So, today I was supposed to be camping in Joshua Tree, eatin' s'mores, roasting hot dogs, drinking whiskey, running around like a headless chicken in the desert...you know. However, I did not confirm early enough and wasn't no room for me to cop a ride, so I accepted a ride on a yacht instead.
Yeah, baby. A fuckin' yacht!
There were only a few rules on this yacht:
1) Flush the toilet with the foot pedal
2) NO PAPER IN THE TOILET
3) No falling overboard
Easy as pie. Right?
About five minutes after this speech, I visited the loo to prepare myself for an afternoon of alcohol and sun (superb combo, if I might add). I did a quick tinkle, wiiiiped, and...threw the paper into the toilet...
NO! Nooooooo! RULE #2!!! SHIT! (Not literally...at least at this point.)
I made a power dive and caught the last dry corner of the TP and just held it there, over the bowl, thinking, considering my options...
If we aren't supposed to put the toilet paper in the toilet...where are we supposed to put it....?
I looked around, still gingerly holding the dripping tissue above the bowl. I pulled open a cupboard. No. I slid open a door. NO. I looked to the side and saw...
A garbage can. The toilet paper needed to go in the garbage can.
Well, fuck. It is sopping wet.
I flung the TP into the can and stared at it.
I need to cover that with something. Anything. Tissues! Yes! I will just ball up tissues and throw them on top of that sopping wet, used TP and it will be fine!
Wad, wad, wad...throw...
...right into the fucking toilet.
How is this possible???? I haven't even started drinking yet!! SHIT!!!
I made the second rescue attempt of the afternoon, but I wasn't so lucky with this one...it started to go under, slowly, slowly....so I grabbed even more tissue and started wadding it up to try to fish this tissue out of the toilet. Pieces started splintering off, floating around in the bowl.
Then, as if things couldn't get worse, there was a knock at the door. I banged my elbow on the wall. Yacht bathrooms are tiny. A line was forming outside. Now they were going to think that I was taking so long because I was taking a shit in there. GREAT. 5 minutes into my virgin yachting experience and I was ruining not only the septic system, but also my reputation.
Fish, fish, fish....finally I had a large enough wad of dry tissue that I was able to sort of dredge up the wad of tissue I inadvertently dropped in the tank. God, wet tissue is heavy. I whipped the whole mess into the garbage can, flushed the toilet, threw down the lid, and stuffed several more wads of dry tissue in the can to cover up my mess.
Then I went and drank 4 bellinis in a row. Because that's what you do when you're on a yacht and you just spent 10 minutes fishing used toilet paper out of a toilet bowl and everyone thinks you have irregular bowel movements.
And now I think I have the flu.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Saturday, February 3, 2007
Falafel is the New Ceviche
You'd think "once bitten, twice shy" for me when it comes to replicating my favorite foods outside of their natural surroundings (See: Ceviche), but alas, it's more like "twice bitten, maybe the next bite will be better."
It was a sunny afternoon earlier this week that I decided to make a combo bank-food run (there is a natural relationship there) near my Culver City workplace. I parked my car without feeding the meter, because I like to tempt fate and I give a silent victory call each time I return after a prolonged, unpaid absence and find my car sans ticket. Suck that, meter maid! Also, I just forget to plug the meter sometimes, because I can be kind of spacey when it comes to those kinds of things.
Anyways, after depositing the equivalent of a month and a half's worth of unemployment income into my account (the process by which I had to find the one, singular Chase ATM in ALL OF LOS ANGELES in order to withdraw the money from my New York State WorkForce card was a struggle, let me tell you), I strolled across the street to Daphne's Gyros. Mediterranean! I love Mediterranean food!
Let me preface by explaining that not only did I live in New York for a chunk of of time, but I also worked for a Jewish organization for a chunk of that chunk of time, so I have developed a sophisticated taste for hummus, falafel, tabouleh and their culinary kin. (Why I never pursued a food writing career path is beyond me...and you, as well, I'm sure...)
I scanned the menu...Yes! A falafel sandwich on pita! With...french fries? Okay, I'll take french fries. I would rather have an Israeli salad, but okay, Daphne's, I'll take the fries. (Strike one for authenticity, but I was hopeful.)
I waited and waited and the hostess finally called, "Shwantee?" Because my mother used to force me to do this as a child, I muttered a quick "Shawnte'" and grabbed my goodies.
As I approached my car, I saw an ominous figure...nofuckingwayametermaid!Shitshitshitshit! I tried to run over to my car and...tripped. In front of a patio full of lunchtime diners. Nice, Shwantee, nice. But, as I am a trooper, I brushed myself off, ignored the guy at Table 2 who whistled "Niiiiice, baaaaybaaaaay..." and made it to my car right before it was about to become victimized. Whew.
I put my blinkers on and, unable to resist, I tore into the takeout box. The fries were coated in paprika, but I didn't care about fries...it was the falafel that I wanted. I slowly unwrapped it....
...why is that tomato green? Did I order the Southern falafel? Hmmmm. Is that...a wedge of red onion in there? Like a quarter of an entire red onion? Okay, I can separate that out myself, I don't mind a D.I.Y. lunch. And....wait...what are THOSE???
Apparently, when they said "falafel" they meant "tiny, flat discs of burnt, greenish chickpeas." I tried a bite and until that moment, I never before considered that falafel could be considered "tough."
I wrapped it back up and drove straight to work. I will never eat another falafel in this town again.
It was a sunny afternoon earlier this week that I decided to make a combo bank-food run (there is a natural relationship there) near my Culver City workplace. I parked my car without feeding the meter, because I like to tempt fate and I give a silent victory call each time I return after a prolonged, unpaid absence and find my car sans ticket. Suck that, meter maid! Also, I just forget to plug the meter sometimes, because I can be kind of spacey when it comes to those kinds of things.
Anyways, after depositing the equivalent of a month and a half's worth of unemployment income into my account (the process by which I had to find the one, singular Chase ATM in ALL OF LOS ANGELES in order to withdraw the money from my New York State WorkForce card was a struggle, let me tell you), I strolled across the street to Daphne's Gyros. Mediterranean! I love Mediterranean food!
Let me preface by explaining that not only did I live in New York for a chunk of of time, but I also worked for a Jewish organization for a chunk of that chunk of time, so I have developed a sophisticated taste for hummus, falafel, tabouleh and their culinary kin. (Why I never pursued a food writing career path is beyond me...and you, as well, I'm sure...)
I scanned the menu...Yes! A falafel sandwich on pita! With...french fries? Okay, I'll take french fries. I would rather have an Israeli salad, but okay, Daphne's, I'll take the fries. (Strike one for authenticity, but I was hopeful.)
I waited and waited and the hostess finally called, "Shwantee?" Because my mother used to force me to do this as a child, I muttered a quick "Shawnte'" and grabbed my goodies.
As I approached my car, I saw an ominous figure...nofuckingwayametermaid!Shitshitshitshit! I tried to run over to my car and...tripped. In front of a patio full of lunchtime diners. Nice, Shwantee, nice. But, as I am a trooper, I brushed myself off, ignored the guy at Table 2 who whistled "Niiiiice, baaaaybaaaaay..." and made it to my car right before it was about to become victimized. Whew.
I put my blinkers on and, unable to resist, I tore into the takeout box. The fries were coated in paprika, but I didn't care about fries...it was the falafel that I wanted. I slowly unwrapped it....
...why is that tomato green? Did I order the Southern falafel? Hmmmm. Is that...a wedge of red onion in there? Like a quarter of an entire red onion? Okay, I can separate that out myself, I don't mind a D.I.Y. lunch. And....wait...what are THOSE???
Apparently, when they said "falafel" they meant "tiny, flat discs of burnt, greenish chickpeas." I tried a bite and until that moment, I never before considered that falafel could be considered "tough."
I wrapped it back up and drove straight to work. I will never eat another falafel in this town again.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
crossed signals
This evening, my suspicions were confirmed - there is, indeed, a particular stretch of 14th St. that is prone to crazy ass dudes using electronic devices. I walk down this way often, en route to the writing space I use, so therefore, I am obviously qualified to make this assertion.
Lately, the area around Union Square (on the 14th St. side) is packed with consumers buying assorted crap from the red and white tent-like structures that sprung up right around Turkey Day. Move up a block, and it's just your average pedestrians. But right after you cross Fifth Ave, it's like you've stepped into another dimension. The proportion of Sane:Crazy is thrown radically out of whack.
Right around the Guitar Center, there is always a man - up until today, I wasn't sure if it was the same dude or not, but now I'm almost positive. This guy is memorable for one reason and one reason only - he makes crazy talk into portable electronic devices on the regular. And by "on the regular," I mean "every time I walk by."
Frequently, he uses a cell phone. I'm not even really sure that he's speaking to anybody, but by the tone of his voice, he probably thinks he's carrying on a conversation with a higher power. Or sometimes, his crack dealer. One day he had a portable radio (so very 80's breakdancing video!). But then there was today...
Today, homeboy (let's call him "Transmitter Tom") had a walkie talkie! He was talking into it, as he generally does with smallish electronic devices, but the difference today was that someone was talking back to him!
It quickly became apparent that the walkie talkie was...uh...borrowed, because the male voice on the other end was yelling angrily to the tune of "return this immediately!...static....prosecuted!...static..."
Tranny Tom was having none of this, however. He calmly pressed the "Talk" button and said to his accuser, "Don't you ever be makin' me late to dinner! OR lunch!" Then he paused, trying to think of a clincher. "OR SNACKS!!!!" With that he strode rapidly towards 6th, walkie talkie in hand, crazy mumbles leaking out of the side of his mouth.
Lately, the area around Union Square (on the 14th St. side) is packed with consumers buying assorted crap from the red and white tent-like structures that sprung up right around Turkey Day. Move up a block, and it's just your average pedestrians. But right after you cross Fifth Ave, it's like you've stepped into another dimension. The proportion of Sane:Crazy is thrown radically out of whack.
Right around the Guitar Center, there is always a man - up until today, I wasn't sure if it was the same dude or not, but now I'm almost positive. This guy is memorable for one reason and one reason only - he makes crazy talk into portable electronic devices on the regular. And by "on the regular," I mean "every time I walk by."
Frequently, he uses a cell phone. I'm not even really sure that he's speaking to anybody, but by the tone of his voice, he probably thinks he's carrying on a conversation with a higher power. Or sometimes, his crack dealer. One day he had a portable radio (so very 80's breakdancing video!). But then there was today...
Today, homeboy (let's call him "Transmitter Tom") had a walkie talkie! He was talking into it, as he generally does with smallish electronic devices, but the difference today was that someone was talking back to him!
It quickly became apparent that the walkie talkie was...uh...borrowed, because the male voice on the other end was yelling angrily to the tune of "return this immediately!...static....prosecuted!...static..."
Tranny Tom was having none of this, however. He calmly pressed the "Talk" button and said to his accuser, "Don't you ever be makin' me late to dinner! OR lunch!" Then he paused, trying to think of a clincher. "OR SNACKS!!!!" With that he strode rapidly towards 6th, walkie talkie in hand, crazy mumbles leaking out of the side of his mouth.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Turning a new leaf - haiku
"Unemployment Check"
Like the lottery
Except with little money
And more depression
"Rain Boots"
Ricky's rubber boots
Look! They shine in the window!
Wish I had some dough
"Freelancer Style"
Hey, got some Ramen?
I'll edit your resume
For only ten bucks
"Hey, People with Jobs!"
It sucks to be you!
Until it's time to pay rent
Then you're one leg up
"Upside"
No more MetroCard!
I'll be staying in my bed
Til Jan 1, '07
Like the lottery
Except with little money
And more depression
"Rain Boots"
Ricky's rubber boots
Look! They shine in the window!
Wish I had some dough
"Freelancer Style"
Hey, got some Ramen?
I'll edit your resume
For only ten bucks
"Hey, People with Jobs!"
It sucks to be you!
Until it's time to pay rent
Then you're one leg up
"Upside"
No more MetroCard!
I'll be staying in my bed
Til Jan 1, '07
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
I will become an advertising executive
Overheard today on North 7th & Havemeyer, as I walk the long walk to the police station:
Teenage girl: What I'm concerned about is pollution. When that stuff gets on your skin...
Adolescent boy: What stuff?
TG: Butane. It's like lighter fluid. It will mess you up.
AB: Cool! I'd set stuff on fire!
TG: (Very upset that she is walking next to a pyro-in-training) No, Cal! Then you'd get burned. Do you want that? Your face will be horribly disfigured.
AB/Cal: (considering what it would really mean for his face to become horribly disfigured) Wow! Then I'd look just like Michael Jackson!!
This conversation prompted me to consider a turn on the ol' career path. Why, you ask? Well, consider this:
a) Smokey the Bear is kind of played out.
b) Fire is still bad, whether or not Smokey is passé.
c) Michael Jackson is frightening to adolescent boys.
d) Adolescent boys are the prime fire-starting cohort.
a + b + c + d = Award-winning print & television public service announcement that makes the connection between setting fires (not just forest fires, mind you, but any kind of hot, burny fires), getting horribly disfigured from the flames, and subsequently morphing into Michael Jackson. (Um...but not cool morphing, like in that "Black or White" video.)
Now, where's my Obie? Is that the award advertising executives receive?
Teenage girl: What I'm concerned about is pollution. When that stuff gets on your skin...
Adolescent boy: What stuff?
TG: Butane. It's like lighter fluid. It will mess you up.
AB: Cool! I'd set stuff on fire!
TG: (Very upset that she is walking next to a pyro-in-training) No, Cal! Then you'd get burned. Do you want that? Your face will be horribly disfigured.
AB/Cal: (considering what it would really mean for his face to become horribly disfigured) Wow! Then I'd look just like Michael Jackson!!
This conversation prompted me to consider a turn on the ol' career path. Why, you ask? Well, consider this:
a) Smokey the Bear is kind of played out.
b) Fire is still bad, whether or not Smokey is passé.
c) Michael Jackson is frightening to adolescent boys.
d) Adolescent boys are the prime fire-starting cohort.
a + b + c + d = Award-winning print & television public service announcement that makes the connection between setting fires (not just forest fires, mind you, but any kind of hot, burny fires), getting horribly disfigured from the flames, and subsequently morphing into Michael Jackson. (Um...but not cool morphing, like in that "Black or White" video.)
Now, where's my Obie? Is that the award advertising executives receive?
Sunday, September 17, 2006
sleep tight
I think that there is a homicidal maniac living in my apartment building.
I swear, the above statement is totally founded; it's not just the paranoia of city living OR the fact that I watched Natural Born Killers and Mulholland Dr back to back last night getting to me. No, no, no. Homicidal maniac, I swear.
And, if I'm counting correctly, last night was Night 3 of his rampage of death and destruction.
Yes, I'm sure.
No, I haven't called the police.
After my uplifting movie marathon, I returned home at some late hour, made a phone call, and buried myself in my bed. At 4:00am, I heard the following, in a homicidal maniac man's voice:
"ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!"
I bolt upright in my bed, as I have the last 3 nights. Some really loud, crazed yelling, some other, unidentified loud noises, then a repeat of the inhuman noise above.
As I have the past 3 nights, I get sort of paralyzed with fear - I want to press my ear against my window to listen more closely, but I am afraid that if I do, the homicidal maniac man will see my ear against the window and head in my direction, propelling his rage towards me. This, I do not want to happen.
Then, the questions start:
-Why does he do this every morning around 4:00am?
-Who is he yelling at?
-Why does he sound like a live buffalo being gutted every time he yells?
-What is he saying when he is not yelling like that?
-What apartment does he live in, because I sure fucking hope it's not any of the ones near me?
-Why does an eerie silence always follow the crazy, buffalo-death-yelling?
-Should I call the police?
Before I could answer any of the above questions, I fell asleep. The next time I woke up, it was approximately 6:30am, and I was waking from a dream in which Naomi Watts was trying to make out with me as Woody Harrelson danced around me with a sawed-off shotgun.
I think I need a vacation. And a new pair of ear plugs.
NEW!! ADDENDUM!:
I left the apartment about a half hour ago to get a slice of pizza. On the corner, a man and woman were speaking in hushed tones.
Bald Man: I heard it too!
Pale Woman: It was like someone was being killed.
BM: I heard him say, 'I can't love you if I DON'T LOVE MYSELF!!!!'
PW: Oh, my gaaaawd. If this continues, I'm calling the fuckin' cops next time.
I paused. They were talking about homicidal maniac man!!! I deliberately missed the light to cross the street so I could listen in a bit more. It's like Wisteria Lane around here. Thank god, confirmation that I am not nutso and/or hearing voices.
(Sidenote: I almost joined the conversation, but stopped when I realied that BM was, in fact, the crazy dude who accosted a friend and I in the corner bodega one evening and warned us to never, ever do ecstasy like he did back in the Studio 54 heyday, when his brother was a big-name DJ.)
I swear, the above statement is totally founded; it's not just the paranoia of city living OR the fact that I watched Natural Born Killers and Mulholland Dr back to back last night getting to me. No, no, no. Homicidal maniac, I swear.
And, if I'm counting correctly, last night was Night 3 of his rampage of death and destruction.
Yes, I'm sure.
No, I haven't called the police.
After my uplifting movie marathon, I returned home at some late hour, made a phone call, and buried myself in my bed. At 4:00am, I heard the following, in a homicidal maniac man's voice:
"ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!"
I bolt upright in my bed, as I have the last 3 nights. Some really loud, crazed yelling, some other, unidentified loud noises, then a repeat of the inhuman noise above.
As I have the past 3 nights, I get sort of paralyzed with fear - I want to press my ear against my window to listen more closely, but I am afraid that if I do, the homicidal maniac man will see my ear against the window and head in my direction, propelling his rage towards me. This, I do not want to happen.
Then, the questions start:
-Why does he do this every morning around 4:00am?
-Who is he yelling at?
-Why does he sound like a live buffalo being gutted every time he yells?
-What is he saying when he is not yelling like that?
-What apartment does he live in, because I sure fucking hope it's not any of the ones near me?
-Why does an eerie silence always follow the crazy, buffalo-death-yelling?
-Should I call the police?
Before I could answer any of the above questions, I fell asleep. The next time I woke up, it was approximately 6:30am, and I was waking from a dream in which Naomi Watts was trying to make out with me as Woody Harrelson danced around me with a sawed-off shotgun.
I think I need a vacation. And a new pair of ear plugs.
NEW!! ADDENDUM!:
I left the apartment about a half hour ago to get a slice of pizza. On the corner, a man and woman were speaking in hushed tones.
Bald Man: I heard it too!
Pale Woman: It was like someone was being killed.
BM: I heard him say, 'I can't love you if I DON'T LOVE MYSELF!!!!'
PW: Oh, my gaaaawd. If this continues, I'm calling the fuckin' cops next time.
I paused. They were talking about homicidal maniac man!!! I deliberately missed the light to cross the street so I could listen in a bit more. It's like Wisteria Lane around here. Thank god, confirmation that I am not nutso and/or hearing voices.
(Sidenote: I almost joined the conversation, but stopped when I realied that BM was, in fact, the crazy dude who accosted a friend and I in the corner bodega one evening and warned us to never, ever do ecstasy like he did back in the Studio 54 heyday, when his brother was a big-name DJ.)
Sunday, September 10, 2006
hairdultery
I try to avoid being a guilt-ridden person by avoiding doing the type of things that will instill a sense of latent guilt...like cheating on my hairdresser.
I didn't mean for it to happen, I swear. I mean, it actually hasn't happened yet...I mean, I only made an appointment; it's not really cheating until you go all the way and let them plunge their scissors into your wild mane.
I know it's wrong. There's a reason why I have stuck with the same hairdresser(s) for the past year...a) they are my friends and b) they do a damn good job. My hair is like a bipolar teenager - it needs discipline, love, structure. It needs a caring set of hands. And, truth be told, I already have those in Steph and Lowry.
But, alas, temptation has struck. I stepped into the Origins store the other day and the salesgirl rushed over to try some new treatment on my hands. I let her, because I had time to kill and a free hand massage never hurt anyone. It was good, it was fine...but her hair....it was magical, full of perfect ringlets falling gently against her cheekbones. I didn't want the gooey crap she was slathering on my paws...I wanted her hair.
Me: So....thanks. My hands, uh, feel good...
Perky Salesgirl: GREAT! LET'S GET YOU A BASKET SO YOU CAN CRAM IT FULL OF OVERPRICED LOTIONS RIGHT NOW!!!
Me: Uh, sure. So, anyway....what products do you use on your hair?
PS: Oh! (looks to her left and then to her right and adopts a hushed tone) Well...I actually use products from the salon I go to....a salon for women with curly hair...
Me: (HOLY SHIT! Did she just say "a salon for women with curly hair"? I AM A WOMAN WITH CURLY HAIR!!!) Um...WOW. I want to go there. Right now.
PS: (still speaking in a barely audible voice; visibly nervous) Ummmm....ooooookay. I'll write down the information....tell them I sent you. It's like a cult over there...they don't let anybody in....
A curly-haired cult? Finally, a place I belong!!!
I rushed over to the address she provided. The door was marked with only a swirl of paint - a curl. The secret symbol.
I asked the doorman how I should enter the sacred chamber of curly locks, and he showed me to a side hallway...which lead to a frosted door....which led to another curved hallway...which led down two flights of steps...and then....the antechamber. Filled with women with curly hair.
Oh my god. It was a like a Sci-Fi flick; like Amazon Women Of Curlvania or something. Redheads. Brunettes. Blondes. Some with highlights. Some with short curls. Some with long curls. And all curls in between. I was saved. I ran up to the counter.
Me: I have curly hair. I was sent here. (Yes, I said that. Exactly that. Do you think I make this shit up?)
Desk Lady With Undiscernable Accent But Perfect Curls: Yessssss...
Me: I want an appointment! PLEASE!!!
DLWUABPC: (eyeing me with suspicion)You were sent here? Hmmm....by who? Oh, okay......zen we will get you an appointment in ze calendar....
She handed me my little grey appointment card and I headed back into the sunshine, suddenly a much happier person. I had found my people, the ones who understood my genetic disposition for frizz. I was saved.
It was when I got home that I started feeling guilty. I am cheating on Steph. She will never speak to me again when she finds out that I made an appointment with another stylist. She loves my hair curly. She cut it curly. She knows curls, too. Uhhhh....shit.
I considered cancelling the appointment. I considered 'fessing up to Steph when I saw her at brunch today. But I did neither. Instead, I kept that goddamned hair appointment and the curl masters are going to do brilliant things to my hair and it's gonna look really nice and shiny and stuff and you can't stop me.
(This is okay with you, right Steph? Pretty please?)
I didn't mean for it to happen, I swear. I mean, it actually hasn't happened yet...I mean, I only made an appointment; it's not really cheating until you go all the way and let them plunge their scissors into your wild mane.
I know it's wrong. There's a reason why I have stuck with the same hairdresser(s) for the past year...a) they are my friends and b) they do a damn good job. My hair is like a bipolar teenager - it needs discipline, love, structure. It needs a caring set of hands. And, truth be told, I already have those in Steph and Lowry.
But, alas, temptation has struck. I stepped into the Origins store the other day and the salesgirl rushed over to try some new treatment on my hands. I let her, because I had time to kill and a free hand massage never hurt anyone. It was good, it was fine...but her hair....it was magical, full of perfect ringlets falling gently against her cheekbones. I didn't want the gooey crap she was slathering on my paws...I wanted her hair.
Me: So....thanks. My hands, uh, feel good...
Perky Salesgirl: GREAT! LET'S GET YOU A BASKET SO YOU CAN CRAM IT FULL OF OVERPRICED LOTIONS RIGHT NOW!!!
Me: Uh, sure. So, anyway....what products do you use on your hair?
PS: Oh! (looks to her left and then to her right and adopts a hushed tone) Well...I actually use products from the salon I go to....a salon for women with curly hair...
Me: (HOLY SHIT! Did she just say "a salon for women with curly hair"? I AM A WOMAN WITH CURLY HAIR!!!) Um...WOW. I want to go there. Right now.
PS: (still speaking in a barely audible voice; visibly nervous) Ummmm....ooooookay. I'll write down the information....tell them I sent you. It's like a cult over there...they don't let anybody in....
A curly-haired cult? Finally, a place I belong!!!
I rushed over to the address she provided. The door was marked with only a swirl of paint - a curl. The secret symbol.
I asked the doorman how I should enter the sacred chamber of curly locks, and he showed me to a side hallway...which lead to a frosted door....which led to another curved hallway...which led down two flights of steps...and then....the antechamber. Filled with women with curly hair.
Oh my god. It was a like a Sci-Fi flick; like Amazon Women Of Curlvania or something. Redheads. Brunettes. Blondes. Some with highlights. Some with short curls. Some with long curls. And all curls in between. I was saved. I ran up to the counter.
Me: I have curly hair. I was sent here. (Yes, I said that. Exactly that. Do you think I make this shit up?)
Desk Lady With Undiscernable Accent But Perfect Curls: Yessssss...
Me: I want an appointment! PLEASE!!!
DLWUABPC: (eyeing me with suspicion)You were sent here? Hmmm....by who? Oh, okay......zen we will get you an appointment in ze calendar....
She handed me my little grey appointment card and I headed back into the sunshine, suddenly a much happier person. I had found my people, the ones who understood my genetic disposition for frizz. I was saved.
It was when I got home that I started feeling guilty. I am cheating on Steph. She will never speak to me again when she finds out that I made an appointment with another stylist. She loves my hair curly. She cut it curly. She knows curls, too. Uhhhh....shit.
I considered cancelling the appointment. I considered 'fessing up to Steph when I saw her at brunch today. But I did neither. Instead, I kept that goddamned hair appointment and the curl masters are going to do brilliant things to my hair and it's gonna look really nice and shiny and stuff and you can't stop me.
(This is okay with you, right Steph? Pretty please?)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
