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So much to say

Monday, July 7, 2003

Man, I have sorely remiss about updating recently. Summer Slacker Girl is in full force right now, and you know how I get when that happens. I am, at this very moment, not wearing socks. And I don’t even care.

My bra and panties still match though, so there is some hope yet.

I spent the entirety of Friday swimming in Ward and June’s pool. I purchased a new Land’s End tankini, one that is attached to the bottom so that there would be no unflattering fly-up of the tankini, exposing my delicate fish belly white bosom, but unfortunately, I am a tall girl and apparently the average Land’s End consumer is 4’11’. The cups for the bra fall four inches too low. Fortunately, with the construction of the mock tankini, it is possible to make the torso longer and all will be well. Or it will be when it is finished, as it has been at the seamstress for a very long time and I’ve been swimming in one of my two old suits from last year, which I hate for various reasons (one has these shorts attached to the bottom that make swimming a pain and the other suit is a radical activist that feels my breasts are being kept down by the man and should be set free. At inappropriate moments.), but I remembered that I had another suit which had never been worn but now fit perfectly, so I was so very happy and flaunting my new cuteness. (Holy run-on sentence Batman!) I managed to avoid getting burned with the exception of a touch of red on my nose. (If really you need a visual, just go to MoPie’s page and check out the drunk pictures, where I look like Tip O’Neil. And you can also see a picture of my cock Squishy. And my horror of said cock. Which apparently triggers some kind of superpower wherein my eyes go all shiny and glowsome. And yes, my pictures of SF are coming, but I’m still without a pc, so unable to download and size them at the moment.) And then apparently I went into a coma, because I don’t remember what I did on Friday night. I think Scotty Boom Boom came over. Yes, that’s it. And we watched the downtown fireworks from our front yard. Note to self: threaten neighbors with glowy eyes until they cut down the trees in their backyard.

I forgot to tell y’all. I finally scored some Dave Matthews tickets.

Esteban wasn’t interested in going with me, which makes me sad. And I didn’t know for certain if I was going to be able to get the tickets until late on Thursday night, so everything was very last minute, but my Aunt Drusilla called to see if I wanted to go with her and buy tickets at the concert, and I said ‘Well, actually, I have in my hand this very minute two tickets for seats in the 10th row’. They were marginally higher than face value, but I was very satisfied with my quarry. Because it’s Dave. Anything for Dave.

We tooled down in Aunt Drusilla’s SUV, which, right there, was a mistake. I should have driven in the Monte. Her Chevy WhateverItWas rides like a lumber wagon and Aunt Drusilla drives in this horrible weird stilting way’ accelerate decelerate accelerate decelerate brake accelerate. I couldn’t fathom because why wouldn’t you use cruise control? It’s a straight highway. The entire way down. It was insane and also making me needlessly motion sick. Also, Aunt Drusilla doesn’t like to drive in the big city and she considers Milwaukee to be a big city. She was afraid. Afraid of poor people. Afraid of cars. Afraid of poor people driving cars. I offered to drive when we got closer to Milwaukee. She didn’t believe me when I told her that I knew where I was, mostly because I promptly took the wrong freeway to get to the venue. And apparently, nowhere in Drusilla’s forty plus years has she ever attempted to read a map, so instead I was driving her enormous SUV at 80 mph and trying to teach her how to read a map.

But with my help, we navigated through some back roads and ended up in the place we needed to be with plenty of time to spare. And then it didn’t matter, because we were sitting within spitting distance of the stage and it didn’t matter that the sun was aimed at us through a magnifying glass and our eyebrows were starting to curl from the heat. And it didn’t matter that there were squatters trying to sneak into our row. And it didn’t matter that Drusilla kept arguing with me that Dave would want to marry HER because she isn’t married, even though she’s ten years older than he is and needed me to explain what the song ‘Ants Marching’ was really about and even though any fool could see that he’d much prefer marrying ME. It just didn’t matter. Because we were there, swimming in violin and soprano sax, watching lightning bugs dance to crazy riffs above our heads, and Dave was making that face he makes, Hugo-Weaving-eyebrow-raised, when he is completely absorbed in playing music and his feet are moving as though independent of his body with those crazy scuffed suede old man shoes he wears. It just didn’t matter. Because that music, that moment, it just made me happy. I was happy. I was smiling, not to smile at anyone, but rather just to smile, which almost never happens. Dave was a shaman and we his congregation and the only peyote was a song that we all knew the words. I was awash with perspiration and there was a fog of pot smoke encroaching upon the reserved seating from the party zone up the hill and everyone was dancing and sweating and singing and had hoarse voices and some guy at the end of the row grabbed me and hugged me because we were all just happy. Happy.

Anyway. Loved that.

Finally got home around 2:30 am. Markus was sleeping in our living room, as he flew home for a visit at some point on Saturday afternoon. When I woke up, though, he was gone, so I still haven’t actually seen him yet, although he’s informed me that his visit will not be complete unless I take him to the Bad Bar.

I zoned out for most of Sunday watching How To Lose A Guy in 10 Days (which I just shouldn’t have bothered with. I just don’t see the Matthew McConaughey thing. Just don’t see it. I mean, he’s cute and his accent is appealing and he looks really good in clothes. That’s the best way I can describe it. He makes clothing look good. But he’s too much of a pretty boy. He’s got better hair than me. That bugs me. Also I think he’d either hog the bathroom or always smell like sweat.) and then went to see 28 Days Later’ (Something bothers me about movies that insist upon having their own punctuation) with Mo, where we shared a tub of popcorn because we were both independently too lazy to make ourselves dinner. And then we drove home, both expecting rage-infected people to attack our car at any moment. And then I sacked out, dreaming of dancing through empty London streets to frantic violins and crazy brilliant song poetry to keep me company.

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Shaken

Wednesday, July 2, 2003

Ok, so I think I’ve let enough time go for everyone to get a chance to read and vote for their favorite guest entries. Everyone did such a fabulous job and in tallying the votes (including my own), it was neck and neck and neck and neck, but I made an official decision and have awarded the title of Leia for this entry. While they were all crowd pleasers (after the shock and refusal to buy into the fakery petered out on the comments section), Leia seemed to both demonstrate knowledge of the running jokes and history of the diary, but also captured the spirit of the entry. However, because I’m like Bert Parks at the Miss America pageant (ok, I’m totally too young to know who Bert Parks is, but in my mind he looks like Bert Convy) and want to sob ‘You’re all winners to me!’ I will send each entrant one of my prized four Young Ones postcards (which I received in my DVD set, a birthday gift from Esteban). And Leia, because she’s super special, will get a Bad Bar mix CD and something else that will be a surprise.

Thank you to all who entered. You made updating really easy for a week! You all rock! Send me an email with your addresses. So I can kidnap you and keep you in my basement and make you crank out entries for me.

Ha ha. No. I’m kidding.

Ha ha. Really. I am.

Ha ha. Leave the times you’re normally home. Alone.

Ha ha. See? Funny. I’m one funny lady.

And also put in the email if you have a dog. And if it’s current on all of its shots.

Ha ha. Yeah. Put that. Ha ha.

Baransky Barista taunted me this morning through the loudspeaker at Sbux when I drove up.

‘Well, now, I used to know what you ordered, you liked a mint mocha, but now you’ve got your different drinks and you’re all fancy so I don’t know WHAT you’re having.’

I hate that little camera they have. I hate it all to hell. What the hell was she accusing me of? Changing my drink? It’s 89 degrees and humidity that requires a personal squeegee. Or maybe a small portable midget who would give you little midday sponge baths.

Oh, did I just totally skeeve everyone out, thinking about getting a sponge bath from Billy Barty? Which reminds me, in San Francisco, I was walking down Post Street behind a midget. And I was like ‘Whoa’. Midget’. Er’ Little Person.’ Because even my brain voice rushes to be politically correct. But still’ whoa’ midget. Hi. I’m from Wisconsin. We don’t get out much.

Anyway, Starbucks.

So I smirk at the menu camera and say ‘Venti iced tea with a packet of Equal.’

‘Sweetened or Unsweetened?’ She snarks. Because maybe the sweetened tea isn’t SWEET enough for me and I want to add Equal to Sweetened iced tea because that way it wouldn’t add extra calories or something. Because I’m fat, I guess. Or something. This is the only logic I can come up with there. Because otherwise, she’s just so stupid that she shouldn’t even be able to function.

‘Unsweetened.’

She continued barking through the speaker at me. ‘Oh’ we changed it. We changed! It’s new iced tea. It’s like a martini’. Well, we’ll show you when you get up here.’

Christ. I have one thing left in the world that makes me happy. One. Thing. Damned Starbucks black iced tea with a packet of Equal. That’s it. I cut chocolate, bread, honey, pasta, cereal, toast, rice, potatoes, and a bunch of other things that have flour or sugar in them. I can’t eat the Pocky I bought in San Francisco. I can’t eat Pixy Stix. I can’t eat Hob Nobs. I can’t eat Oreos or brownies or canned whipped frosting on graham crackers and I’m not drinking Diet Coke. It’s meat, fruit and damned Starbucks iced tea. Meat. Fruit. And iced tea. And I don’t like meat all that much. Don’t mess with my tea. The tea is possibly the only thing that stands between me and complete uber bitchdom.

I watched in horror through the drive up as they poured my tea into a different glass. The tea was the wrong color. I don’t think they put Equal in it because it was already sweetened with real sugar or something.

And then they shook it. Like it was a little fiesta at 7:15 in the morning. Because it’s not like I didn’t just wake up after not having enough sleep and now have to spend 12 hours at work. It’s not like I wouldn’t rather be in bed, curled up and dreaming as the sun begins to tickle my nose through the window behind me. No. I’d rather be sitting there waiting in the drive thru, listening to ice cubes rattling around as you try to make me feel like fucking James Bond and give me pansy-assed fake iced tea shaken and not FUCKING STIRRED.

So’ the new iced tea? Not so much.

I broke down and got a Diet Coke. I knew McDonalds wasn’t going to start throwing that bad boy around. They know what you want and they know how you like it. They serve it up cold, no fuss, no wait, cold and bubbly to your hand. They knew you’d be back, baby, begging for more. It’s just a matter of time.

Tomorrow, back on the wagon. I’m bringing my own iced tea to work tomorrow. And my iced tea isn’t going to have delusions of grandeur. My iced tea will be happy just being iced tea. Gah. I’m starting to sound like a 1978 self-help book. Mofo Starbucks.

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The look, the feel of cotton

Tuesday, July 1, 2003

I finally asked Esteban about the blue screen on the television. It seems that somehow, something I did with the stereo remote flicked something on the television, so that I had to push something on the television remote to fix it. I don’t know. Crazy Ken Ober Collin Quinn logic.

So I had off on Monday because this is my hell week. And I was feeling pretty guilty for spending almost the entirety of Sunday at Hogwarts, so endeavored to do something worthwhile with my day off. I first went out to breakfast for a mushroom and cheese omelet with Esteban (who got French toast even though he NEVER gets French toast. I suspect it was just to taunt me, as he is terribly passive aggressive). Then I went to the moulding place across town to check out the crowns for the dining room and the trim for the living room, as we still have a ring of The Ugliest Paint in the World around the base of the living room where we removed the old planks. After that, I was distracted by an extremely lovely play list on the radio, one that went from REM to Bush to some edgy song that I really like but have no idea who sings it but the singer sounds geeky hot to Ghetto Superstar, which NEVER gets radio play in Green Bay Wisconsin, so it was like the universe wanted me to drive aimlessly around until I blinked and found myself back in my own neighborhood. I suspect the Monte is part pigeon.

I decided to get a load of laundry going before I headed to Home Depot to compare pricing on mouldings. Then as I was picking up the laundry, I looked with dismay at the pile of unread books sitting on my nightstand. They are everywhere, every which way, sticking out of a basket below the table too. I decided to straighten them up. Then empty the garbage. Then before I knew it, I had embarked on a full fledged Cleaning Nazi campaign on the much maligned bedroom. You see, my bedroom is large (240 sq ftish) and because no one ever actually sees our bedroom, it becomes a dumping ground. All of the well meaning projects in the world go to die in my bedroom. There are piles of woolens, folded but ousted from their normal habit on the shelf in my closet in exchange for 42 t-shirts and a growing stack of jeans. There is a box full of clothes destined for goodwill (the kind of box that used to get filled with Too Snugs and now gets filled with Way Too Bigs’ heeee!), a hamper of unmatched socks (The Singles Club, I call it’ everything in my house has a pseudonym), a miscellaneous hamper containing clothes meant for the cleaners, a basket full of clean clothes that need to be put away and usually another basket of stuff that must be washed. And this week, there was not only my collection of yet unpacked luggage from San Francisco, but also a flurry of luggage from Esteban’s last trip (which I had refused to unpack for him because I try not to be codependent if I can help it).

So.

Cleaned up that stuff.

That simple sentence makes it sound so easy, but it wasn’t. It involved many trips to the basement and around the house, and three plastic storage bins filled with sweaters. Then I was flummoxed because the bins didn’t fit under the bed. ‘It’s ridiculous that I have eight closets in this house but no where to put these things’ I said to my teddy bears, all watching me from the back of the loveseat, including a disgruntled Gatsby bear who had fallen to the cushion and then been obviously used as a love toy by the cat, as his side was completely obliterated by cat fur. I turned to the linen closet, which was stuffed to the gills with blankets, sheets, extra pillows and my wedding dress and veil. I started pulling stuff out and realized that I only ever use three sets of sheets (the three which are 350 thread count or higher). I am loathe to put one of the plebian sets on because I won’t be able to sleep. After the smooth cool luxury that is a lovely set of white sheets, to sleep on anything less, I swear that I can count the threads with my ass cheeks. I grabbed one of the big 55-gallon trash bags and started filling it with no fewer than 12 sets of sheets. I couldn’t believe how many inferior sets we had inherited from June (who doesn’t see anything wrong with sleeping on burlap, apparently. She gets rid of sheets because she changes color schemes) or been given through the years, some of them still crisp and starched from their packaging. No more trying to hide behind a veil of ugly patterned percale. I will stick my nose up at cotton/poly blends and be proud. My brow had started to sweat as I filled that garbage bag to the top but I was buoyed by a sense of self-righteousness. I made plans to give them to some charity that sells them to the poor, figuring that it was better than a straw mat or some such.

Make as many princess and pea comparisons as you would like because was there ever any doubt that I’m a princess? Damn right.

You know, you may have determined from some of my writings, I am very particular about my bedding in ways that go beyond thread count. For instance, I have a very difficult time sleeping under anything that isn’t a down comforter. It feels too heavy and both too warm and not warm enough at the same time. Also, I hate printed sheets. At risk of sounding Victorian, I suspect that it gives me disjointed dreams. A nice white on white stripe is lovely, as is a pseudo-embossed delicate floral. Also, I greatly dislike dark colors on my bed in the summer, because they feel too hot. I have one set that I allow for the darkest winter months, a deep navy blue, but that is it. And if I use that set, the duvet must be white, for the contrast. In general, my perfect bed is white everything, but apparently I married a creature that emits some kind of man grease and turns his side of the bed this disgusting yellow color. I think it’s man grease. If I were an analytical type, I think I’d do a study, perhaps garb the bed in litmus paper and eschew the Egyptian cotton in the name of science, if it were not for the fact that Esteban is also a miscellaneous bleeder. That is, he must scratch or otherwise injure himself in the night, as there are always spots of blood here and there. Screw the Red Baron, my sheets have more to fear from a vigorous case of Esteban’s jitters. So I endeavor onward. Besides, the tell-tale marks make it easy to remake the bed and help me to avoid sleeping on his wear patterns.

After all of that cleaning, I had an enormous sense of completion, so I met Esteban at the parent’s house and went swimming with Ward & June. It was lovely. I didn’t wear sunscreen, and thus, magically, no hives. Although I’m still not sure if that is what caused it last time. I guess we’ll find out the next time I put it on. After several hours of pool time, Esteban went back to work and I went home and decided that the day had been quite lovely and wished that I could get that much done every day of my life.

In other news, I have this weird Tech Support flirt thing going on with one of my clients. He’s actually an intern, in his early thirties and apparently went back to grad school. He’s based out of San Francisco, going to grad school in Berkeley, but interning in New York, so we talked about The Bird in Berkeley and the differences in society between the coasts. The first thing he said to me when he found out that I was in Green Bay was ‘Oh, I just read John Irving’s The Fourth Hand which is based there? Have you heard of it?’ And I told him that Irving was my favorite author and then explained my whole theory that the book was a shout-out from John Irving to me and that I’m disappointed that he didn’t call if he was in town. And we could do lunchies. Yes, I am 32 years old and used the term ‘lunchies’. It was the ‘I carried a Watermelon’ of the conversation. I like to think its part of my charm. Also, he was tired on Friday because he had been up until 4:30 am reading Potter. Then today, I mentioned that I had started and finished Potter since the last time we talked and he was all pleased.

I love the harmless Tech flirt. It’s such a fun way to spend an hour on the phone with someone. It doesn’t happen often. In the hundreds of people I’ve talked to, I think I’ve only had legitimate Tech flirt with four different people. So it’s making my day a little better.

Speaking of innocent diversions, did they get a new Verizon Guy? Because he doesn’t say ‘Can you hear me now’ the same way in the new commercials. And his face looks somehow stretched out weird, like he was made from Silly Putty and someone did a squishy stretching thing to him. Man, that’s just crazy talk, messing with the Verizon guy! Besides, he’s my Can Do boyfriend! Don’t take away my Can Do boyfriend!!! My Evil Dead boyfriend is Hoover fodder and Russell Crowe just got married. I can’t take much more heartbreak this summer.

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One small step for man, one giant leap for my uterus

Monday, June 30, 2003

It was a lovely weekend, all in all. I had three ideas for three separate stories, including the continuing transformation of one that I’ve been resisting setting to paper, and yet it keeps infiltrating my brain. I think maybe I’m afraid that people will think it’s about me again. Like the baby story. Or, as I explained to Chauffi and Patsy Cline two weeks ago ‘The woman in the baby story is totally different than me. For instance, she keeps her house much neater.’ And probably takes kick boxing classes, but that is neither here nor there. I probably should have spent some time actually writing it down, but with not having a computer to work on and not wanting to save everything to disk’ blah, blah, blah, excuses, excuses.

I had a brief epiphany about the no sugar/flour thing. I believe, but I’m not sure, that sugar-free Jell-O pudding is ok. Note to self: check on that, because dammit, it seems too good to be true. I am entirely suspect of almost anything that makes me happy these days. Because if I do it and enjoy it, it MUST be bad for me somehow. I’m certain that we’re just seconds from learning that Coca-cola Inc is putting crystal meth in Dasani water.

I woke up early on Saturday, as is my general tradition. It was cold and threatening rain, but I wore shorts and a t-shirt in an attempt to make it warm outside by sheer will. I scurried to the farmer’s market at about the time it started raining, but ran between the drops and picked up some fresh white mushrooms and some very delicious strawberries. I believe that was the first market of the year, but it was packed as always with the trendy, the yupsters, the college professors and the folks who buy the old Victorian mansions on the river. The fish mongers weren’t there. I hope that doesn’t mean that they’ve quit, as I traditionally score some delightful salmon and whitefish from them, depending on their day’s catch.

By then I was starving, so I went to the snooty deli but then kicked myself when I remembered that I couldn’t get my normal vegetarian grilled sandwich, as the artisan sourdough bread it sat between would send me back into carbohydrate addict remission. I grabbed some freshly squeezed orange juice (quite the novelty in Green Bay, by the way, not a given as it is on the coast), and a sizeable fruit salad. I pouted at the display of snickerdoodles and then without thinking, popped a sample chunk of their rhubard scone. As soon as the sugar and flour hit my mouth, I froze. What had I just done? I have all sorts of moral fiber and understand why I shouldn’t have a snickerdoodle and then they wave a chunk of free scone at me and I become some kind of eating automaton? What is up with that? Then a little mutinous voice whispered to me ‘Well, you’ve already cheated, you might as well just get a couple of snickerdoodles for the road.’ And the logic’it was sound logic. But I held strong, shaking my head, thinking about how good the cold orange juice was going to be, promising myself a Starbucks iced tea after the morning errands. Math is hard. Dieting is hell.

I then reconsidered my itinerary and decided that I should load up on some protein post haste, otherwise I would be headlong into a bag of Oreos before the weekend was up. I drove across town to the butcher that I like, long jumped over the rain puddles from the growing deluge, and ordered a whole tenderloin and some chopped sirloin. Tenderloin is one of the few meats that I actually like quite a bit and doesn’t make me want to vomit when I look at it raw. Chopped sirloin, even though it costs more than some cuts of steak, is the only ground meat that reliably does not incur the wrath of the flutter tummy. I think it is because it is not questionable. Or perhaps they have hypnotized me with the price and I assume that I’m getting something that isn’t disgusting. I don’t know. Whatever the reasoning, it works. I then scurried to our wholesale club and picked up a truckload of broccoli, cheese, milk, and bananas. If you build it, they will come.

The rain had pretty much killed our plans of going swimming at Club ‘Rent, so Esteban went into the lab catch up on some work and I went home. Aha, but the entertainment system still had a blue screen instead of a picture. I threw in Mozart’s Requiem instead and made myself comfortable with a glass of iced tea and Harry Potter. And if there is a better way (with your clothes on) to spend a rainy Saturday afternoon, then I don’t know what it is.

When Esteban came home, I roasted the whole tenderloin in the oven (which is, by the way, my favorite way to make it, as it stays much more juicy and flavorful than cutting it into fillets and cooking individually. Also, it is practically fool-proof with a meat thermometer, and it’s best for there be parts of the loin that are medium rare, medium, etc.) and also saut’ed the mushrooms from the farmer’s market in my favorite wine (Hogue Johannesburg Reisling’ I’m a cheap date), butter, garlic, and fresh parsley. Then I steamed some broccoli (big deal in our household because it is one of Esteban’s most hated foods and I generally don’t make it for myself) and made some Fat Biscuits (which is what we call Pillsbury Grands) for Esteban, as they are his favorite. I was going to throw together a blueberry crisp, but then remembered that if I eschewed flour, I couldn’t make a crumble topping (although in retrospect, I probably could have used oatmeal, which isn’t an Atkins approved thing, but fits in my guidelines of no sugar or refined flours) and I wouldn’t be able to have it with ice cream, so I just decided to forget it. All in all, we had a quiet night. Esteban worked on his laptop and I read Potter. It was almost like we were actual adults instead of kids with credit cards and a house.

Sunday was a lost day. I did manage to go to the grocery store (for some Splenda, which is apparently a sugar substitute that doesn’t taste like ass, and where I also replenished my stock of the low carb bread that is perhaps made with Styrofoam, but is the only way I can understandably eat peanut butter) and make a run to Appleton to try on the cropped pants on sale at Lane Bryant and then decide that it was stupid to buy pants that I will only be able to wear for another two months and then will most likely be too lose again next summer (just like the shorts I bought last summer when they were snug, but are now falling off my ass and look sloppy as hell). But mostly I worshipped at the alter of JK Rowling. I didn’t even take time to read the newspaper, not willing to waste the strength of my eyes upon the stupidity that is our local rag. I had forgotten my reading glasses at work and thus trudged through the 870 pages blinking, squinting, and unfocusing every step of the way. I finished at 11:30 pm and then made myself some peanut butter and banana on toast and sat crosslegged in our living room, staring at my reflection in the television with the blue screen, drinking milk from my Koi fish tin cup, getting teary eyed about Neville Longbottom and how far he has come and how much I wish one of them would just give him a huge hug and tell him how lucky they were that he was their friend. Oh Neville sweetie, I’m so proud of you.

You know, this diary has over 600 entries and yet it continues to surprise and amaze me. For instance, whenever someone on a miscellaneous message board talks about their uterus, someone will inevitably respond with a Weetabix link. Which is sort of puzzling and also very cool. Somewhere I became the spokesmodel for uteruses everywhere. I’m not sure where to put that in my brain. I’m a bit puzzled, honestly, because it seems like an automatic. I’m always expecting someone to say ‘Aw, Ruth Buzzi did a schtick where she talked to her uterus in 1965.’ Because I always secretly suspect that I’m a hack.

So, I thank you. My uterus, of course, thinks you can all go screw yourselves unless bring it some freshly baked bread smeared with melted butter and honey, but there’s just no reasoning with that thing.

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Loathe

Friday, June 27, 2003

I’m one of those haters.

I hate. I can’t even help it. I hate people. I hate people I’ve never even met. I hate things. Some things I hate more than others. I immediately hate people with bumper stickers. I hate people with Nascar stickers even more, but the people who display their political or religious beliefs on their machinery makes me hate them. As though I couldn’t tell already from looking at your Volvo with the ecology license plate and the bike rack that you vote Green Party and pro-choice? Or from your Kia Rio that you like to be spanked? Or from your Suzuki SUVlette that you’re a lesbian?

I hate people who drive Ford Focuses, mostly because if I am stuck behind someone and the light turned green like two minutes ago, chances are good that they have chosen to roam this earth in a Ford Focus. I find it ironic that they are driving a car with the name of a state of mind that they clearly have yet to grasp. I also inherently distrust anyone who still has wood paneling on their car. Because they had to ask for it specifically and therefore they obviously can’t be trusted to think for themselves. Also, I know that they will decide two seconds before it’s too late that they absolutely positively must risk their lives to pull into the local Quiznos.

I hate people who decorate with Home Interiors. I hate potpourri. It smells like moldy flowers. I hate silk flowers because they almost never ever look like real flowers.

I hate guys who cut their lawns in those diagonal patterns. Like their day job is working at the big league stadium or something.

I hate comet cursors. I hate the abbreviation ‘omg’ or ‘lol’ or when people change the spelling of words to be kute. I hate web pages that blink at me. I hate pop up ads. I hate the person who is subsidizing SquirrelX’s banner ad campaign because she’s got to be on her eight millionth banner view. I think I’ve seen a thousand on my very own. (I mean, they’re really clever and everything but what the hell? It’s like a little game now. Good banner’ should I click’.gahh!!! The mystery is gone.)

I hate it when men with overhanging stomachs wear their pants below their natural waistline, as though they are hoping that it somehow counts that they still are only wearing size 34 pants. Just wear a belt, dumbass. And no, put down the damn Speedo. Also, I hate the person who brought back crop pants on men. They look wrong. Every guy looks either gay or part of the chorus of a South Pacific revival. And I probably shouldn’t wear them for exactly the same reason.

I hate the people who write for Damn Hell Ass Kings . Why? Because I want to be on Damn Hell Ass Kings and I’m so jealous I can barely stand it. Same goes for the people who get published on Salon. And the 25 people admitted to the University of Iowa Creative Writing program. And also Maeve Binchy. Because she’s mediocre and too damn rich to be so damn mediocre. And I still hate Wally Lamb because I Know This Much Is Suck.

I hate the fact that I am not independently wealthy. I’m really creative when I’m not burdened by eight million phone calls to return and 78 unread emails when I come back from a lunch hour spent driving around in a fugue state, constantly reminding myself why I shouldn’t just hit the freeway and keep driving in one solid direction for twenty hours or until my ass cramps up. And thus, I hate people who are independently wealthy and also can afford to have the fat sucked from their asses so that their asses do not cramp up.

I hate the fact that I pushed a button on my stereo and now, instead of a picture, I have a blue screen, and will have to wait until Esteban comes home and looks at me like I’m a vegetable and dramatically pushes one tiny button to make the picture come back. I hate the people at Sony for putting some Viagra crazy button on there that makes everything go blue and now I have to prolong the misery that is Adaptation.

I hate Nicholas Cage for having man breasts in this movie and ruining my normal Nic Cage chest groove with big saggy and hairy manmaries. I hate Meryl Streep. Not for anything particular that she did in this movie. I just have always hated her. I think it’s her face. I don’t like it when she smiles. I would substitute Glenn Close in almost every single Meryl Streep role ever. She is the green pepper of any movie.I hate green peppers. Red peppers are ok. Yellow and orange peppers are actually tasty, particularly in fajitas.

I still hate that woman at Tiffany’s. In the screenplay of my life, she will be played by Meryl Streep but have no lines and then unceremoniously snipped and left on the cutting room floor and everyone will point at her and laugh during the wrap party and she’ll wonder if perhaps there is a spot on her skirt.

And I hate the fucking Pillsbury dough boy. Because he is doughy and full of carbs and I’ve sworn off white flour and I’ll bet if I roasted him until golden brown and then schmeared him with butter and honey and then gorged myself, it would make me really happy.

Maybe the no flour/sugar thing has me a touch cranky. Yeah. I’m thinking.

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As empty as a drum

Thursday, June 26, 2003

I’m coming down with something, which explains my general malaise of the past two days. I skipped lunch yesterday and went home early, planning on doing all of my various housely things, such as dealing with the mass of unwashed clothes from my trip (and Esteban’s socks’ there are a buttload of dirty socks in the house. It’s a mystery, as I had everything done before I left, and I was only gone for five days but there is almost an entire load of just his dirty socks all scattered on the floor in front of his dresser in the bedroom. Was he changing his socks three times a day? Was there a different more nefarious purpose for their dirty status? The world may never know.), but I could do nothing more than make myself something for dinner and then stare blankly at my latest Netflix (Max, by the way, staring the most edible John Cusack in sort of prequel to World War II. I think it should have been renamed Trying too hard to be Schindler’s List, but that’s just me) until I kept blinking my eyes and feeling my head get heavier and heavier. Through sheer willpower alone, I managed to stay awake until 7:00 pm and then walked guiltily into the bedroom and fell immediately into a deep drooling coma.

Ten hours later when my alarm when off, I still felt as though I had been run over by a truck, so I used a sick day and continued to sleep, clocking a lovely 15 horizontal hours between the sheets. My mother would be so proud. In my dreams, I apparently threw a party that was graced by Bill and Hillary Clinton and I was flustered by the options of how to properly introduce them. Mr and Mrs. Bill and Hillary Clinton? Or win points with Hillary and introduce her as Hillary Rodham-Clinton? Then would I say Mr. and Mrs. Bill Clinton and Hillary Rodham-Clinton? But that sounds like I am saying Mrs. Bill Clinton, which alternately makes me laugh or pisses me off. Just Bill Clinton and Hillary Rodham-Clinton. Sounds good. ‘Grandma, I’d like to introduce you to Bill Clinton and Hillary Rodham-Clinton. Bill and Hillary, this is my Mafia Grandma.’ And I had a little social coup when Hillary did the pleasure eyebrow raise when I said ‘Rodham’. Hillary mentioned that she knew who I was and was acquainted with my work, cross-referencing another dream in which I was the opening reader for Margaret Atwood. And then as we walked away, Mafia Grandma sneered and said ‘Hrrmph’ they’re not so special’ fully within earshot of the Clinton/Rodham-Clintons. So close and yet so far.

I had planned to at very least deal with doing the vacation pictures today, but as is usually the case when I am off my normal rhythm, it is now early evening and I only have a watched DVD to show for the day. Esteban keeps telling me that I look cute, which is completely ridiculous, as I am wearing my cargo shorts that are so large that they sort of balloon out, giving me a more dumpy ass than normal and a kangaroo pouch even when I sit down, along with one of my retro t-shirts, also too baggy but possibly in a good way, no makeup and messy bed head hair. He always does that though, thinks I am cute au naturale. It makes me doubt his sanity.

I keep having these weird life moments when things get really crystalline and then fade again into the background. I needed iced tea earlier, my fingers itching for some of the icy Diet Coke that would enjoy sweating happily in my greedy little hand, so I hopped in the car and drove up the way to the Starbucks, deciding that I must be dehydrated. Then I stopped at the local mass merchandiser to pick up Harry Potter and some vitamins for Esteban, who has finally come to the conclusion that his are not the best habits of healthy living. Got the Potter, forgot the vitamins, but impulsively grabbed the Nora Jones CD. I wanted to go for a drive down to the Bay, but felt exhausted already, so I settled for a glimpse of it on the highway. Then with the windows rolled down, the aural cream of Jones liquefying my brain down to my toes, a hot gust of wind blew into both open car windows and up flew every single bit of car effluvia in my backseat, until the interior was a maelstrom of airborne receipts and straw wrappers and ATM slips. And just as quickly, the gust was gone, but it had whistled around my ears as it left and I felt as though two lips had lighted there, just for a second. And I looked out to the Bay and thought about conversations I had independently with friends last week, about how I am afraid to succeed and how I am afraid of what it might mean. And it was as though I had received an answer, just then. It was as though suddenly the sin wasn’t in trying and failing but rather in not trying hard enough. Instead of being not good enough, it is worse to not respect the good there is. And it was a release, saying ‘Go, go, go, go, go, do it all, it is time, it is time.’ And then I shook my head and drove down the hill to my house, sipping the iced tea that made all the difference and thinking about how the center of the tempest never moves.

Strangely, I no longer feel fat.

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Sweet dreams are made of these

Wednesday, June 25, 2003

It is surface of the sun hot here. Normally, I keep a window open in the bedroom because I enjoy lovely breezes but when I got home from work last night, the humidity of the bedroom had reached deep sea levels. Also, I had my yearly physical on Monday and had a mole removed, therefore cannot go swimming until at very least Thursday, which is like the gods are laughing at me, since swimming is the only thing this horrible muggy nasty weather is good for.

In other news, when Dr. Perky came in with my chart at my physical, she announced that I was ‘absolutely melting away’. As though I’m a lump of ice cream or something. (She also said that my breasts ‘looked really good’, which I took as a strange compliment until I realized that she meant that I just didn’t have cancer.) It was pleasant news, however, that I have lost 14 pounds since my last visit (for the Throat of Death that would not go away in the beginning of March). I’m definitely noticing a difference in strange places, like all of my bras are too loose and roomy. But I also realized that last year at this time, I had made an unreasonable goal of losing 100 pounds in a year. I didn’t write about it here, but in my little over-achiever mentality, I figured that I could do that, no problem. I also gave myself an escape clause of losing 52 pounds, which would be a pound a week. Minimum. And I expected to do this with the least amount of effort possible and without eschewing little fun things in life like Godiva chocolates and pancakes with real maple syrup.

You already know what’s coming.

The total compared to last June 11: 41 pounds lost. Of course, I’m disappointed in myself, although I don’t know what I expected, having not exercised seriously in the last seven months or so. Of course, it has been frigid and ridiculously cold for five of those months, but still. I feel like suddenly a year has snuck up on me and I’m running around with a scale yelling, ‘I’m late! I’m late!’

So I’ve reevaluated. Essentially, my entire ability to have lost what I have is based upon one simple theory: do the things I didn’t do. For instance, eating fruits and vegetables, drinking water, exercising, subsist on something other than bread, cereal and pasta, blahety blah blah blah. And it worked to an extent. I think it’s a sound scientific theory, since doing what I used to do made me gain weight, therefore not doing it should cause the reverse effect.

Thus, a counterstrike on Operation Hottie.

The new plan: same as previous, but also restricting sugar and flour-based products. The theory there is that I don’t think we’re meant to live on Wonder bread and I have a sugar love that is unmatched by any other. It’s like Half-Assed Atkins, I suppose, except that I have a problem with any eating plan that does not allow me to eat fruit, so that stays. Lots of fruit. And no more Diet Coke. When I don’t drink Diet Coke, I have a much better time of dropping the assapalooza.

I made the declaration to begin on Tuesday. Unfortunately, I forgot to actually pack anything for lunch or snacking, and my lovely Luna bars are packed with sugar, so I had a handful of dry all-bran, a small orange juice, and a big iced tea for breakfast. By ten, I was starving and thus coerced Penny and Carissa into going to the Olive Garden for lunch, figuring that I could inhale salad and soup and stay on track. The salad had croutons, the soup had pasta. Of course, I’m not actually doing Atkins, where one tiny carb can destroy something like days worth of abstinence but I picked around the croutons and pretended not to notice the few stray pasta rounds in my Fagioli.

By 2 pm I was starving again. It had to be prednisone related, as I noticed on Saturday I was perpetually famished as well. I chugged water and ate a handful of pistachios, the only nut that I can tolerate. Immediately after work, I went to the snooty grocery store by my house and loaded up on the safe foods. Lots of lettuce and baby spinach, snap peas, pre-cut fruit, bananas and plums, some hi fiber, low carb bread, cheese, brown rice, chicken broth, some stir-fry veggies, and a giant salad made at their yuppie bar, which is a habit of mine when I want to have a lazy dinner. Already I was hearing the siren call of sugar. I was mesmerized by some attractively packaged circus peanuts and had a brief fantasy of opening a pack of sugar Kool-Aid and wondered what the glycemic factor was if sugar was snorted it through the nose. I went home and inhaled the salad while watching Sex In The City DVDs. It helps to stare at impossibly thin people while eating, I think. It aids in the feelings of inadequacy essential to any serious life change.

The salad was not enough. I took a salmon fillet out of the freezer and put it in cold water. Then I ate some lo-carb bread with peanut butter. Then I made the brown rice with the broth and broiled the salmon, and inhaled that. I kept thinking about the one Oreo pudding cup that is in the back of my refrigerator, probably bearing an expiration date from December. And we have ice cream in the house. Ice cream! Fat and sugar and coldness all in one convenient Mouth-To-Ass container.

I’m probably going a little overboard. That is unfortunately one of my traits. Or as Esteban says, I am completely reactionary. The sad thing is that I’ve got a number in my mind. It’s a stupid number, certainly not thin or even standard issue weight for most people. But right now, it’s one that I’m liking. 67 pounds ago, the number was a pipe dream, just a general spot on the horizon to watch so that I didn’t get motion sick. But now I’m closer, much closer, and that number, it’s not as fuzzy. The details are getting sharper. The vision of walking into the Gap and not having the little perfect people sneer at me’ that’s very tantalizing. The ability to buy’ for myself’ a FCUK shirt. It’s almost too much to hope for, honestly, but ah well. So down with flour and pass the damn cottage cheese.

The circus peanuts still sound really good right now.

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Hi, have we met? I’m the wife of Kermit the frog.

Monday, June 23, 2003

Another bulleted travelog. Because it’s easier this way. Trust me. Easier.

 

     

  • I walked into Tiffany’s in Union Square, feeling the full weight of my unencumbered gold MasterCard in my DKNY tote. I saw a pair of diamond and aquamarine earrings that tickled my fancy. “Excuse me.” I said to the lady behind the counter who was haphazardly delinting a black fuzzy jewelry box. She ignored me. “Excuse me, could I see these please?” I said a bit more loudly. She continued to ignore me. “Excuse me, Miss?” I said quite loudly. “Yes?” She said without looking up from her task. “Could I see these aquamarine’s please?” I said. “The necklace?” She sneered at me, meaning a diamond encrusted collar that might have gone down on the Titanic. “No, the earrings.” I clarified. “I’d like to see them please.” She sniffed at me “They are two thousand, nine hundred and fifty dollars.” And then walked away. I was stunned. Had it been later in the day, had I had some caffeine, had I not have been already cowed into submission by an imperious Asian hair dresser, I would have said loudly “Yes, and I’d. Like. To. See. Them. Please.” But I was not. I thought for a moment about slapping down my plastic and saying “wrap them up” just to prove a point, but she never gave me the chance. Instead she was busy ignoring other tourists with money to spend. Later when I was telling Esteban about it, he was expecting me to then withdraw from my bag a small blue box and say “So these really weren’t that expensive and they’re quite lovely” and had her complete and utter lack of respect not left me aghast I would have done just that. I suppose she suspected that fat girls don’t have enough money left over after filling their faces.Boats. Yup. Boats.

     

  • Chauffi and I went to Jenfu’s literary reading in Berkeley with Mopie and La Wade (who is one of the most brilliant and hysterical people I think I’ve met and might just possibly be perfect. If there is ass out there to be kicked, I think Jen is the girl to do it. With science, even.) and then had a delightful dinner, followed by a rousing evening of Balderdash at two local Berkeley establishments. Everything was a small badger-like creature named Finnochio pelting us with argos. I think the evening left several of us lightheaded from laughter. I started out leading the pack on the board, but somehow ended up in very last place, left in the flurch quite soundly by the two Jen’s. There were so many hilarious things but the thing that immediately comes to mind: When given the word “fipple”, I wrote down “a false nipple”, which, when read out loud, produced the reaction “Weetabix!!”. I still don’t know how they knew it was me.
  • I still have a thigh bruise from my March trip.
  • Apparently, I make an easy mark for panhandlers. When approached for change, my companions had emotionless faces and while I said nothing, apparently I looked as though I wanted to cry a river of tears for the man. I got better at having no expression by the end of the trip and on the final day, three tourists asked me if I knew how to get to some place or another. Mission accomplished.
  • One evening while waiting for the lovely Ms. Fu to finish her ablutions, Pie, Chauffi and I hung out at a gay bar in the Tenderloin, despite the fact that none of us are indeed gay. We didn’t realize that it was a gay bar until we were long entrenched in our Sea Breezes and Lemon Drop shots (the empty glasses of which were fellated quite nicely by one who will not be named). Of course, the best juke boxes in the world live in gay bars, so we were plugging millions of Madonna, Erasure, and Abba songs and getting more and more rowdy by the moment. Chauffi, making his heartfelt marriage proposalJenfu had hoped for dinner of fondue but by the time she arrived, the three of us were completely and utterly plastered, playing a game of “Marry, Fuck or Kill.” I will apparently be Mrs. Bob Dole very shortly, while nearly everyone Chauffi ended up fucking would be serviced from behind. And apparently, Ms. Pie will be finishing her last will and testament in the next few weeks, shortly after having sex with Ursula the Sea Witch. Because each and every one of us is a very evil person. I also demonstrated my ability to sing exactly like Denis De Young and then we forced the Fu to drink many shots of whiskey to catch up. Again. Evil people. Chauffi declared that all of our assiduous thoughts of dinner were for naught as he could see a sign across the street which advertised pancakes, and therefore we must eat pancakes. Because there they were. Pancakes. It was all very logical at the time.
  • Or, as came tumbling from my mouth at one point, “Pantscakes”.
  • At the Pantscakes place, MoPie unveiled the Weetabix Birthday Extravaganza, which involved strange artifacts from Chinatown, including miscellaneous Chinese candy (I fear that there is a beef flavored on in the mix, but one may never know), some red and green printed paper, an orange pumpkiny toothpick thingy, some more strange candy involving marshmallows and perhaps orange marmalade, some lucky bamboo, and the piece de resistance, a six inch blue cock (of which I have pictures but you’ll just have to wait unless Ms Pie has a jump on the photo thing because she is very clever that way and there is one particularly interesting picture of me looking at the cock in abject horror that I have no doubt will be appearing on Anyone’s Any very soon.)
  • I named him Squishy. And he will be my love. Everyone admired my cock, then Jen began to taunt it. “Ba-cock!” I wanted to call her a dirty cock tease, but as she had just taken a shower, it really didn’t apply. Bemused Fu taunts the cock.
  • Ms. Pie has made me promise to display Squishy in a prominent place in my home and regularly take photos of him with perhaps that day’s newspaper to prove that Squishy is being adored. I am currently in search of a square platform for Squishy to stand upon. Every good cock needs a cock block.
  • We then hit the road for a Japanese karaoke joint, but we were racially profiled once we got there. Apparently, while I hit the potties, they were schooled by the Brind Russian lady about “no screaming, two drink minimum, two dorrar song” and then left with the suggestion that maybe we’d be better off in a private room, which was Brind Russian for “We don’t want your kind here.” We are uncertain whether they had problems in the past or if they remembered some of us from JournalCon. We headed to the Castro instead, along with all of the other people who didn’t get enough attention as children. Seriously, there was a three hour wait to sing. It was insane, but we did get to watch the Fu dance like a rock video while a fan gently fluffed her hair and then we bonded over our shared love of Xanadu. Now we are here, in Xanadu.
  • “Catnip for lesbians” has transformed into “dyke crack”. This was never more apparent when, while I was singing karaoke at The Mint, Pie yelled up “Weet! D.C.!” and I took a look at the audience.When Mo smiles, the world sings. I held the rapt attention of each and every lesbian in the place during my out of breath rendition of Fleetwood Mac’s “Gypsy”, complete with scary Stevie Nicks twirls. It was like cats watching a rather succulent canary. The women even offered verbal encouragement from the audience as I’d attempt the long-winded held notes. I shall never doubt the power of the force again.
  • Proof that the internet makes the world a smaller place: one of the cabs I caught from somewhere to my hotel was driven by Ratso, a very non-stereotypical cab driver in
    that he was clever and articulate and his cab smelled very pleasant. I love the electronic age. I really do. Go say hi to Ratso and call him if you ever need a pleasant cab ride in the city.
  • I wandered around The Mission with Patsy Cline, mostly book shopping and wishing for fog instead of piercing daylight. I found a book by Throcky. And bought it. And got all giddy. Because it’s THROCKY!!! I’m still all giddy. Gerber in Yuerba Buena Gardens.
  • Inexplicably, the ‘hi’ voice inside my head started saying “Que Lastima!” I still don’t know why. Perhaps because I am engaged to be married to Wilford Brimley.
  • Things I want to remember forever: Pie and I doing cheers from “Bring It On” on a street corner in the Tenderloin; someone in the backseat of the Watermelon screaming “Hey, lady, do you give good head” at the crème of society departing from the symphony; finding a plethora of Pocky and White Rabbit candy; the imitation of David the gay hairdresser that went from foppish Brit to foppish Scottish pirate-like creature; thinking that a Chinese restaurant smelled like cat pee and then having Chauffi turn to me and say quietly “It smells like pee in here.”; taking pictures of our breasts to the amazement and delight of Patsy Cline; “I would do her from behind”; wandering around Flax being in love with the art paper and stationery; the sense of wholeness I got in City Lights the way it answered the question that I’ve had for so long; and the lovely voice mail message from JenFu as I waited in the airport for my departing redeye late on Saturday night, telling me how much she can’t wait for me to come back, come back, come back and feeling all warm and squishy (and Ba-Cock!!!) about what awesome and cool friends I have and what a truly excellent adventure it has been.

 

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Tales from the Battlefield of Beauty

Monday, June 23, 2003

I didn’t die.

So much. So much. And I wrote an outline, but I left it somewhere, so now must traverse onward. I should probably wait to post this until I have pictures, but I won’t. Because I love you all too much to keep it from you. Yes, you. Love you more than all the rest of the readers. They don’t understand me but you, dear one, and I are soul mates.

I hadn’t been entirely happy with the funkitude of my hair. I found it to be less than Rock Star as the color faded into Lounge Act territory.  When I finally hooked up with Chauffi on Wednesday, he confirmed that it looked better when it was channeling Sharon Osbourne with dark tones, and finding myself with little to do and disposable income, I asked my concierge to recommend a hair place and then made an appointment for that afternoon.

Again, I would like to reiterate the need for a Greek chorus in my life. Or at very least a soundtrack, so that when I’d hear the music of impending doom, I could back slowly away and go out for coffee instead. But no. I have nothing but my poor misguided sense of self awareness in which to lead me through my days.

I went to a place called David & Friends on Sutter and was instructed to change. Right away I was out of my element. Change? Get naked to get my hair done? So immediately, I’m a bit off center because it’s nearly impossible to have self confidence when you’re sitting there wearing the chic version of a hospital gown and surrounded by people the size of eleven-year-olds. My stylist Tia was dressed very chicly, but I could tell right away that she was not really listening to what I was saying. “I want it to be more red, darker, I don’t like so much of the light brown and the blond streaks. I want to be more bold.” “More gold, right.” “No, bold! Darker. More red. Foiled with streaks and then colored all over with dark something so that I don’t have roots.” “Right, ok, we set you up good. You look real good. And we cut, yes?” “Yes, just a little to give it lift in the crown, but not a lot because I’m trying to grow it out. Basically a trim.” “Yes, we put lots of color, some blond, some red, some dark brown like eggplant, and some rich brown. We have fun! Fun!”

She proceeded to very carefully foil my head. I decided right then that she was either really new at this or really exact. I was nervous that there was one container that was larger than the rest and that’s what she was putting on my existing blond streaks. And after she was done foiling chunks, she did not color the rest of my head, but by that time, I think I had gone into a fugue state of denial or was so traumatized by sitting there gripping the smock closed so that my breasts would not break free that I had morphed into a little bleating lamb. I might have squeaked about the remainder of my hair and Tia said “Yah, we fix, we fix, but wait until process. Just wait.” Feeling chastised, I fled into a Marie Claire. After processing, she then painted my roots with what I thought was the bleach again. It was all very confusing and terrifying. Then after the wash out, I could see that there was a powerful lot of blonde happening on my head. In fact, while there were chunks of deep brown and a strawberry red, the majority of my hair had faded to a mousey blahety blahcakes. I told myself that it would get better when it was dry, reserve judgement for the drying. It just got lighter. I think I was just staring at the mirror in horror, which was easily read by the other stylists, as they began coming out of the woodwork to exclaim how cute my hair looked. “Nice work, Tia! That looks really good!” “Oh wow, I like what you did there, Tia!”

And then came the kiss of death.

“Wow, Tia, that looks really good. You’re really getting good at this.”

I wanted to scream. But I could not. My naked fatness kept me silent. I am so very ashamed. The meek will not inherit the earth. The meek will simply inherit really fugly hair.

I almost cried in relief when I was allowed to get dressed again, my head had been turned from rebellious fun into office carpeting. In shock, I signed over my credit card receipt, giving her the requisite 20% tip (yes, yes, I know! I know!), the total of which cost more than three trips to my beloved Stacy.

Later, at dinner, Jenfu declared that my hair wasn’t just overly streaked with blonde, but was bordering on platinum. I couldn’t quite explain how I went in asking for darker and redder and walked out with lighter and blonder, but Chauffi and Jenfu demanded that I call them and have them fix it. And not let Tia near my head ever again.

The next morning, I screwed up my courage and called. The scheduled me with Joseph. I did not know Joseph, hadn’t met him the day before, but even his name made me feel better. Joseph. Some svelte gay man who will recognize me for the lush presence that I am and fix the atrocity at once. He would take it on as his personal crusade. He would make me beautiful and we would depart, eyes full of tears for having survived the ordeal and come out on top the better for it. Joseph. My salvation’s name was Joseph.

Then my phone rang. Caller id was unavailable. It was Tia. She wanted a chance to fix it. She insisted that I come in and visit her. I feebly offered that I already had an appointment with Joseph, for whom the heavens parted and the gods of hairstyling shined down their graces, but Tia was insistent and apparently my kryptonite is impossibly small aggressive Asian women. Note to self: avoid Yoko Ono if at all possible.

I went back in and this time David himself discussed the color choices with me and oversaw the preparation of said colors. This time Tia simply did my entire head with red, basically undoing the foiling/chunking effects completely. Then, at one point while the color was processing, she did something to my bangs that I later realized was inexplicable razor cutting. I don’t even understand it, quite honestly, but now my bangs are really really short on top. In fact, everything is shorter, but perhaps I had been too distracted by the blinding blonde streaks to notice the first time.

In the end, everyone likes the Hair Duex the best. But the lesson learned: don’t cheat on your hairstylist. It’s bad for everyone involved. And also, I am a wuss.

 

 

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Not a Howl but a whimper

Saturday, June 21, 2003
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