airhead bnb

airhead bnb

I’ve been outta town taking some courses. I stayed with family for part of it, but for one night I had to stay in a bnb. Hotels were expensive, and my friend said she uses airbnb. I was really short on time and got caught up in the registration process with airbnb. As someone else said about registering for Save-On Foods delivery from online ordering, “I’d rather stick needles in my eyes for an hour.” But somehow I managed it, and then I got an email “You will receive a reply within 24 hours.” Great – I needed it within one hour, because I had to drive to the next outta town location.  The reservation confirmation arrived just in time, so I didn’t cancel it. Glad, because it would have been a long nasty drive home in the dark, otherwise.

So I get to this crazy place, narrow driveway behind a Tim Hortons. Smooth old fir floors, not too badly maintained. Crusty and stained old ornamental mouldings and crusty and stained ceiling tiles. I only saw one silverfish in the bathroom.

On the door, “An old bear lives here with his honey.” I liked that. The old guy, a Scotsman and former logger, was quite pleasant. Quizzed me about breakfast, which I don’t eat, but it’s a bnb thing, so I took away a couple boiled eggs for lunch.

But after some friendly quizzing about the geology course I was taking, he found his opening to share his apparently-creationist pamphlet with me. I felt a little steamed, as I came here to bathe and sleep, not to have more of this crap pushed at me. Someone leaves it around my apartment building: the lobby, the laundry room. I always take it and recycle it.

So, I figured it was time to quiz him about something in their bnb ad, the queer fact that the place is “not suitable for persons with alternative lifestyle.” Immediately I thought of the man I saw on the ferry from Victoria the other day. He was about 40 years old or so, with massive dreadlocks and a tie-dye t-shirt, and two teenaged boys with 1950s style clean-cut hair-do’s. I asked him what the statement in their ad meant, because I wasn’t sure.

“Me either. Ya know, when I came over from Scotland in my 20s, I didn’t know what homosexuality was. We had never heard of it.” Well, Oscar Wilde had heard of it over 100 years ago, but if you haven’t heard of Oscar Wilde, you’re at a disadvantage, I suppose. Don’t expect his books were that popular in the logging camps. “I didn’t even know about pregnancy.” Well, no need to base your life on your ignorance, I thought. Why not overcome it? But I just said, “That’s dangerous.”

Cut to the chase, before I recycled the pamphlet I found out the key point – Jehova’s Witnesses do not consider themselves fundamentalist Christians, because they do not believe the world was created in some short number of years but rather that the x number of days for creation would not have been days as we understand them, periods of 24 hours. But I doubt the pamphlet explained Oscar Wilde or pregnancy.

That morning, in the Jehova’s Witness’s home, I took extra pleasure in listening to the wholesome 1950s song “Mr. Sandman” by the Chordettes and watching my favourite male bellydancer playfully dancing to it. Pretty sure he’s gay because of how he talks, not that it’s my business, but it did give the moment that extra zest and a big smile for me.



I have never understood makeup. That is, I have never worn it. I don’t mean, “only on special occasions” as when other people have told me they “never wear makeup.” I have never worn it in public. I’ve mucked around in the bathroom and I looked like a freak, could never make sense of it.

Oddly enough, I’m quite excellent at painting on paper or canvas. It’s not the painting skill I lack. I’m in the top few percent of colour perception. But social perception – somewhere in the bottom. And makeup is about social perception. I … don’t … get it. See, women dress up colourfully to impress each other, but somehow that also has to do with getting a mate. As with birds. I relate to the crows and robins – both sexes look basically the same. They mate forever. They don’t need to have breeding plumage each year to compete for a new mate. I don’t play that game. I am a geek, I might as well be a guy, with t-shirt and shorts or jeans, depending on time of year.

And then recently I saw a performance by the male bellydancer I’m so fond of. I captured a screenshot of his pleased side-glance, with heavy kohl-type eyeliner.

Now, finally, I want to wear makeup. I don’t think heavy kohl eyeliner is the best thing for a pale, white-haired, pink-faced woman over 50 with zero fashion sense, but it’s what appeals to me.

I never had the experience I imagine is common for most women – the playing with makeup with friends experience of teenage years and later. I mean we didn’t have the Internet in those days, so we couldn’t google makeup techniques. I assume people did it together.  There are books, but probably most people learned from each other.

From books, I learned how to pluck hair out of my face. The book, “The eyebrow,” yes, a book only on that topic, instructed me. But now I spend 4x as much time plucking hairs out of my chin. Pretty much every other day. It’s not makeup, it’s not adding anything. It’s removing something to create a more groomed appearance.

I might as well throw in that I’ve been accused of wearing makeup at times!!! Wow! Actually it was just that I used Facercise by Carole Maggio, awesome facial exercises that plump up muscles and create bloodflow, resulting in rosy cheeks and brightened skin tone under the eyes. Wonderful stuff.

Looking “good” makes it easier for people to connect, to look at your face. It’s good for confidence, too. I just have never worn makeup to get those effects.

But now I want the heavy black kohl eyes. Probably like what the Rolling Stones had back somewhere in the late 60s. Which video was that again? I’m kind of a pop music fiend, but it escapes me right now.

White hair and black kohl eyes. Right.

Makeup and your mind

The other day my friend wore makeup for the first time that I’ve seen. She’s over 60. It looked good. She looked professional and even a bit younger. I noticed that, but it didn’t make me want to wear makeup, something I’ve never done. Oh, I bought some at the drugstore when I was a teenager, and tried it on in the bathroom. No idea why. I was never going to wear it in public. Other people say they “never” wear makeup and they mean only for special occasions. They don’t mean NEVER, like with me. I didn’t have any. I didn’t have a makeup bag or a purse to put it into. I still keep my wallet in my pocket, like a guy.

And I never had that experience that probably 99% of girls did, that is pretty much a stereotype of being a teenage female: doing makeovers on each other. Never did it. I couldn’t even tell you if my friends wore makeup. Thinking back, I guess they did, at least sometimes. And I never wanted to. I was adamant. I don’t remember talking about them with it, but if I did, it was probably that I’m not interested. I tend to be blunt, like that.

And just this week my point of view changed. I saw a makeup look that I could never achieve, and yet it made me want to try and copy it. It was my favourite fusion   bellydancer, who I apparently have not posted about before. Towards the end of one of his wild performances, he turned to the camera and paused, looking pleased with himself. The heavy black painted shadows around his eyes gave an exotic drama. I just wanted to be like him. Of course it would be nice to be 30 years younger and male, too.

See, I could never get into female gender roles, and the female body isn’t that great either with its extra floppy bits. Not as strong as a male, generally. Would have been nice to be a guy and have more social privileges. And to top it off, be a bellydancing male with long hair who can be not-macho (I wouldn’t call it feminine) and still be male. Would have been perfect and pretty much the opposite of what I was, someone cut off from my body and perfectly avoidant about gender roles.

We should be like crows, with no difference between the species. Birds like that mate for life, like me. Different from birds that have special breeding plumage so they can play the mating game each season. I don’t want to play! I don’t know how I flirt. I know how to commit, forever. And it didn’t work, so I’m done with that. I tried and failed. I’m like a crow, but a crow alone.

But anyway, I’m going to bring up the makeup topic with my friend or friends at some point. Maybe the makeover session can still happen. Surely I can’t do this on my own. I can paint a wall or a painting, but not my face. No clue on that. I haven’t been paying attention to how that’s done. I know what I don’t want – thick cakey layers that are going to wipe off on my clothes. In fact, this probably won’t work because, after all, I’m not girly. I’m good with a power drill or an axe or a shovel, not a makeup kit.