Archive for July, 2007

Getting A Wild Hair

Tonight I got my hair highlighted, which has become my 10-week ritual. I think it started back at the end of high school. And quite frankly, it’s depressing how mousey my hair is getting. Sigh.

But forunately I have a great colorist who makes me appear blond. I found her two years ago after a color mishap over the 4th of July in Kansas — where my hair was literally turned to patches of yellow straw. I was mortified. But Connie was able to fix it, and I’ve been indebted to her ever since.

That was definitely my worst color job ever. But the worst cut ever — well, that was even more traumatic.

Somehow or other during the first week of my freshman year in college, I got a certificate for a “free consultation” at the “hot” salon in Manhattan (Kansas, that is). Being that I was now wild and free and on my own, I decided to take the plunge and go see what they had to say.

Mind you, Mom had been cutting my hair for ages at this point. I’m sure I hadn’t had it professionally cut more than 10 times.

My first clue should’ve been that the guy that greeted me for the consultation looked like Jose Eber, except two feet taller and no cowboy hat. I think he was one of the owners.

He got super enthusiastic about giving me a very cutting edge doo. He said he do this. Do that. Voila!

I got so swept up in his drama that I just about stood up out of my chair to yell, “Yes!” (Think Herbal Essence.)

So he started cutting. And pretty soon, I had a shorter rendition of a layered 80s hair band mop on my head. He was looking very proud. I had to run out to cry.

This must have happened on the Thursday before Labor Day, because I clearly remember going to the farm the next day (where my parents were quite polite), and then on to the high school football game, where the boys were NOT polite.

Yes, it was hideous. There was nothing I could do to style it any differently. So the next day I cut it off, which is why I have short hair in all of my freshman photos.

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Cat got your tongue?

My poor little Nette has been vomiting incessantly for two days now. She’s not moping around, though, and her puke is basically water. But clearly something is wrong with her.

But worse, I have to wipe it up every hour, or throw her our of my bedroom the moment she starts to gag.

Which in turn makes me gag. Especially when I discover that she’s puked on the bathroom floor, just as I’m brushing my tongue. (I’ve been known to gag on my toothbrush a time or two.)

So this morning, I happened to get up and decide that I wanted to go to church. I laid in bed until the last possible moment, though, and then frantically got ready in 5 minutes. I was trying to multi-task by brushing my teeth at the same time as I was looking for my shoes. And what did I come upon? Another pool of cat vomit. I just about had to run for the toilet. Ick.

Despite this minor (yet horrifying) setback, I made it to church via taxi with a few minutes to spare before the procession of robed folks began. Then we sang. We stood up. We recited. And then came the sermon.

You should know that the main pastor has been on sabbatical for a few months, so the assistant pastor was presiding.

And when she went to give the sermon, she realized she didn’t have her manuscript.

Seriously, the woman was engulfed in panic. She decided to pray for help. A search party of two members of the congregation flew to the front of the church and through the exit doors toward her office. The pastor told us that this was her worst nightmare — one that she’d been fearing for 15 years.

I had to sit there and ask myself how it was possible for her to have 15 years of experience in preaching, yet freak out so much without her manuscript?  Personally, I think she did a better job in the first three minutes without it than she did by reading the rest of it.

But clearly the cat had her tongue. Or more likely, it was holding her confidence hostage.

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In Honor of Grandpa

Of all the people I know, no one made a bigger deal about one’s birthday than Grandpa. Every year, around July 14th, Grandpa would not-so-covertly remind everyone in the family that his birthday was on the horizon (July 26th), and that everyone would be expected to drop everything immediately to plan for a large picnic celebration with burgers and homemade ice cream.

So, yesterday was Grandpa’s birthday. Unfortunately this is the first birthday he spent resting six feet underground while meandering somewhere other than this earth. But it seemed completely appropriate that I had a work outing to the White Sox game, since baseball was one of Grandpa’s passions. (Perhaps we’ll see him wander out of the corn someday?)

We were Royals fans growing up, of course. And every couple years he and Grandma would schlep us grandkids to K.C. for a ballgame. And even until about 10 years ago, we’d occasionally all make the trek to a game, to his great delight.

Back to now. A few months ago, one of my co-workers pooled his “reward” money with another monetary prize won by our office and suggested that we all take a half-day off work for an “off-site.” Being that at least 82.5% of my co-workers are from Detroit, it was quite appropriate that we go to the White Sox / Tigers game.

So we set out at 11:42 to take the Red Line down to the “Cell”.

game 1

We made it an hour and ten minutes before the game, which meant we could get 2 for 1 hot dogs. And beer. And ultimately ice cream. Then we discussed our porn star names. (Mine is Princess Dakota…which happens to be the same name as for my brother. Ha!)

game 3

Though it rained in the morning, the comfortably warm weather held for the afternoon. With overcast skies, to boot (which was good, considering we were sitting in the left field nosebleeds).

game 2

Then it was off to Melvin B’s Truck Stop for drinks.

 And for the record, Craig was the one who brought up the topic of eating placenta. Not me.

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When good ideas go awry…

…you just have to put on your pink.

power ranger

(At least the clients have a sense of humor about it. This is what I received yesterday morning via e-mail.)

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Gripping Books

Once a year (if I’m lucky) I find a book so good that I just can’t put it down. I literally keep looking at the clock…midnight…1…2…3. I keep telling myself that I’m crazy, but I just can’t stop.

On July 4th, I was about 100 pages into The Machiavelli Covenant. I picked it back up when I got in bed at 11:30. Pretty soon it was 3:30 a.m. and I was on page 500.

And, of course, I finished the book halfway through the plane trip back to Kansas the next day, which meant I had to twiddle my thumbs for an hour. So silly.

Right now I’m 150 pages into Harry Potter #7, and if I weren’t still at the office at 9:30 p.m., this would probably be one of those all-nighters. (Fortuantely this one isn’t a slow starter.)

So if you’re looking for a good way to torture yourself, try the two books I’ve mentioned above. Or Memoirs of a Geisha, Atlas Shrugged or The Red Tent.  All have left me in need of many cups of coffee the following day. 

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Pop Culture Junkie

Today I went to Unabridged Books to buy the new Harry Potter book, then went to the library to read People magazine. Then I came home and made a family portrait.

Simpsons

(Make your own at www.simpsonizeme.com.)

Now I think I will watch some reality TV.

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Punishment

I have been banished in my advertising kingdom, where puns are considered the lowest form of humor. People don’t even groan when I start twisting words around. They scowl.

I have pretty much punted the effort for good. It’s quite unfortunate that I’m not one of the creatives, because once I get going, I’m a great ad libber.

You can imagine my delight when I saw one of the concepts for a project at work this week. It has an accidental pun. For a pungent leak. From the posterior. (I suppose you could say we’re pushing something from between our puns?)

Tonight, in honor of my favorite punsters (Mom, Trish, Becky), I am proud to present some groaners:

#1 — A vulture boards an airplane, carrying two dead raccoons. The
stewardess looks at him and says, “I’m sorry, sir, only one carrion
allowed per passenger.”

#2. Two fish swim into a concrete wall. The one turns to the other and
says, “Dam!”

#3. Two Eskimos sitting in a kayak were chilly, so they lit a fire in
the craft. Unsurprisingly it sank, proving once again that you can’t
have your kayak and heat it too.

#4. Two hydrogen atoms meet. One says “I’ve lost my electron.” The other
says “Are you sure?” The first replies “Yes, I’m positive.”

#5. Did you hear about the Buddhist who refused Novocain during a root
canal? His goal: transcend dental medication.

#6. A group of chess enthusiasts checked into a hotel and were standing
in the lobby discussing their recent tournament victories. After about
an hour, the manager came out of the office and asked them to disperse.
“But why?” they asked, as they moved off. “Because”, he said, “I can’t
stand chess-nuts boasting in an open foyer.”

#7. A woman has twins and gives them up for adoption. One of them goes
to a family in Egypt and is named “Ahmal.” The other goes to a family in
Spain; they name him “Juan.” Years later, Juan sends a picture of
himself to his birth mother. Upon receiving the picture, she tells her
husband that she wishes she also had a picture of Ahmal. Her husband
responds, “They’re twins! If you’ve seen Juan, you’ve seen Ahmal.”

#8. These friars were behind on their belfry payments, so they opened
up a small florist shop to raise funds. Since everyone liked to buy
flower from the men of God, a rival florist across town thought the
competition was unfair. He asked the good fathers to close down, but
they would not. He went back and begged the friars to close. They
ignored him. So, the rival florist hired Hugh MacTaggart, the roughest
and most vicious thug in town to “persuade” them to close. Hugh beat up
the friars and trashed their store, saying he’d be back if they didn’t
close up shop. Terrified, they did so, thereby proving that only Hugh
can prevent florist friars.

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