Cutting your hair off makes you feel really good, really fast.
I liked my cute other short haircut, but this one takes the cake.
It was a hot steamy Friday and I had an appointment at the same place I normally get my haircut, BANG, but with a different stylist. My usual stylist was booked FULL UP until mid-July and when you need a haircut you only really notice after it's WAY TOO LATE ANYWAY, and I was headed home for my little brother's graduation party and there was NO WAY that my she-mullet was coming home with me.
I went to the website and decided, that yes, I katastrophe, was going to judge a book by its cover. So I did. I gauged who had lots of availablilty and decided that it was because they were new and didn't have a client base yet-- and that was not for me. I noticed one stylist had just a few holes in his schedule. So I looked at the picture, ran my fingers through my she-mullet, looked at the picture, ran my fingers through my she-mullet, and hesitating ONLY SLIGHTLY-- clicked the "book it" button.
All week at work I was the "neurotic about my hair in a sort of adorably self-centered way, also maybe this will make you remember me since I'm new" girl. On Friday I burst out of the office full of nervous energy about seeing "the random".
Oh reader, I married him.
Ok not really, but I am totally going to cheat on my old stylist with him. Like, take his calls when she's around speaking in code, and making up excuses about why I haven't called so that she doesn't know I totally left her for another man, and a man with an armful of tattoos and a man-mullet who gave me the best haircut of my life. I don't care that it's dangerous. Her chair is right next to his. I am so in love-- SO IN LOVE, that I gave him a gi-normous tip and I give you this.
YOU. ALL YOU PEOPLE WHO GOOGLE "SHORT HAIR". More of you come to this blog as a gift from the internets to seek out becoming pony-tail-challenged. HERE IS A PICTURE.
EVERYONE WHO IS LOOKING FOR A SHORT HAIRCUT-- you there, netscape searching, googling, and google blog hunting. Have no fear. DO IT. Cut it off.
Who wants you to have long boring hair? a boy? a girl? your fears?
Release yourself! (hot damn, and your CHEEKBONES) and CUT. IT. OFF.
it's awesome.
Also economical. I'm going to have my bottle of shampoo for like 4 months!
(except not economical because now i have some sort of "My Hero!" type fascination with he who cut my hair and will probably continue to tip gi-normously).
Monday, June 26, 2006
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Commercial Jingles with which I have been known to serenade my boyfriend
1.) At Eastern Motors, your job's your credit!
2.) Freeeeeeeeeeeee Crrrrrredit Report Dottttttttt Commmmmmmm!
3.) Rub-a-dub-dub we'll cover your tub!
4.) Eight hundred five eight eight two three hundred, EMMMMMMPPPPIRRRE!
5.) THEY GOT A PEPPER BAR
6.) Don't. Hold. Back (do do dododo do do do do)
7.) Big Fuuuuccckkkkkkiiiiinnnnggggggg Chicken
As you can see, he's pretty lucky to be dating me.
He only knows the commercials that I point out because he's got TiVo and is above commercials.
That's the point I am trying to work myself up to. Goal-setting, and such.
2.) Freeeeeeeeeeeee Crrrrrredit Report Dottttttttt Commmmmmmm!
3.) Rub-a-dub-dub we'll cover your tub!
4.) Eight hundred five eight eight two three hundred, EMMMMMMPPPPIRRRE!
5.) THEY GOT A PEPPER BAR
6.) Don't. Hold. Back (do do dododo do do do do)
7.) Big Fuuuuccckkkkkkiiiiinnnnggggggg Chicken
As you can see, he's pretty lucky to be dating me.
He only knows the commercials that I point out because he's got TiVo and is above commercials.
That's the point I am trying to work myself up to. Goal-setting, and such.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Yes, Britney-- I am "pro love"
Because I know we gossip freaks exist, and exist in shamefully high numbers, I'm not even going to operate under the pretense that people might not have watched Dateline tonight and the hour-long Britney Spears "KFC thigh and breast combo with two sides(#3 )" special. Apparently, Dateline has run out of online predators staring at the camera caught like a deer in headlights, so they have moved onto the poor prey that is Mrs. Federline, with child, natch.
(I have decided that is the LAST TIME I WILL USE THAT AWFUL "..., natch" tag in my blog. My mom told me to just "say no".)
Good God, it was a total trainwreck.
Let's hope the GFY ladies get on her for the platform flip flops, frayed denim mini skirt, and a-little-something-for-them-there-menfolk shirt, because her get-up felt purposeful. Like "LOOK AT ME. MY LIFE IS A MESS. LOOK AT HOW MY HANDLERS LET ME OUT IN BROAD DAYLIGHT IN A DESPERATE PLEA FOR HELP."
And then there was the inexcusable gum popping. Poor Matt Lauer. There he is in loafers with no socks asking Britney-Effing-Spears if Kevin Federline lives on the main floor of her house while Katie Couric is going to be announcing to us all the woes of the world with new solomnly appropriate lipgloss. Britney avoided answering the question directly, and retorts with a pop of gum, which was the wrong answer. CLEARLY, the right answer was to get that clump of mascara off your right (my left) eye and to say that you are a benevolent ex-post facto hottie who likes to keep it COUNTRY, but not redneck thankyouverymuch.
This woman was a pro. She didn't answer a DAMN question that Matty-poo asked her, just kept going back to Goldie Hawn, her new mother figure. Frankly, I would have stuck with Madonna. Who's got more money? Who's got the toned arms? Yeah, not Goldie.
Britney has always had a personal benchmark with me-- one of my good friends and she share a birthday. My friend is pursuing acting and her womb is thankfully fruitless. And Brit-Brit? She is on dateline fake-airing her dirty laundry. More like dirty laundry show, but no tell.
I loved every minute of it. My friend and roommate sat with me in the living room, and it was like a 20-something girl version of Mystery Science Theater 3000. Only instead of old bad movies, it's someone's LIFE. I barely paid attention to my beer, let alone anyone else. My father called to chat because his life has been hell on earth at work and he finally could stop crawling around power plant tunnels, and I had the audacity to say "gee, Dad, Britney's on Dateline-- can I give you a call tomorrow?"
Happy Father's Day 'n' crap, Dad. I sent you a card and I hope you feel the guilt that I harbor from here. To make it up to you, I may have already purchased you a present. Also, I hereby swear to stay this far away from back-up dancers, men who leave their pregnant girlfriends, and white men with cornrows.
(I have decided that is the LAST TIME I WILL USE THAT AWFUL "..., natch" tag in my blog. My mom told me to just "say no".)
Good God, it was a total trainwreck.
Let's hope the GFY ladies get on her for the platform flip flops, frayed denim mini skirt, and a-little-something-for-them-there-menfolk shirt, because her get-up felt purposeful. Like "LOOK AT ME. MY LIFE IS A MESS. LOOK AT HOW MY HANDLERS LET ME OUT IN BROAD DAYLIGHT IN A DESPERATE PLEA FOR HELP."
And then there was the inexcusable gum popping. Poor Matt Lauer. There he is in loafers with no socks asking Britney-Effing-Spears if Kevin Federline lives on the main floor of her house while Katie Couric is going to be announcing to us all the woes of the world with new solomnly appropriate lipgloss. Britney avoided answering the question directly, and retorts with a pop of gum, which was the wrong answer. CLEARLY, the right answer was to get that clump of mascara off your right (my left) eye and to say that you are a benevolent ex-post facto hottie who likes to keep it COUNTRY, but not redneck thankyouverymuch.
This woman was a pro. She didn't answer a DAMN question that Matty-poo asked her, just kept going back to Goldie Hawn, her new mother figure. Frankly, I would have stuck with Madonna. Who's got more money? Who's got the toned arms? Yeah, not Goldie.
Britney has always had a personal benchmark with me-- one of my good friends and she share a birthday. My friend is pursuing acting and her womb is thankfully fruitless. And Brit-Brit? She is on dateline fake-airing her dirty laundry. More like dirty laundry show, but no tell.
I loved every minute of it. My friend and roommate sat with me in the living room, and it was like a 20-something girl version of Mystery Science Theater 3000. Only instead of old bad movies, it's someone's LIFE. I barely paid attention to my beer, let alone anyone else. My father called to chat because his life has been hell on earth at work and he finally could stop crawling around power plant tunnels, and I had the audacity to say "gee, Dad, Britney's on Dateline-- can I give you a call tomorrow?"
Happy Father's Day 'n' crap, Dad. I sent you a card and I hope you feel the guilt that I harbor from here. To make it up to you, I may have already purchased you a present. Also, I hereby swear to stay this far away from back-up dancers, men who leave their pregnant girlfriends, and white men with cornrows.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Footie Widow
So this here World Cup thing.
It's the European in the room at a party in Levi's and a sweater around the shoulders. YOU KNOW. The one that you sort of take a side-glance at and wonder if their jeans were fabulous or FAHH-BULOUS. If that sweater fits or if they were FIT.
It's the crazy friend you have that grew up abroad and has rich parents, and sweeps in on idle Tuesday nights and gets you REALLY drunk and then "runs to the bathroom" but before you know it it's 3 am and you can't find them because they're LONG gone and home doing a Danish model.
The World Cup doesn't seduce me like I prefer my Europeans to do (at least, my imaginary Europeans). It isn't teaching me the local dance in a darkened salsa bar, it isn't explaining to me the finer points of Bordeaux, it isn't teasing me about "my president", and it isn't even sitting on its ass drinking litres of beer and signaling for the manliest beer wench to bring us the goods.
To me the World Cup ditched me long ago in the bathroom with that Danish model and I'm just waiting for the frenzy to die down so I can piece back together the fabric of my habits.
The people around me? They are emotionally involved (I'm looking AT YOU BOYFRIEND and YOU ROOMMATE in particular). Can't a girl just get her international flair on TV from Globe Trekker and BBC America? Can't I just knit while you sit around and yell at the TV? At least the players are attractive enough to hold my interest for some of it, but that can only take you so far. I understand being super excited for a sporting event, but a month of super excited for sporting events really just falls flat after its first weekend. It's re-arranging their lives, and to a certain degree- MY LIFE.
It affects ME, all this nonsense. I had to be sympathetic yesterday when the US team embarrassed us. I had to entertain myself in very specific intervals during this past weekend. I had to elbow my way through an evening to get some FREAKING BRAVO up in this joint. It's playing in the cafeteria when I'm eating lunch, on TV in the evenings, and corners of the internets far and near.
That's not the point. The point is come July, SO MUCH PROJECT RUNWAY is going to be coming atcha that it's going to be a pink and pig-tailed, girlie, ruffly, frilly nightmare unleashed upon my life like none other. This shall be my revenge, and my ovaries its champions.
It's the European in the room at a party in Levi's and a sweater around the shoulders. YOU KNOW. The one that you sort of take a side-glance at and wonder if their jeans were fabulous or FAHH-BULOUS. If that sweater fits or if they were FIT.
It's the crazy friend you have that grew up abroad and has rich parents, and sweeps in on idle Tuesday nights and gets you REALLY drunk and then "runs to the bathroom" but before you know it it's 3 am and you can't find them because they're LONG gone and home doing a Danish model.
The World Cup doesn't seduce me like I prefer my Europeans to do (at least, my imaginary Europeans). It isn't teaching me the local dance in a darkened salsa bar, it isn't explaining to me the finer points of Bordeaux, it isn't teasing me about "my president", and it isn't even sitting on its ass drinking litres of beer and signaling for the manliest beer wench to bring us the goods.
To me the World Cup ditched me long ago in the bathroom with that Danish model and I'm just waiting for the frenzy to die down so I can piece back together the fabric of my habits.
The people around me? They are emotionally involved (I'm looking AT YOU BOYFRIEND and YOU ROOMMATE in particular). Can't a girl just get her international flair on TV from Globe Trekker and BBC America? Can't I just knit while you sit around and yell at the TV? At least the players are attractive enough to hold my interest for some of it, but that can only take you so far. I understand being super excited for a sporting event, but a month of super excited for sporting events really just falls flat after its first weekend. It's re-arranging their lives, and to a certain degree- MY LIFE.
It affects ME, all this nonsense. I had to be sympathetic yesterday when the US team embarrassed us. I had to entertain myself in very specific intervals during this past weekend. I had to elbow my way through an evening to get some FREAKING BRAVO up in this joint. It's playing in the cafeteria when I'm eating lunch, on TV in the evenings, and corners of the internets far and near.
That's not the point. The point is come July, SO MUCH PROJECT RUNWAY is going to be coming atcha that it's going to be a pink and pig-tailed, girlie, ruffly, frilly nightmare unleashed upon my life like none other. This shall be my revenge, and my ovaries its champions.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Of day dreams and playlists
In college, the student paper would occasionally stop people on the street and ask them what music they were listening to. This would then be published for all to judge according to how cool the music was and also how attractive they appeared in their photos with the kicky blurb below.
I would always secretly pretend that I would get stopped and I would have something SUPER COOL on my CD player to share with them and would totally be that alluring co-ed in the paper who had this "come-hither, I'm emo" look while still sounding knowledgeable about music. Everyone would nod their heads in agreement at my caption and photo, and I would be stopped on the street and thanked for being an ambassador of good taste.
Today that memory flooded back to me as I was walking through old stomping grounds and I laughed out loud at how sudden the memory was of my yearning for an ipod but having no funds and still believed in the mission of a good mix CD (which I still do-- but itunes playlists also work).
I laughed out loud AGAIN when I reached my house. Had any student paper writers cornered me on my playlist du jour, they would have laughed their butts off. These were by choice, not even shuffle could have made this up.
Today's walk home:
a. Ted Leo-- Timorous Me (3x in a row)
b. Tears for Fears-- Mad World
c. Tears for Fears--Head over Heels
d. Roxette -- The Look
e. PJ Harvey -- Big Exit
f. Pink -- God is a DJ
g. Edwin Collins -- Girl like you.
So what could you deduce about me from this, in the paper?
1.) I really don't understand it's 2006, but rather FIRMLY believe that it's 1997. (b, c, d, e, g)
2.) I am a total fake-out when it comes to being a hipster. Note the PJ Harvey album that 12 year old girls like and a Ted Leo song that EVERYONE knows. (a, e)
3.) Yes, I do own Mean Girls. (f)
4.) I totally wish I owned all of the My-So-Called-Life DVD's. (g)
5.) My I-pod is probably pink. (a, e, f)
6.) I am one of those people who cannot let a certain song go and sort of make it a mantra that like, 5,000 other people share and I am SO not a significant little snowflake (a)
7.) I may or may not, be in fact, a British gay man. (b,c,d,e,f,g)
Catchy tunes with profoundly depressing lyrics have always been my downfall. Also I am totally not ashamed to own the Tears for Fears Greatest Hits. They totally rocked. In that "this band was brought to you by Casio" kind of way.
I would always secretly pretend that I would get stopped and I would have something SUPER COOL on my CD player to share with them and would totally be that alluring co-ed in the paper who had this "come-hither, I'm emo" look while still sounding knowledgeable about music. Everyone would nod their heads in agreement at my caption and photo, and I would be stopped on the street and thanked for being an ambassador of good taste.
Today that memory flooded back to me as I was walking through old stomping grounds and I laughed out loud at how sudden the memory was of my yearning for an ipod but having no funds and still believed in the mission of a good mix CD (which I still do-- but itunes playlists also work).
I laughed out loud AGAIN when I reached my house. Had any student paper writers cornered me on my playlist du jour, they would have laughed their butts off. These were by choice, not even shuffle could have made this up.
Today's walk home:
a. Ted Leo-- Timorous Me (3x in a row)
b. Tears for Fears-- Mad World
c. Tears for Fears--Head over Heels
d. Roxette -- The Look
e. PJ Harvey -- Big Exit
f. Pink -- God is a DJ
g. Edwin Collins -- Girl like you.
So what could you deduce about me from this, in the paper?
1.) I really don't understand it's 2006, but rather FIRMLY believe that it's 1997. (b, c, d, e, g)
2.) I am a total fake-out when it comes to being a hipster. Note the PJ Harvey album that 12 year old girls like and a Ted Leo song that EVERYONE knows. (a, e)
3.) Yes, I do own Mean Girls. (f)
4.) I totally wish I owned all of the My-So-Called-Life DVD's. (g)
5.) My I-pod is probably pink. (a, e, f)
6.) I am one of those people who cannot let a certain song go and sort of make it a mantra that like, 5,000 other people share and I am SO not a significant little snowflake (a)
7.) I may or may not, be in fact, a British gay man. (b,c,d,e,f,g)
Catchy tunes with profoundly depressing lyrics have always been my downfall. Also I am totally not ashamed to own the Tears for Fears Greatest Hits. They totally rocked. In that "this band was brought to you by Casio" kind of way.
Monday, June 05, 2006
All aboard the Katastrophe Paranoia Express
Well, the first day went off pretty well. First days are like that. Pretty good.
What stressed me out the MOST though, was my new commute. Before, my own two feet would shoo themselves out my door and after about 3 - 4 songs on my Ipod, that would be that. BAM. C'est le Commute.
NOW, I have to walk, take a bus, walk some more, or even figure out mysterious 'H' busses. Have YOU EVER RIDDEN AN 'H' BUS? NO, didn't think so.
Everything is variable now. I have to make the bus at 8 or I'll be late. But if the bus comes before 8 I'll miss it. If I miss it, I could walk to work in like 45 mins (I'm already set on walking home when it's not MadStickyHot or raining or sleeting or whatever) but that bus is crucial. The bus before it gets me there too early, the bus after gets me there too late. I need my 8am bus to come at 8am. Or my world will fall apart.
This means, for safekeeping, I have to get to the bus stop at 7:55. That's even taking chance too far. The Mythical L 2 cannot be trifled with. Sometimes when you need it, it won't come for 40 sufferable minutes. Other times, when you harrumph and resign yourself to walk, three pass you by. This morning it came at 7:59 on the dot, and this princess stepped into her coach ready to be whisked away to a shiny new building to be the smiling idiot, frantically trying to remember names and match up departments in her head.
The walk home was actually enjoyable, minus some very SERIOUS engagements with sidewalk chicken matches. I seriously took off about 2 shoulders and sidestepped around 6 people yapping on their phones. I could bus it home-- but really, DC isn't all that big and I owe myself the exercise, though I do miss out on some very important Ray-Ray time.
So, I think this gig will work out nicely. There are some minor complications, but I'm sure they will all get ironed out. It's day #1. How bad could it be?
(biting tongue as so tomorrow night's post won't be "OMG IT GOT WORSE".)
What stressed me out the MOST though, was my new commute. Before, my own two feet would shoo themselves out my door and after about 3 - 4 songs on my Ipod, that would be that. BAM. C'est le Commute.
NOW, I have to walk, take a bus, walk some more, or even figure out mysterious 'H' busses. Have YOU EVER RIDDEN AN 'H' BUS? NO, didn't think so.
Everything is variable now. I have to make the bus at 8 or I'll be late. But if the bus comes before 8 I'll miss it. If I miss it, I could walk to work in like 45 mins (I'm already set on walking home when it's not MadStickyHot or raining or sleeting or whatever) but that bus is crucial. The bus before it gets me there too early, the bus after gets me there too late. I need my 8am bus to come at 8am. Or my world will fall apart.
This means, for safekeeping, I have to get to the bus stop at 7:55. That's even taking chance too far. The Mythical L 2 cannot be trifled with. Sometimes when you need it, it won't come for 40 sufferable minutes. Other times, when you harrumph and resign yourself to walk, three pass you by. This morning it came at 7:59 on the dot, and this princess stepped into her coach ready to be whisked away to a shiny new building to be the smiling idiot, frantically trying to remember names and match up departments in her head.
The walk home was actually enjoyable, minus some very SERIOUS engagements with sidewalk chicken matches. I seriously took off about 2 shoulders and sidestepped around 6 people yapping on their phones. I could bus it home-- but really, DC isn't all that big and I owe myself the exercise, though I do miss out on some very important Ray-Ray time.
So, I think this gig will work out nicely. There are some minor complications, but I'm sure they will all get ironed out. It's day #1. How bad could it be?
(biting tongue as so tomorrow night's post won't be "OMG IT GOT WORSE".)
Sunday, June 04, 2006
D-day
So full of worries about the first day of my new job tomorrow. First days of new jobs are just the worst. I imagine I will wander around like a lost soul on my way to finding the ladies room, and probably spend the majority of the day reading things and organizing the post-its and a highlighter collection that will live on my desk.
The first day of my old job, I was asked to do some simple things, without any explanation of how they wanted them, and ended up staying late and crying softly in the restroom about my impending firing for not understanding how to set up a certain document. I should have read into that and run screaming for the hills, but instead I stayed for two years because it was easy enough and a short walk downhill.
But I assume (minus crying) that first days of work are uniformly awful. You don't know anyone's name, where anything is, what's important, what's not, and who you're going to eat lunch with (hurrah for having a friend work there!). You always will mess up, and you'll inevitably feel like a complete fool complete with flushed cheeks and red ink on paper.
Tomorrow is a whole new chapter. Perhaps the first chapter of like, part two of a book. New job, in 2 months finally living by myself and ruling my own roost, and sort of settling into life. I had sort of languished in freshman and sophomore year of life, and like a college junior thirsting for something new this job came at just the right time and is going to usher in a whole boatload of changes that I am very excited about. Also, I think this job is going to be important for me career-wise, and I'm excited to learn new things and not languish in boredom anymore. I guess my blog reading routine will get done at home more than the office now.
I'm nervous. This also is par for the course. I'm a pretty nervous character. I suppose all I can do is relax tonight, show up early in a bitchin' outfit and smile pretty.
Thank god we threw a party on Saturday and there's a lot of booze about.
The first day of my old job, I was asked to do some simple things, without any explanation of how they wanted them, and ended up staying late and crying softly in the restroom about my impending firing for not understanding how to set up a certain document. I should have read into that and run screaming for the hills, but instead I stayed for two years because it was easy enough and a short walk downhill.
But I assume (minus crying) that first days of work are uniformly awful. You don't know anyone's name, where anything is, what's important, what's not, and who you're going to eat lunch with (hurrah for having a friend work there!). You always will mess up, and you'll inevitably feel like a complete fool complete with flushed cheeks and red ink on paper.
Tomorrow is a whole new chapter. Perhaps the first chapter of like, part two of a book. New job, in 2 months finally living by myself and ruling my own roost, and sort of settling into life. I had sort of languished in freshman and sophomore year of life, and like a college junior thirsting for something new this job came at just the right time and is going to usher in a whole boatload of changes that I am very excited about. Also, I think this job is going to be important for me career-wise, and I'm excited to learn new things and not languish in boredom anymore. I guess my blog reading routine will get done at home more than the office now.
I'm nervous. This also is par for the course. I'm a pretty nervous character. I suppose all I can do is relax tonight, show up early in a bitchin' outfit and smile pretty.
Thank god we threw a party on Saturday and there's a lot of booze about.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Goodbye, Job.
I leave you with something I drew during the last staff meeting out of boredom so devastating that I thought about the utensils that I could stab myself in the eye with as an excuse to leave and also as a cathartic symbol of the pain and grief you caused me. (and how staunchly I will refuse to work with all women EVER AGAIN.)
It's a piece I've entitled:
Things I'd Like to Eat and Drink: A Staff Meeting of Longing.
Stay tuned for tomorrow: sleeping away my one day of vacation before throwing a gi-normous house party and convincing a friend with a car to help us to pick up our keg of cider for snake bite blacks.
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