Category Archives: confessions

smurf ass

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So, the thing about brightly colored hair is, it bleeds. The darker colors especially have very large pigment molecules, lots of which don’t actually penetrate the hair shaft, but rather just sit on the cuticle (the surface of each hair) until they are eventually dislodged by washing or what have you. As a result, the first few showers I take after a dye job are pretty spectacular visually: mountains of purple suds when I shampoo, rivulets of purple water running across my skin, and swirls of purple circling the drain at my feet.

The color doesn’t just come off in the shower though. I try to wear my hair up for the first few nights after a fresh dye because otherwise I’ll end up with a disturbingly bruised-looking neck and shoulders:

dyeneck

The purple really adds depth to my neck rolls, doesn’t it?

When the dye gets onto my skin like this, it’s quite hard to get off, even with soap. Almost like it’s, you know, MADE to stain. I’ve never had it transfer to my clothing or other surfaces from my skin, though – only ever from my hair itself.

Until today, anyway…when I stained the toilet seat blue at work.

Yes, that’s right, not only do I apparently have Smurf Ass, but it appears to be catching. Or at least, transferable to other surfaces, porous and non-porous alike.

I mean, I’m PRETTY sure the toilet seat wasn’t blue-ish before I sat down on it. It’s not like I was on it all that long or like my ass was especially sweaty while I WAS on it. But, when I stood up and looked down at the toilet, there was definitely a faint blue ass-print there.

All I can figure is that the sheer amount of extra dye being rinsed out of my hair this time stained my ass. I checked out my ass in the mirror after I noticed the toilet seat, but the lighting in the bathroom is terrible and who can actually twist around enough to see their whole ass anyway, you know? It maybe looked a LITTLE blue, but not like…”Jesus, what’s wrong with your ASS?” blue.

So I don’t know. Maybe the toilet seat really did have a weird faint blue butt-print on it before I got in there. Or maybe the cleaning ladies that come in this weekend are going to be SUPER confused.

I’m honestly kind of hoping it’s the latter.

This is my truest self.

if the world is going to end, I need to tell you some things

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Crazy people think the world is ending tomorrow.  They’ve never been right before, but I figure, why waste a perfectly good opportunity to tell secrets and air grievances, right?  RIGHT. So pour yourself an adult beverage and let’s begin. Try not to judge me too harshly, ok?

Let’s start out with some easy ones:

  • I love canned whipped cream.  The actual whipped cream part, not the nitrous oxide, I swear. A can of whipped cream lasts maaaaaybe 36 hours in my house. MAYBE. I will continually wander over to the fridge, up-end the can and spray sugary processed white joy into my mouth with utter abandon. There is no bad time for canned whipped cream. Which is exactly why I don’t buy it except on rare occasions.
  • I would eat pizza once a day, every day, and twice a day on weekends, if I could. Standards apply, of course. I’m not talking like $3.99 frozen pizzas. But decent gas-station pizza? Oh, it’s ON.
  • I talk to my dog constantly. That in and of itself isn’t so bad, but I also do the dog’s part of the conversation back to me in dog-voice. If my husband and I are both home, we take turns doing dog-voice. If the dog ever grows thumbs, we’re totally done for.

Now, some less easy ones:

  • I’m pretty sure most people that say they like me really just feel sorry for me. I don’t feel like I’m a particularly pitiable case or anything, but for some reason I just can’t ever quite believe that most of my friends would actually want to talk to me or hang out with me if given another alternative.
  • I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. I’m almost 36, so this one is starting to become kind of a problem.
  • I am super duper afraid that I’m wasting my life.  I struggle with feeling like nothing I do is ever enough to live up to the fact that this is IT, you know? This is the only time I’m going to get. Am I using it well enough? It’s a scary question, at least for me.

And finally, here’s a video of my dog licking almond butter off a spoon as a bit of a palate cleanser for anyone who made it this far:

motivationally chilly

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My dog is doing this devastatingly adorable thing right now where, while sitting on my lap, he tucks his little nose just under the side of my arm and snoozes.  I’d like to think it’s because he adores the shit out of me, but in reality it’s probably because the poor little bastard is freezing, given I haven’t broken down and turned on the heat yet.

HPIM3269

“I wasn’t a white dog to begin with.  This is accumulated frost on my fur.”

It’s not that we can’t afford to run the heating.  It’s more that I’m just needlessly stubborn.  And also kind of a cheapskate asshole sometimes.  But mostly it’s that I’m a little bit of a sicko and I kind of enjoy the game of mental endurance involved.  It feels like an accomplishment to get through a slightly uncomfortably chilly day without turning up the heat.  My husband doesn’t share the same strange brand of masochism.  He would in fact prefer it if we kept the house at a tropical 78 degrees so that he could lollygag around, comfortably watching football in his undies.

I, however, find the cold motivating.

As in, I need to keep moving in order to stay warm.

Speaking of which, my toes are turning blue. I think it’s time to vacuum!

…and then I lost an hour’s worth of work.

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I went on vacation over the weekend.  I wrote a big long post about how great it was.  There were all kinds of pictures with funny captions and everything.  It was probably the best thing I’ll ever have written.  We’re talking Pulitzer material here, honest.  If they gave Pulitzer prizes for blog posts about vacations, anyway.

Then, The Internets decided to have a freaking seizure juuuust before I hit “post”, and all my hilarity went right down the tubes in one fell swoop.

I am not some grannie who has never used a computer before, people.  I grew up in the 90’s!  I SHOULD DAMN WELL KNOW BETTER THAN TO NOT PERIODICALLY SAVE MY WORK.  It’s like I’m back in 7th grade again, trying to convince my teacher that I DID have a book report but the computer ate it.

I can’t even with this shit.

I also can’t decide if there should be a comma in that last sentence or not.  Technically, it probably isn’t even a sentence so it doesn’t really matter.

OMG I am so annoyed.

Here, enjoy this picture of Pierre photobombing a scenic vista while I cry a little bit and curse my inability to simply hit the “save draft” button once in a god damned blue moon.

“Oh, hallo! Ah am ze Fronch anteater, Pierre. Ah weel show you zeez rocks en Maine. Zey are velly good rocks, ah promeez!”

confessions of a sometimes wino

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Friday night I drank a whole 750ml bottle of cheap pinot noir.

Rex and I have a long and storied relationship.

Rex is my favorite frenemy.

Beer tends to give me a headache before I get much of a buzz going so I usually stop after a couple.  Wine, however, affords me a nice long of a window of “buzzed but essentially functional”.  It takes me to that wonderful loose place where life is essentially good, everyone is at least entertaining if not downright lovely, and dancing doesn’t seem like entirely the worst idea ever.  I can string words together more effectively, I become a creative genius in the kitchen, and I often become prone to small to medium sized philosophical epiphanies.  All things seem possible when I’m half a bottle in.  Of COURSE I’d like another glass!  This highly enjoyable state of mind must be preserved for as long as possible!  Bring me more happy juice!

Except…eventually I have to sleep, and be able to drive and go to work and, you know, not be drunk.  Which is kind of a bummer.

I don’t drink entire bottles of wine in one go very often anymore.  In my early 20’s it was nothing for me to drink a 750ml bottle of an evening, and I used to fairly frequently consume the majority of 1.5L bottles when the mood struck.  This was not done during a party, mind you.  This was just me sitting at home on a Saturday night, knitting and watching PBS, getting tanked on cheap wine and staggering up to bed.  I didn’t mind the feeling of being out of control at that point because there wasn’t anyone around to call me on it and frankly, I often didn’t realize quite how shit-faced I had actually gotten until the next morning when I looked back on the things I had done the night before.

That’s what I mean about wine making me “buzzed but essentially functional”.  If I sit at a table and drink three shots of tequila or a couple of Dark & Stormy’s in rapid succession then stand up, I will FEEL drunk, and I will not especially enjoy that feeling.  If I sit there and drink three glasses of wine, even very quickly, then stand up, I’ll feel cheerful and loose…but I won’t feel what my body and brain recognize as drunk.  I won’t feel like I can’t do certain things or like I should switch to drinking water.  I’ll feel excellent and want to keep drinking to keep the excellence flowing.

What bothers me more than my actual drinking habits (because like I said, I really don’t drink all that much anymore. I might have a couple glasses of wine or a beer after work, maybe three nights a week on average), is the fact that I actively miss the wine feeling when it’s gone.  I miss feeling like all is right with the world and like I am capable of most things.  I know that to seek wine out regularly in an attempt to continue those feelings is to flirt with functional alcoholism, so I try very much to keep myself in check in that regard…but it makes me wish very much that there was a way to achieve that level of contentedness without having to subject myself to possibly addictive substances and irresponsible behaviors.

If you have any suggestions on that front, I’m all ears.