Monthly Archives: January 2012

I apologize in advance for this post

So, originally today I was going to write about how much it sucks when you’re broke and have to make a budget. 1. Because it lets me procrasinate from actually working on my own budget. And 2. Um…OK, I just wanted to procrasinate.  

There is truly nothing more depressing than writing out exactly where all your hard earned money is going and realizing just how pathetically broke your ass is. But it really is something every mature, responsible adult should do at the end of every month, especially when you realize “Crap! We don’t have enough money for rent! Or BEER!!! Again!”

And while I’m sure making a budget sucks for everyone (I guarantee even Trump is sometimes like “I’m spending how much on caviar and baby seal hearts!?!) I think for me this process is even more depressing than it is for your average normal broke-ass person, simply because it sheds way too much light on my priorities. For example:

Not to mention, the only thing worse than making a budget is writing about making a budget.

Sooooo…instead I’m gonna write about today being NATIONAL BUBBLE WRAP DAY! YAY!

Yup, today is National Bubble Wrap Day.

And I think we can all agree that bubble wrap is awesome.

So…poppy. And whatnot.

Yeah…

Bubble wrap.

Fun times.

OK, yeah, if you guys would have had to pay to read this post, I’d totally give you your money back right now.

But since you didn’t, please enjoy the humorous video posted below so your entire trip here hasn’t been a complete waste:

[WARNING: Very bad words are involved…but, you know, in a classy way]

Advertisements

I iz womyn nao

Well, I finally bit the bullet. I got my hair cut. And now look significantly less like a hobo and more like a chick (unibrow in desperate need of plucking notwithstanding).

But the best part? I actually found a stylist I like. And will return to. With a 54 percent chance that return trip will be before the Mayan-predicted end of the world.

Now, I don’t know what magical, karmic (<—– word?…not word?) power a whiny blog post has, or if perhaps the webmaster of WordPress is actually a wizard of some sort, but after my last post about my dread of going to the salon, I had one of the best salon experiences of my life.

Her name is Vildan and she didn’t:

1. Judge me because it’s been 11 months since my last haircut.

2. Judge me because I dye my own hair and it has currently faded to the color of rust mixed with mud with awkwardly-placed copper highlights.

And 3. Judge me because I was on my sixth cup of coffee and talking like that guy from the 80’s who used to be on those toy car commercials. (YeahImovedhereaboutayearagoandIgottatellyouIjustloveBostondon’tyou?Imeanthere’ssomuchtodoandseeandsomuchtodrinkinfactmygoalistodrinkmy
waythroughBostonhahahahahaI’msorrywhatwasyourquestionagain?Ohyes!I’mafreelancewriterandhumorcolumnistandsureyoucouldprobablystillcallme
ajournalist,heyhaveyoueverseenAllThePresident’sMen?Kickassmovie.Kick.Ass.Infactitactuallyinspiredmetobecomeawriterandoh
hey!DoyouthinkIcouldgetanothercupofcoffee?Koalabearsarecool)

In fact, she was so cool and talented, I even debated whether to ask her to be my BFF but I felt that might be a little creepy (especially after the unfortunate “accidental” boob graze incident). So I settled instead for watching her do her magic and give my hair an actual style that moves and swings like those annoying celebrities in hair commercials and has a shape other than “blah.”

(Although, I’d just like to add that if my dearest ex-stylist Stacy is reading this, it doesn’t mean I don’t love you anymore. What we had was great but I think we both know it couldn’t last. Long distance relationships never work out and scissors can only reach so far. And while I hate to see our very special bond (split) end (heh), just remember: Vildan is not replacing you. There is room in my heart and scalp for the both of you).

So thank you, Vildan, for making my hair look like it no longer wants to jump from my head and commit suicide.

P.S. I’d post a photo but apparently I slept on my eye wrong and it’s all swollen and wonky (and again, fellas, sorry, but I’m taken), so for now you’ll just have to take my word that I now look like ScarJo.

Getting my hair didn’t

I have to get my hair cut.

Seems like a simple, declarative sentence, no? Boring, even.

But what lies behind those simple seven words and popular punctuation mark is a nightmare-ish scenario filled with dread, plummeting self-esteem and the distinct possibility of getting suckered into a “hip” look that is really just a glorified mullet. (And to be honest, I don’t think I can handle another three months of Billy Ray Cyrus jokes).

Yes, believe it or not, there is a woman who exists that hates going to the salon. And (for those of you slow on the uptake) that woman is me.

Oh, haircuts how I hate thee! Let me count the ways:

1. My hair is what the professionals in the biz call “wavy,” which is really just a polite term for “looks crappy straight AND curly.”

2. I am forced to sit and stare at my reflection in the mirror for upwards of an hour in harsh flourescent lighting, which gives me ample time to make a mental list of everything that sucks about my face.

3. I never know what I want, other than the vague general terms of “layers” and “swoop-y bangs,” which means the following conversation always happens:

HAIR-STYLIST: So, what were you thinking?

ME: Um…I don’t know. Layers? Swoop-y bangs?

HAIR-STYLIST: Well, we could always [series of haircut terms I don’t understand].

ME: Um…sure.

And this always leads to things like the Liz Lemon of 2011, the Mullet ‘Do of ’02 and the Carol Brady of 1980 (OK, that last one is actually lie. I wasn’t even born in 1980. But it’s catchy, no?).

4. Since I hate getting my hair “did,” I always wait WAAAAAY too long to go back and in the meantime I abuse my hair mercilessly by home-dyeing it various extreme shades, which means I’m too embarrassed to go back to the same stylist, which means I always have to start over with a new stylist, which means the horrible conversation mentioned above in No. 3 happens all over again, which means I always wait WAAAAAY too long to go back and in the meantime I abuse my hair mercilessly by (how long you think I can keep this up?) home-dyeing it various extreme shades, which means I’m then too embarrassed to go back to THAT stylist (pretty long, as it turns out), which means I always have to start over with a new (hate me yet?) stylist, which means the horrible conversation mentioned (are you even still reading this?) above in No. 3 happens all over again, which means (HA! you still are…sucker) I always wait WAAAAAY too long to go back (OK, I’ll stop).

5. And thanks to the horrible, never-ending cycle of No. 4, I always feel like the stylist is silently judging me (and in at least one case, outright judging me via a barrage of questions such as “sooooo…exactly what hair color were you actually aiming for when you dyed your hair?”).

6. And even if I did know what I wanted and had the verbal skills to express it, it would still look horrible since my hair takes at least three weeks to finally realize it has, in fact, been cut. So in the meantime it acts like it hasn’t. So I walk out of the salon about $40 poorer and looking like my hair is suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

The only exception to all this was when I found Stacy, my stylist for a brief but glorious year in Texas. (Oh, Stacy, how I miss thee and your non-judgmental ways and your “swoop-y bang” skills). But it took me 28 years to find her and the chances of finding another Stacy are slim.

But since my hair is currently styled like the girl from “The Ring,” I no longer have a choice.

I have to get my hair cut.

So, Drunken Mel* of 2012, here I come.

*Mel Gibson**

**Hey, you try finding words that rhyme with twelve.

If you give a wife a mouse…

I’ve written before about my never-ending battle with my dog’s asexually reproducing fur and my suspicions that it has become self-aware, thus leading to rogue hair armies which are taking over my house in an Alexander-the-Great-esque manner.

Well, the battle has just been taken to the next level. I’m not quite sure how it managed to do it, but somehow Buffy’s fur temporarily defeated me by pulling a Trojan horse on Sunday. (But, you know, a Trojan horse on their level, which would be a mouse…they are only hair afterall, albeit evil villain overlord hair).

I should have known something was up. Ever since it’s gotten colder, the fur seemed to be retreating, staying at base camp located on my dog’s body in order to gather strength for the summer attack. Oh, how naive I was! Letting down my guard and growing lax in my sweeping defenses!

Which is EXACTLY what they wanted.

And which brings us to Sunday. In an effort to avoid writing or doing anything productive that would potentially result in a paycheck, I decided to do a quick Swiffer sweep just to make sure there was still a hardwood floor underneath the carpet of black fur (calm down, fellas…I know my domestic skills are wildly attractive but, alas, I am already taken).

And that’s when my highly astute observational skills, sharpened to a fine point thanks to my years working as a journalist, noticed that one hair clump seemed a bit bigger than the others. Upon closer examination, it also seemed that the clump had grown a tail. Naturally, my first thought was that the fur had evolved, having obviously managed to accelerate the natural process via experiments involving uranium or whatever that substance Wolverine is made out of.

But that was just silly. Where would the fur get uranium this time of year?

And that’s when it became clear just what I was dealing with. Underneath the fur was a real, live mouse.

A.

Mouse.

Who had apparently entered our house using the fur as a disguise, having apparently been unable to find a tiny potted plant to sneak in behind. Either that, or it had been dead for so long, the fur had built up around it. And to be honest, I’m not quite sure which scenario is less disturbing.

I am proud to report, however, that I did NOT do the typical chick thing, which is to scream, jump on the table and do what can only be described as the “hibbity-jibbity” tapdance. Instead, I calmly walk into my husband’s office, calmly told him the situation, and then calmly climbed onto the back of the couch in a crouching position as I calmly held my dog out in front of me in a shield-like manner in anticipation of any aerial vermin attack.

And then from my perch I helpfully shouted things like “Is it dead? If it isn’t, don’t kill it. It’s not his fault!” and “It moved?! KILL IT! KILL IT! KILL IT! KILL IT! AHHHHHHH! KILL IT!”

I’ve always been fascinated by this particular disconnect in the women’s brain. In general, we love bunnies, squirrels, hamsters…pretty much anything that is small and furry and had a supporting role at one time or another in a children’s movie. So in theory, mice are in that same cuddly category. Not to mention, as children we grow up with Mickey Mouse, Jerry of Tom and Jerry fame and Speedy Gonzalez. Hell, the majority of Americans thought a rat cooking in a French restaurant was not only cute, but a worthy subject for a feature-length film.

But there’s a very good reason why mice don’t fall into that category in real life. See, outside or in a cage or anywhere that is not inside your actual house, a mouse looks like this:

But once it’s inside your house, it turns into this:

Luckily, my very brave husband, armed with only a Swiffer, an empty beer box and a hockey mask, was able to trap the mouse and then set it free in our yard, where it can live a happy and healthy life devoted to coming right back into our house through the same hole it came in the first time.

And as for Buffy’s fur, all I have to say is…nice try, guys. You may have thought you could unhinge me by convincing an innocent (outside my house) mouse into some sort of suicide bomber mission, and yeah, I’ll admit it worked a little considering I now jump every time I see more than two individual hairs together in a corner, and yeah, I may have had a few nightmares involving mouse tails growing out of inanimate objects and perhaps my forehead, and yeah, I’ve spent the last three days scrubbing this house and my naked body with bleach and ammonia, and yeah, I may be “technically” sleeping in the car in freezing temperatures out of my fear a mouse will crawl into bed with me and eat my face off, BUT you haven’t won yet.

Cause I got a Lady Bic with the name Buffy written all over it.

A new year, a new me…at least until Thursday

Sooooo…you may have noticed that I never finished my Christmas countdown. And I have one very good reason:

My family sucks.

Unfortunately, they suck in that functional family way, giving me unconditional love, support and other touchy-feely crap. Awesome if you like to be mentally stable. Horrible if you’re a humor writer. So, when I drove home for Christmas, it was like a Norman Rockwell painting, only with more booze (which actually made it way better than a Norman Rockwell painting). And, come on, no one wants to read about my brother and I playing Uno with grandma, my mom and I “cooking” but really drinking martinis and my husband showering me with affection.

Assholes.

They couldn’t even muster up one single condescending “so, are you ever going to get paid for your writing?” quip or snide “where the hell are my grandbabies?” comment.

So, I stopped the countdown. But you know what? It’s a new year. Out with the old and in with the snarky. Because I think we can all agree that 2011 was overstaying his welcome, what with all the natural disasters, civil unrest and hogging the remote while eating all our Triscuits.

But now it’s 2012, a bright new shiny year full of wonderful new opportunities and bright new shiny predictions of a fiery and violent end of the world as we know it.

For those of you who haven’t heard because you’ve been too busy fist pumping your brain cells away (I’m assuming this only includes the cast of “Jersey Shore”), the Mayans made this wicked long calendar back in the day and it ends on Dec. 21, 2012, thus making a certain portion of the population believe the Mayans knew the world would end on that date. Personally, I think it’s much more likely the Mayans just decided to blow off the rest of their math homework. But the theory does have some credible evidence behind it. I mean, according to the “official” Dec. 21, 2012 website, both Britney Spears AND Montel Williams are among the supposed celebrity believers, so…yeah…

But, BUT, if it is true, forget the future worries of a horrific death of all living creatures. This brings up a much more immediate concern. For days, I have been trying to come up with my New Year’s resolutions. And I have to tell you, I am downright stumped. I mean, if this is my last year on earth, I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend it getting organized, being nicer to people and finally losing those pesky extra five pounds (OK, fine! 10! Not that it matters. Just more for the apocalypse to love).

For example, if the world is going to end, one of my resolutions is to stop paying my rent and then use the money to go on an exotic trip. By the time the landlord goes through all the proper channels to get me kicked out, we’ll all be dust (as will my rental, actually, thus making rent moot). HOWEVER, if the world does not end, that means I will be homeless.

Likewise, if the world is going to end, I fully intend on eating bacon and drinking Scotch for breakfast every morning. But if Dec. 22 does dawn, that means I’m probably destined to die a painful and disease-riddled death at age 37.

It’s a very delicate balance here. I want to live it up during my last year of existence, but I can’t discount the fact that every single other prediction of the end of the world has been…hmm…how to put this…100 percent wrong. So for days I’ve been stuck weighing the possible repercussions of my potential resolutions. Such as:

Finally buy that pet monkey and name him Winston/Be stuck changing Winston’s diaper for, like, 40 years or however long those wretched creatures live.

Finally tell my high school nemesis how I really feel and how stupid her face is/Spend the rest of my days avoiding her both online and in person.

Stalk, kidnap and force Ryan Reynolds to make out with me on a daily basis/Have a very awkward conversation with my neighbors about how I am now classified as a “sex offender.”

Don’t bother with voting because it won’t really matter or change anything/Don’t bother with voting because it won’t really matter or change anything.

Finally let my husband buy that 72-inch HD plasma flatscreen with pixel-something or other so we can watch the world burn on CNN in crystal clear clarity/Live inside the box the TV came in in some scary alley behind what used to be our house.

Don’t bother buying Christmas gifts for anyone/Be stuck shopping on…(shudder)…Christmas Eve where my chances of being trampled to death inside Kohl’s is fairly high.

Like I said, this year is a particularly difficult year for resolutions. Luckily, if personal history is any indication, I’ll forget and/or give up on all of them soon.

But just in case, Ryan, if you are reading this, you might want to invest in more bodyguards. Soon.