doahleigh - Holy Waste of Teabags!

Yes that’s right, I cut my hair. I know you’ve all scrolled down by now to see the last picture, but now that you’re back up here, let me tell you the story. For the last few years, my has hair looked approximately like this every single day:

It looked like that because it’s a big fluffy mess, and so I always kept it long enough to pull back. It was far too much work too wash, dry and style my hair, which was necessary if I wanted to wear it down, because this is how it looked when not tamed:

Fluffy and kinky: not good qualities for your hair. But I never wanted to cut it because I like keeping it long enough to pull back. I had my hair short for a year in high school, and though it was cute, I hated the pressure of having to do my hair every. single. day. No matter how I felt. But at some point recently, I got really frickin’ sick of having such a disgusting mop on my head. And I was tired of wearing it with the same part, the same twist, the same clip all the time. I started a new job over two months ago, and in that time, nobody even knew how long my hair actually was because they never saw it any way but pulled back and twisted in a clip.

So one day I asked my sister, Andrea, if she’d take me to her stylist. Andrea is pretty fashionable and stylish, so I knew she wouldn’t steer me wrong. She made me an appointment for last Friday, and because I was still a little nervous about the prospect of chopping it off and, god forbid, having to style my hair every day, I made her come with me. I’m a low maintenance gal, and the idea of doing more than shaving my legs once a month or occasionally clipping my toe nails is scary!

Me and my new stylist, Amy.

I lost a lot of hair that day, but it felt really good coming off. Like a mop had been lifted.

Then came the truly hard part: making my hair go from that (above) to that (below). Above is what happens when you blow dry the new do, and that’s only slightly better than what it looks like when it’s air dried. Thank God for the invention of the flat iron. You wiggle that little wand in the direction of my head, and voila!

Right. I wish it was that easy. It actually took the stylist a good half hour and three different hair products to tame the beast. It took me about 20 minutes and two hair products to create a similar look later. That’s a lot of time spent on hair in the life of me. But at least for now, I like it enough to make the sacrifice. What do you think?

I’m an idiot and never even submitted my BlogFriday post to BlogFriday on Friday. I got so wrapped up in making the damn poll at the end that I forgot the reason I started the post in the first place. Now their website is having issues, and instead of giving a new word for this week, it says some gibberish like, “Submissions for the word ‘ ‘ close on Thursday 1st January 1970 at midnight GMT. A problem has occurred.” Actually that’s exactly what it says. I copy/pasted.

Anyway. Since I can’t draw inspiration from there today, I decided instead to subject myself to a whole month of daily blogging with the likes of hundreds (thousands?) of other crazies out there. Yes, I decided to try NaBloPoMo again. I’ve even got the cat-faced badge to prove it (look right). I had so much fun last year and met some of my now favorite bloggers that month. So what if I’m a lot busier this year? I can’t miss out on all that.

Hope to see you on the Randomizer!

I need a little inspiration around here, so I’m going to participate in BlogFriday for awhile. In case you’re an unpaticipatory blog reader and didn’t click on that link, BlogFriday is a site that produces a new inspiration word each Friday at midnight. Bloggers can write a post inspired by the word and link to their post from the website. Since this week’s word has been up since last Friday, I figured I better do this before the new word is posted at midnight.

The word is ‘disbelief.’ Instead of writing about something that caused or may cause disbelief in myself or others, I’m going to try to disect the word a little. See, it’s the whole prefix/suffix business that gets me. I realize English is derived from many other languages and that’s probably why we have so many different prefixes to negate words, but if I was a professional linguist, I’d look into this. See about getting it changed. But since I’m not, I’ll just wonder why.

Why is it disbelief, but unbelievable? Why not disbelievable? Or unbelief?

And this isn’t the only place this happens. Take the word ‘comfort.’ Last night I was laying on the couch watching The Office, and during a commercial Brad came over and squished in behind me. Sometimes he’s cute and cuddly like that. We don’t have a big couch and he’s a tall guy and I’ve got curves, so we don’t exactly fit comfortably that way. Once we got settled, he still seemed to be awfully distorted, so I asked him, Are you discomfortable? As in, are you experiencing any discomfort right now? And other than the fact that I made the word up, it didn’t seem wrong.

Why is it wrong? If there are any linguists out there, would you break it down for me?

Now back to disbelief. I say if you experience disbelief, it is because something is disbelievable. Or maybe I like unbelief better. If something is unbelievable, you experience unbelief. No, I like dis- better. At least in this case. What do you think?

We should probably just pick one negative prefix that applies to all words. There are more than just dis- and un- to choose from. Let’s see, we have non- and, um, there’s… wow I hit a wall pretty fast. That can’t be it though.

Okay, I looked it up and got some more. Im- (as in improper), in- (inaccessible), il- (illogical), and ir- (irrational). Not a big fan of most of these, mostly because they sound silly with the root word ‘belief,’ which is of course our main concern right now. Irbelief? I don’t think so.

We need a poll:

If you know me, you know I hate “sexy” costumes at Halloween. If you want to dress as something that is sexy by default, maybe okay. Like, I don’t know, Gwen Stefani? But when you add “sexy” or worse, “slutty” as an adjective to things like witch, cat or nurse, it makes me want to claw my face off. No, your face actually. When did Halloween become an excuse to exploit women? Why why why! must everything be “skanky?” Can’t you just be a cat? They’re cute. Or a witch? They’re spooky.

Everyone who knows me outside the blog has probably stopped reading by now because they’re sick of hearing about it. So I’m almost done. But before I go, I want to point you to something I read on Feministing this morning. When costumes start portraying anorexia as sexy, or when they market “sexy” to young girls, I don’t want to claw off any faces. I want to cry.

I’ve been sitting on this for awhile because I kept thinking I was going to change this or fix that before I officially launched it. But I just want to get it out there because it’s supposed to be fun, not a pain in the ass. So here it is, my latest project…

Bad Parking

A place to showcase all those drivers who can’t keep it between the lines. Or off the curb. Or whatever. So far all the photos have been taken by me, but soon I want to take submissions. So the next time you see a terrible parking job, get out your camera and share it with the world at Bad Parking.

I hope you’ll check it out (and let me know if anything is awry). Enjoy!

I had a conversation with my friend Robin a couple weeks ago. We decided that someday we will definitely be less inhibited and much more confident in uncomfortable situations than we are right now. With age, we’re sure we’ll learn to care less about the things that we get hung up on today. I mean look at us now compared to ten years ago when we were still in high school (crap, was that ten years ago!) and could hardly fathom changing our clothes in the girls’ locker room. Now I walk around my apartment nearly naked all the time with the shades open. Much to Brad’s dismay who would prefer me to be a little more modest given that our windows offer a direct view of the other buildings where college boys and questionable old men might live. He may have a point.

This conversation with Robin took place after we had practically sprinted in the other direction when we saw the crowd of people waiting to get into the same yoga class we were. Yoga was supposed to replace Capoeira, which I eventually talked everyone else out of. I didn’t like it and didn’t want to go again, so after some whining, everyone agreed to try yoga instead.

Well, four or five weeks went by, excuse after excuse was doled out, people politely dropped out of the group from frustration, and suddenly we realized it had been over a month since we bought these passes and we’d only attended one class. To get our money’s worth (hey ten dollars is like three whole meals at Taco Bell), last week Robin and I finally got our shit together, put on some stretchy pants and sports bras (we wore shirts too), and drove to yoga.

We walked into the building and looked down the hall that lead to the classroom. Girls. Everywhere. Young perky college girls with perky breasts and perky blond ponytails and glowing perky skin. One look and we both stopped, glanced at each other, and walked the other way. Straight out to the car and back to her apartment where we did a yoga video instead, in the privacy of her home. Nobody but us and our own flabby asses and achy joints. And it was so much better that way.

On the car ride back to her apartment we had talked about why it was okay to automatically decide to bail, why we didn’t feel bad about not even giving it a chance. Someday, maybe in another ten years, we’ll be able to walk into that room and not think twice about what those hundreds (I remember it being hundreds…) of young perky girls think. We won’t be uncomfortable or intimidated. But that’s not happening yet. And that’s okay. We’ve come a long way since high school and, dear god, the horror of middle school, and we’re confident that with age it’ll get even easier.

But for now, I think it’s okay to allow myself to choose not to participate in uncomfortable situations when I have the choice. After all, we did try. We went to one Capoeira class and we drove to yoga once. And if all I learned from the whole experience is that group exercise is not for me, I’m okay with that.

Because it is sooo not for me.

So this isn’t a fun topic for anyone, but it’s something that needs to be talked about. Rape. It’s disgusting and horrible and possibly the worst thing I can imagine. Everything about this subject enrages me more than just about anything else, but there’s one thing in particular on my mind today. I find it appalling when people, usually men, equate rape with having s3x or even fncking. Like when they say, “Oh yeah I’d rape her,” when what they mean is “I’d fnck her.” Which is kind of sick in itself much of the time, but not anything like what it would imply if they really meant they want to rape her. By using it this way, men treat rape like a compliment, like we should all be glad if we’re considered worthy of rape.

I’m so enraged even writing this, I don’t know if I’m even making sense. But luckily there are women in the world who can think and write much more clearly about this topic. Like her. The article looks long, but she very intelligently explains just how wrong people are who think rape is anything but horrific. You should read it.

(The disguised words are so disgusting people who do think those things are equivalent don’t end up here.)

My neck and shoulders are killing me, so I took four 200mg tablets of ibuprofen with a glass of water about an hour ago. It wasn’t until after I took the pills, about 20 minutes ago, that I started to get a really horrible headache. That’s backwards right?

For about a week, Brad continually reminded me that he would be gone Monday night. He had to go back to visit the ol’ hometown, so he’d be leaving before I got home from work and wouldn’t return until late. Okay honey, I said, have fun. Every time he reminded me, I said that.

I got home from work Monday and thought it strange that Brad wasn’t home, but I didn’t think much of it. I even called him about something mundane and didn’t think to ask where he was. Running an errand I assumed.

I left to do yoga with a friend shortly after, and when she dropped me off a couple hours later (no we didn’t do yoga for two hours), I noticed our apartment was dark. Odd, I said to her, Brad isn’t home yet. That’s not like him, I frowned, I wonder where he is.

Yet I still didn’t give it much thought. After awhile I wasn’t feeling well, so I took some Excedrin PM, wrapped up in a blanket and laid on the couch. It was in my PM-induced haze, just as I was about to send Brad a text to ask where the hell he was, that it struck me. Oh yeah, I said in my head, he’s in Jackson!

I know my memory has been slipping the last few years. It really pisses me off actually. But in that moment I truly felt like an old lady. He told me numerous times! He was gone for hours! How could it take that long for my brain to dig around inside my head and dredge up that bit of information? I am very disappointed in my brain. And worried for it.

I hate getting old already.

You know you’ve hit a breaking point when you find yourself sobbing into your boyfriend’s armpit at a table with twelve other people in a crowded restaurant because your steak is fatty and grisly and you got loaded mashed potatoes when you asked for plain. That was my Friday night.

It was a birthday dinner for mom which was immediately made stressful when thirteen of us showed up to the restaurant (that doesn’t take reservations or call aheads) and found an hour wait. Eleven adults and two kids do not wait patiently for an hour when there is nowhere to sit and they’re forced outside in the cold. Add to that the fact that everyone was on edge for some reason and the mood was not light.

With work and school and other busy-ness on top of being sick all week, I was not prepared for the high tensions and low patience of this birthday meal. I was already struggling to hold my shit together for various reasons while we waited for our food, and then the server set in front of me a steak, two thirds inedible (by my standards), and a messy pile of loaded mashed potatoes. I did not order loaded mashed potatoes! And how, do tell, can a steakhouse famous for steaks allow such a disgusting cut of meat to be served! All I wanted to do was say a little something about the injustice of it all and then move on, but my family got all nice and crap and tried to plea my case to the server. I yelled at them to please. just. shut. UP! And then I cried.

It wasn’t about the food, or about the kindness of my family, or even the stress of the whole get together. But of course that’s what it looked like to everyone else, including my family, the server and the other patrons seated in our section. Look at the freaky lady crying about her steak and potatoes, what a fuckin’ baby.

I rarely cry in front of my family, never in public, so I was embarrassed. But you know, sometimes you hit a breaking point and you just gotta fall apart.

So who’s doing NaBloPoMo this year?

I participated last year because it didn’t seem that difficult to write a post a day, and I thought it might be fun. I was right on both accounts. The weekends were a little tough, but I don’t remember feeling like it was an impossible task. The best part though was the social networking it provided. I made so many new blog-friends that month. I added at least twenty new sites to my daily reads and gained some really rockin’ new readers.

For those reasons alone, I’m totally ready to participate again this year. But at the same time, you can see how I’ve had to let this blog go a little bit in the last couple months. Am I ready to commit to a post a day?

I don’t know. What are you doing?

I haven’t given a real update about life in awhile. It’s easier to write snarky little snippets of life sometimes, but someone out there might be wondering what I’m really up to. Things are pretty good actually. There are a few major things consuming my life right now:

1. Work. Things have gotten much better since those first couple weeks. I’m more familiar with what’s going on, and I just feel more comfortable in general, which makes all the difference in a job. Of course I can’t say much here, that’s a no no, but basically there are positives and negatives, just like any other job.

2. School. I feel like I have a little more control over this part of my life now. A little. I’m still always doing homework, or thinking about homework. Tomorrow I have to facilitate a class, so I had to put some serious work into not only reading everything, but truly understanding it. And I’m working with a partner, which in some ways is great (I have a backup if I’m unsure about something), but in some ways makes me want to tear my eyelashes out. It’s very difficult for two busy people to come together enough to create a cohesive facilitation. I’ll be glad when tomorrow is over. I’m still hoping grad school doesn’t require as much work as I’m putting into it right now. I keep hoping to find a pace that allows me to do well enough without spending half of my brain energy on school-related things. Here’s hoping…

3. Apartment. I really really really love our apartment. I have very few complaints (the biggest being the asinine parking system). But for the most part I am entirely happy with where we live. We have a long way to go before we feel like we’re “done” putting it together—we’re still missing a lot of furniture and want to incorporate more décor and there are still things to be put away—but it already feels like home to me. Seriously. Love it.

4. Brad. We’re both pretty busy and on almost completely different schedules. I go to bed early, get up early, work all day and do school stuff in the evenings. He stays up late, wakes up late(r than me at least), does work and class during the day, and does more work and things of personal interest in the evenings and late at night. We already have little quality time together, so we steal moments when we can, but I wish it could be more.

5. Friends/Family. This is my biggest challenge. The whole point of moving here was to be closer to my family and good friends, but I’m still too busy to really enjoy them. I squeeze in visits whenever I can, but it’s not the way I imagined. I hate that one of my best friends lives 30 seconds away and I hardly see her. I hate that my niece and nephew are five minutes away, but I rarely have time to visit them. I keep waiting for something to break, like, oh surely after I finish this paper I’ll have more time. Or once I get through this project, I won’t be so busy. But it hasn’t happened. I need to find a way to have more social time without sacrificing my obligations.

I was feeling pretty good about things until this weekend when I got sick. When I get a cold, I think my brain swells or something because I cannot function. I can’t think, I can’t make decisions, I can’t be productive. And then last night I only got about three hours of sleep (damn insomnia!) so between the sick and the lack of sleep, I’m not in the mood to do anything today. Which is unfortunate since I have still have a lot to do to get ready for tomorrow’s facilitation.

I like to play this game. When you’re stopped at a red light and there is at least one car behind you, you know how if you inch forward just a little, the car behind you will too? There’s no reason for this. I mean, inching forward when the car in front of you does certainly doesn’t make the light turn green any faster. And it doesn’t get you through the intersection any faster once the light does turn. So why do people do it?

I think it’s subconscious. In our heads, we’ve each set this distance that we feel comfortable having between us and another stopped car. And that’s how far away we stop at a red light. If the car in front of us increases that distance, we subconsciously decide to move forward as well, settling back into our comfort distance.

So what I like to do is test this theory. When I’m stopped at a red light (and it’s usually when I’m alone and therefore looking for ways to entertain myself), I’ll inch forward a little. Then a little more. Then a little more. And I’ll watch in my rearview mirror as the person behind me inevitably inches forward too. Okay, it’s not inevitable. It’s doesn’t always happen, but pretty damn close. What’s funny is that they do it repeatedly. They’ll inch forward as many times as I do, even though it’s really accomplishing nothing.

An added bonus is if you can get a good look at the driver’s face. Usually it’s completely blank or distracted, sometimes not even looking out the windshield. People do this so subconsciously that they can be thinking about a million different things and sometimes even rely on their peripheral vision.

And best of all is when you can manage to see a few cars back. It’s like a chain reaction. You inch, the person behind you inches. Then the next guy inches, then the next. You inch again. Repeat.

It’s fun, you should try it.

(Can you tell I’m sick and am having trouble stringing words together?) (No? Yes? Well I am.)

How bad of a cook am I? Well I almost burned down our apartment building the other day trying to make toast. That’s how bad. Brad was making poached eggs, and I was in charge of toast. After the first two slices popped, I flipped them and pushed them back down because, you know, the toast has to be equally toasted on all sides.

Then I got distracted. I don’t know, talking about something or nothing. I’m sure I was complaining about my latest complaint or rattling on about some annoying thing or another can you even believe how annoying that is? And suddenly the kitchen is filling with smoke.

I leapt for the toaster and popped the lever and up came two smoking black objects in the shape of bread slices. I threw them in the sink and proceeded to fan the kitchen with a dishtowel while Brad ran around opening windows and setting up a fan to blow the smoke outside before the smoke detectors caught on.

Now, to cut myself some slack, I have to say that our toaster emerged from the depths of hell where they like things hot and burning. It’s not like most toasters I’ve dealt with where they repeatedly reject your donations, and you have to push things down three or four times before they even get warm. No, our toaster loves what we offer it, and if we didn’t force the toaster to choke up our food, the toaster would hold on to it until every bagel and English muffin we ever tried to make was nothing but ash.

Mmmm, ash for dinner.

But really, if I can’t even concentrate long enough to make sure the toast comes out less than charred, how does anyone expect me to be able to coordinate the meat with the sauce with the potatoes with the vegetable with the bread? Impossible I tell you. Never ask me to do that.

(Hey Ann and Rob, when are you coming over for dinner?)

I’m tired. I’m grumpy. I couldn’t sleep last night. And I don’t want to be where I am right now.

I went to bed at the usual time. But I laid awake for hours. I tried the couch, I tried the bed, I even tried sleeping with my head by Brad’s feet. Nothing was working. Finally, after making Brad sit up and talk to me in the middle of the night, and after crying and yelling about how no matter how late I fell asleep I still had to get up at 7am, I stormed into the bathroom and took three Excerdin PMs. I threw the bottle on the counter, flung Dixie cups everywhere and left cabinets and drawers wide open. I didn’t care.

I’m tired today. So tired. And my day isn’t over until 9:30pm. Another six hours.

I’m so tired. That’s all I have in me today.