Haiku Friday

It seems silly to restrict haiku to Thursdays. When the muse strikes, I pay attention, and this morning I experienced seventeen-syllable inspiration during an unusually easy drive to work.

If you’ve ever commuted in the DC area, you know the times when traffic is likely to be heavier or lighter than usual. I would not have expected to glide through the city this morning at the height of rush hour, arriving at work earlier than on a typical day. I guess everyone else has already begun their Thanksgiving break? Why didn’t you tell me?

Hello? Can you hear me? Is this thing on??

#HaikuThursday

 

Roasted parsnips, ill-fated commutes, and other random stuff

ParsnipsLast night I  a dream that featured roasted parsnips.  (I know.) I was thinking in the dream, should I add some roasted garlic too, maybe mash ’em up? Do we have any fresh rosemary?  I haven’t made parsnips in a while, maybe a year. I don’t have any in my fridge, begging to be cooked and served to my reluctant family.  (I’m the only one who really likes ’em.) I haven’t even considered buying them recently. Nevertheless, there it is.  I do like to throw them in with some potatoes, yams, maybe a turnip and some carrots – a riot of roasted root vegetables. ‘Tis the season.

* * *

There’s some kind of stomach virus working its way through the youngest members of my family.   Today, I was five stops into my Metro commute when my cell phone buzzed. I recognized the number as my kids’ middle school and knew it must be The Boss.  He tried to tell us this morning that he didn’t feel good and we were all, take a Tufferin and go to school. He lasted 30 minutes. It’s a mild bug, but still, most kids don’t fake throwing up in the school nurse’s office.  I got off the train, hopped on one heading back out, and retrieved my son from school. As we got into the car, I thanked him for trying and even invited him to say “I told you so” if he wanted to. His reply? “That’s okay. I’m not that kind of person.”

* * *

vermont cemeteryAll the chatter in the comments of my recent post about how I feel pulled back to the area where I grew up and might even consider being buried there has me wondering. Do YOU know where you want your body to lay for all eternity? Do you already own a burial plot?  (I hear you can get a good deal one one now – people are selling them because the need the cash.) Have you shared your wishes with your family members, or written them down somewhere?  Do you care if it’s close to other relatives, or convenient so that your survivors can come “visit” you, place flowers on your grave?

I feel like perhaps it would be a good thing to do, to figure this out, discuss it with Soup Husband Curt. It would be helpful info for my survivors to have handy in the event I meet an untimely demise. Or a timely one, but the timely demise, presumably, won’t happen for at least another 40 years…

* * *

So then, here I sit with a sorta-sick 11-year-old. Every day is a gift, but today, it seems I’ve been given the gift of some unplanned time.  I have some laundry to do, I could declutterfy my dining room table (I think there’s a table under all that stuff), prepare a couple of blog posts for later this week… maybe bake some bread, or make some chicken soup? Go buy some parsnips, perhaps?

Tell me what you would do with an unplanned day. Or with parsnips. Or about your plans for your body when the inevitable happens.  Or about a time when you DID say “I told you so!” Or, in the spirit of this post, tell me something completely random.

Go ahead; I’m listening.

On cutting one’s own hair

safety scissorsTwo weeks ago, I squeezed in an impulsive visit to the hair salon located in the spa in the resort in which we were staying in PA. The stylist asked lots of questions and spent time trying to figure out exactly what it was I was asking her to do. She might have achieved some sort of understanding, too, if I had, in fact, known exactly what it was I wanted her to do and been able to convey it.  Mostly, I wanted her to fix the haircut I’d had five weeks prior, during which I’d asked that stylist to please fix the style that my longtime hair stylist had failed to achieve.

So Olga did a fine job, but really, it was just a trim, and now, two weeks later, it’s growing out because if my hair were a superhighway, it would be the Autobahn.

Tonight, I was becoming increasingly annoyed at how long the back has gotten since my little visit with Olga, and I thought to myself, how much damage could I possibly do if I just bust out the clippers and trim the tiniest bit all by myself?

Now that the deed is done, I can state with confidence these two things:

  1. I CANNOT ENDORSE cutting the back of one’s own hair.  Bangs, maybe. But the back? Under no circumstances should this task be entrusted to anyone other than a trained professional.
  2. You cannot un-cut hair. It will grow, eventually, but you can’t stick it back on after it’s cut.

My little DIY trim does get the hair off of my neck, and this is a good thing.  It certainly feels better. It may even buy me a couple more weeks before I seek out yet another stylist whose price is more in line with my current budget.  My longtime guy? Waaaay too pricey for me now. Besides, If I’m being honest (and I know you expect nothing less from me), I hadn’t been entirely happy with his product the past few visits. I do feel kinda bad leaving him now because, well, we have history, and also, he had moved into new space and was struggling to keep it in the black. (Take a tip from my (former?) stylist: Do not open a shiny new salon in a high-rent district that’s 10 or more miles from most of your clients. They won’t come. Bonus suggestion: Take care not to do this when the nation’s economy is imploding.)

And before you ask, NO, I don’t have a photo of my little home haircut gone awry. My camera is in for repair.  (It’s under warranty!)  Plus, you think it’s hard to cut the back of your own hair? Try photographing it, with a cell phone camera! Not possible.

Aren’t you glad you visited today? I know I am. Do come back next time where I plan to bitch and moan about the perils of home hair color.

Or not. But I should.