I'd like to give a shout out to FIN for making me feel like I matter. Thank you, hun. But as I said, when more than four people share that sentiment I might start to believe it.
So I went to get my haircut today, which is one of my favorite things ever. There's just nothing like having a stranger massage conditioner into your hair and then blatantly flirt with you. It's flattering, but, seriously. Today, the girl I got, totally wanted my cock (Who could blame her? It is pretty nice.). In any case, as much as it makes me feel all giddy inside, it also gives me a nervous feeling. The Oh-shit,-this-bitch-is-going-to-fuck-up-my-hair-because-she-can't-think-about-anything-but-making-love-to-me kind of feeling. But she seemed super sweet so I thought maybe she could tell that I preferred to bat for the other time. I mean, "Not many guys use conditioner," as she so aptly put it. So if she figured I was a 'Mo, I reasoned that she would hook me up with a sweet do.
But no. No, no. She definitely wanted me to journey down her tunnel o' love. I walked out of there completely content and feeling irresistible delicious like I always do after I get my hurr did. Then I got in my car and looked in the mirror. All I can say is that the mirrors in the shop, which shall remain nameless to protect all the innocent hair stylists across the nation, must have been manufactured by the same people that make the mirrors that go in fun houses. She didn't buzz my hair evenly, and I had longer patches on the side near my left temple and in the back. The front was too long...it was just not fly. She did give me $3.00 off of a pomade, though. So technically, I only gave her a $1.00 tip. Right? I hate math.
Another thing I did earlier was text my ex boyfriend, "T." After a drunken night about two and a half months ago, in which I proclaimed my undying love for him via text message (It happens a lot; you'd be surprised.) we started talking again. I hadn't heard from him in awhile so I texted him and we've been going back and forth all day updating each other on our lives. I have a strict policy: When people whose opinions matter to you, and who you want to impress, ask you what you've been up to? You lie. So when questioned, as opposed to saying "Oh, I've been great. Most days I play Grand Theft Auto for at least four hours before I read for another eight and then pass out by ten 'o clock" I opted for "I'm redecorating my whole house!" I did, however, let an "and trying not to lose my mind..." slip out at the end.
At about this time I started to get my shit ready to dye my hair again, since Slutty McIwantyourdick cut all my color out. I glanced back at my phone and saw that I had a missed call, which I didn't hear because it was on vibrate (and wouldn't have answered anyway). And who should happen to call but my ex, T.? Silently praying that he would leave a voicemail I went back to the business at hand and finished my hair. When I got back there was indeed a voicemail. This is it, I thought to myself. This is him calling me and telling me to stay strong, to not give up. That he misses me desperately and that I have to believe in our love to get through the days ahead until we are again reunited! Preparing to hear his voice again for the first time in almost two years, I lit a cigarette, dialed my voicemail, and entered my password, my heart thumping in my chest.
And then I heard it.
It sounded like the phone was shuffling in between people, possibly being thrown out the window of a moving car. Oh, bless him! He got so nervous he dropped the phone! I knew I loved still loved him for a reason! I patiently waited for him to regain control. And then I heard a voice. The voice of a woman. From far away. Very far away. More shuffling. Barely audible voice. Even more shuffling. And then...stapling? A pitching machine? Silence...more stapling...
Friday, September 19, 2008
Designing Women or Why You Should Clean Your House
I totally suck at this blogging thing. I'm so sorry you guys. I know there are a ton of you who were total depressed that I haven't blogged in like two weeks, but, ya know, I've got a life to live (not really).
Seriously, though, maybe if people actually read my blog I'd have some initiative to update it and not just let it sit in cyberspace collecting dust.
So, my family decided a few months ago that we were going to move to South Carolina. Right now we're in the process of sprucing up our house so that by the time we get ready to sell it it'll be all shiny and newish. This whole thing pisses me off, though.
First of all, my grandmother, god bless her sweet little granny heart, has the memory of a fruit fly. And on top of that goes through manic phases, meaning some days she can't find the energy to do anything more than pour herself onto the couch and do her puzzles (Seriously, I do NOT UNDERSTAND why everyone, mostly women though, over the age of 55 fucking LOVES to do puzzles!). On her "good" days you can find her, maybe, running around the house cleaning everything. The only problem is that she kind of doesn't have any method to her madness. For example, she'll start vacuuming the living room and then four and a half minutes later you can find her under the bathroom sink trying to replace a pipe. Then, before you even realize you've blinked, you'll hear the lawn mower start up outside. Yeah, it's like that.
This explains why our house now looks like Delta Burke's after her little obsession with hording everything manufactured since 1972. There are desk drawers, old bills, candles, old Playboys, family photos, dog toys, perfume bottles, etc, scattered throughout our dining room. I'm half expecting a colony of gnomes to move in and stake their claim. And then what would we do? We couldn't clean it then. How can you make a colony of gnomes homeless? Especially if they were all really cute and stuff like that one from the Expedia commercials.
Seriously, though, maybe if people actually read my blog I'd have some initiative to update it and not just let it sit in cyberspace collecting dust.
So, my family decided a few months ago that we were going to move to South Carolina. Right now we're in the process of sprucing up our house so that by the time we get ready to sell it it'll be all shiny and newish. This whole thing pisses me off, though.
First of all, my grandmother, god bless her sweet little granny heart, has the memory of a fruit fly. And on top of that goes through manic phases, meaning some days she can't find the energy to do anything more than pour herself onto the couch and do her puzzles (Seriously, I do NOT UNDERSTAND why everyone, mostly women though, over the age of 55 fucking LOVES to do puzzles!). On her "good" days you can find her, maybe, running around the house cleaning everything. The only problem is that she kind of doesn't have any method to her madness. For example, she'll start vacuuming the living room and then four and a half minutes later you can find her under the bathroom sink trying to replace a pipe. Then, before you even realize you've blinked, you'll hear the lawn mower start up outside. Yeah, it's like that.
This explains why our house now looks like Delta Burke's after her little obsession with hording everything manufactured since 1972. There are desk drawers, old bills, candles, old Playboys, family photos, dog toys, perfume bottles, etc, scattered throughout our dining room. I'm half expecting a colony of gnomes to move in and stake their claim. And then what would we do? We couldn't clean it then. How can you make a colony of gnomes homeless? Especially if they were all really cute and stuff like that one from the Expedia commercials.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Bare Walls = Depression
This is the conclusion I came to after tearing down all the pictures of my favorite female celebrities that have been on my walls for the last 6 years, since I was 14.
Now that I'm kind of a grown up, have absolutely nothing better to do, and would like to add some value to our house before we sell it, I've started the process of sprucing it up a bit. Basically all I'll be doing is painting and switching some handles. But until yesterday I didn't really realize that not having the eyes of the Olsen Twins, Christina Aguilera, and Angelina Jolie staring down at me from all four walls was causing me to feel a little blue. The walls just look so sad and lonely. And boring (which fits with the rest of my life quite nicely).
I have a headache.
Now that I'm kind of a grown up, have absolutely nothing better to do, and would like to add some value to our house before we sell it, I've started the process of sprucing it up a bit. Basically all I'll be doing is painting and switching some handles. But until yesterday I didn't really realize that not having the eyes of the Olsen Twins, Christina Aguilera, and Angelina Jolie staring down at me from all four walls was causing me to feel a little blue. The walls just look so sad and lonely. And boring (which fits with the rest of my life quite nicely).
I have a headache.
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