Saturday, November 12, 2005

Dang it. I woke up too early

The problem with waking up too early is that it could be the most productive part of my day, but no. I have spent hours reading blogs on my favorite musicians web-sites. Today I enjoyed Death Cab's. I loved Nick's idea that there should be a new show with Jennifer Aniston called Friend. Did I mention that season 10 comes out this week? Not that I have seasons 5 through 9, I just like the idea of the fruition or completion that it brings to Media Play or Circuit City.
My other really important thought is about my hair. Sorry Adam, I am 125% girl. I imagine that I think about my hair as much as some people think about their cars or computers or their jobs or something. Not that I love my hair, oh no no no no no. I mean, it's fine (not in texture), I just mean that I don't spend this amount of time vainly thinking about how great it is. No. I spend this amount of time thinking how I can make it better. Or in todays case, acceptable. Two nights ago I bleached it. I do this all the time with mixed to positive results. Not this time. It's yellow. Like how Jack-thinks-blonde-hair-is-yellow yellow. Luckily the lower half is still blonde. Makes a statement I think. The statement being that I couldn't be bothered to apparently TRY and make it look regular. And regular is basically my goal in life for my hair. So after two days with baby chick color, I am freakishly liking it. Helen Hunt (of Team America fame) dyed her hair for the movie Pay It Forward. She played a poor, white-trash woman with yellow hair. She said that after living with it for a few months she forgot what normal was and started to think that this new color was hot. And that maybe she would keep it up after the movie.
Luckily for her, Helen has people like Paul Mitchell (the actual guy) or Oribe (add italic) or Sally Frersherberrrrr (Meg Ryan's shag making lady) to bring her back to her lovely natural (looking) shade and basically smack the white-trashness out of her. It's infectious. Like country music. Let a little in and and it (country music, bad dye jobs) will take root and weed out all of your better instincts (college, indie bands, colors God meant for you to have on your head).
My other thought about hair is this: How come you can always feel that one extra long hair touching the back of your arm? Sometimes it is only hanging down and inch or two past your actual length, yet you know it's a dead stray, not attatched! (Ok, so this topic deserves no exclamation points, apparently just a lot of parenthesis) This stray hair can drive you mad. You look- no hair. You grab and grab- no hair. Then an hour later you feel it again. It's so annoying. And this is soooo not interesting, except to maybe Kirsten. I guess pandering to one third of my audience isn't too bad. Also. How does hair "sew" itself into any and all fabric? I studied fashion design and production which included a healthy understanding of all kinds of weaves and construction methods, yet this one is a mystery.
Also a mystery? Why I would even put this into print. Oh yeah, I woke up too early. There is a very good reason I should always stay in bed until nine.

Wednesday, October 26, 2005

Literature is for Smarty Pants, Like Me

I'm joking of course. I want to write about this because I just read a brilliant collection of essays by Nick Hornby called The Polysllabic Spree. (High Fidelity, How to be Good, A Long Way Down, About A Boy) Go get it now. Go read it. Each one covers a month of his life in terms of what books he's bought and which he has actually read. He's a riot, even if you don't get all the references. And trust me, I don't. That's hard for me to admit. I like my title (self assigned) of being "well-read". I hide behind it like it's a talent or character trait of worth. It is neither.
Now, I love to read. A few years back I gave myself a challenge to read as many classics as possible. I think I am doing fairly well. So his book spoke to me. It is interesting to note (Oh, it's not? Dang it.) how we often measure our self worth with what or how much we've read. I was making the point to a friend recently that I think that people often claim an author is their favorite, not because of the books they wrote, but simply because they read them. Was Dumas really the man that understands your soul and puts it on paper? Or are you just so stoked to have finished one of his lengthy tomes? I know this feeling. When I have just finished a long novel written a good one hundred and fifty years or more before I was born, I feel ecstatic. I want to brag and tell everyone I know. That what? I read a book? This should be a given. If you run a marathon or get a big promotion or even bake some muffins you get praise and recognition. But reading? When I crow to my roommates that I just finished The Sound And The Fury (this is fictional, it's still on my to do list) or something comparable, they look at me with blank stares or worse... the "oh yeah, I read that in high school". The dreaded phrase. Dun dun dunnnnn.
This is why my task is so fruitless and frustrating. Have you ever glanced at the recommended reading list in the back of a Penguin Classic? There are usually 100 books listed of which I have read seven. And I thought I was doing so well! No one cares if you've read Madame Bovary (overrated) or Crime and Punishment if they have read The Complete and Unabridged Works of some random Peruvian Nobel Prize winning biographer of authors more obscure and foreign than he. It becomes about one-upmanship. The deeper you get, the more you realize that you will never win, and the more you want to.
Now this gets dangerous. As I have been guilty of using this as a social weapon. I have a friend who is publicly lauded as prettier, friendlier, and more talented in every field imaginable. I think we all have one of these friends. I get so bothered at being compared to her in areas I never wanted to dabble in, let alone conquer, that I build up my arsenal where she cannot touch me. Literature.
Side note. This often happens in families. The oldest son is a football star, so the next son will choose baseball. Big sister is a ballerina so younger sister will be an artist, like Amy.
With friends you often have the exact same interests, it's why you are friends in the first place. And everyone knows that your best friends are your biggest competition. And at a party where you are competing for the same four loser boys, or a parents house of one of said boys, you must assert your superiority.
Now, mystery friend does not need to assert her superiority, it is always done for her. And then the collective mass of people turn to me for either confirmation of her miracle talents or to ask how I fair in the same stupid field. Fun fun. So forgive me when I occasionally sneak in the occasional reference to a book that will make her look "less", or prove one of three things.
1- I am not in college, nor have I finished college. Yet I am not a Jerry Springer loving loser. I read Books! (capital B!) Big Books! Ones that don't get read anymore. I am a thinker. Yay me! Love me! Please love me!
2- She has not read these books. Nor will she ever, and if pressed, she will admit as much. She could not even if she had the time. They would go over her pretty little head. Not really. I am just being petty now.
3- Reading is better than (insert random humanities subject here). It is lasting and worthy and a noble pastime. I will have children that will save countries and cure diseases because their mother was a reader!
We can hope. Yes this turned into a tirade about the contest that is being a single female. See Queen Bees and Wannabees for more. Or just rent Mean Girls. Or buy it, cause it's freaking hilarious and true. And admitting as much has just negated all of the Dickens I was hoping to barter with at my next party.

Friday, October 07, 2005

Happy Family

Cute Kirsten got married!!! To Dargolas! He's cute too! And they have a cute apartment! And they have cute wedding photos and cute love and they are cute and grrrrrrrrrrrrgledl dangit! I can't write with any sort of meaning or eloquence tonight. But I am on this site, and how often does that happen? Can I talk about my other favorite people? (Kir and Dar being the tops!) I like Jack. I love him too. He says cute and funny things. Like Chanilla Dr. Pepper. Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper. He says I am the funniest person he knows. And he says that he is always "cracking her up", about grandma Marguerite, and he is. And today "someone's dad gave a box for grandma", the mailman brought a package for mom. Ha ha ha. So cute. And today I curled Abby's hair for school and she was so enamoured of herself that she spent 10 minutes arranging the curls before deciding to change into a "cuter outfit". To match her cuter self. And another cute person is someone named Caytlon. Different than cute Caitlin, another favorite. More later. Probably much later. You know me.

Tuesday, May 31, 2005


Why does opportunity knock when your makeup has worn off, you didn't wash your hair, and a passenger has just spilled tomato juice on you? It is also at hour 13 of a painfully weary day that started at 4 AM (started work, not wake up!). Yes, this is when the United States Men's Volleyball team all lumber onto my plane. All of them. All of them strapping, tall, clean cut and foxy. All on my little plane. And I am looking like the saddest, little orphan Dickens could've ever conjured up for this day and age. One by one they pass me on their way to their seats. Smiling and polite. I want to hide in a hole. There are no holes on an airplane. Nor are there available corners to touch up makeup and hair. Too bad I spent my last break finding new spots on my face to irritate and split ends to, well, split. Should've maybe brushed my teeth, hair, lint off the sweater etc... Oh well. It wasn't an opportunity anyhow. I just would've liked to imagine them seeing me at my best. Or at least my most average. This isn't so much a blog as an internal rant. Is there a difference?

Sunday, May 08, 2005

I can't believe I got the right password!

I have blogged all of once due to my serious attentiondeficitdisorder that prohibits me from remembering passwords or user names and what-not. However, I think I've got it! Yay me! I just giggled my way through Kir's blogs and want desperately to write something fun and interesting. Too bad. I am a glut of tired and grumpy thoughts, mainly focusing on the masochistic idea of calling up old dates or boyfriends to ask them what was the deal breaker for them? What about me is so repelent to men these days? Boo hoo, I know. It's a serious smack myself upside the head and leave the pity party kind of situation. I will write something genius (why not?) in a couple of days.

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