Today I’m accepting an award at work. They’re doing
a profile about me for the global magazine and online presence, all set
alongside a photo or two.
Photography. It’s problematic for me at best.
Mr. Man #1 once asked if we had a single picture of
me without a cocktail in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and my
mouth closed. Sadly, he wasn’t being facetious. Simply factual because
we needed to find one. But that was a long time
ago, in a land far, far away. Still, I never did learn to
photograph well. At the very sight of a camera it’s all clenched jaw,
high shoulders, and a look as though I’m about to dive out of the
frame.
In thinking about this whole thing – the questions they may
ask, the witty repartee, and what this might do to/for my career – it
occurred to me that I should probably not to show up looking like I just
jumped out of the bottom of the Goodwill bin,
complete with bird’s nest hair, as we all usually do.
So last night I began the arduous task of taming
the tresses. This is a huge undertaking, and as such, I rarely bother. I
generally just “shampoo and shake,” letting it follow its own path. My
hair and I are Zen like that. Nevertheless,
there I am, 25 minutes into:
Section…
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Blow straight…
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Blow straight…
(repeat until arms are sure to fall off)
…bored out of my mind with my own company and the
whirring of 1875 watts, but feeling a little like a Miss America
contestant, it seemed a good time to consider my animal advocacy
platform – you know, in case it came up during the interview
portion of my profile.
I absently began ticking off the name of every pet I'd ever had in order of appearance. First there was the Standard Poodle (I think. I
was only 3 or 4 years old) whose name I used to remember but no longer
do; followed by Harvey the German Shepherd
who literally just showed up at our back door and never left when I was
5 or 6; the Miniature Collie so creatively named, that’s right, Lassie;
then… then…
Romeo and Gertrude.
Oh how I’d begged for those gerbils and I was tearfully happy when my sibling’s mother bought them for my 10th Christmas! Best. Gift. EVER.
Why Romeo and Gertrude? I wondered.
Unclip…
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Blow straight…
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No disrespect intended here, but Gertrude is not
the prettiest of names, while Juliette beautifully and easily presented
for the choosing. And yet… Was I trying to be clever at the ripe old age
of 10 years, 10 months? Seems unlikely. Clever,
original, fanciful, grand, odd, unusual – these traits were neither
fostered nor embraced by the matriarch. Instead, these things were met
with ridicule, so how curious that I came out from under the radar when
naming my two new best friends.
Perhaps everyone too was busy to notice.
Romeo.
Gertrude.
She was a chubby little thing. Kind of like me at the time.
Putting my blow dryer down a little harder than
intended, I stared at my reflection, feeling a little unsteady. Was I
already, at that tender age, assigning priority to the male of the
species, while relegating the female to the role of
less attractive, less important,
just-lucky-to-have-someone-to-share-space-with role, mirroring how I
felt about myself? Was I Gertrude? Am I still?
Gertrude was killed just a couple of days after Christmas when one of my sisters and her friend used my new BFF to play a prank.
Unclip…
Section…
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Blow straight…
Scruffy. Sir Biffington Spots-a-lot. Wallis. George. Flash. Angus. Fredo. Mia. Sophia. Donato. Giada. Paisano.
Big day today. Sure hope I brought a comb.
