MindSpinner

Dark-haired daughter has an appointment for a haircut today.

She always goes in with a picture in hand, and she always comes out of the salon unhappy, almost to the point of tears. Her hair does not look like the hair in the picture.

It’s actually lovely hair, a river of dark silk when she brushes it, which isn’t often enough because she likes a “mussed up” style. And she always looks model-pretty after a trip to the salon (indeed much too pretty to be related to me). But she does not look exactly, precisely like the picture.

The appointment is at one o’clock, so she’s antsy an hour beforehand to access the MySpace of the girl whose hair she wants to emulate. She wants to print out a picture, a picture that will doom the poor hair stylist to failure because dark-haired daughter’s head is a different head than belongs to the girl in the picture, and her hair is different hair. I suggest, “Why don’t you just explain what you want? You’re always disappointed because your hair doesn’t come out looking like some other girl’s hair. Why not skip the picture this time and just see how it comes out? Your head. Your hair. Not compared to anybody else’s.”

Dark-haired daughter snaps back, a quintessential sixteen, “Mom (this is a word and a groan at once and requires expansion to two syllables the better to contain all her exasperation), don’t ruin this for me. Let me ruin it for myself!”

No doubt this is good advice, and I’m taking it.

I have three hideously beaten up, wheeled Rubbermaid trash cans, bought five years ago and brutalized weekly by the trash pick-up folks until not one of them is without broken places. Since the perfected technique of emptying is to tear the lids off and toss these aside, whether in yard or street, the lids won’t stay on now either. Their tabs are broken.

The trash cans are so disreputable looking that I’ve been on a campaign to procure a big rolling cart from the trash pickup company for two years. At first I requested a cart politely. A year later, I requested one again. (Trash cans do not merit my continuous attention.) This year, I finally got one. I explained that I wouldn’t be paying another bill until I had one and would be changing service providers if one were not forthcoming. It arrived week before last - large, heavy, indestructible, and an eye-popping royal blue. I question whether one needs one’s eyes popped by a trash can, but Big Blue Whale is here to stay.

That leaves the Three Uglies. It has become apparent the trash people have no inclination to accept the Three Uglies as trash. The Three Uglies are not biodegradable, nor would they make attractive planters. At the moment of this writing, the Three Uglies and Big Blue Whale crouch together in a sizable huddle by the garage. I’m debating as to whether Big Blue Whale makes the Three Uglies look even uglier or whether the Three Uglies make Big Blue Whale look even bluer, or whether both these things can true at once. (I’m leaning toward the last conclusion.)

My quest for soul’s inner peace as relates to trash cans requires that I find not only a suitable place for the Three Uglies, but also a suitable use. I think I can fit them between the blackberries and the dogs’ fence where they will be out of view. If I drill holes for drainage in the bottoms of them, I do believe they will make passable compost bins. No need, now, to order those wire bins from Gardener’s Supply.

As for Big Blue Whale, soul’s inner peace is harder to achieve. One needs to study the thing as Michelangelo studied a piece of marble to find the sculpture waiting within to be freed. Is that grill on the front meant to be baleen? Should eyes be painted on the lid rather near the hinges? And what about the placement of the dorsal fin?

Or maybe Big Blue Whale should just move into the garage with the bicycles and the gardening tools before whimsy gets me into trouble with the neighbors.

I am being assisted today in all my activities, including typing, by a marmalade kitten who could be yours. I heard small and plaintive meows this morning, thought I’d better check outside, and found the source instead in the guest room, eyeing me from the top of a bookshelf. A brief interrogation of the usual suspects turned up the facts. Catapult Kid and Dark-Haired Daughter found her on the side of the road last night; Dark-Haired Daughter kept her in her room most of the night but finally put her out in order to go to sleep.

After an hour of strenuously expressing her undying devotion, the marmalade kitten has relaxed enough to curl up next to my right hip to go to sleep. Before her green eyes close, she watches me with trust, even faith. She knows I’ve given her one dish of food and been here for an hour beside her, and on that basis, she is willing to believe that everything is better for now and for always. She has no clue that it takes money I don’t have to get her shots, to have her spayed and to buy twice the cat food and litter.

Yes, she could still be yours, but you’d better hurry up and claim her, or I’ll be asking for donations to the marmalade cat maintenance fund instead. More realistically speaking, I’d better get her to the animal shelter within the hour .