Leather

I got my haircut and colored last night and for the love of all that is holy, it took three frickin’ hours. From 7:30 to 10:45 p.m., I was being regaled with hairdresser stories, and while normally I can handle the weeping, heavy breathing, drama and other shenanigans my hairdresser inflicts on me with as much aplomb as I can muster, last night his clairvoyancy crap reached an all-time low. He went on and on about how he knows when people are going to die by their “energy” within minutes. And how he can read the “energy” up to a few different “scenarios” for their death and destruction, so he makes no promises, but still.

For god’s sake. After he yammered on for literal hours about demise and “dark client energy,” with some of his elderly clients, I cried out: “IS MY ENERGY GOING DARK, OR WHAT?” He laughed and insisted that it wasn’t, and although his head was down sweeping my hair at the time (he couldn’t look me in the eye! THE EYE!), I distinctly recall him telling me how bright my energy was when he met me, so for chrissake, I sincerely hope he’s right. Naturally he told me that he never tells people directly, kind of like Tarot card readers, etc. etc. and just goes on that “someone is going dark’” or “will pass over” in this kind of ominous tone and for crying out loud WHATEVER. He’s not the lying type if he saw such a thing. But honestly, I can’t handle the drama involved in a fucking foil and trim, and this whole thing is getting a little out of hand.

However, ever the condundrum – my hair this time round? The best I’ve had in my life. The odd penis cut I had the last time is gone and a miracle has taken its place. Jesus H. What do you do? Have bad hair, or be tortured every four weeks? What would YOU do?

Ahem. Anyway, we’re going away for the weekend to belatedly celebrate our anniversary. I never really talked about my anniversary, except to say I was having one. I didn’t want to be one of those overly twee people who talks of the “light of my life” at cocktail parties and goes on and on how miraculous our union is, etc. etc., so I’ll just say this: Marriage has surpassed even the highest expectations I could have had. In a world where nothing is what we think it’s going to be, and disappointment lurks around every dark corner like a blind assassin, marriage is one freakin’ hell of a bright spot. I’ve made a lot of choices, and among the myriad of amazing things about him, one interesting thing I can say about Adam is that he gave me faith in myself that I can be trusted to make good decisions. That deep down, I do know what’s best for me, and that despite my best efforts to sabotage myself (and, um, almost calling off the damn wedding a few weeks before it actually happened. I freaked. Someday I’ll talk about it, but GAH, I freaked and it was horrible and it had everything to do with me and nothing to do with him, for he is and was perfect), I know how to eventually do the right thing. I chose him. And oh, he is so very, very good.

Enough omgilovemyhusbandweareinloveFOREVAH crapola. We’re going to a little cottage on the beach for the weekend, and we’re taking Sunny with us. Snapper is going to be home alone, and while I feel bad, he hates traveling, and really, would he enjoy a frolic on the beach? No. Anyway, I’m a little frightened of this whole scenario for a few reasons, not the least of which is that we’ve become one of those people who takes a damn dog with us everywhere. Next thing you know, we’ll be buying her tennis skirts and raincoats and telling people how she just KNOWS what we’re saying to her and “Yesterday, I swear she said my name!” like certain family members of mine who may or may not live near me. Just sayin’.

Have a wonderful weekend. I will leave you with a scene playing out in my bedroom right now:

I thought you said it was time to eat, bitches.

*Tori Amos. It was our leather anniversary.

22 comments August 10th, 2006

Asleep

Adam’s been in Boston for a bunch of days, and man, I can’t sleep when he’s not here. I never thought I’d be one of those wimpy people, but the painful fact of life is: I’ve never lived alone. Never! I’ve had roommates or siblings or parents sharing my home since I was born. Truthfully, if I were prone to regrets, I’d regret it quite a bit. I never had my own apartment where I could do my own decorating (I can’t even type that with a straight face. Decorating. We’d be lucky if I put the food in the refrigerator.) Oooh ooh, and I would eat whatever I want for dinner – things like fat free hot dogs, mashed potatoes and large piles of sauerkraut! And pickled brussels sprouts! OLIVES!

Alas, I never lived the dream. And while I am more than willing to sacrifice pickled cruciferous vegetables and brined fruit for the creature comforts of domesticity, sometimes I wonder if I’d actually lived alone, would I be more comfortable sleeping when Adam isn’t here? Because when he’s gone, I don’t sleep. There is at least one reader who can attest to receiving emails from me at an ungodly hour because I just couldn’t sleep. I laid awake until 3 a.m. listening to the sounds of the house creaking. I slept with the television on at a low volume and when some stupid commercial for bathroom cleaner let out a series of three beeps that were not dissimilar to the sound of our house alarm, I launched of bed and grabbed the hunter’s knife Adam keeps in his nightstand (?) and tumbled down the stairs screaming, “I HAVE A KNIFE, ASSHOLE.”

I mean, honestly, like, what was I going to do? Stab them? I can barely make it down the stairs without falling on my ass, and I was going to stab them with an unstable fold-out knife with a mother-of-pearl handle? I’m lucky I didn’t hurtle down the stairs and impale myself on the knife, leaving my body in a pool of blood for Adam to find when he gets home tomorrow. And I know when and if he reads this, I’m going to be in a lot of trouble for even attempting such a ridiculous stunt. I’m sure as hell not going to bring it up.

Anyway, this little outburst meant that there would not be any sleeping happening for the rest of the evening. I spent the rest of the night in that miserable quasi-dreamlike state where one moment I’d be sitting in my bed and the next minute I’d find myself brushing the mane of some random horse and the oddity of that moment would jolt me out of sleep and SHIT, I’d be up all over again. And then Sunny would start licking her crotch and I’d wonder “Is she puking?” and I’d have to jerk myself upright to check. Then Snapper would start meowing in my face because gee, if we’re all awake, why don’t we get up and get breakfast? Who cares how dark it is? IT IS ALWAYS TIME FOR BREAKFAST.

And then suddenly, it was 8 a.m. and I had to get up and as you can imagine, this was met with about as much enthusiasm as a tongue lashing from a rabid crocodile.

The day did not go well. I actually found myself drooling at 11:30 a.m. as I went through my e-mail, I dropped an entire mugful of tomato soup in my lap and while I was interviewing this nice gentleman today whose native language was not English, I misunderstood something he said and meant to ask him, “I’m sorry – did you say ‘strong?’” as I tried to build a quote, but instead I ended up *actually slurring* from what I can only imagine was exhaustion and so I asked him, “I’m sorry – did you say schlong?” And then I promptly died while trying to keep a straight face. The worst part was that he barely speaks English and so DID NOT GET IT, so I was left alone with the oddly hilarious bit of self-inflicted humiliation.

The good news is that right now I am so unfathomably tired that it will be a Christmas miracle if I don’t get a good night’s sleep tonight. There is a good chance I will be entirely comatose before midnight and wouldn’t even notice if a gang of burglars came in and stole the contents of our entire house. And Adam comes home tomorrow and let’s all praise freaking Jesus and the gods of sleep, mmkay?

*Smiths

24 comments August 8th, 2006

Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others

In terms of public humiliation, there are a few things that dangle out there like a pair of bad earrings that you always hear of happening to someone, but it never actually happens to you or anyone you know. Gah, it always feels like I am that someone.

Yesterday, in a fit of desperation borne out of sweltering heat and terminal laziness, I whipped out a supercheap empire-waist tank top procured from Old Navy a few months ago. After I tried it on at home, I promptly stuffed into the back of the closet after Adam and I collectively deemed it unflattering. But, it was hot, the top was black and I figured if I stuck it over a fluid black jersey skirt, it would be borderline acceptable. Black on black! Slimming! Loose! Comfortable!

Or not. While I was out walking Sunny yesterday, I ran into our neighbor as she walked her puffy little cockermaltidoodlepoo. I stopped to chat, as we always do and midway through the conversation, I noticed her hungrily eyeing my midsection. I ignored her and assumed I’d spilled some kind of latte or ketchup somewhere, per usual, until she said: “Oh honey…I hope you don’t find this too forward, but you and Adam are expecting, right?”

Dude, how many times have you heard this story? It’s practically an urban legend, for chrissake! I would love nothing more than to tell you that either a) I am pregnant (ummm, no) or b) that I promptly told her how rude she was, and/or punched her in the face or even started crying to let her know how crappy it felt to be accused of having a pregnant belly after gaining a couple of pounds. Instead, as to be expected, I did everything I could to make her feel comfortable and practically apologized for my weight gain that was disguising as a pregnancy. “I know, it’s this awful shirt and I’ve gained weight! HAHAHAHA! It’s confusing!” I actually said “confusing” like I was deliberately wearing some sort of prosthetic belly designed to lure strangers into giving up their seats on the subway.

After that outburst, all I wanted to do was sit in our bedroom and listen to Sunny snore while downing glass after glass of wine with a cheddar cheese-block chaser. But hi ho to the gym I went! Two days in a row! I mean, how can you not after something like that, no matter how well-adjusted you are?

But lo, the momentum was lost today, and tonight’s trip required some heavy coaxing. So, um, so I actually whipped out the heavy artillery: a TiVo’d copy of Elektra that I’d saved just for this purpose. Am I the only one who is completely motivated by workout scenes in movies and/or athletic lead characters? I know I know I know, it’s abysmal and Jennifer Garner is simpering at best, but nothing says “Get thee to a gym!” louder than JG’s drum-tight ass in a gratuitously skintight red outfit as she battles the forces of evil. I have the same reaction to The Karate Kid and the Rocky series: suddenly I have this burning desire to hit the gym or, I don’t know, the wilds of Russia and train – TRAIN! I will beat Drago! Take that, Bridgette Nielsen! Pain does not exist in this dojo!

I guess what I’m trying to say is, if I can change, and you can change, then EVERYBODY CAN CHANGE!

God, this whole thing just gets more embarrassing doesn’t it? The hole just gets deeper and deeper, and yet: I continue to dig.

So, I went to the gym tonight and found myself alone – ALONE – with my other neighbor, M., who just a few weeks ago, wrapped up a two-month prison stint for beating the ever-loving shit out of her longtime partner, B., breaking both of her arms in a fit of rage and putting her in the hospital for more than three weeks.

I’d met her before, as I was friendly with her girlfriend, B. (our dogs were buds), but until that incident, had assumed her coldness was a sign of being shy and socially awkward, and not a symptom of being a complete and utter homicidal lunatic. Later, I would wonder if she was oddly jealous or concerned that B. and I were, I don’t know, more than friends? I DO NOT KNOW. All I knew was that she would hover around us like a dragonfly every time we got into a conversation. I now know of course that she is some sort of freakish controlling domestic abuser. I love it here.

The most awful, terrible part of the whole thing, besides being overweight, being told I was pregnant and making really awful Rocky references? M. has a kickass body and HOLY SHIT, the girl can lift weights, and for most of the workout, I was terrified of making a noise, lest she get angry and beat me to a bloody pulp, too (she did yell at me once for closing the blinds (!!) ). Because dude, she could totally kick my ass, and what’s worse is that B. had a killer body, too and I’m shocked – SHOCKED! – that she didn’t just defend herself and crush M. like a fly, which means that M. has hidden depths. Or maybe she’s a ninja secretly working with The Hand that fights Elektra.

Either way, and in all seriousness, how horrible is that whole situation? I feel ill every time I think about it. Poor B. I hope she moved out for good.

And so, M. was added to the arsenal of motivation: Rocky, Elektra, and protecting myself from domestic-abusing lesbians who lurk at the gym and/or kicking their ass in divine retaliation. Along with a false pregnancy of course.

28 comments August 7th, 2006

Talk Talk

I am socially awkward. I think I’m shy, I guess, but the behavior doesn’t really match up with typical shyness. I avoid social situations, sort of – I mean, I hate parties, and I hate large groups of people where I don’t know anyone. I am supremely uncomfortable at events where I don’t have at least one grounding source and if there is that grounding source, I’m
usually clinging to them until I get comfortable, but when I’m comfortable, I’m okay. Kind of. Well, you’ll see.

Instead of clamming up, as would be the smart, prudent thing to do, thus leaving people with the impression that I am either dull, beneath consideration or extremely snobby, I go all hypersocial! And talky! on everyone, which means instead of being known as ‘the dull one,’ I end up being known as ‘the crazy one.’

Again, I start talking. Talking. And touching them. I start touching people. And announcing personal details. God. I can’t keep anything to myself. The thing is, I can’t let an awkward moment just lie there. I need to announce it, share it, call it out for everyone to examine. Tonight, for example, the waitress got my order wrong in a giant, heaping way. She brought a giant plate of bacon and steak*, when I’d ordered crab cakes. After kindly establishing that it wasn’t what I ordered, she started apologizing, which then made ME feel bad, which then compelled me to start launching off on all the mistakes I made when I was a waitress, only of course, I never explained that I was actually a waitress and went on on life’s mistakes, which sounded something like:

“OHMYGOD! DARLING! Darling waitress! I fuck up in my life ALL THE TIME, and dude, if everyone got mad at me like you think I’m going to get mad at you I’d be dead by now! People would KILL ME! Dead! I’d be dead! Because in my life, I fuck up ALL THE TIME! I can’t do anything right! Ever! Ask me the last thing I did right! Right? Right! NOTHING! I DO NOTHING RIGHT!”

I was holding her hand throughout this and then I started petting her arm and saying, “It’s okay! It’s OKAY!” To complete the picture, an invisible fly flew into my ear canal, and I started twitching and swatting at my ear and bobbing my head like I had some sort of uncontrollable disease. By this time she was thoroughly freaked out and ran away awkwardly.

I just can’t let an awkward moment lie there. I can’t sit with silence. I need to call out why we’re all feeling awkward, and usually the reason is me. The last time I saw Adam’s cousin Matthew (who is extraordinarily hot, which makes it worse), I thought we were doing cheek kisses and he thought we were doing hugs, which meant that I ended up enveloping his neck in a big old smooch. And of COURSE I couldn’t just let it lay there, I had to announce wildly: “I just kissed your neck! OH MY GOD! I kissed your neck! YOUR NECK! I KISSED YOU. I’m SORRY! I KISSED YOU! It’s not like I want you or anything, as I am married to your cousin! HAHAHAHAHA! How AWKWARD!”

And then there are the medical conditions. I recently ended up in a conversation with a new colleague, and within five minutes, I inexplicably found myself announcing, “I know what you mean! I have this giant rash behind my ear and it really freaks me out! I mean, it was touch and go there, I thought I was going to LOSE MY EAR. And God, I am so prone to urinary tract infections.”

Um, we weren’t talking about ANYTHING health-related. And later, when I thought I spied someone glancing at my hair and/or my forehead:

“I have hummus in my hair!”** followed by “I have a zit on my forehead!”

God, I can’t let a single moment of awkwardness lie there. I need to pick at it like a scab until it’s dripping blood for everyone to see. What’s most heartbreaking about this is that I have moments – moments where I am on, and I am the most composed, normal person ever and even I’m impressed with my composure and eloquence.

Unfortunately, these moments happen about twice a year. Until then, I’ll leave you with the last thing I said to my boss before I left today, which pretty much sums it up:

“I have to go to the bathroom pretty badly, so I’ll see you tomorrow!”

Someone help me.

*The same restaurant that gave me raw bacon last week. And yet, I continue to go there.

**I actually did have a large chunk of Greek hummus in my hair, which is an entirely different issue altogether.

***Talk Talk

24 comments August 3rd, 2006

About a Girl

This morning marked the second morning in a row that I promised myself that I would get up early and go to the gym. And, um….yeah. I didn’t. Well, in fact, I did. I woke up early, stumbled to the bathroom, and proceeded to fall asleep on the toilet for a staggering amount of time. When I finally awoke, head bobbing next to an embarrassing pile of magazines, I crawled back in bed and set the alarm for one full hour later, which meant I arose at…

8:15. Per fucking usual.

This whole impetus to get my bulbous ass out of bed to go to the (free, in my neighborfuckinghood) gym, was spurred on by a recent trip to the mall to spruce up my pathetic wee little wardrobe. Unfortunately, although I no longer have PMS, or even MS for that matter, the neverending Triscuit-and-wasabi-almond binge has caught up with me in the form of the most dangerously rotund behind and um…belly. Which meant that I not only had the illustrious camel toe (which remains unexplainable), but I was rocking all kinds of other issues as well, including an ass that stuck out like some sort of strange wedding dress bustle, no matter what I put on.

So basically: I want to lose weight. The dichotomous angle to this statement is that I’m really not that upset about how I look. Weight doesn’t upset me THAT much, and I firmly believe if I really cared, I’d have done more about it a long time ago. Naked? I’m cool. I’m happy naked. In a bathing suit? Oddly, I am also fine.

Clothes. I hate the way I look in clothes, and the worst part is that it’s not that I want to buy some sort of gorgeous slinky dress. It’s that I want to buy more T-shirts. I want to be able to buy clothes without a lot of effort. And while I know losing weight is a lot of effort, I’d so much rather put the effort into losing weight than buying clothes. Because honestly? I am in no mood to change my wardrobe of T-shirts, skirts and cargo pants. But I would like to be able to buy DIFFERENT T-shirts and maybe wear a belt with my cargo pants. And I’d like to do it in five minutes or less, because I have better things to do with my time than going to the mall. Like, uh, go to the gym, I guess. I never said my logic was foolproof.

Anyway, the trip was completely and utterly discouraging, as whenever I wasn’t lamenting my muffin top, I was plagued by camel toe and thigh bulge. And please – let’s not forget the penis haircut** that made EVERYTHING disturbingly phallic and awful. And while this would be the perfect moment for most women to console themselves with a handbag or shoe purchase, my handbag quota has already been blown at Kate Spade, and unfortunately my French pedicure* has rendered my finger-like toes too freaky to stuff into any sort of shoes, much less the open-toed variety that are needed drain the buckets of summer-induced footsweat.

I needed a cheap fix…and so to Bath and Body Works. Which – oh hell, look: I know good bath products. I am a bit of a freakish snob about them, and have a staggering collection that I’m embarrassed about, and I KNOW Bath and Body Works is shit and smells like plastic and cheap fruit. But I maintain that their bubble bath is to die for in terms of bubble production, which is saying quite a bit. And while unfortunately, I already have plenty of that, when you can’t buy pants without delivering a blazing arrow to your mysteriously puffy crotch, there really is nowhere left to turn.

And so, I bought gels and lotions in Black Raspberry Vanilla and Tropical Passionfruit (NEW! Oh god, gag! GAG!). And um, what was I thinking? When I was in college, I lived for a time in my sorority house*** with two girls who were the most flatulent people I’d ever met, other than myself. C. was a fan of the Sun Ripened Raspberry scent, and through some strange, inexplicable code of conduct, the raspberry body spray ended up being used as the Universal Fart Mask. If anyone farted in a 100-foot radius, we whipped out the raspberry body spray and spritzed with abandon. And so, after a full year of this, I have come to associate the smell of raspberries with college farts. Which means today, when I tried out my new black raspberry lotion in an effort to perk up my Tuesday, I essentially coated myself in fruity farts and lived in a fart stench all day.

I have a penis haircut, a camel toe and I smell of giant raspberry farts. These are the moments I am thankful I am already married (for three years! Tomorrow, which is today, by the time most of you read this!)

*Nope, I still haven’t changed it.

Nirvana

19 comments August 1st, 2006