I have reached an all-time low today.
One of my coworkers felt the need to clean my desk for me. Seriously. That’s really pathetic. My desk was covered with flower schmeng from my plethora of bouquets last week and I had little dried Diet Coke marks all over. Yesterday, she talked me into going to a grocery store and purchasing a 2 1/2 gallon spring water dispenser and a 12 pack of Diet Coke rather than paying something like $5 a day for my various fluid requirements. $1.30 in the morning for McDonald’s Diet Coke, $1 for a Diet Pepsi Twist in a bottle (because they don’t have Diet Coke in a bottle in the cafeteria), maybe another Diet Pepsi, depending upon how tired or out of it I am, then usually stopping at a gas station for a big Dasani for the afternoon. She’s so pleased that I did it, she 409’d my desk as a reward.
She’s probably getting back at me, because I sent her to my hairdresser Staci to have large portions of facial hair painfully yanked from her face.
One of our coworkers has this mouse that he has never cleaned off. He said that it was like that when he got it… three years ago. It looks like a topographical map of Mars. It’s disgusting. I think sometimes, though, that I’m only inches from becoming that Dirty Desk Girl. I’m not filthy or anything, but sometimes my framed picture of Donnie & Marie gets hit by my mouse cord and it’s days before I pick it up. And I’m a piler. I make piles. They’re like those little piles of rocks that some people build. Maybe I think of my desk as a mini Salisbury plane and my pile of whatnot is a tiny Stonehendge.
Or something.
Yeah, I’m not buying that either.
Today is a weird first. Because I was going to the salon at 10, I didn’t feel like styling my hair, so I wore one of my black and white Hard Rock Cafe hats (the Atlanta one, if you must know… I wanted to wear my London one or my Key West one, but couldn’t find them) and a sporty red retro striped t-shirt (brand new $7 t-shirt! yay! Love $7 t-shirts! Love. Them!) with my jeans (JEANS!) and white keds. I looked like I’m cruising for a game of Kick the Can or something because I can stay outside until the street lights come on. I’ve gotten all sorts of compliments on my hat. Apparently, I have a mystical hat face and look good in it.
Honestly, I’m not a hat girl, so it’s really a waste. I wear hats when I go camping because I’m dreadfully afraid of ticks, but that’s about it. I’m a tall girl and they’re a pain in the car because they rub on the top. When I’m golfing, I have a visor because otherwise my head gets all sweaty and hat heady.
When I was in high school, I purchased a black fedora and wore it more or less constantly. I think I still have it somewhere, too. I would tuck my hair up underneath and do my makeup all wispy, in this Marilyn Monroe manner, and do a fairly good impression of Molly Ringwald. It was all so painfully 80’s but I think I looked pretty cute. Or I’d let the big old punk girl bangs hang out from underneath the brim and be oh-so-mysterious. I loved my fedora. But I hated how it messed up my hair. It’s such a commitment, that hat thing. Once you put one on, it’s staying on.
But that is all for naught now because I am, at this very moment, a possessor of the secret Rock Star hair. Yep. That’s right. Once I make a decision, I follow through without looking back, baby! Staci had an opening this morning, so I shuffled some work stuff around and took an extended lunch to have my head foiled, prodded, and various hot waxes poured upon it. The styling stuff she used smells like a boat drink, served by a pool boy who don’t speak no good English, ma’am.
Staci truly had her heart set upon giving me blonde streaks, but I wanted red. We compromised and did a little of both. Actually, because she was wielding the paintbrush, I have probably more blonde than red, but I’m ok with that. This is so middle-age crisis it hurts, only I’m not middle-aged. I hope not, anyway.
Oh, and get this: I absolutely love the colors she used. The red is a combination of Rocket Fire and Bon Fire. The blonde is Diva. You’ve just got to dig that, baby. Watch out, man… my hair will cut you! Don’t be givin’ it no lip, now! Aiite?
So, now I look like a twelve-year-old hoodlum. It’s awesome. I might take someone’s lunch money outside the cafeteria later. Or maybe go smoke in the bathroom.
I’ll have Esteban take pictures tonight. Oh, and I’ll probably put up the pictures from the Belle Karaoke Send-Off too, as I’ve been seriously remiss about getting them downloaded off the camera. GD battery sucking camera.
Red and blonde streaks: it’s a good thing.
