I’ve been salivating over gear tonight. Specifically, I’ve been drooling over Eventide’s Space, Pitchfactor and Timefactor. I’m really sold on the Space and Pitchfactor for all of the weird atmospheric and cracked out effects you can achieve. I really like the sound of the Timefactor and the fact that it has studio applications, but it might be overkill considering the price and the number of delay options, so I am looking into other options, like TC or EHX. I need a much better amp. 15W is not where it’s at. I need to win the lottery. I don’t really have Gear Acquisition Syndrome, but I am missing some vital components to a decent live rig…especially considering the material I’m working on.

I’m not really a strummy chick with an acoustic and I don’t want to take a synth out live, unless someone else is dealing with it. (I do all of my synth-ing inside the box using a MIDI controller, so it’s not really an option currently, anyway.) I’ve already got the distortion, the traditional mod effects like phasing and flanging/chorus and looping taken care of, but I need reverb, pitchshifting and delay. And synth-y, washy, grumbly textures.

Here’s the first of two videos of St Vincent playing with her Eventide Space and Pitchfactor (check out part 2):

I love her reactions to the sounds. The whole ‘that’s gross, I love it!’ Or referring to either the crystal or shimmer effect–”That’s some divine shit!”

Another demo of the Pitchfactor:

Speaking of delicious noise and St Vincent, check this out! I love how it starts out ethereal and then the face melting rock begins. This song kicks ass!!!

I also listened to Santigold’s latest (I’m thinking it’s going to be another summer staple, like her last album) via NPR and this enchanting piece of effects-laden post punk:

That’s the perfect way to end the night; in the wee hours of the morning, blissing out to glorious noise. Enjoy!

I’ve spent the preceding hour sitting out on the balcony, sipping a bastard version of a brandy alexander I made with almond milk and enjoying the cacaphony of nature; birds calling, the breeze rustling the leaves. Now, I sit here typing this, listening to NPR’s preview of Sarah Jaffe’s the Body Wins in my new studio. It’s fucking fantastic. John Congleton is an amazing mad scientist of bewitching, creepy noise and this sits well with St. Vincent’s Strange Mercy. Sarah Jaffe’s evolution with this album–as a vocalist, a songwriter and stylistically/aesthetically–is compelling. The producer and audiophile in me wants to crawl inside these textures and not come out for a good, long time. It’s inspiring. And it makes me sigh.

I left you with a video of a friend of mine interrupting my work. I meant to write sooner. I meant to give you songs that I’ve been assembling atom by atom in my brain-womb-cave. Songs I’ve been piecing together for years painstakingly. Songs I’ve been avoiding, like awkward lovers of years past stumbled across after a long night of drinking, when your mascara is migrating its way down your cheek and your hair is stringy and you haven’t slept for weeks. Or maybe just the last few days. Songs that are so new that they have that characteristic new song smell.

Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans and my mischievous muse, my thief of time and effort was taken from me shortly after I posted that video of her shamelessly rolling across my notebook. As death often is, it was sudden. Unplanned for, unexpected. Violent even. It was no peaceful end for a friend. On the first Monday in October, Asha went into seizures and cardiac arrest. I was at my day job. I screamed, not caring who heard or saw.

Asha may “just be a cat” to some people, but she was my buddy. When I was at home, she was like velcro, following me around, snooping in my business, detuning my guitars (sometimes as I was practicing, if I happened to be within reach), attempting to steal my food, watching me engage in activities like eyebrow plucking or making coffee with a fascination that had me convinced that she was an observer from some other planet, reporting back to the feline mother ship the oddities of banal human existence. And she was always nuzzling me, head butting me, winding around my legs or curling up next to me. Her love was more constant than any human companion. Asha didn’t have the kind of grouchy, stressed out days where she needed her space and on days when I couldn’t stand the thought of having to conjure up sentences for another human being, Asha’s presence was still welcome, despite her mischief. Asha made getting through the getting through (when the getting through was particularly shitty) bearable.

It took a few months to work through this. A few months and a move and a battle with ovarian cysts that I am now convinced must’ve been the fruit of my grief. I lost 10 lbs in 2 weeks and turned around and gained 15 in three months. It wasn’t conscious. Grief is a private, queer kind of thing. People navigate it in different ways, but they navigate alone. I can’t apologize or judge myself for it. It was what it was and I did what I needed to do.

Now I’m ready to dig back in.

I feel as if I’ve been repeating myself for years, like an endless tape loop. I say I’ll give you songs. Then I don’t. I can’t worry about the disbelievers and naysayers. Like as not, they are figments of my own imagination. Like as not, any friend who would ascribe to that sort of negativity needs to drop the “r” and invest their negativity elsewhere.

It’s hard talking yourself through this creative birthing process. You have to keep going, keep going, keep going, keep going…Through hell, through doubt, through the bullshit worries that “OMG I’ve never fucking done this before, will I ever really see the other side.” Through the well-intentioned advice of others. Through the ill-intentioned advice of people without the courage to actualize their dreams and who would sleep better if you fell into line and joined them. There are setbacks. There always will be. You have to manage them as best you can and not waste time nitpicking yourself to death over how you handled them. You have to dust yourself off and get back to work.

This life is too short, too fragile, too fucking precious to waste on things that devour your soul.

This is what I’m up against, before I even have a chance to flip to a blank page in my notebook!

I’m still working on arrangements of about 6 songs and am not ready to post them just yet. Hopefully, in October. They’re getting so close.

For now, here are some bare bones guitar and vocal sketches of two songs. The first is actually a different, older version of one of the songs I’ve been arranging. The second is just kind of fun to play. It’s jazzy and out there, so I’m not sure I’m going to do anything else with it.

Walking Dead by meri sand

Not your average joe by meri sand

Here’s a bit of nerd art I threw together for my friends’ baby’s quilt.  The message seemed applicable to more people than just baby Tora and her parents, so I figured I’d share. We all need to be reminded to actively pursue our dreams from time to time, no matter where we are in our careers or what stage of  life we happen to be in.

I still haven’t mailed it out yet. I think Joy may be giving birth this week…Or may have already. I’m a slacker.  Joy, Luke: It’s on my to-do list this week, I swear!

It’s been a little while since I’ve updated  here, so I suppose I should fill you in on what I’ve been up to.

For starters, there’s this:

These arms belong to myself (on the left) and my best friend of 20 years, Audra Fucking Oakley(on the right).  I figure if Amanda Palmer is awesome enough to warrant such an empathatic middle name, I can give Audra one as well. She is a Jazzercise instructor, vegan ninja and cat whisperer. She can kick your ass without breaking a sweat. I’ll have to inform her of this public christening later.

What does visiting my best friend in Portland, OR (oh, the coffee…oh, the weather…*collapses into a pool of my own drool*) in May and getting freaking awesome matching (mostly) skeleton key tattoos have to do with anything other than being an art slacker who hasn’t given the world new music in nigh unto forever? Not that anyone aside from friends and Denton square scenesters were aware of  previous musical presentations, but still…

Why should anyone care?

Let me state my case.

The keys tattooed (created by the lovely and amazing Rachel Gibson of  No Hope, No Fear Tattoo in Portland, OR)  above signify a turning point in my life. When I last wrote you, I was still in physical therapy due to the car accident AND in therapy-therapy after escaping an abusive relationship in early 2010.  I hadn’t seen Audra since she left Texas for Portland in 2007 and I was still healing.

My life as of May 2011 could not have been more different from my life in May 2010.  The trip itself was a gift from the love of my life, a man I’ve known since my Bruce Hall days and who has been my stability and sanity through all of the upheaval of the mess that was 2010. When I was bitter and dejected about being injured, he made me laugh and gave me endless encouragement and reassurance that it gets freaking better. He knew how much I’d missed my best friend and completely surprised me with the best anniversary present ever. That trip marked the first time I was able to move around without pain (I made so much progress in April and May), the first time I felt capable of travel and  the experience completely reinvigorated and rejuvenated my creative batteries.

We went to Audra’s Jazzercise classes. I stumbled and shambled through the moves like an epileptic panda and laughed at her belting along to Katy Perry’s Firework and her beautiful, theatrical exuberance. We traded secrets over coffee at Cellar Door and Stumptown, guiltily nommed every vegan baked good in sight and went hiking in the Columbia River Valley Gorge amidst towering pines covered in luminescent moss and staggeringly gorgeous waterfalls. We hit Powell’s and Sock Dreams, where I succumbed to the allure of sock garters. We walked in the crisp air and giggled late into the night, like we did as kids.

This woman has held my hand through violence that I never thought I would survive. I held her hand through a fight with an aggressive strain of thyroid cancer that could have taken her life, but, fortunately, just took her thyroid. We are sisters in something that goes deeper than blood. We are survivors.

Feeling safe, supported, loved and free of what had been incessant pain really inspired me. (Not that I never have a day when the nerve pain comes back, but it is significantly better.) I signed up for yoga and tribal fusion bellydance classes and started walking to get myself into better shape. I’ve had my Jaguar to play and, let me tell you, it is a comfortable, sexy instrument! I finished up domestic violence counseling and have moved on to only needing 1 trip to the chiropractor per month.

And I plunged back into music again. I’ve zeroed in on seven songs that I’ve wanted to finish for ages. One of them is a cheeztastic love song written in response to an NPR songwriting challenge in 2009, but some of the others are songs I’ve maybe been afraid to have on the record. Songs get at why I am a musician.

I’ve been singing myself through darkness since I was very young. It was never a question of if I would write music. There was never any choice.

I write songs to survive. To illuminate the dark places. I have never wanted to edit myself to make the world more comfortable. I know that the world would rather have neatly labelled boxes for domestic violence, child abuse, sexual assault and injustice. I know that everyone wants to enjoy their latte in peace.

But I’m not singing just for them. I’m singing for the voices that have been marginalized and forgotten in our understandably human attempt to rationalize the irrational.  That “humane” attempt to shift the blame so that we can continue telling ourselves that “This could never happen to me” or “This only happens to other people, somewhere else–not to good people, not to people I know and love.”  We want our villains to wear black, have a curly mustache and otherwise be easily, obviously identifiable. We want them to sneer and treat everyone with equal violence.  We don’t want to think that our neighbors, our friends, our all-American picture perfect responsible citizen could be something far more threatening and ambiguous. We want to think that bad things happen to bad people and good things come to those who work hard, are honest, etc.

This is not a just world. And there is no hope and healing without honesty.

I sing the dark, because those who were brave enough to sing it before me gave me the strength to endure, to persevere, to reach out to others. I sing the dark to inject hope into hopelessness. I sing the dark to prove to myself and others that: It. Gets. Fucking. Better.

It’s a scary thing, to live out loud.  To face possible fall out. I’ve lost friends. I’ve made others uneasy. I’ve had to listen to well-meaning people spout myths and assumptions about violence and abuse. It’s not easy. And that’s all without the music.

But I can not be something– someone–I am not  just to please people. Some people help others by volunteering their time, by donating money, by founding organizations that raise awareness or provide direct support. Some people run for office. I am an artist. I help by reaching out through art, through music.

I’ve been working on 7 songs this summer, with a deadline to finish them by Sept 24. It looks like I’m going to have to push that date back a bit (as far as making ALL of them somewhat presentable), but I’ve been diligently plugging away and the songs are coming together. I should have something to share in October.

So many years have gone into these songs. The writing. Studying theory and composition. Learning to use my voice, learning to play guitar, attempting to grow as a guitarist.  Good performances, horrible performances. Struggling with the urge to make everything more complicated than it needs to be, to prove my musicianship or something. It feels good to finally hear the arrangements come together and allow them to be simple if it serves the song. I don’t feel the need to be a guitar hero. And the release that comes with letting those thoughts become something tangible…

There is simply nothing like living your dream.

If  the world is confused or offended, so be it.  If I lose people, so be it. I plan to raise some hell. I aim to stir things up and SPEAK. I know that I have amazing people in my life who have my back. Nate. Audra. Raven. I could go on.  And if my wider audience is one person, one teenage girl or boy or one victim of violence, attempting to navigate a violent and nonsensical world and my music makes them feel less alone in the way that other musicians made me feel less alone, so be it. My work is done.

So, this key on my arm means no locked doors, no more secrets, no more silence. It symbolizes a friendship that has endured everything this world has thrown at it for 2 decades, it symbolizes Possibility. It is the future and freedom. It says: “Go forth and become who you really are! Create, make mischief! Make some noise!”  And that, friends, means everything.

One of the things I want to do with this part of the site is to document and share aspects of the creative process and, specifically, aspects that pertain to how one makes a life making music. I am by no means an expert. I can not lecture from the hallowed halls of success, but I can share my experiences, struggles and thoughts as I go through the process of making a life creating things and learning to share those things with others.

I’ve always appreciated the brave souls who volunteer their hearts and minds so that others on the same journey can benefit from their mistakes and triumphs. There’s a myth that good artists emerge from the womb fully realized and able to create these amazing pieces, as though success comes easily and everyone travels the same path. It’s a lie.

It takes years of practice. It takes patience. And there are a lot of things your band director or instructor may never tell you.

Many people will tell you that if you want it badly enough, you’ll just “make it happen” or that, if you struggle with performance anxiety or other physical or mental setbacks, it’s just not meant to be or you don’t want it enough. Those are lies, too.

Performance isn’t magical and not all of us were born confident. But that doesn’t mean you’re doomed or that you can’t learn. And it doesn’t mean that you should have to figure it all out alone.

And, like any athlete, a musician can injure him or herself and there’s no pushing through an injury. No pain, no gain can leave you permanently screwed up with tendonosis, tendonitis, tennis elbow, carpal tunnel, ulnar tunnel, bursitis or other injuries that can wreak havoc on people who rely on their fine motor skills to express their gift.

Last summer I was in a car wreck. It was a three car collision–someone hit the person behind me, who hit me, which pushed me across two lanes of oncoming traffic and onto the lawn of the restaurant where I’d been about to meet friends. I was shaken, but my body was physically a mess.

I had severe whiplash.  I had muscle spasms in my right shoulder and shooting pain and burning sensations along the ulnar nerve of both arms stemming from a very small bulge in one of the discs in my neck.  After the initial exam at an emergency clinic, I was unable to afford to go to the doctor for immediate follow up care. I’d never been in a wreck and no one I knew had been in one nearly this severe where the person at fault hadn’t just taken off.  My health insurance wouldn’t cover injuries from the car wreck and I was almost in a daze from pain and exhaustion, so it took me awhile to put together that  I needed to get a lawyer who could get me in for treatment. I’ve now been through about 8 months of  treatment–chiropractic adjustments, traction,  massage for the muscle spasms, ultrasound and electrical stimulation for pain, muscle relaxants and nerve pain medications.

It put my guitar playing (and most other activities) on ice for about 6 months. At the beginning of this year,  after I made several failed attempts to get back to playing regularly, I realized I was going to have to make some serious adjustments in order to start playing again.

First,  I’ve had to look into electric guitar ergonomics. For all the magazines going on about the features of this guitar and that guitar, there’s little interest in seriously discussing the weight and shape of the instruments that we strap on and play for hours. Even without an accident, throwing a heavy Les Paul over one shoulder without thought  simply because it’s traditional/looks cool/sounds cool/Jimmy Page or some other member of the rock pantheon played one  is not smart. We want to play for a lifetime, not play ourselves into a back spasm. It may not happen today or tomorrow, but we’re not invincible.

I’ve had to find something that weighs less, to ease the strain on my neck and back.  I’ve had to find something that has a contoured,  rounded edge where the underside of my picking arm comes across the body, because my ulnar nerve is so sensitive that if that sharp edge hits it, it feels like my arm is on fire and being stabbed by needles. I have to play something that can sit against my body at an angle that is comfortable and ergonomically correct for both my picking and fretting arms…which is a bit of a challenge for a girl who has to deal with what I like to call “boob logistics.” I have small hands, so a 25.5 in scale length is just not comfortable when I use my pinky to reach for notes up the fretboard and have nerve problems in that finger.

I think I’ve found the one for me: a Fender Jaguar Special Edition HH. 24 in scale length, 7.25 fretboard radius, contoured picking arm edge, offset curves that fit a little better with my girly curvaciousness and much lighter weight than my Epi Les Paul. Wider, padded straps are now a necessity and I’m also looking into the DARE guitar strap, which would spread the weight across both shoulders.

Everyone’s body is different and guitar manufacturers aren’t necessarily interested in what’s the healthiest for the human body–tradition and sound tend to be the driving forces behind our guitar purchases, so look for something that feels balanced, fits with your body and allows you to play in a posture that won’t come back to haunt you. Look for reviews and pay attention to the amount of weight you’re subjecting your spine to. I want to find more information about guitar ergonomics and link to them here. There’s not a lot out there that isn’t just concerned with custom made or extremely expensive instruments. I’d especially be interested in articles talking about concerns that pertain to us womenfolk, who tend to be smaller and actually have to worry about “logisticizing” our breasts and playing position so that both our mammaries and arms/wrists are both cool. (Seriously, no one talks about this!!!! I’m starting a dialogue here and now–Girls, Guys, whoever has had to figure out whether to squish or push a little cleavage under or over!! Speak up!! Perverts need not apply. I don’t care how sexy you think breasts are. They can be really annoying if you’re stuck lugging them around 24-7.)

I’m looking into making my technique more ergonomically correct and relaxed. Tension leads to injury. I really want to talk to a guitar teacher about my technique. I need to un-learn some bad habits and I need someone else who can point out when I’m unconsciously tensing up or changing my wrist angle.  I’m not always aware of what I’m doing and old habits die hard. Guitar magazines, books and even some teachers neglect the mechanics of healthy technique. If I want to play without pain, I have to use my body economically–minimal, relaxed movement.  I have to change my picking wrist’s angle. I needed to do this, anyway. The accident just brought it to my attention.

Secondly, I’ve had to extend these ergonomic considerations to the rest of my life.  I’ve had to consider computer desks, how I hold the phone, how I sit in my chair, etc, et-fucking-cetera. What point is there in researching and applying guitar ergonomics if I’m aggravating my ulnar nerve by holding the phone between my ear and shoulder and can’t play due to the resulting irritation later?

Thirdly, I’ve had to really start being aware of  my body. I hold tension in my neck and shoulders. Lots of people do. After the accident, that tension was struck by a huge multiplier. Just “relaxing” doesn’t cut it. There’s no automatic relaxation switch. If there were and I knew where it was, I’d be a wealthy person.

I’ve had to do physical therapy–consciously being aware of strengthening muscles so that my body is balanced and every muscle group receives equal attention, rather than haphazardly working muscle groups that I read about in Shape magazine or that I’d like to shrink.  I’ve had to spend time stretching the same muscles gently and consistently so that they have less of a chance to tense up and spasm. I haven’t been able to lift weights at the gym, so I use a theracizer (it’s a certain type of  resistance band with adjustable bands for your wrist/ankle and thigh that you get from chiropractors or orthopedic doctors that closes in the door) and resistance bands. I do some moves on an exercise ball and use Elaine Petrone’s miracle balls to help stretch and reduce pain.

I’m looking into Alexander Technique (which I’ve done a little of in the past) and yoga/stretches for musicians. I’m trying to eat healthier, drink more water and get more rest. How you care for your body affects how you sing or play. It affects how you live. If I mean to take my musicianship seriously–and I do–then I have to take care of my body. No excuses.

The new guitar is on it’s way. I had to sell a bunch of stuff and use my tax return to get it. I could’ve used that money for food or bills, but this will bring me far more joy. It’s an investment in my future, an investment in meri sand, the artist. Contrary to conventional wisdom, we artists have to invest in our futures now or those futures will never arrive. If we don’t believe in ourselves enough to invest in and nurture our talents with our time, our effort, our persistence and, yes, in the supplies we need to make our art a sustainable venture, then who will?

I’ve put in too many years of practice on my instrument and in my craft to let an injury stand in my way.  Every time I bitch about the pain, it means I’m still fighting. I haven’t given up. I’m not willing to resign myself to “failure.”  I may not be able to race out the starting gate and play a 40 minute set tomorrow.  I won’t do anything that will risk further physical injury to myself. I’ll get second opinions. I’ll adjust my technique and put in the time to fix it so that I’m able to play longer, better and for many more years than I would if I were cramming to get my chops back for next week’s Open Mic. But, make no mistake, I’m not done yet. This is only the beginning.

Now, to do my physical therapy and some stretching before I’m off to bed.

I just dyed my hair for the first time in over 2 years. This may seem insignificant, an inconsequential bit of minutia coming from someone you’ve likely never met and fear may have a case of extremely boring verbal diarrhea. But as the Arcade Fire sing in their ode to the lost art of letter writing , “what’s stranger still is how something so small can keep you alive.”  Sometimes those little details signify something that reaches far beneath the surface.

I used to change my hair color constantly. Within weeks of escaping the parental clutches and into the dorms at my university, I dyed my hair red. Not auburn or any shade a human could expect to be born with. Fire engine, crushed strawberry, stop sign red.  My hair hung to my waist and as I looked over my shoulder into the mirror at the foot plus of scarlet,  it felt like I could breathe a sigh of relief. At last, I felt more me than I ever had.

See, when I was probably 5 or 6, I wanted a Jem doll.  Jem, her friends and her enemies were all rockergirls with wildly colored hair. I secretly wanted to be them. Write music, perform, wear your art on your body in the form of tattoos, makeup and blue hair? It was unfettered, uninhibited artistic expression and I wanted it. I was an only child. I was terribly shy and a bookworm. But in my room,  I drew, wrote stories and made up songs about robots battling dinosaurs.  I wanted to live vicariously through Jem action figures.

Naturally,  my parents agreed to buy me one only on the condition that I would never go become a rocker and dye my hair unnatural colors, like blue. I mean, think, what an embarrassment! Right? I was reading by three, tackling hundred page books by 5. I could write and draw recognizable Carebears at an obscenely early age. I was going to do something else and forget this rock nonsense.

Even as I agreed, I was not sure that I would be able to keep that promise.

I remember the first time I dyed my hair blue. It was right before college graduation. My mother cried. Here I was, graduating magna cum laude with a foot plus of bright blue hair and the top of my cap painted in silver, blue and red glitter paint. I pointed out that out of the sea of graduates, she would be able to easily identify me from even the highest seat in the bleachers. This did not impress her.

Now, before you start to question my motivations, I should tell you that I really didn’t care or even consider the reactions of my parents when I dyed my hair. In fact, after the first stint with manic panic in the dorms, I vacillated between more natural shades ranging from blonde to deep, plummy auburns. It was play. I’d change my hair color to suit my moods, my artistic inclinations. Mostly I stuck to slightly more natural (but still bright) reds.

After graduation, I chopped my hair off short and spiky and went through turquoise, magenta, bubble gum pink, violet, lavender with pink streaks (when I had Tori Amos sign my copy of Piece by Piece, she exclaimed that she loved the “lilac”) and several other shades of completely unnatural red.  It was liberating.  I could wear my enthusiasm for life, experience, art and color on the outside.

When it came to the point that I was desperate for a job,  I went back to the more natural shades of red. A girl’s gotta eat, even if it means that she has to put a part of herself back on the shelf.

You might find yourself asking why I stopped. Was I curious to see my natural color? Was I bored with constant change? Had I “outgrown” that phase in my life?

Not particularly. But sometimes you can lose yourself. In an unhealthy relationship with family or friends or a lover. In a desperate bid to please your employer…or anyone. You might become so enmired and absorbed by a problem that even activities that you enjoy–that feel like quintessential you–are no longer seen as a worthwhile option.

I would joke about it, chalk it up to laziness or curiosity. But the truth was far more grim. I was trapped in a toxic relationship, constantly vigilant and reacting to an unpredictable pattern of abuse. I stopped dying my hair. I stopped calling my friends. My creative endeavors were marked by great hope, marked effort behind the scenes (where no one could see, when I wasn’t dealing with the latest episode) and the progress of a slug attempting to climb the concrete steps of someone’s porch. Except maybe slower.

The pieces  I’d put on the shelf for the sake of my livelihood were locked away in a trunk in some dank basement to wait for the ravages of time.

I was not myself at all. More like an automaton who tried to keep it together enough to do things like show up for work, occasionally put on a show for the folks at home and then retreat to my apartment to wait. I became more of a shell than any superficial aspect of my life since I left home. The makeup, the clothes, the hair.

I’ve never been a girly girl. I’ve never poured over fashion magazines and lived to shop. I consider myself a feminist. But I’ve never seen anything wrong with wanting to be pretty, with playing with color and clothes. And, until now, I never realized how such a small thing meant something so significant to me. Self expression and creativity, whether through a traditional art or through makeup and hair, is a joyful activity. Something we engage in when we are feeling safe and centered. As long as it’s play and we aren’t prisoners of fashion, it’s an act of self-care.

So, when I dye my hair and paint my nails, it isn’t just a sign that I need a makeover. It’s a sign that I’m starting to come around.  It’s a preview of better things to come, a makeover in perception as well as appearance.

The color didn’t quite turn out the way I wanted it to. It’s not as vibrant or red as I’d hoped and it’s barely darker than my own natural hair, so few people have even noticed. I suppose that’s what I get for using hair dye that I bought on clearance however many years ago I stopped dying my hair.

But I feel different. It’s a new year. A better, stronger year than the last and this is just the first visible step toward a better, stronger, more-quintessentially-me me.

I’m Meri. I’m your host in this funhouse. I’m your resident noise maker and heart-on-her-sleeve wearer. I have decided that 2011 is going to be amazing…and that it will actually begin this next week, on the Chinese New Year.  There are changes afoot: arrangements in the works, networking being done, a collaboration being formulated and future blogs (about topics far more interesting than hair dye) rattling around in my skull.

I’m glad you’re here and hope you enjoy the ride.

I come in peace.

Take me to your leader.

Nanu-nanu.