Slipping into Darkness

There I was. Stained hair-dye towel wrapped around my shoulders and a brand new package of Nice ‘N Easy Dark Auburn. When the door-bell rang. I couldn’t imagine who would be just dropping in at 8 p.m. so I tip-toed into the dining room to see whether there was some wayward girl scout out there selling her cookies or something. Barry was chatting amiably with whoever it was so I figured it must be someone we know and turned back to the task of coloring my own hair. Something I haven’t done since probably 1975.

First of all my hair is naturally very dark brown. So dark that no-one ever believes me when I tell them that it’s natural. And there’s the rub. While visiting home last Fall from my “evacucation” in NYC during Katrina I met a volunteer from Manhattan right outside my New Orleans front door. Lexie. In her real life she is a hair colorist, but at the time that I met her she was volunteering with the Humane Society of Manhattan and doing animal rescue in my shattered city.

To make a very long story into a medium-long story, Lexie moved down here to New Orleans last February and is doing hair at a salon on Magazine Street. Over the months since her arrival I have gone from deep brunette to almost totally blonde. And my hair did look good, but the busier Lexie got, the less time she really had to devote to my new high-maintenance locks so I decided to go back to brunette.

So last month while I was in upstate New York my friend, Jeanne, did my hair a nice dark auburn. And it looked great! But 5 weeks later the color had faded and it was time for a touch up. I didn’t want to call Lexie because I didn’t want her to feel like she had to do my hair and I know she disapproves of my dark hair and even she believed it was dyed that color because “it can’t possibly be the true color…it’s too dark!” So I didn’t really tell her about the change. And I hadn’t seen her in maybe 7 or 8 weeks so I figured she’d never know anyway.

But God must have decided that he doesn’t want me to fuck up my follicles either, so who came sauntering in last night just to say “Hi”???? Lexie!!! I was so busted. “Noooooooo!!!” she wailed. I laughed sheepishly. And that is how it came to be that I have a 3 p.m. appointment today to have a pro take care of my request. Lexie to the rescue. We are compromising and aiming for a Cindy Crawford (dark with some highlights) effect.

I mean I’ve heard of intervention for self-destructive behavior, but this is ridiculous.

Cry me a river.

I’m fine. Really.

So I’m realizing that it isn’t particularly brave to resist taking anti-depressants if you really need them. I don’t know what I was thinking. Maybe that taking anti-depressants would mean that I’m crazy…even though I don’t feel that way about other people who take them. At any rate, I’ve joined the legions of New Orleanians who are popping their “happy pills” just to cope with the complete and total stupidity of life in the Crescent City since “she-who-must-not-be-named” happened almost a year and a half ago. And it helps. No longer do I cry over the bacon selection at Winn-Dixie. But, I've also learned that it's just as scary to laugh inappropriately...and I don't mean like when someone falls off a bicycle. I mean like when you find out that it's going to cost twice as much to repair your home as you were led to believe it would.

Our insurance rates are going up. Our cable rates have gone up. Our utilities are going up and probably our property taxes are going up. Now, I don’t object to the property tax part if the money will go toward fixing the schools, the streets, the crime situation and generally improving the life of those of us who have chosen to remain here in this pitiful shadow of what New Orleans used to be. But I have no confidence that any of the money will be properly spent. Hell, I have no confidence that the trash will be picked up once a week so requiring accountability in government is probably out of the question.

Still we hang in here. Because as bad as it is here, most days I’d rather be in the wreckage of New Orleans than in oh say…Los Angeles. So, yes. I am fine. Really.

The Spin I'm In

I woke up suddenly Sunday morning with the room spinning wildly. It was like falling off the tilt-a-whirl. I remember the spins from my drinking days; having to dangle one leg out of the side of the bed touching the floor with my toes to make it stop. This was like that only MUCH more extreme. And I don't drink. So it was especially frightening.

I nudged Barry. I was terrified. I tried to focus on the window thinking that if I could just lock my eyes on one thing, I would be okay. But that didn't work. And it was making me nauseous...all that spinning. And I had to go to the bathroom. I knew I couldn't possibly walk so Barry helped me get there and waited for me, walking me back to the bed.

I honestly thought that this was the beginning of my decline. I mean, how does anyone drive their car if this kind of thing can happen at any time?

It happened one more time on Sunday when I tried to lay down for a nap. By Sunday night I was afraid to go to bed since it only seemed to happen when I was reclining. Finally, exhausted, I forced myself to pull the covers back and climb in. Nothing happened. I slept.

Yesterday I went to the doctor half expecting him to tell me that I have a brain tumor or something like that. But it turns out its BPV (benign positional vertigo). And it MAY never happen again. But just in case it does, I have some pills to help.

That was great news. And to top it all off, the Democrats took control of Congress and are on the brink of taking the Senate as well and just when I thought it couldn't get any better than that Donald Rumsfeld resigned today. Now if only Dick Cheney and George Bush would ride off into the sunset or go hunting together or something.