It's all about the hair...
I can't stand that Bravo show, Blow Out. I really can't. Not the taut-faced, self-involved Jonathan ("dude, it's about the hair"). Not the "rocker chick" who breastfeeds her kid all over the salon ("should I let my baby STARVE???"), not the fake-boobs skank with the immobile forehead who forces her plastic surgeon to consult with everyone in the salon ("but I haven't had anything above my neck done YET"), not the 'mo who whines about the other stylists, not the assistant attached to Jonathan's ass, not the name-dropping queens, not his stupid ass girlfriend (watching her FEED HIM SOUP was repulsive), not the two women marketing his product who act like high-strung, brain-damaged chihuahuas.
No, I wasn't trapped under my sofa just out of reach of the remote during the marathon last weekend. But I'm watching it, obviously. Maybe I just like to feel superior. Maybe I'm drawn to 30-minute discussions about hair products. Maybe I like men who are crybabies after all. Or maybe something is WRONG with me.
Seriously, I almost bought the Jonathan hair products on Sephora last weekend. I caught myself talking about the show in the office on Monday. Consider this my plea for help. Somebody stop me, for crying out loud, before I get extensions and an upper lip implant. Make it go away so I can stop being alternately repulsed by the show and disgusted with myself. I am weak and cannot summon the will to turn it off. Damn Bravo and their TV transmission mind control. Damn them to hell.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Huh? What? Didja say something?
I, apparently, am hard of hearing. It was confirmed by my just-as-good-as-an-MD friend Michael. Fact: I listen to the television too loud. Fact: Sometimes I don't hear him when he's talking to me. It must have been difficult to break the news...these things always are.
Michael thinks it has something to do with a combination of experimental drugs, heavy metal music, and bad hair. I did some research, and deafness isn't listed as a side effect of bad hair...but that doesn't mean he isn't right. My own theory is close to his. From around age 15 to 25, I spent an awful lot of time in front row pits at preposterously loud heavy metal and rock shows. In fact, the way I remember it, I may have had my ear pressed against the gargantuan bajillion-decibel 30-foot amp at the edge of the stage. Often. And once, during a Ramones show in 1996, I think I lost hearing in my "amp ear" for about a week. And am pretty sure it gradually came back, but who knows?
Then there's the Ear Candling Incident of 2002. I've recovered sufficiently from the trauma to be near open flame/burning wax/stick a q-tip in my ear again. But this too might have something to do with why people shout at me ("are ya DEEF or somethin'??"). Very unpleasant.
I'm already on my way to overcoming my disability and achieving independence, according to Erin. She thinks I have developed a bastardized version of sign language to compensate for my deafness. It doesn't translate well here, but suffice it to say I have no trouble communicating without actual words.
Kids, let this be a warning to ye: Keep your heads away from the amps, never stick anything in your ear that's on fire, and watch the spray direction of your economy size can of Aqua Net. Oh yeah, and don't do drugs. Right, no drugs. END PSA.
I, apparently, am hard of hearing. It was confirmed by my just-as-good-as-an-MD friend Michael. Fact: I listen to the television too loud. Fact: Sometimes I don't hear him when he's talking to me. It must have been difficult to break the news...these things always are.
Michael thinks it has something to do with a combination of experimental drugs, heavy metal music, and bad hair. I did some research, and deafness isn't listed as a side effect of bad hair...but that doesn't mean he isn't right. My own theory is close to his. From around age 15 to 25, I spent an awful lot of time in front row pits at preposterously loud heavy metal and rock shows. In fact, the way I remember it, I may have had my ear pressed against the gargantuan bajillion-decibel 30-foot amp at the edge of the stage. Often. And once, during a Ramones show in 1996, I think I lost hearing in my "amp ear" for about a week. And am pretty sure it gradually came back, but who knows?
Then there's the Ear Candling Incident of 2002. I've recovered sufficiently from the trauma to be near open flame/burning wax/stick a q-tip in my ear again. But this too might have something to do with why people shout at me ("are ya DEEF or somethin'??"). Very unpleasant.
I'm already on my way to overcoming my disability and achieving independence, according to Erin. She thinks I have developed a bastardized version of sign language to compensate for my deafness. It doesn't translate well here, but suffice it to say I have no trouble communicating without actual words.
Kids, let this be a warning to ye: Keep your heads away from the amps, never stick anything in your ear that's on fire, and watch the spray direction of your economy size can of Aqua Net. Oh yeah, and don't do drugs. Right, no drugs. END PSA.
Friday, July 08, 2005
Bad boys, bad boys...
In my twenties, I dated the rowdy types. Musicians, roadies, bikers, unemployed “writers”, high school dropouts, unemployed small-time criminals, ad infinitum. As much as I wanted to resist and go out with nice boy who would walk me to my front door after a date instead of spending an hour parked down the street trying to get my bra off, I still fell for the hooligans. Good boys never appreciated my ability to hold my liquor, throw a temper tantrum, make a scene, handle my drugs, get into bar fights, or play poker.
That's all in the past now. I'm a changed woman. At some point before I turned 30, I started kicking the bad boys out of my bed at 2 a.m. instead of the other way around. But though I likes my mens with jobs and haircuts now, I've never been able to shake the Pavlovian response I have to the sound of a revving motorcycle engine. Whenever I hear a twin cam engine after midnight, my first thought is, "yay, the sex has arrived." And I can't even count the times I've had near-misses in traffic trying to see what the tall, skinny guy on the Low Rider looked like.
You know how it is though. I'm a typical hypocritical sexist female: I want my guy to be a go-getter in business and in the bedroom. In the kitchen would be nice too. Cooking, I mean. Dinner. For me.
In my twenties, I dated the rowdy types. Musicians, roadies, bikers, unemployed “writers”, high school dropouts, unemployed small-time criminals, ad infinitum. As much as I wanted to resist and go out with nice boy who would walk me to my front door after a date instead of spending an hour parked down the street trying to get my bra off, I still fell for the hooligans. Good boys never appreciated my ability to hold my liquor, throw a temper tantrum, make a scene, handle my drugs, get into bar fights, or play poker.
That's all in the past now. I'm a changed woman. At some point before I turned 30, I started kicking the bad boys out of my bed at 2 a.m. instead of the other way around. But though I likes my mens with jobs and haircuts now, I've never been able to shake the Pavlovian response I have to the sound of a revving motorcycle engine. Whenever I hear a twin cam engine after midnight, my first thought is, "yay, the sex has arrived." And I can't even count the times I've had near-misses in traffic trying to see what the tall, skinny guy on the Low Rider looked like.
You know how it is though. I'm a typical hypocritical sexist female: I want my guy to be a go-getter in business and in the bedroom. In the kitchen would be nice too. Cooking, I mean. Dinner. For me.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Nothing else has worked...
but this might be the thing that makes me finally quit smoking.
My mother used to chant the following whenever one of my sisters or I lit up: "Tobacco is a filthy weed, that from the devil does proceed, stains your fingers, burns your clothes, and makes a chimney of your nose."
Since I don't have rug monsters of my own, I really don't know what it is about giving birth that turns you into the boss of me FOREVER AND EVER.
but this might be the thing that makes me finally quit smoking.
My mother used to chant the following whenever one of my sisters or I lit up: "Tobacco is a filthy weed, that from the devil does proceed, stains your fingers, burns your clothes, and makes a chimney of your nose."
Since I don't have rug monsters of my own, I really don't know what it is about giving birth that turns you into the boss of me FOREVER AND EVER.
Monday, July 04, 2005
Yay America...
I don't celebrate the 4th of July because, as with many other holidays, the meaning of the whole thing has been sucked into an American void of consumerism and 50% off sales. Plus it's too damn hot to be outside eatin' grilled meat products, drinkin' PBR, and trying to stay out of the way of people setting things on fire.
I was pretty patriotic as a kid in a general like-to-watch-the-parade way. In my 20s, I couldn't have cared less. Now, I have a hard time conjuring up any patriotic feelings that aren't wrapped in pity or sadness. I'm sorry for what my government is doing around the world in the name of my country. I am glad I live here and not another place that is on the opposing side, though I don't necessarily feel safer here.
Fourth of July feels like a drunken frat party with the biggest case of little man inferiority sitting in the grand poobah chair. I can hear the "whoo-hoos" from here.
I don't celebrate the 4th of July because, as with many other holidays, the meaning of the whole thing has been sucked into an American void of consumerism and 50% off sales. Plus it's too damn hot to be outside eatin' grilled meat products, drinkin' PBR, and trying to stay out of the way of people setting things on fire.
I was pretty patriotic as a kid in a general like-to-watch-the-parade way. In my 20s, I couldn't have cared less. Now, I have a hard time conjuring up any patriotic feelings that aren't wrapped in pity or sadness. I'm sorry for what my government is doing around the world in the name of my country. I am glad I live here and not another place that is on the opposing side, though I don't necessarily feel safer here.
Fourth of July feels like a drunken frat party with the biggest case of little man inferiority sitting in the grand poobah chair. I can hear the "whoo-hoos" from here.
