In which we get fussy, and Melaine buys a curling iron

I have never liked taking more than 40 minutes to get ready in the morning. I've never been into "beauty". Like as not, I've cut my own hair, and my face gets scrubbed every morning with the same detergent-based body wash as the rest of me. And yet I have become more self-conscious as I've gotten older, and lately have gotten more fussy about my appearance.

When we went to Hot Sulphur Springs earlier this month, my facial therapist told me that rather than the intensely oily skin that I always thought I had, my skin is dry. The oil is my face trying mightily to make up for all the dryness. The redness is a symptom of that struggle. She prescribed a sensitive skin regime, which requires three bottles of stuff - two moisturizers and one cleanser.

I'd like to start wearing makeup, but my skin is always so oily that foundation simply will not lay down evenly - even right after washing my face. I'm experimenting with lipstick ane eye makeup, but adding stuff to my face feels conspicuious, and so I hesitate.

My hair is so fine that it is pretty much uncontrollable. I already use a shampoo and conditioner for my hair type. The last stylist I went to recommended a root lifter for volume, the one before that an intense conditioner for the ends and a different hairspray, and the one before that a volumizing treatment. This is getting silly! Saturday the stylist used a curling iron on my hair to give the ends some wave, and I really like the look. So I bought a curling iron, and now am experimenting with using it. Unlike the makeup the curling iron doesn't burn my eyes, and so it's easier to embrace. (If you're counting, that's five bottles and utensils above the basic shampoo-and-conditioner that I now carry with me. It's not like these things are simply weighing down my vanity or taking up space in a cabinet at home.) On the bright side, I have found that my hair isn't as uncontrollable as I thought; I just didn't have any skill with it, nor was using the kind of stuff on it that would give it control.

Funny, I'm really happy with the curling iron. I like what it does for my appearance. I can't wait to put my hair up in a "bad fairy" do, and curl the ends. It's not professional, though.... I really must find a non-smoking Goth club that I can dress up for.

Maybe I am having my mid-life crisis. Chris joked about it, but I am feeling older than I want to. I didn't think that it would come to this state of fussiness about my appearance; it just always seemd so superficial to me. Now, it feels like I'm acting my age - about 20 years younger than I am.

In which I wonder where I've been

Ok, ok, ok - I know I'm out of touch. But I thought the important things would have gotten through. I don't expect to be up on the current SCA gossip any more, or know who got offered what awards. But I feel like I'm really out of touch when I find out weeks or months after members of my extended family have died. I do moderate the scribes list, and so I do see some of the posts. I confess that I do not do it well - it seems that anything having to do with the scribal arts comes with too much pain for me to make it something I'm very motivated to do. I have lost contact with many of my scribal friends, but continue to maintain the list out of a sense of duty to those whom I used to promote, defend, and nominally lead. I do miss them, but it still hurts, and yet I don't know why it should. Seems silly, but there it is. I try not to think about it too much.

I vaguely recall that Margherita da Foire was offered membership in the order of the Laurel last summer. Margherita was one of the most dependable of scribes, and was talented besides. I was not sure of her suitability for the accolade, but in my absence would have to rely on the wisdom of my fellows in the circle. It was a joy to stand witness at her apprenticeship to Cailte, and I still treasure the gifts that she bestowed on me that day. I took away a deep respect for her generous nature. I was never sure of her heritage, but her English was punctuated with an accent from a place far away from New Mexico. Being out of the scribal community for these past four and a half years (was that day in April really so long ago?) I had not thought about her. I didn't know she was ill. So it's kind of a shock.

I had to put the pieces together. Mistress? Cailte's student? Yes, and yes. It's sad enough, but I regret the years of not knowing her better.

A few months ago, I posted to a list of close friends that I was blogging, and if they had blogs, I'd like to know, so we could read each others' blogs. (I've got them all bookmarked, btw.) In perusing friend's blogs, I found out that Sorcha's brother had been killed in a mining accident. This was the boy for whom she'd feared for years. I recall when we were rooming together that she'd said that every time there was an accident, that she'd wonder if today was the day that she'd hear that her brother was in there. I can't imagine her pain - her narrative of the incident was heart-wrenching. I do wish that I had heard sooner - it seems so laxidasical to say months later, "by the way, I heard, and I'm sorry..." because that's where I'm at.

There has been so much grief in my circle of acquaintances, friends, and family since Evan was born. I find it difficult to commiserate; I am too soft-hearted, and tend to never get over these sorts of things myself. Every occasion becomes an opportunity for my own pain to re-surface. To express sympathy seems to open my own wounds.

I seem to have a limited capacity to attend to things. I guess I don't multask well. Perhaps someone told me that Margherita was ill or Sorcha's brother had been killed. I may just not have rememebred it. But I don't think so. Maybe it's because I tend to be very much in the "now", and have a hard time visualing the future or remembering the past. I don't know where I've been, but I would have liked to have known.

In which I go to the mall

You may know that I really don't like malls much. I go there for some singular purpose, and then get out. Shopping isn't my bag, which is why I tend to take a long time to do it; I am compelled to make the right decisions.

After a week of living in Mytrle Beach and being pretty light in the wallet, I needed things. Hose, a pillow, something to sleep in, hand soap, a hands-free headset for my new cell phone, sodas, a cut and color. Some things I'd forgotten at home, some things I'd consumed, some things just needed doing. I had to take the car to the airport early anyway.

My smoked-in minivan with the CV joint problem exchanged for a sweet Pontiac G6, I headed for Target this morning. I'd say the nearest Target, but there are only 3 within 100 miles, and so the options are limited. Probably a lot more Wal*Marts, but they don't count. It took me three hours to decide on some new makeup (that hopefully won't burn my eyes), a hands-free headset, a new movie (Corpse Bride or Pride and Prejudice?), and that I didn't need new clothes badly enough to have to pack them home. Well, except for the black velvet shrug on sale. I headed for the mall.

I needed to get my hair colored. I managed to park at the opposite end of the mall from the Regis. I walked the entire mall to find that it would be half an hour before they could get me in. It took two hours to do my hair. At first she just colored the roots but didn't do the ends. Then she decided she had to do the ends. They're a different color. I'm not entirely satisfied. My scalp is red - glowing - and I'm eagerly awaiting a shower in the morning so I can scrub it. My hair wasn't done until 4:00, and breakfast was a pair of sausage patties off the hotel buffet and a Diet Coke. I hit the food court.

After a pretty good dinner of Chinese (yes, I had the sugary sauces, but no rice, dumplings or noodles), I stopped at one store on the mall. Although I'm not thrilled with the color, I was pretty impressed with how she styled my hair, and it requires a curling iron. I haven't used a curling iron since the 70's. Needless to say, I don't have one any more. The kind she recommended is the large barrell, with a variable temp control. Not cheap. They had them at Beauty Brands. I also bought the heat-resistant pouch, since I anticipate not always having cool-down time before packing.

I also stopped at the Hot Topic in the mall. Still unimpressed. Their merchandise is all either marketing or cheapo clothing. Poor quality I won't pay for. Having not found suitable sunglasses at Target, I did pick up a pair at another store. But I pretty much bee-lined for Belk's, were I'd parked.

At the Belk store in Auburn, I found some cool goth-y clothes. I thought I'd look. I did really need an extra pair of pants. One just isn't enough. They had a lot of their winter stuff on deep discount, and yes, in spite of overwhelming odds, I did find a pair of pants.

I have a terrible time finding pants that fit my hips and my waist. I'm a 16W/18/1x on the top, but a 18W/20/2x or more in skirts and pants. I found a pair of cotton velour pants with a drawstring waist that fits beautifully. They happen to be 3x, but they skim my bumpy hips beautifully. They will be just right with my goth-y tops. Besides they're Ralph Lauren, so a premium brand. Originally $85, I purchased them for $26.45, including tax. Feeling a little better about the aggregate hair expense, I headed back to the hotel.

I got a new 'do, new pants and a good long walk today. It was good, although I'm tired. Once this laundry is done, I'm going to bed.

In which we look for the fun side of The Dream

I recently read a comment by a long-term member of the SCA that he liked to share the "fun side of The Dream" with folks in the SCA. What does this mean? Considering the source, I am aware that my "fun side" is quite different from his; mine includes neither togas nor wheels of Jell-O. There are no bunny-fur bikinis in my Dream, no poker parties, barbeque, potatoes or chocolate. His context seemed to imply that "period" is not "fun". This attudude reinforces the already high barrier in the movement toward a more authentic environment.

The SCA professes to require activities that create a particular atmosphere. Most people in the SCA would agree that a period camp contributes to a period environment, and while a Wheel of Jell-O doesn't necessarily, well, it's "fun", and we are here to have "fun" after all. It's not that anyone believes that non-period things belong, it's that people believe that they don't necessarily not belong.

As long as the Big Tent encompasses such a broad definition of "fun", no one can - or should - lay claim to knowing or promoting the "fun side of The Dream". To qualify The Dream in such a way places "period" at the opposite end of the spectrum from "fun". We can say (and demonstrate) that we are having fun, and to invite others to have fun with us. I consider that I have found a "fun side of The Dream"; when I am dressed as Lijsbet and working in her kitchen, I have a small idea of what she felt like, what she knew, and how she lived. How would that happen with chocolate for dessert, or at a halfla?

Inside the Big Tent is an atmosphere of political correctness, in which members are expected to be non-critical in the name of diversity. We are left with an organization that more closely parallels the mores of the forty years in which it has been in existence than that of the era it professes to study.

The Dream initiated the SCA. The first event was a party to protest the modern age. In the seventies, "decadence" parties reflected the licentiousness of the decade. By the eighties, we'd all become a lot more cautious, and by the time I joined in 1987, there were certain leanings toward actual research and learning about the eras upon which we'd based our theme party. By the nineties, a handful of us had gotten serious; people with a genuine interest in history went in different directions. Some left the SCA to establish reputations in the field of research or to join with living history groups. Plenty stayed behind to promote authenticity within the SCA. What started out as a costume party has changed into what we know today.

My Dream is the the SCA will discard the dichotomy between "period" and "fun". Including non-period things teaches nothing; rather it is a barrier to understanding. Perhaps authenticists are trying to change the game, and maybe the game doesn't want to change. It seems that change is inevitable, given the age of the Society - we all have to grow up someday.

In which I find myself in Cincinnati. Again.

Yes, here we are, boys and girls - a month later and a lot wiser. Having secured myself a seat by the window in the airport Outback, I have ordered dinner worth eating and set myself up to get some writing done. While I'm waiting on the Wallaby Darned, I'm trying to get a network connection. I've heard rumors that this airport has ad hoc wireless, and although I do see available networks, connecting to them seems to be a different matter altogether. Ah, well - I can always write now and post later. But I did think that I might just get to the 'net and thus to my client's database, giving me a leg up on tomorrow morning.

Having topped 220 lbs for the first time in two years, I've decided to return to an Atkins way of life. Of course that plan was forgotten this morning when I needed a fast breakfast. I ate the entire English muffin before remembering. Lunch was better - I ordered a chicken Ceasar salad at McDonald in the airport. Of course I didn't get a chicken Ceasaer, but the Cobb salad was OK, too. Dinner is low-carb of course (except for the Wallaby Darned), and I'll try to not forget when I go to the grocery store tomorrow.

In which we achieve extreme relaxation

Hot tubbing is the best of the best when it comes to relaxing. But a hot tub and a massage - now that's taking things to the extreme.

I'm leaving for Myrtle Beach for two weeks on the 12th. Chris and I scheduled a date beforehand to get some quality time together. We drove up to Hot Sulphur Springs after dropping Evan off at school. We arrived at about 11:00, which gave us about an hour of soaking before massages. We both had the Rain Dance treatment, which is a full massage with the addition of de-toxifying essential oils. The therapist sprinkles the oils on your back, and then covers the oiled skin with hot moist towels. The effect is one of intense heat, which I found at the edge of tolerable at the time, but which served to deepen the relaxation effect.

I had a facial while Chris relaxed in the lodge with his Magic magazine. We'd cruised Tony's Tuesday night and had brought a picnic lunch. It was very cold, in the teens, so we picniced in the lodge. BBQ pork roast and eggy buns, hummos scooped up on rosemary crackers, olives, little crispy onions marinated in balsalmic vinegar, and cheese were the fare. We'd brought a bottle of wine, but the rules excluded alcohol so it stayed in the car. Drank Diet Cokes instead. I finished off my carrot juice, which I really enjoyed. After our delightful lunch we headed back out to the tubs.

The sun was still high in the sky, and after my conversation with my facial therapist, I was acutely aware that I was totally unprotected. I had packed two towels each, and so felt that I could drape one over me in the tub. If it got wet, I'd have the other. Which worked pretty well. We did spend a lot of time in the Backyard pool, which has a cover, and so it wasn't needed for most of the time. Our last hour was graced with a couple of munching bunnies and a parade of mule deer along the margin of the property. I presume that the forage is good there, where the hot water warms the earth from below. When the sun went down, I opined that I was ready as I would likely be to head home, and we collected our things.

I had left one of my towels draped across a handrail while we were getting massaged. I figured that in the sunshine, and with the low temps, it would dry, or at least the moisture in it would evaporate. No such luck. Three hours later it was still wet - and stiff in spots. The towel I'd gotten wet in the draping was stiff as a board. My sandels - which of course had puddles inside them - were now containers of ice. No matter the outdoor temperature, you don't really want to wrap a frozen towel around yourself for warmth. Or put on ice sandels. But the wind had kicked up and the spa had put down salt everywhere, so both were somewhat necessary although I don't really think that there was a whole lot of benefit. We scurried toward the locker rooms.

Really I had been drinking water. And most of a litre of carrot juice. So I don't know why I felt so bad in the locker room. I had a hard time getting undressed and redressed. Lots of fatigue, or maybe just a lot of relaxation. I lotioned up (soak and seal) and met Chris in the lobby, who of course had begun to wonder what was taking so long. He had me drive home (I guess he was tired) and we pulled into home at about 8:15. We didn't stop to eat dinner as planned; we'd had enough at lunch that we weren't really hungry and so drove straight through. We did confirm that the drive was 2:15 door-to-door, which will be of use later.

This morning it was of course back to the grind, but I at least was better equipped to meet the day.

In which there is not much to write about

Things have been busy, but rather tedious. Work continues to dominate my days, but I did take off Sunday to go to the mountains with the family.

We started west on I-70, and turned off the highway at Empire toward Winter Park. The weather was sunny and windy. Chris drove the first leg which included Berthoud Pass (11,315') the highest point of our itenarary. Berthoud Pass is one of the most notorious passes in the Colorado Rockies due to its elevation and the frequent tight switchbacks on the south side of the pass. The road was not great, but was passable. We decided that new tires are in the budget. The west side of the divide was overcast and snowy. We headed for the visitors center in Winter Park, where we could use the facilities and take the opportunity of a stop to crack open the cooler and see what the lunch fairy had packed.

It was the ice sculptures that first attracted attention. They were housed in a shelter across from the visitor's center. Now, we haven't had snow in Denver. Not really - only one snowy day since Christmas. Just because the temps have been cold enough to prevent melting doesn't mean that we've really had snow. Snow being something of a novelty this year, an opportunity to play in the stuff seemed to be something of which we should take advantage.

We donned all our winter gear (mom forgot to pack the snow pants, but did have an extra pair of jeans for the boy) and headed across the street. The city had built a sledding slope, and it turned out that they had also supplied sleds for the general enjoyment of said slope. Evan managed to wander out in the middle of hurtling sleds, and we finally got him corralled. Dad put him on a saucer and gave him a push.

Evan is not yet 5. Most of the sleds say that they're for kids at least a couple of years older. I did not know what to expect, but a wet, cold, and frightened Evan was certainly a posibility. Not to worry - he went down that slope at high speed with a grin on his face. And then trundled back up the slope for more. Here he is on the fourth or fifth run. Of course, he was not willing to stop sledding and get in the car.

He did get a few more minutes playing in the snow while I was spreading salmon cream cheese on bagels. For some reason he kept finding big snowballs that he'd want to nurture. We had to talk him out of taking them home; I know that it'd be tough to explain to him what happened to his snowball once we got home.

I think the most remarkable thing was how fearless he was. There was no hesitation; he was eager to do it again. I feel like he's ready to ski. I wonder what we could do about that this season.

Our Sunday drive took us north out of Middle Park into North Park via Willow Creek Pass (9,683'). The pass was remarkably clear, and the skies had cleared as we had driven north of Berthoud. Once down on to the floor of North Park, the winds' effects were again felt and seen. The skies were alternately stormy and clear. Snow skuttled thickly across the road, and the wind had sculpted fantastic forms of the plowed hills of snow at roadside. We stopped at Walden for gas and to change drivers. I had snoozed for much of the descent from Willow Pass, and after acquiring a large bottle of diet coke, turned the minivan to the east.

We were headed to Cameron Pass, (10,276') in my opinion one of the most beautiful in the Rockies. Cameron gets loads of snow in the winter, but is pretty easy to plow, and so is seldom closed in winter. The sun was setting, and I was not eager to navigate that pass in the dark. It lies on CO-14, a well-traveled route from the northern Front Range to Steamboat Springs. Nevertheless, the highway was sparsely traveled at dusk on a Sunday. Which was good - the route is populated with numerous recreational venues, but not much else. The blowing snow that we'd encountered in the southern part of the park had intensified into ground blozzards in places. Most of the time there was a track, but occasionally the road was completely covered. Still a very beautiful drive.

By the time we got down into the Poudre Canyon, the sun was fully down. That stretch is very long and curvy, but the snowy conditions encountered at Cameron Pass dissappeared quickly with the dropping elevation. Of course, there are no facilities open in the winter in the Canyon, and so we did have to make one roadside stop. Propriety compelled me to step down a slope toward the river and below the road. This was not a bad thing until I tried to clamber out - backless shoes are a distinct liablity when trying to climb a loose slope.

We got to Ft. Collins at about 8:00, and hit I-25 toward home. I only wish we'd started earlier. Maybe next time, we'll just stay in Winter Park for the day.