Solid Sheet of Iceville

by pjmcbride

Now that we’ve entered S. S. of I. season, let me remind my co-workers of the SOLID SHEET OF ICE QUADFECTA! If you can be involved with the following:

–A reckless driver is all over the road, hits a solid sheet of ice, and shears off a pole, and then when confronted about it, puts his/her hands on someone, you will win…something with scratchy glitter on it, I guess. Chosen by me. Reluctantly.


Seen on Facebook–“Remember when we used to call stalkers ‘secret admirers’?” Let’s just turn that inside out, shall we? Now we live in an age when we call secret admirers “stalkers.” As if anyone who’s too shy to tell you about their feelings probably means you harm. (Nick takes notes, since he’s keeping his admiration for me very secret indeed.) 


There is a picture of me down at police HQ, along with other exotic dispatchers of the 80’s. (I think I’m the only one in the lineup who still works here.) Nick, who probably has to pass this picture a dozen times a day, informed me that I am a “living time capsule.” I can only hope this refers to my timelessly youthful appearance, and not to the fact that my hairstyle hasn’t changed since 1985.


…as you feared it would…


CHILDHOOD: The Prince Valiant cut. This style actually landed me in the school Christmas pageant in the first grade, as one of the Three Kings’ pageboys. (Yes, schools had Christmas pageants about Jesus back then.) My mother thought I looked adorable in this style, even though my bangs would not lie flat unless they were taped to my forehead while they dried.

TEENAGEHOOD: My dark-blonde hair started growing in dark-brown. My mother was distressed at this sign of her Little Girl Growing Up and insisted on bleaching it blonde again. The problem with this was that the color (Miss Clairol in Topaz, now mercifully discontinued) looked brassy and cheap in the worst sort of way (in other words, not “cheap” in the sexy way).  Girls made fun of me for it (boys seemed to prefer making fun of me for my acne instead), and I begged to be allowed to grow it out, but my mother refused. In sophomore year of high school, I finally rebelled and dyed it back to brown (still Miss Clairol, this time in Sun-warmed Brown.) This was also the Year of the Shag. My best friend drew a stick-figure cartoon of me for the underground newspaper I wrote for back then. You could tell it was me because it had glasses and my hair was sticking straight up, since I had a nervous habit of running my fingers through it.

SINCE THEN, EXCEPT FOR AN INTERVAL IN THE 2000’S AFTER SURGERY (FEMALE PROBLEMS, DON’T ASK OR I’LL TELL) (OK, SURGICAL SHOCK MADE 15% OF MY HAIR FALL OUT, SO I GOT IT CUT SHORT): I started growing my hair out at just the age when most women decide they’re too old for long hair, for whatever reason they decide that. I don’t style it. I don’t “do anything” about all the gray in the front. So, for all the people who’ve said it would look nice if I’d just “do something” with it–no, this is on purpose. Unlike the barbecue sauce I got all over my clothes on Sunday, which I hope no one at work noticed.


I was going to sing a David Bowie song in the shower, but I have a cold and I’m losing my voice. (And it doesn’t take long for me to get tired of brilliant-green snot.) So I listened to Ziggy Stardust instead. Ziggy Stardust inspired my high school boyfriend (actually, it was only a “relationship” on my part) to get his long hair cut into a shag, to my dismay–after he dumped me, to my greater dismay. I hadn’t actually heard Ziggy Stardust at that point–that had to wait until I discovered Rom’s record collection 6 years later.

“I could fall asleep at night as a rock and roll star

I could fall in love alright as a rock and roll star…

Yes, I used to think that was a prerequisite.