Diana Rowland — Writing, Life, and the Stuff in between

I knew it was going to be an interesting Monday when I got the call from my Lt. at 0730 as I was getting ready to leave for work.

“Morning, Diana.”

“Morning, Loo.”

“How ya doin’?”

“Just peachy, Loo.”

“Didja have a nice weekend?”

“Whaddya want?”

“Do you have boots?”

“The combat kind or the slogging through mud kind?”

“The slogging through mud kind.”

Turned out a body had been found in a burned out car about half a mile down a muddy trail in the middle of nowhere (otherwise known as Lacombe.) Most of what was left of the body had already been taken away by the coroner’s office, but the rest of the vehicle still needed to be sifted through for more remains (cre-mains?) and evidence.

So, I spent all of Monday crouched in a burned Lincoln Navigator sifting through ashes and debris, collecting bone fragments, teeth, gold caps, and bullets. By the end of the day I was pretty thoroughly coated in human and vehicle ash.

They don’t show that on CSI.

The headline on Yahoo said, “Simple Test predicts chances of dying.”

Heck, I can do that:

Question: Are you alive?

If you answered Yes, then you have a 100% chance of dying!

Dumb question, I know.

Anyway, I’m theeeeenking sorta kinda maybe seriously about trying Once Again to enter a physique contest. I’ve chickened out twice before in my life. Once back when I was in college (way back when women were just beginning to do this whole Lifting Of Weights thang) and then again five years ago.

The first time I chickened out was because I didn’t think I was in anywhere near good enough shape. Then I went and watched the contest and realized that I could have at least placed, if not won. Gah. The second time, five years ago, I had trained to enter a fitness competition. I ended up choreographing my routine by myself (which was a joke since I am not much of a dancer and I can’t even do a cartwheel), and then made the mistake (or had the good sense) to have it videotaped so I could see how it looked.

It was awful. Dreadful. Laughable. There was No Fucking Way I was going to get on that stage and embarrass myself in front of all of those people with that routine. That was one of the first years that they had Figure competitions in addition to Fitness^***, and so I debated switching over to the Figure category, but by that time I think the stress of it all was getting to me, and I started breaking out in hives on my arms. Unfortunately, when I went to the doctor to get something for it, the antihistamine he prescribed for me triggered a humongous allergic reaction (yes, I am allergic to an antihistamine, Allegra. Go figure.) and I ended with hives from head to toe. It took almost two weeks before it was finally determined that the damn drug that was supposed to be helping me was hurting me, and when I was finally switched to Claritin it took a day for everything to clear up. But by that time I was worn out and just didn’t have it in me to compete.

Then I met Jack, and got married, and got pregnant, got fat… well, you all know how that goes. But anyway, I just don’t want to be sixty and look back on my life and think, “Man, I never did have the balls to go through with it. What a chickenshit.”

So, there are two local contest coming up this summer: Greater Gulf States, and the Battle of Biloxi. The first is at the end of June, and the second is at the end of July. It would be really pushing it for the one in June–that’s only 19 weeks away. But, surely I could be ready by July… hmmm.

^*** In Fitness competitions, competitors are judged not only on their physique, but also on a rigorous two minute routine that has to contain several required moves that show flexibility and strength. Fitness compeitions have gradually evolved (or devolved, depending on your point of view) to where you have to have a serious background in gymnastics to have any hope of placing. Because of this slide into Super-Gymnastics, the Figure contest was born, which is basically a cross between women’s bodybuiding and your typical bikini contest. In Figure thereis no fitness routine and women are judged strictly on their physique (and Poise, and Grace and all that other silly shit.) The women must have a certain degree of muscularity, however they still have to look like women–at least by today’s standards. (Actually, most of the women who are taking top prizes in Figure competitions now have far more muscle than the women bodybuilders who were derided as having “too much muscle for a woman” back in the eighties. It’s interesting to see how much the social norm and acceptance has changed.)

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I tend to be a creature of habit when it comes to my hair–or rather, when it comes to my hairdressers. When I find someone I like, who listens to me, understands the kind of color I like, and does Nice Stuff to my hair, I become extremely loyal to that hairdresser. (This kind of loyalty extends to other service professionals in life as well, e.g. mechanics and gynecologists. When you find someone whom you trust, especially in an area of your life that can have drastic consequences for a job done badly, you tend to stick with them.)

I stuck with Wade for over 12 years, until after I had Anna and I just couldn’t handle the four hours it would take to get my hair done by him. He was great, but he always overbooked, and then would work three clients at a time. It wasn’t the end of the world when I was kidless, but after-kid it was unbearable. When Anna was about two months old and my roots were three inches long, my sister took me to her hairdresser, Lauren, who was extremely competent, worked quickly, did not overbook, and did wonderful things with my hair.

Unfortunately, when a hairdresser is quite good, word gets around, and it becomes harder and harder to get an appointment with them. Complicate that with a couple of health problems that back appointments up, and it’s suddenly a three week wait to get an appointment. (Plus, my schedule is such that I can only get my hair done in the late afternoon or on a Saturday.)

So, I asked my sister to ask around and see if she could get a Name, preferably of someone who works on my end of the parish. As most women know, it’s important to have the Name of a hairdresser when making an appointment at a new salon, otherwise you get shunted off to whoever is newest, who also is usually straight out of beauty school. Sister came through and called me last week with a Name and a Salon, and I cheerfully dialed the salon up and requested an appointment. All was going well, I gave the girl on the phone all of my information, got an appointment for Tuesday, and then the girl confirmed everything with, “Okay, I have you down for a cut with Tricia on Tuesday at 4:30.”

Oh, and a color too, I replied, repeating what I had requested from the beginning–a cut with all-over color. (What, you thought this Red was real??)

“Oh… Tricia doesn’t do color.”

Gah. At this point I looked in my rear-view mirror (Yes, I was driving at the time. Don’t worry, I use a headset.) and saw the horrible length of my roots and the grey that was glinting accusingly on every third hair. I sighed and asked if there was someone else–who did color–who could take me, adding, “And please make it someone good!”

“Oh, yes, ma’am. All of our stylists are quite good.”

Uh huh. “I’m sure they are. I just don’t want someone straight out of beauty school.”

“Oh, no, ma’am. Of course not!”

I am so screwed.

Now, if I can just get through Superbowl weekend…
***

Turns out that not only did I have the highest score on the Sgt’s exam, I had the highest score EVER. Ha!
***

I also managed to barely squeak in under the wire for sending off a submission to Polyphony 6 and getting it postmarked by the 31st. I was at the post office at 3:45 pm on the 31st to make sure my submission got the right postmark on it. I fully expect that story to be the last one received by the editors, considering how slow the mail service is around here lately.

Unfortunately, it’s not the story I wanted to send to them. But, time just got so crunched up I never had enough time to sit down and make the other story right. It’s going to be a good story, eventually, but it sure ain’t there right now. However, the story I did send is by no means a bad story, and actually it may have a better shot since it’s kinda unclassifiable, which pretty much falls into the guidelines for Polyphony. Oh well. We’ll see.
***

I got up at an ungodly hour this morning again, and cranked out twenty minutes on the bike. I’m actually a bit discouraged at how slowly the weight is coming off (as indicated on the scale.) I’m trying hard to remind myself that I’m almost definitely gaining muscle which would throw my weight off, but it’s still rather hollow comfort. The need to have a scale tell you how fat you are is deeply ingrained, and so when it shows that I’ve lost totally zilcho since Sunday it gets a mite bit discouraging. Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m still losing inches. I would just really like for the numbers on the scale to start plummeting.
***

And, Anna is beginning to learn her letters. Right now she knows K, O, P, R, T, W, and S. I think she needs to focus on vowels a bit more if she intends to do any serious reading in the near future.