art of being a jaded old hag

Jaded Old Hag--a nickname thought up by educated college roommates who tired of basing their life happiness on boyfriends. I stumbled into the association one day after an eloquent tirade on dating and was inducted as a JOHer in the twinkle of an eye.

What followed was a flurry of parties, movie nights, cackles, and the occasional night on the town that only a group of girls can do. I love being a JOH so much that I have vowed to be one my whole life--even after I marry and have kids. Watch out world.

For the record--a "jaded old hag" is not a "bitter bleepy witch."

"Jaded" is synonymous with being Freed--freed from pressure, hope, and from some conventions, and from unrealistic expectations--usually freed by a healthy sense of Irony, given through experience.

When your helium-balloon-hopes loudly pop! on life's power lines, being jaded means you laugh at the noise instead of being startled into crying (and you collect on the betting pool you had going on the side.)

"Old" and "hag"--those are mostly relative terms--a young girl can slip past JOH security if she demonstrates a correct form of jadedness. Though, for her safety, her membership is merely Honorary.

In other news, I invited a girl of sufficient age to hang out with the JOHers,because she seemed smart enough to appreciate reality, but she reprovingly responded, "I am NOT old!"

And I kicked her out before she got in.

Sometimes it's hard not to be jealous of girls who have no reason to be jaded. This girl looked like a cross between Pocahontas and a ballerina. And she's bubbly. Basically, she's a bodacious babe. I recently went to a dance with her and forgot that jaded means that I shouldn't care that boys flock to the Poc-allerinas of the world. To compensate for being ignored, I danced like a crazy and carefree windmill, and sometimes like a shopping cart. I couldn't decide if I was trying to attract attention, or was just flailing my arms defiantly at the universe.

Take that, universe! I'm jaded and I just don't care! Although, two days later, my knees still kind of hurt from dancing so hardcore. Not that it means anything.

art of dyeing hair

I dyed my hair a dark unspecified color. It's pretty different. I think I look like a witch.

My mom thinks it's cute , but all I can think about is cackling everytime I look in the mirror. It's not that I look gothic--I don't at all. (Plus I don't have any skulls or dog collars...and I have good skin coloring, for dark hair), but now, there is just something witchy going on; I can't quite put my finger on it.

So I woke up this morning and lobbed off 4 inches... Myself. I think it helps a little, I got rid of some scraggly stuff; now I just look like a witch with short hair, which is easier to deal with.

I don't usually do home hair-care kits. There are a lot of things that could go wrong, but I can blame this "art of.." lesson on my aunt, who taught me to dye her hair on a visit. It basically consisted of reading the instructions that came with the box. Who knew? From that experience I learned that it is just as easy to mess things up at home in your kitchen as it is to pay some professional to do it.

When my brother saw me after I dyed it, it was wet, and thus, even darker, and he said that I looked like I dyed my hair black--"as black as your soul," which were his precise words. It kind of fits my theme.

And then I looked at my feet as I climbed into bed, and lo and behold! I did actually dye the bottoms of my feet black. Black soles.

He didn't see my feet, so my question is: How did he know??

art of the marriage app

A few months ago, when I answered our office phone, the voice on the other end asked boisterously, "Are you looking for a few good men?!"

"No. Only one," I replied smartly, which, I believe, caught him off guard. After he had finished laughing, and had stopped joking about my singleness to his brother (my boss), he hung up with, "Tell her to send me a resume."

"For myself, or for my future husband?" I asked my boss.

"Maybe both," He replied.

And since then, I've contemplated doing just that, since it sounds so crazy, and so random and out of place for the real world. Well, why not? If my boss' brother can spread my net out wider...I almost wanted to do it.

So, L and I planned to write a very funny, creative application for my future huzzy, but in the end, I couldn't get Genghis Khan out of my head.(Well, who wouldn't connect the two, right?)

Here's the thing. Even though the man was a conqueror, and he moved his army south and took over cities and governments and repopulated them with his own people--he build and destroyed and left his mark on some of the oldest places in the world. And, most importantly, had a fine sense of irony about life and his role in it:

"One of the joys of travel is visiting new towns and meeting new people," he once said.

Think about that. That's funny. Oh, the humble irony. Genghis and I could have been friends, I think.

And so I decided could I get along with any man who has a sense of awareness enough to see the world like it is and also recognize the humor in it--from ketchup on a white tee-shirt, to a botched up, no good job interview, to bickering with a loved one about something really stupid...

"Wanted: Single man who laughs at himself, and at life. Conquering other civilizations not required."

art of navajo tacos

After I missed the Navajo taco party, IA and I fry up another batch of tacos.

I think the concept of fried bread has been around since Adam and Eve, or maybe since bread, and it seems like every culture has some sort of fried bread, hence, many people mistook the taco party for a ‘scone’ party. Basically the same.

But these masterpieces of fried bread—these were made from a recipe passed from Navajo woman to Navajo woman on the Arizona Rez…to Navajo son, and to IA.

“White people make it too thick,” says IA as he furiously rolls out the dough. “And they fry it too long in the pan.” He is the coordinator for our taco re-party. “Anyone who tried to help me make this has failed,” he continues.

Comforting. Still I’d like to try my hand at it, so to speak. “Where’s the recipe?” I ask. “Do you think I could do it if I’m enough Cherokee to register at a reservation?”

“Yes, I think that will help, actually,” he says positively, hopefully. I have my doubts. I had been kidding. Do Cherokees even make fried bread? Has anyone heard of Cherokee tacos?

But I’m game to try. I mix as precisely as I can (which is against my personal cooking religion); I sift flour and baking soda, add the wet ingredients at the appropriate times.

Insert hands.

“IA,” I call eventually. “This is very, very dry.”

“It will be okay,” he says, not looking, “just have faith in your inner Indian.”

I keep at it. Soon I add some warm water. Sticky. He finally inspects it. “Hmm, “ he hums, disappointed. “Well, that’s okay, I guess.”

It’s not okay. I have enough inner Indian to tell that. His dough was squishy; mine tough. His was almost delicate, mine could be handled by toddler’s hands and molded into shapes. He left the failed dough with me, distancing himself from the mess.

What can I do with this? I muse. Inspiration hits.

I roll the dough out for Cherokee cinnamon rolls, and I wonder, if Cherokees didn't bake before, they do now.

art of craftiness

K hailed me from her porch and bequeathed me a pale, cream and green magnolia hair clip, which magically transformed my outfit into that of a tropical goddess. In fact, there were many tropical goddesses around our apartment complex that day wearing gardens full of poppies, roses, daisies and orchids; I don’t think that she understood how inspiring the clips were until we blackmailed her into teaching us to make our own.

Force a man to teach another man to fish, and all that.

So we settled ourselves at her kitchen table and learned the ancient hair-clip craft.

“It’s really very easy,” she said repeatedly as I burned my fingers on the glue gun.

And, under a little direction, a little ribbon, a little clip, a little flower, and a little glue, it was easy. Suddenly, I had a red-orange poppy that, though clashing badly with my outfit, reminded me of springtime and my brother-in-law’s poppy field behind his house.

Unfortunately, all the craftiness invaded my brain—I noticed that S had a great red-orange-poppy-appropriate shirt on, so I wrestled my clip into her hair. I decided it was better for it to be of good use—plus I could see it better in her hair than mine. After all, what’s the use of learning how to fish if you can’t enjoy the view?

art of bein’ suthun’

I guess hospitality is a southerner’s coat of arms—their honor and their battle cry. It is my personal belief that to “host” means to “not let the guest do anything,” a sentiment of which I approved of wholeheartedly as the guest.

So, when I went down to Carolina territory I learned extensively how to “make myself at home”—which meant in the car ride from the airport (chocolate chip cookies), the Piggly-Wiggly (southern ginger ale), at a fast food restaurant (real pork barbecue), at L’s house (homemade pizza). My job: take what is offered and prettily say “thank you.”

L’s husband B made my bed up for me, I was adequately supplied with all the napkins and towels I could use, we had waiters come to our table to bring us more water (and more napkins) at the fast food restaurants. By the end of the trip, I just started stealing things, figuring they were going to let me have it anyway, and I would just avoid bothering people by asking.

The best position in the whole state of North Carolina would be the short term guest. I started considering how to hop from household to household to be waited upon. My hostess, L, informed me excitedly that she was going to make me real “suthun” biscuits and gravy for breakfast; she was going to wake up at 6 a. m. to start them.

“Do I have to wake up at 6 a. m. too?” I asked, horrified. I appreciated the sentiment, but that seemed a little early for biscuits. I played the guest card. “Maybe I’ll get up at 7, then…”

I blissfully and peacefully slept the sleep of a guest with no cares and no worries, until the fire alarm went off because L and B over-browned the biscuits.

She was horrified to say the least; I just thought it was funny—and it was good gravy.

art of bank-teller flirting

A friend told me recently that he went out with a waitress who left her phone number on a napkin for him. I had always thought that this was a brassy move. Bold, but relatively harmless, I suppose, and it came briefly to mind yesterday as I drove to get a cashier’s check.

I decided to learn from my friend's example and try it.

I was contemplating how to get my bank teller to ask me out since traditional methods of flirting are nonexistent in a bank. First of all, money isn’t very funny; I can’t laugh at stupid jokes if there is nothing to joke about, and other bank patrons are annoyed with me holding up the line by being chatty. (Plus, it’s chancy for the teller, who is handling money and doesn’t need distractions.)

Touching is out, because of protective barriers. And eye contact is brief, as the teller has to concentrate on the computer screen showing your account information. What is a girl to do when a smart, costumer-service savvy, gorgeous, single man works at her local branch? Slip him my number, on some paper scrap…

Truth be told, it was just a quick fantasy; I promptly forgot about it at the bank, when someone new helped me.

But then, eureka!, New Teller needed help from Gorgeous Teller, and then asked for our business contact information to be written on a slip of paper. No one knew my internal struggle. Should I just give the business phone number? That’s all they really need. But how ironic, that on the very day of my daydream, I got the chance to be a little bold, a little brassy, a little flirty in the bank.

And I left my cell number as well. For the art-of-flirting’s sake.

I was pleased. I walked out to the car. Got in pertly, readjusted my mirror.

And noticed my lipstick had smeared all over my chin.