A happy heifer

Although Ian* has told me nothing about his time at the therapist last night, he sent some flowers to my office together with a note congratulating me on my shaolin exam results.

It's too bad I don't have my camera here at work. It's not a large or pricey bouquet, but it's still very pretty. And every time I look at it, a mushy twinge of romanticism goes through me. I don't describe myself as Ferdinand the Heifer - the female counterpart of Ferdinand the Bull - for nothing.

I suppose that the tradition of men sending flowers to women could be described as an unimaginative cliche, but I don't care. It's a gesture I really like. So there.

* See Key to Characters at right.

Did I really say that?

Ian* called me this afternoon while I was waiting for my car (I'd taken it in for repairs). It eventually turned into a rather strange conversation.

Since his wife began to suspect him of considering adultery, he's been kept on an extremely tight leash. So I don't see him much any more. Nor do I quiz him about his home life since technically it's none of my business, although I never mind discussing it with him when he wants to talk about it.

But this afternoon he handed me a truly odd surprise: his wife's latest was to insist he see a therapist, and that's where he was headed.  Does she really think psychotherapy will cure him of - well - wanting what we want? She might as well start spiking his orange juice with Thorazine.

I almost asked him why he was putting up with it, but then I decided not to. There wasn't a good answer in store. Whatever he said, I would feel sorry for him. All he's trying to do is to get his daughter through college. And I didn't want him to think I would ever start tossing my own ultimatums around, as I have no interest in controlling anyone.

So all I said is that if he wanted to talk about the therapy, or anything else that was on his mind, he could still call me. He seemed grateful for this, and insisted he was going to the therapist just a couple of times.

What made me want to bite off my tongue is that I described myself as not having much to offer a relationship, and that's why I was okay with his marital status. It sounded like I was running myself down when I wasn't. Let's put it this way: how many men tell their departing ex-wives that "during the 12 years we were together, you never once nagged me"?

But what I was really thinking is that I would probably turn the most smitten man into a terrified wreck the first time he saw me on the Suzuki at 3:00am, going up I-75** at 90 mph.  (I recently discovered that 3:00 am is the safest time I can do this. Sometimes I see more fellow motorcyclists than cars.) And I can't see myself slowing down for anyone. Not this week, anyway.

* See Key to Characters at right.

** A main north-south thoroughfare.

The reluctant ninja advances

Even though I'm convinced I was not at my shaolin best last night, the sifu (boss guy) promoted me anyway. This was such a relief that I went home and promptly fell into a dead sleep for just over eight hours. Which is a long time for me.

As the exam approached, I couldn't understand or control my nervousness about the situation. True, it's all conducted in traditional fashion, complete with everyone sitting in what's called seiza position, as if you're participating in a Japanese tea ceremony. Basically you're sitting on your own feet, and your feet begin to complain pretty sharpish.

As predicted by my instructors, the sifu passed practically all junior-rank attendees, right down to the five-year olds. (He may have passed all of them; I didn't notice.) During the final belt presentation, I was dreadfully embarrassed to discover that both my feet were numb because of my sitting in seiza for over an hour. But he seemed to be amused at my limping towards him. At least I didn't forget to bow properly.

I only wish I'd been able to stay to watch the two who were taking the black belt examination, as they're my two of my favorite instructors. I hope they passed.

Because The White Album wouldn't have worked. That's why.

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a wild hare

Officially I'm past due for a haircut. But I've decided to skip it for now. The main reason is, I confess, my ego.

This is why: a few weeks ago, I washed my hair before heading to Chez Ian*, but didn't have time to dry it. So I packed my hair styling stuff and left my house with a wet head. To make matters even worse, I drove with the top down on my car because if was one of those perfect, 72F degree days.

When I got to Ian's house, I expected to be teased about my hair, which had dried into its usual mass of messy curls. Instead, Ian said how much he liked my hair, and why didn't I wear it that way more often? "Silly wabbit," he said**. So I left it the way it was.

After dinner, he got into this odd little mood where he couldn't keep his hands out of my hair - a tactile fascination that was quite pleasant, especially when he pushed back my hair to expose the back of my neck (a highly erogenous area) and gently bit it.

The following week, I decided to take his advice and wore my untamed hair to work. I was surprised by the number of compliments paid to my hair. This took a bit of getting used to, as I was initially embarrassed and kept thinking that my hair needed a good ironing. I was constantly tempted to tie it back with a ribbon, which I did a couple of times. But now I'm cool with it.

* See Key to Characters at right.

** This nickname was derived from two sources:  Madeleine Kahn's wonderful Dietrich parody in the film Blazing Saddles, and a scene from Kill Bill Vol. 1.