Tag Archives: 365 Project

Battling the Mess Monster

5 Nov

The Mess Monster.

Last night I went Monica Geller on my apartment.

I don’t know why, but I couldn’t. stop. cleaning.

I cleaned absolutely everything.  I went through junk drawers, cleaned out closets, scrubbed carpets, wiped down furniture; I was overtaken by a serious disease.  I started at 7pm and didn’t stop until after 1am.  I didn’t even want to clean. I just noticed the next dirty thing while I was working on cleaning something else.  Most of the evening was a blur but I faintly recall a long, yellow, rubber glove.

That means things got seriously, seriously, serious.

I can’t help but think that if I could only get to the root of what overtook me last night, I could replicate the experience in the future.  Perhaps I could extend it to something other than the house.  With that kind of overwhelming dedication to completion of a task, I could do anything.  I could build a tree house.  Or take up upholstery.  Or write a novel.

No, scrap that last one.  I’m writing enough this year.

I’m disappointed that I didn’t take a blood sample during the whirlwind.  I could have sent it to a lab for some tests.  Maybe it would reveal something in my system that led to this awesomeness and I could recreate it in the future.  Maybe I could even have it synthetically engineered and put it on the market for others.  Wouldn’t it be awesome if you spend 6 hours yesterday on something you haven’t wanted to do in a really long time but needed done?  I reorganized my pots and pans.  Do you have any idea how much time and frustration that will save me in the coming months?  Things had escalated to the point where I couldn’t even nudge the cabinet door the mess of metal inside would clamor about and fall out to the floor.  My carpet had a variety of mysterious spots on it that needed some thorough treatment. And the junk drawer that had too much junk in it for me to be able to locate the junk I actually needed? Fixed.  

I know you’re thinking about those areas of your place right now that need some hard love.  I know because yesterday, I was you.  And let me tell you, today feels glorious.  I might just dedicate the rest of my life to attempting to recreate the happening so that I can take blood, test it, synthetically recreate it, and sell it to you.

Listen, I have bills.

So tell me your dirty hiding places.  Really, I’m curious.  Where is the spot in your house that you need to seriously get a handle on but haven’t made the time?  I appear to have had many: junk drawers, closets…but the big winner was the pots and pans cabinet.

Tell me, dearest readers: where’s your mess monster hiding? ♣

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Rental Car Lust

4 Nov

I’m in lust with my rental car.

Like, bad.

For those of you just tuning in, 1) where have you been all my life? and 2) my major form of transportation was totaled not long ago, leaving me a fresh tutor of the public transportation system and a sad, sad girl.  

Apparently the insurance company decided to brighten our lives by giving Dave and I free use of a rental car for five days.  I don’t know why five.  I’m sure there’s some insurance algorithm to it.  Or maybe it’s just a monkey and a prize wheel; I don’t know.  All I know is I haven’t been this excited to be on four wheels in a long time.

To truly understand the complete and total lust I have for this vehicle, you have to understand that I haven’t had a car in my possession ever that’s been from the same decade as the current year.   Or hasn’t had a variety of dents and bangs and difficult personal problems to deal with.  I’ve spent a lot of time smooth-talking my cars and trying to encourage them to carry on with their lives in spite of their troubles. For the most part, I’ve just been thankful to have something that can get me from Point A to Point B, lack of air conditioning, power windows, power locks, a trunk, and two back doors aside.

Last night I sat in the car and blasted the air conditioning just so I could wriggle with excitement at its existence.  I played with the windows.  I admired the quiet, almost indistinguishable hum of the engine.  I bought groceries and when I got to the car, there was a trunk to put them in. Like, a nice sized trunk with a top that didn’t weigh fifty pounds and slam back down on my left arm if my strength failed while loading things inside with the right arm. As I pushed the grocery cart back into its stall, I lusted hard over that beautiful, working, nice-exteriored, unproblematic car like it was a high school crush.  And I have to give it back Monday.

That’s like giving me a puppy and then telling me to murder it.  I absolutely will not murder a puppy.

I’ve thought about a getaway plan.  I want to ride off into the sunset with this reliable, simplistic, capable car.   But they have my information on file and I can’t imagine I’ll get very far before I’m sent to a place that doesn’t require transportation beyond my own two feet back and forth from the mess hall.

I bought a five dollar lottery ticket when I was at the store because it had a  picture of the car on the front and promised to give away 10 to lucky winners.  I got caught up in the idea of a reliable car from the 2000’s.  I thought of how ridiculous it would be but was focusing more on how possible it was.  After all, that car has POWER WINDOWS.  The lotto ticket didn’t even have to offer a brand new car.  It could have just offered one from the last ten years and I would have peed myself if I got a car icon in and of the 12 scratch off squares.  But I scratched and scratched and nothing came but disappointment and the sinking realization that I am a complete and total moron.

I walked back to the car and admired its shiny exterior, its unworn tires, and its promise of reliable transportation and deeply regretted the 5 dollars I had just wasted on a scratch off ticket.

 I needed that money for the bus next week. ♣

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Hot Child in the City

3 Nov

Okay, here’s the thing: I’m repeatedly failing at posting on time.  Technically, I can post any time I want.  But as my regular sheep know, I aim for about 9am.  

But I haven’t actually pulled that off in quite some time.

Part of it is lack of sleep and a general inability to function on any level of intelligence. The other part is I have something like 60 posts to go and I’m having one of those lulls in inspiration.  As it turns out, after you post about 300 different things it becomes a bit overwhelming to imagine posting about 60-something others.

So in order to meet my posting requirement today but to avoid just writing a post about how I’m a failure, here is what I believe to be the third installment in “The Jackie Blog of the Past” posts.  This post, originally published in 2007, is from back when I had my old blog on a another server in a land far, far away.  As I browsed through the attic of my cranium of yore, I was amused by my current lack of personal transportation juxtaposed against this retelling of my frustration with it when I first moved to the city.  Enjoy.

Monday, September 10, 2007

Hot Child in the City

(Read: Stupid, Country Girl in the City)

I was given my dad’s old car this summer for my birthday. In part because my parents knew how hard it was for me to get decent groceries and transport them on the dirty, neglected child of Pittsburgh that is the transportation service. Mostly, however, it was because he got a convertible.

Convertibles and my family don’t go together well. I grew up most of my life wanting nothing more than to finally be able to afford both milk and cereal at the same time. Or something other than macaroni and macaroni for dinner. That being said, it blew my mind to be sitting in a car that was less than two decades old, running, quiet, and spacious. Oh, and a convertible. I actually felt awful and wanted to put a sign on the door that said “We can’t afford this!” in bright, orange crayon andmy own blood.

Regardless, my father is now somewhat more capable of completing his journey to fifty years old since he’ll be driving the depressing path to it in his nice car. And, luckily, I now have a grocery wagon with which to make frequent trips to Giant Eagle, a poorly named grocery store where they actually don’t sell any eagles at all.

Unfortunately, I’ve also become a bit of a taxi service. It’s not that people ask so much as it is that I offer…because I know how much I liked rides when I was a vagabond. Today, for instance, a good friend of mine mentioned he was headed downtown and wanted to know if I’d join him on a shuttle ride while he made some errands. I offered to drive him instead. Like an idiot.

So there I was, in rush hour traffic, driving around the city that’s impossible to navigate even when it’s 3 in the morning. I’m also too stubborn to pay for a parking garage….so basically I left at 4, drove around the city until 5:30, dropped him off and said goodbye. I got home at 6.

Some of this has to do with Pittsburgh’s impossible parking situation, and most of it has to do with the fact that I’m a bumbling idiot.

So these are my days in Pittsburgh. I’m either driving around downtown, wondering if I’ll wreck or find a parking place first, or I’m at home watching my housemate’s cat try to hump mine. TV altogether bores me at this point in my life. For some reason, when the decision to relax in front of the tube is juxtaposed with a good cat rape, I can’t stay focused on the TV.

Tonight, however, I get to change things up a bit and go to an audition downtown. Oh… well I guess the only part that’s different about that is the intention. I mean… I’ll still be driving around like an idiot again. My audition’s around 9. It’s 6:15.

I’d better leave now if I’m going to find parking. ♣

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Visits to the Lady Doctor: A Voluntary Violation

2 Nov

So I had my annual gyno appointment Monday.  It was a hoot.  It always is.

If you’re a dude, don’t stop reading just because I said “gyno”.  Don’t worry; it’s going to be okay.  I’ll ease you into it.

I don’t like going to the doctor.  I know that probably very few people do.  I’ve never really met anyone excited about it.  But I like to think that somewhere out there in the world are people who really enjoy the feedback and want all sorts of probing questions asked of them and to be poked and prodded and looked at with one eyebrow up and a look of distaste for their physical form.

But I’m sure even those folks don’t enjoy vagina doctors.

Listen, I’m just calling them what they are.

I always have to answer all these questions about myself on a little form before I can be seen.  They’re the same questions I answer any time I go to a doctor of any sort: smoking, drinking, sexual activity, blah blah blah.  But this year I found a new one: “Do you wear your seatbelt?”

This seems strange to me on many levels.  Mostly on the level that I’m not entirely sure how whether I wear my seat belt directly impacts the health of my Twinkie-lee.  Obviously if I’m in a car accident there are many physical concerns, but to be honest the safety of my Sugar Basin was never one of them.

Usually when you tell the truth on those questionnaires, you have to have a firm talking to from the doc when they see you.  Luckily, I wear my seat belt, so I didn’t have to have an in-depth discussion about the impact of wearing one for the sake of my Lady Jane.  Though I must admit, I was tempted to just for a good time.

Instead I got to have a lively conversation about a separate question for which I chose to tell the truth: “Do you exercise regularly?”

It’s the term ‘regularly’ that I really can’t get around.  So I checked ‘no’.  And seeing that my weight has increased each year in parallel to my age, my doc decided it was time to have a chat.  I explained that even though her chart says I gained weight from last year, what she doesn’t know is that I actually gained a lot of weight since last year and over the past few months have lost it.

She was unimpressed.  Rightly so.  After all, I’m a little more Jabba the Hutt-y than I would prefer.

I think the real kicker was when she asked what I was doing and I emphasized that I’m eating better and walking a lot (thanks again, no car).  Her response was “Walking is what I tell my 80-year-old patients to do.  Kick it up a notch, k?”

She really is very charming.

So after I felt all fat and disgusting, she violated me, as vagina doctors are paid to do.  There’s something so cold and calculated about it. I appreciate her holding casual conversation with me as she geared up to probe my Cave of Harmony, but I can only be so chummy when you flash a cartoon-sized economy tube of “EZ GLIDE” jelly and squeeze it into your hand as we converse.  Under any other circumstances, I would run away screaming and fumble for my phone to dial 9-1-1.  So the fact that I’m paying her to do it to me makes me feel like there is a deep, deep injustice taking place here.  Or perhaps something prostitutional.

I like that new word I just made there.  “Prostitutional”.  It sounds patriotic.

At any rate, there needs to be some word for it, because “annual check-up” doesn’t really capture the magic of the moment.  

I’d like to think that I’m on the path toward healthy living.  Actually, I know I am because I’ve been consistently losing weight and eating better for a few months now.  I think that when I’m all svelte and wonderful and people ask what my secret is, I’ll tell them my vagina doctor yelled at me.  I’ll tell them I did it for the sake of my Ace of Spades and nothing else.  They’ll be surprised to hear that weight gain was such a concern for the Wonder Down Under and I’d like to see the reactions.

Especially when I tell them that’s why I’m always sure to wear a seat belt too. ♣

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I Finally Learned How to Use the Bus

1 Nov

It's so big and scary.

Oh man, only 10 Lollipop Tuesdays left.  Whatever shall you do with your Tuesdays in 2012?

Cry, that’s what.

Happy Lollipop Tuesday, ya’ll.

In light of the Great Car Totalage of 2011 (also known as The Day of Sorrow), I decided it would be a good time to hone my bus skills.  And when I say ‘hone my bus skills’, I actually mean ‘learn how to use the bus’.  I’ve been doing the whole car/walk/bike thing for every one of my almost 6 years in the city because the idea of mass transit paralyzed me with fear.

There have been two exceptions: when I was with a large group of friends (monkey see, monkey do), and when the Burning Crusade Expansion for World of Warcraft was released.  I had to take a train out of the city to get to a WalMart, where I stood in line for the midnight sale because I was a sad, sad slave to the massive multiplayer online fantasy game

There’s no judging on The Jackie Blog, so stop it.

Anyway, I’m carless and it’s cold.  And while I still walked for miles out of fear of the bus system, it’s gotten a lot easier to try new things under the umbrella of a Lollipop Tuesday Adventure.  I’m happy to report that I’ve competently used the bus without a single familiar face to ride with me for an entire week. 

But since I’m sure lots of you live in the city and think that’s pretty lame (and you obviously don’t follow the ‘no judging on The Jackie Blog rule), I thought I should go a step further and experience the Megabus as well.

For those of you who aren’t aching for a cheap way to get from Point A to Point B on a regular basis, allow me to enlighten you to the ways of the Megabus.  You may have seen them rolling around the U.S. or even Europe.  They’re bright blue double decker buses with an enormous picture of a portly, cherry-cheeked guy in a bright yellow uniform touting seats for just one dollar* (*plus .50 registration fee).  It’s somewhat true that you can get a seat for one dollar.  It’s more true that the first 5 people to book a seat on a bus get it for one dollar and that the price goes up from there.  To get a seat for just one single George Washington, you have to book pretty far in advance.  It might be best to go by the “eh, I might go to NYC 5 months from now.  I’ll book it just in case” method. 

All the one dollar nonsense aside, it’s still a cost-effective mode of transportation.  For some routes, it’s half the price of a train and still well below the price of a Greyhound.  In most cases it’s also faster.  And the only thing you sacrifice is your personal bubble, any sense of comfort , and the ability to drink, eat, or pee comfortably for the duration of your trip.

They seem to have a pretty lax tracking system wherein you only need to get in line and have your reservation number handy.  They don’t ask your name, they don’t ask for ID, they don’t check bags, they don’t do anything that you would expect a transportation service to do.  You just give them a number and you board.

Sometimes you’re boarding in the middle of a much larger trip.  For example, there is a stop in State College between Pittsburgh and New York.  If you’re boarding at the midpoint (State College), you have to get bold because when you board, every New York passenger will have a pile of junk on the available seat, a pair of headphones in, and look mean as possible so you don’t choose to sit by them.  And you can either wander around to look for the folks who will willingly give up their seat with a little eye contact pressure, or you can just march right up to the folks who splay out all their belongings in their area and ask them to please move.  

Personally, I find the latter much more amusing and gratifying overall.

On the return trip, I was blessed by the Megabus gods, who made it appear as if the company had overbooked and sent a second independent charter bus to pick up the excess customers.  But thanks to a bundle of no-shows, the extra bus wasn’t necessary.  Having already been set on a course to Pittsburgh, however, the driver was willingly accepting passengers.  So I stepped on the bus expecting it to be fully crowded with cranky, tired New York folks and instead found myself on board with only 3 other humans in site.  I had 1/4 of the bus to myself and it was glorious.  

It reminded me of  another Lollipop Tuesday when I found myself in an entirely empty movie theater.

Sometimes you get a little unexpected reward for mustering up the mojo to try something new. ♣

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How to Be a Good Houseguest

31 Oct

Well, we’re staring down the barrel of November, folks. That means that in what will seem to only be a few short days, we will fly through the holidays season with every moment full of angst, hurriedness, and guilt. I’m so looking forward to it, arent you? So allow me to address a holiday matter before the holidays are truly upon us: How to be a good houseguest.

Being a good houseguest is a crucial skill. Not only do you want to ensure you have a place to stay when you’re away from home so you don’t spend your holidays in a hotel, but you would also like to not completely ruin your relationship with the host. And having had a plethora of folks shack up at my place, I am deeming myself an authority on the matter. Heed my words, oh wonderful and knowledge-seeking followers.

How to Be a Good Houseguest

1) Leave it how you found it.  Doesn’t that seem simple? But that means everything. It means making the bed to the best of your ability before you leave. It means cleaning up after yourself when you put your feet up and have a snack somewhere in the house. It means that if you use their towels or washcloths or anything else they offered you that you give them back at the end of the run and even offer to throw them in the washing machine.

2)  Be gracious for everything.  If they make you food or offer you a drink or got a different kind of bath soap because they know you are allergic to theirs or whatever they may do to make you feel at home, be gracious. That includes eating whatever they are kind enough to make and saying thank you for it.  Hey, if you dont like it you can sneak out on the town and eat something else. Or pack granola bars for such an emergency.

3) Offer to help.  With anything –  dinner, cleaning, whatever.  If there are dishes to be done and some of them have been dirtied by you, help.  Insist on it. Because no matter what the host says, they’re completely and utterly thankful for the helping hand. After all, they’d rather be spending time with everyone than spending all their time cleaning up after them.

4) Maintain. Sure, you were given a guest room for the duration of your stay, but that room is still part of a house that is not yours. So while you should feel free to make yourself at home you should not feel free to live like a complete slob in that room until your departure.

5) Enjoy yourself.  I know all this seems like a lot of fuss and trouble but it’s really not.  Essentially just offer to help here and there and clean up after yourself. Easy peasy.  Remember: above all the host just wants you to enjoy yourself. So kick back, relax, make yourself feel at home (so long as your home is not a nest of digustingness) and enjoy the stay.
And a sidenote for good measure: If you can’t commit to doing any of the above, you should stay at a hotel.  Because there, people are paid to clean up after you, you don’t have to be grateful for it, and regardless of how you live in the room they provide you, you are always welcome to come back again.

Happy holiday season folks. May all our relationships stay in tact. ♣

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Hallowhores

30 Oct

I think that instead of participating in Halloween this year, I’ll donate my time to community service and hand out cardigans on busy street corners.

I’ll focus strongly on college campuses and high traffic party areas.

Now, I’m wary to write a post dedicated to Hallowhores because it really is a very popular rant topic as of late.  Apparently this year’s cold front (the east coast has pumpkins on their front steps covered with snow) has highlighted the tenacity of the Hallowhores. I always thought folks were just turning a blind eye to the fact that Halloween is now an excuse for girls to dress up like the slutty sluts they always wished they could be.  But I guess now they’re concerned they may get the flu.

Or steal their boyfriends and husbands.

Dave came in the door from his show last night and had a look of slight terror on his face. He had just gotten off the bus, where a girl in a Sailor Moon costume boarded. (*cue music* Fighting evil by moonlight/Winning love by daylight…)

In her infinite wisdom, she had decided to go commando in her tiny little Sailor skirt.

For those of you unfamiliar with exactly how dangerous that can be, here is a picture of the offenders costume of choice.

I've decided to use an art doll image because all over examples were borderline pornographic. Yes, even the actual cartoon. It is, after all, anime.

Not much room for a breeze there.

Dave said every guy on the bus didn’t take their eyes off her. And when she tripped on the way out, the women joined.

I asked Dave if he got a shot of the front or the back.  Luckily (relatively speaking) it was the back. 

There is an obvious Sailor Moon joke here.  Just know that and be grateful that I spared you.

Now, call me a grumpy old conservative coot, but I find sporting an outfit with such a short skirt to a party at which she was almost indubitably going to get wasted a poor, poor choice.  And since she can’t even walk well in all that beautiful sluttery, I would argue against the choice all the more.  But alas, it’s a free country and we must let women wear very little and flash entire buses full of people every year on Halloween.  After all, it’s a holiday.

You know, on second thought perhaps I should revise my community service calling.

Cardigans and underwear. Yes.  It’s obvious now that only one will not do.

I’ll go get boxes and labels right now. ♣

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I Have Met the Grumplepuss

28 Oct

Yesterday whilst on my way home away after work, I encountered the Grumplepuss.

I have used this term freely to describe persons with unnecessarily negative attitudes.  I had no image for the term, nor did I think to create one.  But yesterday in a Ma & Pa record store, I looked to the front counter to find the folks in charge and was instead greeted by this at the register:

The Grumplepuss

This, ladies and gentlemen, is obviously a Grumplepuss.  Though, her terrible attitude is not her fault entirely.  As Dave chatted away with the owner, Grumps loved up on me a like a soldier home from war.  After I gave her a few pats at the front counter, she jumped down to follow me around the store until I was finally convinced to sit down and give her some sweet cat lady lovin’. 

Even when content, a Grumplepuss can only look so pleased.

It was during this love fest that I noticed her terrible breath, her unkempt coat, and the gunk that had gathered around her eyes and lingered there for what looked like months.

Poor Grumplepuss has some negligent owners.

I thought about taking her home for a weekend to give her a good cleaning and return her afterward.  I also thought about sending a gift certificate to the business for a free grooming for her.  I’m sure there are lots of great ways that I can frame the conversation, but it still wouldn’t detract from the fact that I’m saying “Hey.  You obviously don’t take care of your cat.  Here’s money.  You have no excuse.”

Eventually the Grumplepuss curled into a half-moon, so that she no longer even looked like a cat, but rather an indiscernible, furry animal from the wild.

Unfortunately, she found it difficult to get comfortable and kept meowing a pathetic little meow, which made me think that perhaps more was plaguing her than met the eye.  Maybe I should send a vet gift certificate too.  Can I even do that?

One of several Grumplepuss attempts to get comfortable.

She eventually resolved to lie on my bag, though at first she was fighting with me to crawl inside it.  Maybe she was asking me to please take her away from the record store.  Maybe she was crying for help and was surprised someone actually pet her instead of saying she was a frumpy, dirty cat.

Or maybe I’ve taken the next step in my Crazy Cat Woman journey, where I am convinced I need to rescue even the cats that are already with an owner in a warm place.  Sooner or later, I’ll think they’re all trying to talk to me.  Some will be telling me to rescue them, others that my apartment is burning down, still others that tell me to collect more cats.

Maybe I should stick to the gift card approach. ♣

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Hair Salon Pressure Part Deux: The Aftermath

27 Oct

I know you’re just dying to know, so here: I ruined my hair.

Remember this from yesterday in regard to taking the plunge? “Is it possible that tonight I will ruin a perfectly good thing?  Yes, yes it is.” (Jackie Baker, October 26, 2011: pre-ruined hair)

Or perhaps this charming picture of what I thought I could expect from such a venture –>

Well I guess you could say it all pretty much came out as feared.  Except I don’t look like a dog.  Not my face, anyway. …I don’t think.

My appointment last night was at 7:30.  At 6:30 I got a call asking if I could come in earlier, so I aimed for 7pm and made it there by 6:45 because I’m awesome. After I sat there for only 5 minutes, the manager came over and explained that my stylist was running behind.  Why did you call me and ask me to come earlier if she’s running behind?, I asked.  Someone called you and asked you to do that?, He said.

This is never a good sign.

He proceeded to explain that I could have another stylist work with me.  She’s a more “senior consultant” he said, but he would charge me the same price.  I told him the whole reason I was there was because the night before, the other girl cut my hair and we talked about color. I came back specifically at a time she was available so I was wary to go with someone else.  He told me he’d supervise my coloring himself.

Getting the manager to supervise with a “more senior consultant” seemed like a fair shake so I thought what the heck, why not. (Note: Wrong.  Totally wrong.)

When it comes to hair advice, the more is not the merrier.  Five minutes later I was seated in the chair with four different stylists huddled around me, talking about how beautiful my natural color was.  One even said, you’re not getting that colored are you?! The correct answer should have been No.  No I’m not, followed by walking out the door.

I told them I used to be more of a redhead and over the years, I’ve kind of morphed into a dishwatery blonde that I don’t prefer.  I wanted a few highlights to bring out the red in my hair, I wanted it to look natural, and I wanted it to be subtle.  They all agreed – I made a great redhead, and I should return to it.

I could reenact in my sleep what happens to stylists when they look at the back of my head and see the huge blonde chunk that runs down it. It’s the same thing every time.  First, they assume it’s a weird dye job by me.  Then they check the roots and see that there aren’t any.  Then they ask me what’s up with it and I explain I was born with it.  I get too detailed sometimes and explain that it’s a matter of genetic co-dominance, much like when you see a horse with spots.

Then they geek out.

Which I really appreciate.  It’s nice.  It’s something interesting about me and I appreciate them making me feel special.  But last night, this discovery led to an all-around consensus that I should highlight blonde like this chunk.  I told the cluster of people around me that I really prefer red and that the blonde would have to be very subtle and only around my face.

2.5 hours later, everyone who chimed in was gone and I was left in the chair with my stylist at closing as she roughed through my hair with her fingers, trying to blow dry it as fast as possible so she could leave.  As my hair dried and came to light, it was obvious that they decided to go with their plan and not mine.  And since she started at the left side of my head and worked around to the right, there was a huge, platinum blonde streak running right down the side of my face, which leads a gradual and noticeable fade all the way around my head.  It was a stripey, skunky strangeness from which I could not recover for another 6 weeks.

I was devastated.

I told her I expected it to be more red and that there was a looooot of blonde.  I told her I felt more like a blonde than a redhead.  I told her I was having trouble adjusting to the shock of the blonde.  I told her lots of things, when I really should have just told her I wanted to cry.  It looked a lot like skunk stripes.  Little baby skunk stripes.  And when the manager was speaking with me, he confirmed three different times that I wanted to be red, I wanted it to be natural, and I didn’t want stripes.

I’m not sure what he did with that information.  I think he communicated it to my stylist via paper cup and string.

I ponied up too many of my hard-earned American dollars, and walked out of the salon with an ample amount of wetness to my eyes.  I had just wasted a lot of money to feel worse about myself.  I loved my hair the day before.  I had a new cut with a little bit of movement and a subtle change.  And even my awesome blow out from that evening was ruined by last evening’s half-inspired styling.

Supposedly, I have two weeks in which to request an adjustment for free.  

This bus shelter advertisement mocked me on my way home.  I’ll be calling today. ♣

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There’s Nothing Like Hair Salon Pressure

26 Oct

Me, tomorrow morning.

Going to the hairdresser is such an excruciating experience for someone who doesn’t spend time on their hair.

Not the shampoo part.  Or the head massage part.   Or the combing, cutting, or texturizing.  All of that’s quite lovely.  Actually, I told the woman who last massaged my head that I would marry her.

Don’t judge me – she made me drunk on the tickly goodness.

The part that’s awful isn’t the actual hair getting done.  It’s the interview process that’s difficult to endure.  Or rather, still feel feminine after.  First of all, it’s obvious to any passerby that I don’t do my hair. I clearly have no skills.  Zero.  I wake up, I wash my hair, I comb it, and I go to work.

Sometimes I put it back in a ponytail.

These are obvious signs of a malnourished beauty skill set and yet they ask the questions.  With their perfect hair and their nicely shaped brows and their awesome makeup.  They stand there and they ask me all these questions as if they don’t already know the answers.  She, rather.  It’s always a she.  Men don’t ask me questions when they do my hair; they just make me look fabulous in silence. So last night, she (let’s call her Meg.  Meg is cute enough name to be a hottie but also cool enough to be better than you at things) interrogated me before she would even touch my hair. Do I put anything in my hair when I style it, do I do anything in the morning to it before I go out, do I blah blah blah. I finally just stopped trying to skirt the issue and said “look, I really don’t do anything.  Like, anything.  I wake up and I wash it”.

I could see the concern grow in her face as she asked the final, telling question: “So you just towel dry it and go?”

I don’t know why she had to make me admit it like that.  Yes, I just towel dry it and go.  And usually put it back in a ponytail within an hour.  I just take all my shame and throw it behind my eyes so I don’t have to have any self-realizations.  Like that I look like an exhausted, 40-year-old housewife.

Maybe 35.  Still.  It’s not pretty.

I almost felt a bit more feminine when she told me I had fantastic hair, great texture, and that it was incredibly healthy.  I like to think it’s because of the lack of gunk and blow drying and teasing, but hey: that’s just me.  So she proceeded to gunk and blow dry it, and golly do I look a lot better.

Really, I do.  I’m getting it colored today.  She’s a very convincing woman.

I told Dave he’s in for a treat.  I’ve been eating better for a long time now, kicked up my exercise this week (thanks, no car!), got my hair done yesterday, and am getting it done again tonight.  I will finish out the week about one hundred times hotter than I was when I started it.

I’m not sure if I’ve been brainwashed or if I just had a realization that I shouldn’t look sad and weary when I’m in my mid-20’s.  I think it has a lot to do with the latter, but that’s what someone with the former reality might think.  So you know, it’s hard to tell.

I’m having day-mares of a striped, hellacious colorfest that ruins the first haircut I’ve enjoyed in a long time.  Is it possible that tonight I will ruin a perfectly good thing? 

Yes, yes it is.  Here’s to female brainwashing.  And hair color. ♣

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