The Results Are In

D tried the Chocolate Lucky Charms this morning. Verdict?

"Well, um, they just taste like regular Lucky Charms. Or maybe, at best, marshmallows mixed with, like, low grade store brand Cocoa Puffs."

Heh.

Talk of Cocoa Puffs (which I don't really like, but which remind of Cookie Crisps, which rule!) only convinced me further that D and I will be going here while we are in Philly this weekend.

Which reminds me - Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Awesome. Newly released French Toast Crunch? Pointless and vile.

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I just saw Kate Hudson and Chris Robinson walking their baby outside of the building. They were very cute. I actually had my camera with me (long story) and momentarily thought of snapping a photo, but then thought better of becoming paparazzi.

I find this precious because for some reason it is heartwarming to see them acting like regular parents. Well, regular parents who don't have to work on a Friday afternoon. I guess I just assumed that a rockstar type would have better things to do, such as being "in the studio" or "with another woman."

Cute.

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I am wearing black today to honor the passing of Mitch Hedberg.

I'm still upset. We just saw him - not even two weeks ago. I am so glad I had the opportunity to see him. I blame the catty (thanks for editing, E.Pi) bachelorettes who caused him to be paranoid at the show. They drove him back to drugs, or whatever it was that caused his heart attack. Stupid bachelorettes. They probably don't even know that he's dead.

I'm trying to understand why I'm so distressed, and I think its because Mitch Hedberg was so innocent. His comedy was never offensive or charged or distasteful. He was observational and light and fabulous.

I also credit him with being one of the only things that helped my mood a few years back. I hit a rough patch a few years ago, during which I was a mess and couldn't be consoled by anything. Sister said "Dude, you need to listen to Mitch Hedberg." She then launched into an impression and I was like "I don't know, man, I don't know if I can just sit and listen to something right now" and she insisted, saying "Seriously, Leah, he's the funniest guy ever."

I proceeded to sit on the floor of her bedroom in Medway and laugh until the tears transformed from sad tears into the kind that flow in response to uncontrollable laughter. My parents and brother, who heard us laughing, appeared in Sister's room and soon joined us. It was awesome.

I am going to buy a Quadruple Tree Hotel t-shirt in Mitch's honor, and will wear it with pride.

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It is weird how people are dying.

Johnnie Cochran, Terry Schiavo, Mitch Hedberg... I just heard that Frank Purdue died (I thought he was already dead?) and probably soon The Pope.

Weird.

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Mitch Hedberg is dead.

Fuck.

I don't even know what to say.

I am shaking.

Polka Chic

I think the key to becoming rich is to take something that already exists, and has existed for quite some time, and make it fashionable.

An example - poker. Why is poker a new fad? Suddenly everyone is obsessed with poker. Poker reality shows. Poker internet pop-ups. Radio ads for classes that will teach you how to play poker.

I don't understand.

I mean, I understand, because poker is awesome. It's always been awesome.

I'm sure there are millions of other examples of this that I can't think of right now.

I said to D "You know what we should do? Make like an Uno version of poker... like for kids... people would go nuts for that right now.... you know, like how Uno is CRAZY EIGHTS (thank you, Mo, for editing) but with Draw Fours and Skips."

Turns out that this has already been invented, and is called Phase 10. I was playing Phase 10 shortly before I suggested this. Apparently I hadn't consciously realized that Phase 10 is a combination of Poker and Rummy 500. I was too fixated on the Rummy 500 similarties.

The task of the week is to think of something that's always been cool and to start a crusade to convince people that this thing is NOW the coolest thing.

This might involve a reality TV show. I'm not happy about that, but if it makes me rich, I won't mind selling out.

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In other news a third Shins show has been added! I couldn't attend either of the original shows as I will be in The South. A third show was just added and I will be at it, thanks to a blog that just announced that tickets went on sale.

Blogs are good.

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D came back from FL last night. I called him as he was boarding the plane in FL, and he said "I have surprises. You are going to be so excited. You won't be able to sleep tonight."

When he arrived, before saying anything to me, he threw his bag on my bedroom floor and pulled from it a box of Lucky Charms. "Can you stand it?" he said.

"Ummm...."

D thinks that food can only be purchased in Florida. (Which is sort of true - its hard to find what you want in NYC, but I don't think you really need to go to FL to go grocery shopping). He also thinks that Target only exists in FL, even though there is now one in Times Square and has always been one in Brooklyn. Then again, the Target in Brooklyn is actually Scary Target, at which you have to put your shopping cart on an escalator in order to get it to the second floor, thus causing anxious people like myself to carry all sorts of awkwardly shaped objects instead of risking losing potential purchases to an unpredictable escalator with notches in it. I'm sure D would like me to tell you that the Target in FL is a Super Target. I'm not sure how much more super Target could be. Sadly I was not able to experience its Super-ocity firsthand due to its being closed on Easter.

I digress.

"CHOCOLATE LUCKY CHARMS!" he said. "This combines two of your favorite things - Lucky Charms and CHOCOLATE!"

Now.

D knows that variations on food that is already good is a pet peeve of mine. I've always been like this - for example, when I was little, I just adored My Little Ponies and loved all of the ones that I had. Then, as soon as little girls had all of the My Little Ponies, they'd come out with NEW My Little Ponies. Baby ones, ones with wings, ones with glitter, ones with fluorescent hair. I was always torn between loyalty to the original and enthusiasm for the new. It was the same with Cabbage Patch Kids. I finally got one, but then they came out with the premie ones, the animal ones (which now horrifies me - I haven't thought about those since elementary school), but I always remained loyal to Sandy, my original doll.

I just don't understand why there has to be flavored Pringles. Pringles RULE. Why do they need to have barbecue flavored ones when the original flavor is perfectly adequate? And Cheez-Its - Cheez-Its are the best thing ever, so why do they now have flavored ones? And pizza-flavored Golfish? WHY!?!?? Why can't we ever just be happy with what we have?

D is an experimenter. He likes the variants. I always say "D, what if you met a bunch of new people who were slight variants on all the people you know? With all else being equal, I guess you'd try? You'd just try new people?!?!? WHY SHOULD I TRY FREAKING WHITE CHEDDAR PRINGLES WHEN THE ORIGINAL IS AWESOME?!?!? WHY SHOULD I WANT SOMETHING ELSE WHEN WHAT I HAVE IS GOOD? WHY WOULD YOU BUY THESE!??! TRAITOR!!!"

Food remixes.

Lame.

Anyway, I didn't launch into my food diatribe because he was so excited, but now I am torn, because I have to try the Lucky Charms even though I hate them just because they exist. I love original Lucky Charms. I never thought "You know, this could be better."

But, more importantly, D has purchased more Star Wars legos for us to play with!!! Now we will have ships for our TIE fighter to play with. Weeee!!!!

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I listened to my friend's radio show this morning. I was torn, because I was listening to Howard Stern prior to his show's beginning and Howard Stern said "How long is the Mitch Hedberg bit? Should we play it now or... well... let's go to ads..."

Torn.

The reason I mention this is because I can rarely find anything on the radio worth listening to, and there I was, for the first time in my life, with a radio conflict!

Mitch Hedberg never came on and I couldn't get a good stream of my friend's show, so there wasn't much of a conflict in the end.

Oh well.

It was, for a moment, cool to be excited about radio.

My Trip To Florida - An Essay by Leah Lar

It is sunny and gorgeous in NYC today. Because I did not have to wear a coat today, I am not as wistful as I was yesterday.

At any rate.

We arrived at Laguardia 1.5 hours prior to our scheduled departure on Friday afternoon, only to learn that our flight had been delayed for an hour. This became two hours, then four. Without announcement, the flight was cancelled due to severe weather in Florida.

We spent an hour in line awaiting our fate, and were able to reschedule for Saturday at 3:00 pm. I changed my return flight to Monday at 2:00 pm. I was pissed about this - hence my post on Friday night - as I did not go home to visit my family for Easter because I didn't want to use a precious vacation day. I hadn’t realized I was homesick until Friday, confronted with the idea of visiting someone else’s family when I haven’t seen my own in quite some time. When I did see them last, it was at a funeral and everyone was a mess. D was mad at me when I initially suggested taking a 7am flight on Monday so as not to miss an entire day of work. In order to appease him, I consented to the 2:00, but spent the majority of the night feeling cross without giving him an explanation.

We took a cab back to Brooklyn because I was moody. D is adamantly anti-cab because he is pro-public transit and pro-saving money. I suspect he didn't want to spend two hours trapped on public transit with my being vicious. The cab ride gave me the opportunity to talk to RR, who calmed me down about all things because she is an old friend and therefore understands.

D and I went on "a date" once I was able to make a decision on what to eat. I had a drink and became honest and things were fine.

We headed to JFK the following afternoon. D insisted that we sit at the front of the JFK-transit-train-thing (which costs $5! who knew?) because he is a giddy child about trains.



Check-in was a labor as we no longer had e-tickets. Slightly panicked about missing our flight, we were pleased and annoyed to learn that our flight had, again, been delayed by two hours due to weather in FL. This time it was hail.



Song Airlines rules. They have in-flight trivia and TV, as well as half-decent food for sale. They also have “Song of the Day” safety instructions. It was “Flamenco!” on this particular occasion, and the rules were read by a sultry woman who made arbitrary analogies involving flying and flamenco dancing. I was hoping for “Gangsta Rap!” on my return flight, with the rules for evacuation being read by Snoop Dogg. I was, sadly, disappointed.

Seeing the person you love in a different context for the first time is a powerful experience. I realized, the moment that we stepped outside into the warm and thick Orlando air, that I was going to leave Florida feeling differently about the relationship than when we arrived.

D’s father and niece, who adores D, picked us up. Little Niece 1, who is 3 and a half years old, flipped out when she saw D. D insisted that I sit in the back with Little Niece 1. I tried to insist, without actually saying anything, that this was the worst idea ever, but D wouldn’t have it. His desire for Little Niece 1 to adore me was a little greater than my convictions that Niece 1 would destroy me in a jealous rage or hate me for being unfamiliar or rip my glasses from my face. Little Niece 1 was just in love with Uncle D and therefore suspicious of Uncle D’s friend. She looked me up and down judgmentally at first, causing me to want to jump out of the car. Eventually she warmed up to me, and held both of our hands as we walked into the restaurant to “meet the family.”

Aunts, uncles by marriage, brother, sister-in-law, Little Niece 2, mother. I instantly forgot all names and smiled brightly and hugged his mother and wanted to hide in the fish pool at the entrance to the restaurant.

Dinner was nice. I can’t remember what was said as I was in high stress mode. I was actually in high stress mode for the entire time I was there.

We headed back to D’s parents’ house after dinner. I was ill-prepared for their house. D never mentioned that they lived in a gigantic, sparkly, new and pristine home. I felt like I was on an episode of Cribs. I’ve never set foot in a house like this. It’s gorgeous. This is the view from their kitchen window:



We drank wine and nobody asked me questions. I sat back and observed.

Observation. Amidst an already established family unit, I found myself taking photos of them non-stop. For the first time I understood my father. I wonder if he never feels involved, and that’s why he hides behind the camera. Or, if because he’s hidden behind the camera for so long, he no longer knows how to be involved.

Either way, I got some amazing photos of D’s family. I wonder if, years from now, somebody will find these photos and wonder who took them. I wonder if there will ever be pictures of me. I hope not.
I took about 100 photos of the Nieces and the family and D, who I love to photograph, and also spent a great deal of time taking pictures like this, because I really didn’t know what else to do with myself.



His family is very nice. And photogenic. They told me their life stories when I asked questions, and D said “I’ve never seen either of my parents talk this much.”

I’d never seen D talk so little.

It’s amazing how much you can learn about someone when you see him with his family. On top of the precious and dirty childhood secrets they reveal, they inadvertently shed light onto why he is the way he is. Seeing a person interact with his family is the best data you can gather.

It’s also interesting to compare and contrast families. I can’t read families that are not like my own. I feel comfortable in some families and uncomfortable in others. When you’re growing up, you assume that all families are like yours because you don’t know anything else. I have no idea what they thought of me. None. I have nothing to work with. My family is outgoing and obvious. They have endless amounts of affection to give and life stories to absorb.

I described his family to Roommate and the first thing she said was “Wow, that must have been so weird for you considering what your Mom is like.”

Yes.

I liked them. A lot. By the end of the weekend Little Nieces 1 and 2 were attached to me. Kids are easy to read, and once you have them in your corner they are loyal until the end of time.

We took a ferry to Disney World but didn’t go in. Sister-in-law made fondue. We drank wine and played cards. We tried to go to supermarkets that were closed on Easter. D talked like Mitch Hedberg all weekend and said things like “Wait – what was that Mitch Hedberg joke about the future?” and “Tell them about the rice joke!” I walked around awkwardly and uninvolved, smiling and uttering words nonsensically every now and then. It’s difficult to use words when they are a rarity.

D said “It’s amazing how comfortable this feels. It’s like, so natural. It’s like your being here isn’t a big deal at all.”

I’m not sure that’s a good thing.

After the Disney World ferry/monorail adventure, D and I went for a walk around his parents’ neighborhood, which is a gated community that is still being developed. We played in the foundation of one of the future-houses.



It felt more like something that had been destroyed than something being built. The light was romantic. It was like playing on giant legos. D was blissful and atypically cooperative, and thus granted me permission to take millions of photos of him.



While battling mosquitoes and running around the neighborhood, we learned more about each other. Things are getting better, and I don’t understand how that is possible. I guess this comes with getting to know someone better, and getting to know someone differently.



On our way back to D’s parents’ house, we walked past mounds of dirt that had been dug up for foundations. It reminded me of being a child. The house that I grew up in was designed by my parents, so we were able to play in the foundation and climb the mounds of dirt, which seemed like mountains, before we moved in. I took pictures of the mounds, but instead of looking like mounds of dirt leaking nostalgia, they looked like the surface of Mars.



After dinner we walked again and talked about things like the relationship and photography and personalities and neuroscience and timeframes. We sat by a lake and listened to nothing. We sat on grass, which is something we’ve not done together. We played the “who can spot the most toads” game. We talked about the likelihood of D’s tent still being at his parents’ house and our camping out in their yard that night.

D is prone to asking questions like “What is your happiest memory?” and I never know what to say. Is your happiest memory supposed to be from childhood? Is it sad that I don’t have one? I have vague memories – running around the foundation of my future home, playing restaurant in my grandparents’ pantry, making up dance routines with Sara because we were certain we’d get on Star Search if we practiced enough.

I think the happiest memory has to come from childhood, because it doesn’t risk being tainted. A lot of my happy memories have been brutalized by things that happen afterwards.

Point being, I hope that sitting by the lake with D will remain one of my happiest memories.



I got back on Monday night at around 6:00. My flight was, again, delayed due to weather in northern Florida. People clapped at the end of the flight. This happens every 1 out of 5 flights, and I love when it does. I think people should always clap when people do their job. “Well done! You didn’t kill us! You’ve gone above and beyond and we will therefore clap for you!” Perhaps I’ll start clapping every time I get off the subway successfully, or every time someone at work fills the water bath.

This is the longest and most melodramatic post ever.

If you made it this far, I am clapping for you right now, because you have really gone above and beyond and I am super appreciative of your reading my blog.

Disoriented

What is it about travelling that convinces me that I haven't figured anything out?

I suppose its natural to have no desire to return to one's actual life when one is away from it. I suppose that's the point of taking time away.

Perhaps the key is to take enough time away. Then, presumably, one starts missing one's actual life.

Is that how it's supposed to work?

When I first arrived in Florida, I said things like "I can't believe that people live like this!" and "Why would anyone want this?" and "What if you want to go to a different supermarket?" and "Why does anyone need a three car garage?"

After a day and a half, I instead was saying things like "If I lived here, I'd be so relaxed" and "I'd stare out at this lake and maybe even fish and not think of anything but the stars" and "I'd be giddy watching those construction workers all day" and "Perhaps my snow-builds-character-theory is misinformed."

I am back from the orange-grove painted and perfectly landscaped world of sunny and sparkly Florida. I am disoriented by New York City's dark skies and the rain and the city sounds I'd quickly forgotten.

It's amazing how quickly you can get used to something that is nothing like your life.

It's amazing how quickly you can forget science, and how quickly you can get wrapped
up in fantasies involving everything but what you actually have.

It's amazing how much it saddened me to receive D's voicemail just now that said "Hi - insert secret affectionate and terribly cute pet name here - its beautiful and sunny and we're going to Disney World today so hopefully I'll talk to you tonight." My sadness didn't come from missing him or the sun. I thought "Man, I'd love to go to Disney World." Wtf!? I don't like Disney World! I thought the overabundance of Disney knick-knacks and wall adornments that cluttered my first post-college apartment and annoyed the hell out of me had cured me of any nostalgia that could ever make its way to the surface, but no! I want to go to Disney World.

Damn you, perfect Florida, for making me want to retire right now.

Weather

I am currently in Brooklyn. I did not just step off a plane into the warm Florida sun. I will not be able to go to Orlando until late tomorrow afternoon. This change of plans requires my taking a vacation day on Monday.

I am on the verge of a meltdown, because not only did I receive potentially bad/annoying news today, spend approximately four hours in the airport, spend two hours in transit to and from the airport, not really eat (I am starving to death but my mood has rendered me incapable of making a decision on if/what to eat), but I am pissed because I want to use my vacation days to visit *my* family.

I have used 1.5 precious vacation days for this, and I am not happy. I'm not blaming anyone or anything. I'm merely responding rather intensely to my first moment of homesickness since I left MA.

Easter

Easter is apparently this weekend.

People keep asking me "What are you doing this weekend?"

"Going to FL."

"To celebrate Easter?"

"No, to meet my future in-laws," who I hope will not be celebrating Easter as I did not pack my Easter bonnet, nor did I pack anything that I would feel comfortable wearing in a church. I also forgot to pack dyes with which to make Easter eggs because I also forgot to buy the dye. Drat. I bet my future nieces-in-law would have liked to dye eggs, but probably not as much as I'd have liked it.

Easter nostalgia is fierce right now. Competing in the neighborhood egg hunt (I will never forget this - we were running around hunting for eggs and I found this hideous egg that was dyed a light green and had on it a big black dot; the neighborhood posse ridiculed me for having found the mutant egg, until we were informed that the finder of said egg would be the proud recipient of a kite! and then I was much resented), looking forward to charming pink dresses and little white gloves and little white hats, colorful baskets full of candy and other goodness, dying millions of eggs over at Aunty Peggy and Uncle Tommy's house, running around like a lunatic in my grandparents' fenced-in backyard in Roslindale hoping to find the plastic egg with the dollar bill. Sigh.

At any rate, in celebration of Easter, please enjoy reading Fellowship of the Peeps.

Until next time....

Anemia

My brain is torturing me right now because it has decided to play, on repeat, Belinda Carlisle's "Heaven Is A Place on Earth."

No, I have no theory regarding this song's being triggered by my traitorous neurons.

Bench Buddy said "Wouldn't you rather have 'Heaven isn't too far aw... ay.. ay ...ayyy....' in your head?"

Yes, Bench Buddy, I would, but that is not how it works!!!

Instead I have "Oooh baby do you know what that's worth? Ooooh heaven is a place on earth!" on replay.

I feel weird today. I am attributing the appearance of this song to yet another symptom of whatever weird neural phenomenon I am suffering from. Since Sunday night, my hands and face have been tingly at night. They are not numb. They are Pins and Needles. Today is the first day during which my hands and face have been tingling during the day. Concurrent with the tingling is the inability to type accurately and inability to access words. When my face is feeling numb my brain goes numb as well, and I can't think of basic words to express myself. Nor can I really have a coherent thought, because every other thought is something like "Man, I could totally pass out RIGHT NOW while my boss is talking to me - that would be dramatic!" or "It's weird how my hands go from being in severe pain to having no sensation at all - if my face wasn't numb I'd be psyched about having carpal tunnel so as not to have to work for the next couple of weeks!" or "Having pins and needles in your cheeks is just plain bizarre."

I am wondering if there is more or less hypochondriasis in the world now that self-diagnosis is rendered so easy by the internet.

A majority of my day today was spent searching for things like "hands tngingl" and "fadil numbnss" and "tremos extremeits" and "lightehadedness."

Neuropathy? Low blood pressure? MS? Hormonal issues?

My vote, for now, is near-onset of the flu. Or maybe something anemia-like. Or psychosomatic pre-meeting-the-parents syndrome.

I love the word anemia.

This sort of thing is all very new to me. Normally I am nonresponsive to health-related issues, but having a numb face, I think, is cause for internet investigation.

Bizarrely enough, I had a minor argument with D last night about health issues before he knew about my numb face and hands. I've been trying not to be too much of a nag about his health, but I am definitely allowed to be a bit of a nag. He finally saw a doctor yesterday - my diagnosis was right, although the doctor he saw has advised that he get a second opinion and apparently mine does not count - which precipitated a conversation, finally, regarding his health. I said something like "People have been telling me that men just don't go to see doctors." He said "Look, I just think its a double standard." "Why?" "Because, like with you, you NEVER go to a doctor. You're awful about it." I said "That's because there's nothing wrong with me. You know if I had another kidney stone or I was fainting at work I'd get myself to a hospital in a second."

Or, M would have to call me on the phone and force me to go to the doctor's by saying "EAR INFECTIONS ARE NOT CURED BY SLEEP!"

Right.

"When the night falls down, I wait for you and you come around..."

I must go now, as I have to engage in one of my favorite activies - PACKING!!!

Banksy

Click on this!

This appears on the following lists:

1. Things I Wish I Thought Of
2. Person I Wish I Was Instead Of Myself
3. Person Who Most Likely Did Not Un-Do His Personal Wackiness

Is this national news?

This made me so happy when I found about it yesterday afternoon.

I Heart Campbell Scott

The weekend was good. It was the first weekend in a long time without visitors, without obligation, with just me and D.

On Friday night we went to the Whitney, which is basically free on Friday evenings. It's "Pay What You Want," so D and his friend M payed $1 each, and I paid $2, because I felt bad. I don't know why I felt bad. I apparently felt like I should pay 2x what everyone else was paying, just because I am me.

The museum is amazing. So much to see, but not as overwhelming as the MOMA. We saw everything, although I didn't get to be as obsessively staring as I'd have liked. Of course I can't remember anything I saw, aside from the Tim Hawkinson exhibit which was the best art exhibit I've ever seen.

http://www.whitney.org/exhibition/feat_hawk.shtml

His work focuses on his awareness of the human body. It's unique and bizarre and inexplicably creepy. Everyone in the exhibit was blissed out and happy, staring with their mouths open at moving sculptures and strange representations of form. It made me feel like a kid. If you get the opportunity, please see it. You will not be disappointed.

We were starving after the Whitney and found ourselves in a rare pocket of NYC where there was nowhere to eat. Well, there were places to eat, but I was craving onion rings and M was craving "pub grub," so our scope was narrow. This being said, the Upper East Side is a barren wasteland devoid of character and entertainment, so there was seriously nowhere to eat.

During our travels, we came upon this, the most unfortunate store window I have ever seen:



I have no idea what this place is doing in New York City. None, folks.

We ended up passing a diner, and I said "Dammit, we're eating there! I am going to turn into a lunatic if we wait another minute!"

D said "OH! That reminds me - there's an awesome diner around the corner - it's the best - you're going to love it... although, with our luck, it will have shut down." Chuckles. I was actually half expecting it to be on fire at that very moment, but it was, of course, only shut down.

We went back to the original diner where we came up with innovative and potentially lucrative business ideas that would take advantage of rich people, and where I ordered the worst omelette I have ever had. It had spinach and broccoli and American cheese mixed in the exact combination that made the omelette completely tasteless. Weird.

On Saturday I attended a bonus class in which Campbell Scott's film Off the Map was screened. I was slightly peeved by having to get up at 8:00 am on a Saturday to see it, but clung to the slight hope that Campbell Scott, who I love for no apparent reason, would be at the class. The film was darling - it was sweet, subtle, had depth of character. It's one of those movies that makes you root for everyone in it.

And yes, Campbell Scott was there! I half expected him to be smarmy and slick, because he always plays smarmy and slick. I was delighted to learn that he is spastic and lively and down-to-earth and brilliant and obscenely good looking and that he wears glasses, which, as you know, makes me love someone even more. When the question and answer session began, I kept wanting to ask "What are the chances of you coming home with me and my boyfriend?" since D is apparently also in love with him.

The Q and A was awesome. I learned many things, and actually came up with a good band name in the process.

After the movie I headed back to Brooklyn to eat and to just be. I hadn't been in my apartment for a while, and wanted to make sure Roommate was all set for our housewarming party, which I decided not to host but instead to attend. All was good. I did things like read mail and play piano (bliss!) and record rough cuts of things I know I'll forget because I know I won't touch the piano for another month.

I then went back to D's, who had made quiche. We then went to Caroline's in Times Square (we had to walk about 8 blocks through Times Square and I thought D was going to shoot someone - its interesting how Times Square changes once you live in New York - instead of being something to gawk at, it becomes something to navigate as efficiently as possible so as not to grow homicidal towards tourists) to see Mitch Hedberg, who is the funniest man alive.

Here he is: (awful picture)



Like the last time I saw him, about 50% of the audience didn't get it. Mitch Hedberg jokes about the mundane, the innocent, the quirky things that get you through your days. I encourage you to listen to his stuff. He's not political, sexual, or even aware. He's a grown up stoner who observes the inane and turns it into the funniest thing you've ever heard.

D was dying. He couldn't stop laughing. Everyone's Favorite Physicist said something like "Liking Mitch Hedberg Is A Litmus Test For Cool," and D passed. Our friend R and J were also dying, so success! Yeah!!! My friends are cool!

We headed back to Brooklyn again to attend Roommate's party. It's bizarre attending a party at your own house. When I got there my room was being used as a dressing room by the band who was playing. I carried my pocketbook around with me throughout the entire night as though I was at someone else's house.



The party was cool - very New York. My apartment has never looked better. There were many hipster and scenester people there. The vibe was serious. The people were beautiful. The music was provided by a DJ. It was cute to see turntables in my kitchen, and cuter to see a drum set in the living room.





My friend LL turned up (she was the only one I invited outside of D, R, and Bench Buddy) eventually, but we didn't last long. I knew this party would go until 6 am-ish, so I went back into the city and slept. Lots.

Yesterday was the first relaxing day I've had in ages. I slept in. D made crepes with bananas and strawberries and chocolate. We tried to listen to a Bach cantata at a church, but the church website was misleading and there was no Bach to be heard. The church was gorgeous, though, so it wasn't a total loss. Because D becomes more and more perfect each day, he said, "Well, this gives us more time to shop for shoes!" We walked down 8th St. in the rain and looked at millions of shoes but bought none. When we got back to his apartment, we read. I haven't read in so long. I started and finished "Sandman: Endless Nights" and felt profoundly sad about the stories but profoundly giddy about having had time to read. We ate dinner and then spent the night doing a jigsaw puzzle and being silly and being thrilled about having time to do a jigsaw puzzle.

As of this moment I am starting to feel sick, but don't care because I am still riding the happiness from the weekend.

This being said, I should stop typing and should be catatonic so as to get better.

Word.

Simplify Your Life For Success!

Because I am an adult with a short attention span (which unnerves me, since as a child I had the ability to focus on things indefinitely which allowed me to get good grades; if I ever went back to school now it would be a disaster!), I can't read newspapers. Nor can I read the news online. Unless its in short attention span form, such as in publications like am New York.

I just read today's edition of am New York. Well, not really. I read the gossip page, my horoscope, and perused the am Careers section. In her article entitled "Simplify Your Life For Success," Karen Salmonsohn points out that 80% of your results come from only 20% of your activity, so its not so much what you SHOULD be doing as it is what you should NOT be doing. Instead of doing, un-do!

She suggests making an "Un-Do List," which includes the following:

1. Undo unimportant meetings
2. Undo unclear assignments
3. Undo energy sapping people (yes!) and
4. Undo personal wackiness

OK. I agree with 1, 2, and 3. This is fairly intuitive. It pains me that people might have to see these things in published list form to consider them. Number 3 especially. This is a good philosophy for life in general. Yes, Karen, yes!

But.

Wtf is "undo personal wackiness?" Never, Karen, never!

Isn't "personal wackiness" the key to success? If we didn't have personal wackiness, we'd be a bunch of worker drones and that would not be productive. Everyone would be so bored and boring that nothing creative or interesting would ever be accomplished.

Oh, wait, right, that's actually how it is. "Personality" and "personal wackiness" aren't rewarded. We can't be individuals. We can't have ideas. We can't do things differenly and chaotically.

I hate Karen and Karen's world.

Personally, I'd be more productive if people in the workplace would indulge their "personal wackiness." A disorganized and wacky work machine, in my opinion, would encourage me to get more done because it would be more exciting, unpredictable, and ZANY!

I don't even know where I'm going with this.

I guess I just enjoyed seeing the word "wackiness" printed in a newspaper.

Heh.

Best Weekend Ever

The weekend was fantastic. I will write more later, when I can also upload photos.

In the meantime, I am laughing at this:

"You know they call corn on the cob, corn on the cob, but that's how it comes out of the ground, man. They should call that corn, they should call every other version corn off the cob. It's not like if you cut off my arm you would call it Mitch. Then reattach it and call me Mitch-all-together..."

- Mitch Hedberg (funniest man alive)

Marine Mammals are the New Unicorn

D and I are retarded.

We found ourselves discussing science and how its really ruined everything for people - its taken the fun out of potential unknowns. There's nothing new. There's no "What is that IN THE SKY!?!?! ZEUS HIMSELF IS SPEAKING TO US!" And if there is something new, it can be scientifically explained.

We tried to figure out what could happen now that couldn't be explained scientifically and would freak everyone out, and found ourselves stumped.

I said "What if tomorrow we all woke up and could read minds! Suddenly!!!"

He said "What if the earth started rotating the other way?" (which is funny, since he doesn't read the blog, and, well, we've been discussing that...)

Then we started talking about miracles. We weren't calling them miracles since D is an Atheist and I am a recovering Catholic. We didn't realize we were talking about miracles at all, until D said "Something that would go unexplained today would convince people to become spiritual."

True.

Then we thought "This could be a movie..." and tried to think of movie ideas and miracles and what would translate well onto the screen. I kept saying "The miracle can't involve religion. In order for the movie to be powerful and touching, the miracle needs to reach a protagonist who wasn't religious in the first place."

After about an hour of this D said "Wait a second... I can't believe that YOU and ME are trying to come up with an UPLIFTING idea for a movie."

A feel-good movie written by two extremely cynical people.

The only explanation - we are retarded for each other. Ah, love. Two cynics rendered completely and helplessly happy.

Hee hee.

St. Patrick

Bench Buddy is listening to the steroid hearings right now.

He was like "Have you been following this at all?" and I had to explain how both of my parents are the most anti-sport people on the planet and how yes, I know there is a steroid issue in existence but no, I am not following it and have no idea what's going on.

It is imperative that I marry a jock so that my future offspring have a chance of not being completely isolated.

Bench Buddy said "This affects us all!"

Right.

So it's St. Patrick's Day. I've never really understood why Americans celebrate St. Patrick's Day, nor have I ever felt compelled to celebrate it. In fact, I think I honored it once and once only, and ended up at home after the fact with a Canadian in my bed.

At any rate, St. Patrick's Day is an American concoction. I learned all about it through a long conversation with Sinead, a former colleague of mine who hails from, you guessed it, Ireland. She explained to me that St. Patrick's Day isn't more than a religious holiday in Ireland. In fact, according to The History Channel, Irish law mandated that pubs be closed on March 17 up until the 1970's.

So people go out and get drunk in the honor of the Irish. Cool. That's fine. I guess what I don't understand is why there is peer pressure to do this. Seriously. People at work are all "You gotta come out! It's ST. PATRICK'S DAY!!! Come ON!" A bunch of people are going to some Irish-themed bar that is going to be playing music-from-Ireland all night.

It would be better if they just called it "National Drunken Act-Like-An-Idiot and Possibly See or Protest a Parade Day!"

Someone I work with, who is of Italian descent, has taken tomorrow as a personal day so as to enjoy St. Patrick's Day.

According to The History Channel (via the US Census): "There are 34 million U.S. residents who claim Irish ancestry. This number is almost nine times the population of Ireland itself (3.9 million). Irish is the nation’s second most frequently reported ancestry, trailing only German. "

Who knew?

I can't decide if I am going to go out or not. I am definitely not going to the music-from-Ireland function. There's a counter-function NOT at an Irish bar that could be manageable, but I think D and I are going to go to the movies instead. Maybe have one non-St.-Patrick's-Day drink beforehand.

Hmmmm.

I'm bored and boring right now and on all sorts of drugs to counteract a headache I've had since yesterday, when I didn't have lunch or ingest caffeine until 4 pm because I was training people again and when I finally went out to lunch with them I ordered vegetarian burrito/enchilada that had chicken/beef in them. Awshummmmm.

OK. I am going to pretend to read a paper now.

Until tomorrow....

Indie Rock Karaoke at Northsix

Yo kids.

I went to Indie Rock Karaoke last night at Northsix in Brooklyn. I was expecting madness. I was expecting thousands of critical hipsters. I was expecting the Yeah Yeah Yeah's to be there, chuckling about the performances of their songs.

What I was not expecting was to be the only group of people there. I was also not expecting the KJ to look just like that kid from "18 Again," who is the same kid who was in the TV version of "Ferris Bueller," which is another topic for another time.

Bench Buddy and I got there one hour after doors opened, and we were literally the only two people there. We were soon joined by R and his girlfriend J. Then there were four of us, and 850 indie rock karaoke songs to split amongst ourselves!

I was suprised by the lack of turnout. I was convinced that everyone in Williamsburg would think that this was the best thing ever, but, as Bench Buddy astutely pointed out, "Not everyone thinks like us."

True, Bench Buddy, true, which is why we are so darn special!

The KJ is from Athens, GA and tours with this. He can't quite make a living at it. I was hoping he'd say "Yes, I make MILLIONS!" so Bench Buddy and I could immediately quit our jobs and bring Indie Rock Karaoke to Brooklyn as a regular occurence.

At any rate, the selection was good. Lots of Pixies, Sonic Youth, Neutral Milk Hotel, random They Might Be Giants songs such as "Ana Ng," a never-ending supply of Liz Phair and Radiohead. Yeah, it was cool.

It was coolest because in his list, the KJ had a bunch of lame songs like things by Britney Spears or K-Ci and Jo Jo or Creed and there would be an explanation listed next to them such as "I got this because I wanted a Weezer song" or "I really wanted 'Float On' by Modest Mouse." Heh.

We weren't really the only ones there. There were maybe a total of 20 people there, including a bartender and bouncer-type.



There was lots of Liz Phair being sung, and by lots, I mean two songs. J did "Supernova." It was awshummmm.



I wanted to do "6'1''" but didn't. Something I hadn't thought of regarding Indie Rock Karaoke - reverence. All of the songs are good. You respect all of the songs, and therefore don't want to mess them up. Usually you can start off with something easy or cheesy - but not here! No! You don't want to mess up "Weezer." It would be a sin.



I don't really know what anyone did for songs, because I was too busy staring at the book or taking photos.

I do know that some kid scooped Bench Buddy and did "Army" by Ben Folds. Wtf? Who else does "Army" by Ben Folds? This is Bench Buddy looking sad about not being able to sing his selection.



I myself sang "Nobody's Fault But My Own" by Beck and felt a bit emo while doing it. It made me want to cry. That song reminds me of things. Such a beautiful song, though, even with a lot of feedback.

My second selection was "Kissing the Lipless" by The Shins. Here I am singing:



It was GREAT karaoke, although I was thinking "I am doing a great disservice to The Shins right now" the entire time. People seemed into it. I got to scream a bit and pretend I was in a really good band. I'd love to do this song again, but I know I won't get a chance to, because Indie Rock Karaoke doesn't happen every day.

And I swear Bench Buddy and I were having a better time than the middle left photo would indicate.

Mousse

I got back from Indie Rock Karaoke about an hour and a half ago and called D, who is in Florida. My plan was to, while talking to him, upload my photos from Indie Rock Karaoke and post them to the blog.

We were having a nice conversation, though, so I didn't think it fair to engage in side projects while talking about "expectations" and "kids" and "loving someone the most and being loved most by them."

Sigh.

I did manage to upload the photos, though, but am too incoherent to post them in any cohesive manner. I will get to it tomorrow.

In the meantime, in the spirit of photoblogging which is my new obsession, you can take a look at this dessert I had last night at Cafe Mozart on the Upper West Side.



I met LL after work and pre-hair-fixing for dinner. (Sidenote: it is adorable that my sole female friend in NYC has the same initials as yours truly). The place was very New York - kind of swanky on the inside with a dude playing jazzy/lounge piano. He wasn't there when we got there, so we were seated at a table directly behind the piano. When he started, my back was literally up against his back. I contemplated talking about him while he played, but instead decided to pretend that I was in a movie that was taking place in New York, and that LL and I were engaging in sophisticated and witty dialogue about very important things, and not talking about one-night-stands and roommate issues like we really were.

The food was good. It was also lovely to look at, as evidenced by the fact that two separate groups of people who had already eaten stopped at our table to ask us what we were eating. We were full after dinner, but we asked for the dessert menu anyway, hoping we would not be tempted.

Alas, there were no fewer than like 400 desserts. I'm not kidding. It was three pages of a big menu in very small font. I went with the peanut butter mousse cake (see above) which was chocolate cake with a layer of chocolate mousse, a layer of peanut butter mousse, and a layer of white chocolate mouse, with reeses peanut butter cups strewn about. Heaven.

I got back to Williamsburg, feeling like I was going to vomit, at around 10:00, when Roommate was kind enough to dye my hair back to its rightful state, just in time for Indie Rock Karaoke tonight, which was all for nothing since Interpol wasn't there.

It is late now and its been ages since I've had a good night's sleep. Tonight I can't even get 6 hours. Damn you, photographs! I got a little less than 6 last night, and about 5 the night before. D returns from Florida late-night tomorrow and wants to see me. Missing someone is a lovely feeling. Knowing you won't sleep for the next few days is not. The good news is that in spite of being dead tired I feel very good, most likely because things are being accomplished and thoughts are being formulated.

OK. I am really going to sleep now.

If I fall asleep in five minutes I'll get 5 hours and 45 minutes of blissful sleep.

My Not So Secret Fantasy Is That Interpol Will Be At Northsix Tonight To See Me Massacre "Evil"

The sun is out, my hair is black, my taxes are done, lyrics have been printed out to various potential indie rock songs that will stump and embarrass me in front of all manner of hipsters at karaoke this evening, and I am leaving work before 5:30!

Take THAT, anxiety!

Theory

I have decided to potentially pay someone to help me with my taxes. I have been asking people at work what I should do, and they either say "Well, don't forget to do the city form... which is form something-or-other... no, I don't know where you get it... or what its called.... but you can download it... it's not the same as the state form... I have no idea" or "You should just go to H & R Block because, really, its really complicated here."

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In other news, L'Oreal has blamed my natural hair color for my hair-dye issue and not their poor quality control. I hate when customer service makes you feel like an idiot. I don't see how my dark hair could have possibly turned orange from black hair dye. It's impossible. This being said, they are sending me a "gift certificate" but I don't know that I can wait for it. I want to deal with this issue immediately.

Nobody seems to think its hideous. In fact, people claim to like it. It's much more subtle today. Weird, but subtle. I can't quite decide what to do. I have to look at myself on some more surfaces to determine my true feelings.

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I had to train some people from another facility this afternoon. We took them out to lunch and they walked really slow, because they are not from New York City.

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Tomorrow night is Indie Rock Karaoke around the corner at NorthSix. It is very esoteric. We're not sure what it is - will it be like Hip Hop Karaoke or will it be actual karaoke? Either way, they are selling advance tickets to this and we are hoping that Hipster Nation does not hear about it. I caved in and bought an advance ticket and therefore spent an unnecssary $4 to guarantee getting in. I would be heartbroken if I missed out on this.

I now have to decide what song to sing, if I am going to sing at all. If The Hipsters are in full effect it could be intimidating. I am torn - Modest Mouse? Interpol? Death Cab For Cutie? Blur? Radiohead? Yeah Yeah Yeah's?

I am also torn regarding whether I should skip class or not to get there in time. If I go to class, I'll definitely not get to do karaoke but I might get to see an awesome movie and be in the presence of someone super-famous. If I don't go to class, I have a chance of doing karaoke.

Karaoke is not a definite in any of these scenarios, but its more likely if I skip class.

I feel that class must be skipped.

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I came up with a Neuroscience-related theory this weekend and don't know what to do about it. I emailed some random professor in Texas and am dying for him to email me back. I feel all online-dating about it. I keep checking my email, hoping, hoping, hoping. There's really no reason for him to write back, except that he's an academic and must love academics and therefore academically enthusiastic people!

In my searches for information regarding my theory, I found out that it's Brain Awareness Week! How exciting!!!! To the best of my knowledge, there are no Brain Awareness functions going on in New York City. Hmph. If only I lived in Croatia!

I should make it my new mission to bring Brain Awareness Week to New York City next year.

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Ummmmmm.

I'm tired.

Another Weekend Bites the Dust

Another weekend in NYC.

It started off well, with only minor ulcer-induing events such as PW being on a bus to NYC that was lost, on which various busriders nearly staged a coup, followed by the part where his cab driver got lost on the way to Williamsburg.

During this ulcer-inducing event, I spent my first evening at home in quite some time doing things like laundry and dishes and searching for ancient 401k documents and Travelocity reservations. I also started my taxes, only to learn that partial-year residence forms are not intuitive.

I used TaxAct, which has this infuriating feature that calculates your refund as you go along, so you go from the elation of thinking you'll receive thousands of dollars from the government to realizing you owe shitloads of money.

Luckily I do not owe shitloads of money because moving can be deducted. Thanks, M, for the tip!

I can't, however, figure out if I will be getting money back from or owe, gasp, over $1000 to the state of NY. Why, you ask?

Because I don't know if I live in the city of New York or not.

Now.

I live in Brooklyn which, in my mind, is not the city of New York. In my mind, the city of New York is Manhattan. Some people, however, think that the city of New York includes all of the burroughs, of which Brooklyn is one. If I live in the city of New York, I have to pay all sorts of extra taxes. If I don't, I will get money back. I'm not sure how to figure this out. Tomorrow I plan to march my occasionally red hair over to the post office to get a booklet, which will hopefully explain to me where I live and will hopefully tell me that I will be getting money back.

Additionally, the state of MA will not allow you to e-file partial year resident tax returns, so I have to do a paper return for MA as well. I guess that's ok, since I didn't have to pay extra tax because I lived in Somerville.

How weird.

Needless to say I almost vomited when I saw how much I will owe if I live in the city of New York. Ulcer. Yipee.

PW eventually arrived so I set the taxes to rest until Sunday morning. He also had an ulcer, so PW, D and I split a bottle of champagne and all passed out with less agita.

On Saturday, D and I went to the MOMA to see a Vietnamese movie called "Buffalo Boy." It was slow and gritty, and I wasn't sure if I liked it or not until the Q & A with the director, which convinced me that I did.

It was interesting to watch, because it was an instance of thinking "Wow, people live like this, and they don't seem to mind." The contrast is amazing. The simplicity of every day life, the struggle, the acceptance. The challenging aspect of this movie was that nobody in the movie was happy, and I wondered "Do they mind? Do they wish they had something else?"

The audience was comprised mainly of people between the ages of 65 - 80, museum patrons wearing fur coats and suit jackets to a movie on a Saturday afternoon. When the film ended, I went to the ladies' room and witnessed a horrifying scene. I was about fourth in line amongst women aged 65 - 80. We were waiting for 6 stalls. The seventh stall, which was closest to us, was not being used. This vile lady - maybe like 60 or so - busted into the restroom and marched to the front of the line and declared "Is there any particular reason this stall is not being used?" The small, cute, polite, and meak woman in the front of the line said quietly "Well, it doesn't have a seat..." to which Cruella responded "That does not mean it's NOT FUNCTIONAL! Did anybody CHECK TO SEE IF IT WORKS!?" Nobody had. We all shook our heads. She said "Well, CHECK!" The woman at the front of the line went in and flushed it and said "Well, yes, it appears to work..." "SO USE IT!" The poor woman, fearing for her life, used the seatless toilet just to appease this horrid woman.

Now. Horrid woman had every right to check the stall herself and then cut the line.

She did not, however, have the right to yell at all of us, nor did she have the right to force the nice lady to use a stall she didn't want to, nor did she THEN have the right to cut all of us because she'd been so forward about marching in there. She seriously CUT ALL OF US.

I left fuming. D said "Wow, this is going to be good," as I was running up the escalator so as not to attack an elderly woman.

We then tried to meet up with D's friend S to go to the Scope Art Show, but didn't because it was crowded and D doesn't do well in crowds. He had some alternate activites planned, including checking out this design store near the museum that's in a renovated townhouse in which someone used to live. It was very lavish with balconies and staircases. We pretended that the floors were made of lava and that we had to escape onto lava-proof modern mats, and then that I was the captain of a spaceship seated in my modern space captain chair.

We met up with PW there and then went to eat at SEA, where S accidentally ordered a whole fish and where we all shared molten chocolate cake and fried bananas that looked like little spring rolls.

A photo of PW and I looking as though we are on a bad first date:



We then went back to the loft and drank more.

Too much drinking going on, folks.

PW and I oscillated between watching "Minority Report" and some god awful Jennifer Love Hewitt vehicle on Oxygen (I didn't even know we got Oxygen) after D and I had a discussion about communication techniques (sigh, this has been a long time coming and I am relieved but still insecure; I apparently have no idea how not to be insecure) and the worst question in the world "What are you thinking?"

Today, I met PW at the MOMA after he finished his interview.

The MOMA is overwhelming. Too much to digest. I decided to become a member because I want to spend more time there and digest things in a more thoughtful way. I am slow to go through museums and realize that I will need at least 30 hours to deal with it appropriately.

I realized today that I am stupid at art because I have zero recall skills when it comes to artists. I can't remember who does what. I can't remember names. I can't remember styles. It's like how some people can't remember dates. I can't remember artists. I was staring at the most wonderful painting and kept thinking "Do not forget this name, do not forget this name, you will remember nothing from today so please please please do not forget THIS name."

Of course I forgot. I remembered the name of the painting, though, so I was able to track down the artist.

I'll never be able to "talk art" because I'll be like "Uhhh... was Picasso the one who painted 'Starry Night?'"

Well, not that bad, but I'll never be able to keep up.

I just have to sit there, be quiet, and say "Wow, this is pretty!"

I am hoping that my MOMA membership will rectify this situation. If I go through one gallery a week, perhaps I'll absorb something. I think this might involve, gasp, studying.

This is all magnified because D is very art-y. He reads current art magazines and knows who's showing at every gallery in NYC and knows what they're trying to say or do and has fierce opinions about all of it. He's also the type to blaze through galleries and then have three hours of things to say, whereas I have to stare at every painting for half an hour before I have any idea what's going on and then say "Ummm, well, I like the use of... well.... I don't know. It's fucked up."

I wish I was better at this. I wish I didn't drop my art history class at UMass because it involved field trips.

The museum was crowded and chaotic, so we didn't see the whole thing, nor did I buy as many postcards as I'd have liked.

Yeah. This is a prime example. I bought postcards of a bunch of pieces I liked, but I've already forgotten who they're by even though I looked at the postcards a million times. Well, that's not true. I remember one photographer's name, but only because Sister and I saw a travelling exhibit of his at the San Francisco MOMA and because I said to D "Sister and I saw this awesome exhibit of these, like, giant photographs of concert crowds and like a supermarket and it was incredible," and D was instantly "Oh, you mean Andreas Gursky, blah blah blah blah" and he knew everything and I felt stupid.

As PW and I were fading, I decided to take some photos using his camera.

This was awesome. A bunch of mirrors and vessels with reflective surfaces can really trip you out. I am going to freely stare at this for hours with my membership:



For whatever reason I've always loved little things. Miniature animals and dollhouses and figurines, like Charmkins. Needless to say I fell in love with this and took a million pictures trying to capture the depth and cuteness, but this was the best I could do:



After the MOMA we journeyed back to Williamsburg. It felt good to walk around. It felt like it felt when I first moved here. It was new and exciting and I was psyched to find a flea market that's open every weekend. I haven't been here in so long. It smelled like it smelled in September - unknown and thrilling.

PW and I cooked dinner and dyed hair and rolled around on the new black shag rug that Roommate brought back from Philadelphia. It's nice to have softness in the Loft.

I am going to be in the Loft this week because D is in Florida and because I really need to be.

I need to de-frazzle. I need to finish my taxes and write songs and read books and work on theories and have ideas and think about a painting and miss him and not miss NYC. There's so much to figure out when everything is new. And so much to keep up with when everything from before is far away. Nothing is assumed, nothing is a given, nothing is routine.

Everyone says it takes a year. I hope they're right because if they are, I'm half way there.

It's Not Easy Being Red

Hello folks.

I've had a lovely weekend, mainly because my dear friend PW has been in beloved NYC visiting.

Spending time with old friends is fabulous, friends who know you well and with whom you can have neurotic episodes without fearing that they will de-friend you. It's difficult being in a new place and being a new person, constantly being on good behavior so as not to scare off potential friends and current boyfriends. It's nice to be able to slip into insecure fits and anxious ramblings about state tax returns with people who expect this sort of thing from you.

It's also nice to engage in old, familiar activities, such as watching bad made-for-TV movies starring Jennifer Love Hewitt and seeing fashion shows in your apartment.

I was mostly excited about PW's visit because he was kind of enough to agree to dying my hair! My brown roots have been showing, and I have been missing my black angst-ridden hair. PW was always gracious enough to help me with my hair - both with color and style - when we lived together. I can't even explain how much I have been looking forward to doing this again.

At approximately 8:30 this evening, PW started the coloring process.

At approximately 9:15 this evening, when I left the bathroom after washing the dye out and conditioning my hair, PW said "How does it look?" to which I replied...

"IT'S RED!"

Yes, folks, fucking Feria by L'oreal.

My hair is FUCKING SUBURBAN HOUSEWIFE RED.

Well, if it was all red, that would be FINE. No, it wouldn't be fine, but it wouldn't be freaky either. But it would be fine.

Except that it's not, because the portion of my hair that was dyed before is still dark brown.

No, folks, only MY ROOTS are red. Like Dana Scully X-Files red. The rest is dark brown.

I am trying not to be vain and completely freak out about this, but seriously, its going to be a bad scene.

I am going to call L'oreal tomorrow and demand something. I don't know what. I demand quality control! I demand black dye in the box with the woman with Starry Night Bright Black hair on the cover! I demand to look like this woman!

Really I'll just demand a refund of my $8.99 plus another $8.99 to purchase what I hope is actually Starry Night Bright Black dye to remedy this situation.

I just hope fixing this situation does not involve my hair falling out.

My poor, damaged, red and brown and black and bleach hair.

Sigh.

I am interested, though, in seeing how people react to this tomorrow. I wonder if they will say "You dyed your hair!" or "You dyed your... ummm... hair?" or "It's looks nice!" or "It looks... different."

I am not interested in the reprimanding I will receive from my hairdresser on Wednesday when she sees what I have done to my hair. Black on red on black on bleach. She is going to kill me.

Hopefully Roommate will have helped me with this prior to my haircut. Maybe my hairdresser won't be able to tell. Hopefully dying your own hair isn't as vile a sin as cutting your own bangs.

OK. I should sleep. I've had too much to drink over the past few nights and my liver is angry but my neurons aren't.

Maybe I'll blog a bit more and then not sleep.