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'Insanely twisted' shadow puppets.


This photo is unaltered except for resizing and cropping. What color would you say that little light is next to the "G"?


If someone told you that it had to be either yellow or green, that those were the only choices, would you maybe say "It's fucking RED goddammit" and spend half the night combing the internet for proof that the LED was broken on this battery charge thingie?


Okay, then. Just me. *ahem*







Monday, November 7, 2005

You should know that brownies made with Splenda "baking mix" are, and I am not exaggerating in the least, a crime against humanity. Each chemical-rich bite draws you into a deeper ring of hell, until all is madness and your very soul is lost forever.

Who tries to make diet brownies, anyway? I guess if the point is to ensure that you do not, in fact, eat any of the brownies, adding Splenda to the ingredients does a bang-up job. Hooray! I am thinner already, just from my virtuous refusal to besmirch the mixing bowl with my tongue the way I normally would.

So let's see, weekend to-do list...hmm, "produce a dessert that tastes as though it was formed in the depths of Satan's bowels"? Check.

In happier news, I got my hair cut and colored on Sunday. JB and I narrowly avoided a Chernobyl-level domestic disturbance over this event because he informed me on Saturday night that his Sunday dive trip might run long, so there was a chance he wouldn't be home in time for me to get to the salon. When I began to splutter and generally freak out, he said "Look, I'm not going to cancel on my dive buddies because my wife has a hair appointment."

Imagine the words "hair appointment" stated in the sort of voice you normally reserve for describing something you found on the bottom of your shoe, and you've about got the tone, except add more dripping condescension and general disgust.

I did feel kind of petty for a minute there, whining about my hair when he had this big dive planned and he couldn't control the tides, could he? And then I thought, wait a minute.

First of all, my hair hadn't seen the inside of a salon in, like, fifteen damn weeks. That's a lot to ask from a cut that has about ten thousand layers in it, and for the last month I have been dealing with Fugly Hair: overgrown, Britney-esque roots, lank, frizzy, and requiring an hour of prep including straightening gel to approximate something halfway decent. I don't have time or energy for that kind of maintenance, and I'm already dealing with feeling unattractive in other areas (see also: brownies, diet; reasons for baking) so by god I needed that appointment.

Second of all, I can count on exactly two fingers the times I have gone out and done something for myself without Riley in tow SINCE HIS BIRTH. When I got a pedicure two weeks post-partum to celebrate the return of my feet bones, and last week when JB and I went to the movies while his parents were visiting. That's TWICE in TWO MONTHS, and no, I don't count running to the grocery store to pick up more formula, and my sense of injustice over getting gypped out of two hours of someone attending to ME FOR ONCE is apparently requiring the Caps Lock key during THIS EXCITING RECAP.

My righteous indignation was all for naught, thankfully, since JB returned in plenty of time on Sunday and even brought me a latte. Oh, I'm just a fool for a man bearing espresso, you know? It marginally made amends for the fact that when I came home, razored and highlighted and spit-shined to a T, he did not notice or make mention of my altered appearance and I had to VERBALLY PROD HIM for a compliment.

"It's dark out! I couldn't see it!"

"Dude, you knew I was having my hair done. This was a slam dunk. 'Hey, like the hair'. That's all you had to say."

"I - I? I suck, don't I."


(minutes later)

"Your hair looks really cute, though. Honestly. I think it's, um -"

"Tooooooo late."



Bah! The baby cheeks, they are killing me. Whooshy whooshy whooshy.

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