Jan
21
January 21, 2007
My hair has reached the stage where it’s been far too long since the last cut, and no amount of blowdrying, flatironing, goopy serums, and fervent prayer can corral the mess into something attractive. It’s heavy, it’s frizzy, it’s both lank and flyaway at the same time, and if there were some sort of Split End Olympics, well, then I couldn’t be typing to you now, as my entire body would be weighted down by my many, many gold medallions.
So I was really looking forward to getting a haircut on Saturday. That was going to be the zenith of my weekend, the sole activity that involved neither child nor husband nor vacuum cleaner, and I was ridiculously thrilled about it, right up until the moment when the uptight girl behind the salon counter told me my appointment was cancelled.
It was my own fault, according to Ms. Customer Service, who rolled her eyes and did something unpleasant with her mouth that involved pulling her lips away from the surface of her teeth, probably in order to keep the half-inch layer of gloss intact while she deigned to speak to me. I was eight minutes late, and they operated a tight schedule. Sorry.
I am the last person on earth to pitch a public fit but I honestly felt like draping myself across the counter and either choking the bitch with her phone cord, or weeping with disappointment. Eight minutes, jesus.
My regular stylist isn’t even there anymore, but I figured I’d try someone new because the location is normally convenient, being right by my office. Unfortunately, it’s also in the middle of a stupidly busy mall, which was the reason for my unpardonable delay — I was circling the parking lot, dodging strollers and gaggles of Abercrombie-clad shoppers.
I’ll note that if the front desk girl had been even halfway decent about it, I would have chalked it up to bad luck, made a new appointment and planned to arrive at least 30 minutes early next time. But she wasn’t, she gave me sand-in-the-vaginattitude, so screw it, Headlines Salon. Nice job driving away a loyal sucker who repeatedly paid through the nose for cuts and color and bought product on every single visit.
Uh, so anyway, this was one long boring windup to asking those of you who live around here if you maybe have any recommendations for a hair salon? Because I’m about to attack my own head with a Flowbee.
:::
Attention film geeks: my friend Scott wants you to know about the Stockstock Film Festival. Stockstock is a cool idea, basically you use existing stock footage to create your own 2-minute digital film. It seems like a fun challenge, especially if you’re into editing. Check it out.
And while I’m poking around Scott’s site, look at what a ridiculously good-looking trifecta Scott, his wife, and their daughter make. Seriously. Also, who are these jackasses? And why didn’t anyone tell me I needed to powder, like, my entire head?
:::
Those of you who suggested Regina Spektor when I asked for new-music ideas, thank you, thank you, thank you. I bought Begin to Hope and it’s currently on constant play in my car. I’m particularly fond of her voice on these lyrics from “That Time”:
Hey remember that time when I would only smoke Parliaments
Hey remember that time when I would only smoke Marlboros
Hey remember that time when I would only smoke Camels
“Paaaaaaarliaments” and “Maaaaaaaaalboros”, man. So great.
I don’t remember who recommended DeVotchKa, but for some reason I got exactly one of their songs, “How It Ends”, and if you don’t already own it I suggest you go download it right this minute because it is a hair-tinglingly, eye-wellingly beautiful tune that you will want to sing along with in a dramatic style that requires you to point your face at the sky and sweep one arm outward, unless you’re driving, in which case you’ll need to grip both hands on the steering wheel and crumple your forehead while bending the inner corners of your eyebrows up and forming your mouth into a wolf-howl O shape. I’m just saying, it’s that good.
Jan
19
Never say manty
Filed Under Uncategorized | 139 Comments
January 19, 2007
Oh my god oh my god there has been a terrorist attack on Seattle someone has filled birds with explosive devices and they are killing hundreds of people maybe thousands oh please god save us —
Uh…wait. Oh, sorry. God, I’m sorry about that. It turns out there’s just…yeah, there’s just kind of a shitload of eagles hanging out on the Skagit River. Wow, I got that one wrong. Man, it’s almost like the local TV news consistently relies on hilariously worded title graphics for their stories, or something.
(See also: “ARCTIC BLAST REAMS SEATTLE’S CITY-HOLE”.)
So hi! How are you? Apparently I need to inform you that JB’s underwear is not, in fact, a pair of manties, but rather is a beefy, studly, macho pair of boxer-briefs. Why, these boxer-briefs are so goddamn manly, they come with a pack of Malboros and the inability to ask for directions. These boxer-briefs refuse to discuss their feelings, they won’t hold a woman’s purse even for a blow job, and when they’re pissing in a public urinal, they lean over to the guy next to them and say, “Water sure is cold today.”
There. I believe I’ve done my duty.
It’s hard to believe the week is basically over already. The snow has mostly transformed to dirty slush and melted away, at least in my neighborhood, and dashed my hopeful plans of a bucolic sledding activity this weekend. Instead, I imagine JB and I will putter around the house with the boy, take turns letting the other person go do something unfettered and childless (JB’s likely choice: scuba diving; mine: oh, I don’t know, basically anything that doesn’t involve submerging myself in water in the middle of fucking winter and breathing air through a TUBE, jesus), and probably hit the drive-through Starbucks at least twice, because that’s how we roll.
Your turn! For I do so love to live vicariously through you. What do your weekend plans include?
-
My product review site:
[