

Daredevil got the proceeds of this sale, which was the agreement. My little heartbreak wasn't part of that agreement, but I have hope that wherever that cello has gone, there is a young musician filling his parents' hearts with pride in their own Yo Yo Ma. I hope he sticks with it.

Move over, Billy! Here comes Barbara!

I've been thinking a lot about my hair lately.

I know that sounds vain, but really, it's not. I'm just wondering what on earth to do with it. Ladies, you know what I'm talking about.

For starters, it's semi-long, reaching just below my shoulders. I kind of like the length, but I'm not afraid of cutting it off, either. In fact, I've had just about every kind of haircut known to man, and a few that I swear the hairdressers made up along the way. Just a year before my wedding, one gal cut it so short that if I dyed it white blonde and put a bunch of waxy-looking crud in it, I would have rivaled Billy Idol in the punk-look department. (Thank goodness it grows really fast. Would have given a whole new meaning to White Wedding.)

For another thing, it's changing color. My hair is dark, but I've got this very cool sort of Bride of Frankenstein thing going, with big shocks of white here and there, and then the requisite threads of white throughout the rest. I'm not worrying about that. I could color it, I suppose, and I certainly did that for years, but ever since I was a kid and glued myself to the TV watching The Big Valley, I swore that I would be Barbara Stanwyck when I grew up. That was one seriously magnificent cloud of silver hair! So I finally gave up on Preference by L'Oreal and have been going with Moosebane by Mother Nature ever since. So far, so good.

The problem is that as I get older, my hair gets drier and frizzier, which I hate. I've tried every product out there that boasts the ability to banish frizz. No luck. I drink water by the gallon. I have wonderfully soft, supple skin, but my hair is a wreck. It doesn't help that my white hair is somewhat wiry and difficult to smooth. Also, my hair is neither straight nor curly. It's very, very wavy, and you just try to find a good haircut for uber-wavy hair. Go ahead. Try. I've been searching for years.

I own two straighteners, four or five different sets of curlers, hot rollers, curling irons, crimping irons, you name it. It's all time-consuming and more trouble than it's worth. Fixing my hair takes forever, and I like to sleep too much to get up an extra half-hour early just to fuss with it. So I usually wash it and let it dry, sometimes adding a little mousse or styling lotion or some sort of oily stuff to control the frizz (doesn't work), and I end up looking like I did nothing at all. Sometimes when I'm feeling really ambitious, I wash it the night before, then straighten it in the morning. Again, no real difference.

So, I guess I'll have to go back to the hairdresser, hand her pictures of Billy Idol and Barbara Stanwyck, and tell her to do anything it takes to make me look a whole lot more like her than like him. I may even take a picture of the Bride of Frankenstein. Couldn't hurt!

Not so Famous Last Words

Over the years, I've had a number of memorable conversations about pretty much nothing. A few of them have been floating around in my head lately, so I thought I'd share them; I'm afraid that if I don't, I'll forget them altogether. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did!

Several months ago, I went into the public library near where I work. One of the attorneys from our office happened to be in there, standing at the checkout desk with a pile of materials. So being the smart-a$$ that I am, I rushed to his side and said, "I didn't know you could read." He and the librarian both looked at me and said, "Oh, these are books on tape."

Another attorney in our office--one for whom I actually work--once sent me an e-mail wherein he misspelled my name. In his message he asked me to have his estate planning file sent to him. I made the request for him, and then went into his office and teasingly said, "I hope that when you revise your will, you spell my name correctly." He replied, "Did I spell your name wrong in my will?"

Recently, the son and daughter-in-law of one of our senior partners (why do these stories seem to center on lawyers?) brought their four-month-old daughter into the office to visit Grandpa. Naturally, everyone in the office oohed and aahed and admired this truly beautiful baby. Later, her grandfather stopped by my desk and asked, "Who has the most beautiful granddaughter in the world?" I turned to him, smiled sweetly and said, "My grandparents."

Years ago, a young lady I worked with was planning her wedding. Like most brides, she regaled her co-workers with details of the upcoming event, and like most women, we all loved it. One day she made the comment that she really likes the song "Ave Maria" and wanted to have it sung at her wedding, but her mother flatly refused to let this happen. I said, "Why not? My sister had that sung at her wedding, and she's not Catholic." To which my co-worker responded, "Yeah, but I bet she's not Jewish, either."

When I was a kid, my granddad had a pickup truck with a camper shell on it--not one of those over-the-cab campers, just a shell that covered the bed of the truck. My sisters and I used to ride in there whenever we went anywhere. One time when we went out to dinner or someplace, we stopped and my sister BB went to open the door so we could get out. At the same time, my grandfather opened the door from the outside, and BB nearly fell flat on her face. My granddad said, "Don't hurt yourself, there." BB replied, "NOW you tell me."

I once asked my grandfather how you could tell when your gas tank was getting full as you pumped. He said, "When it starts making a gurgling sound, you know you're almost done." BB stared at him incredulously and added, "Or, when it runs over and spills on your shoes."