Archive for June, 2007

This might deter me from attending any future baby showers

June 10, 2007 | Filed under: Humdrum, Sucks like a vacuum

“The great advantage of living in a large family is that early lesson of life’s essential unfairness.” ~Nancy Mitford

I’ve been saying this with as much enthusiasm as I can muster: I went to my very first baby shower yesterday! In New Jersey! Instead of going to a Yankees game!

During said baby shower we played games that did not involve liquor and so my father and I kept envisioning glasses of vodka in lieu of sprite. Other highlights include finding out that my brother - the one having the baby - has Leukemia and then he threatened to name his daughter ‘Shaniqua’ if I didn’t stop complaining about missing Roger Clemens.

I think this might be the last baby shower until my own; which should be sometime in 2029, just in case you were wondering.

Great moments in avoidance: let’s talk hair

June 7, 2007 | Filed under: Great moments in narcissism, Humdrum

“Hair brings one’s self-image into focus; it is vanity’s proving ground. Hair is terribly personal, a tangle of mysterious prejudices.” ~Shana Alexander

I have a little problem. Actually I have several problems starting with my inability to leave DC along with a battery of other things, so let’s discuss something else, because I’m good at digression. Let’s talk about my hair!

Then there is another problem called Permanent Self-Deprecation Syndrome. It’s a chronic and at one point debilitating illness symptoms of which include the complete inability to accept a compliment of any sort. Say, you think my boobs are nice and perky? I do too, but you know they could still use some serious work. Oh, you like my hair? Yeah it’s a giant crap pile on the top of my head. But thanks!

And there you have it I have absolutely no interest in myself and yet here I sit, day in and day out or at least almost twice a week. Maybe. Slaving over a hot laptop typing out my thoughts and feelings for the masses because THEY CARE.

I am narcissist. Hear me roar.

That said, yesterday during my one and probably only engagement at the Advice Smackdown, someone asked about my hair. In fact on occasion the subject of my hair comes up and I laugh it off because ‘cute’ and ‘sassy’ are not the words I would use to describe it. See: Giant crap pile on the top of my head. Paragraph two, line 6.

My hair and I have had a serious hate/hate relationship for the last 18 or so years. In case, you’ve missed it or are color blind I am black, therefore my hair is and can be a massive afro type thing that channels Angela Davis at rather regular intervals. To keep this short, I went through a ‘relaxer’ phase during which my hair was chemically straightened and then continuously fell out. There were the requisite braids done by Senegalese women who yelled at me for falling asleep after 8 hours on my ass and one time one asked whether or not I was pregnant. That ended my adventures in hair braiding and it also caused chunks at my hairline to fall out.

Two and half years ago, I decided to go into the Peace Corps, which was yet another one of those irrational decisions based on hormonal energies and being a teenager who hated life. Obviously life in Uzbekistan would be that much better. Thus, I decided to grow my fucking hair out. Never so much have I had to put emphasis on the use of ‘fucking’ as an adjective because the whole ordeal was a royal pain in the ass. It ended up like a fro and frizzy and just plain stupid looking and the only place I ended up going was Madrid. I’ll spare you the painful Spain three months of headband phase, because it was awful and every photo of me in Barcelona makes me want to cry. Totally ruined my whole Dali experience. But I digress:

Exhibit A:

Note the frizz and afro like qualities. I was wearing bell bottoms and a W.E.B Dubois t-shirt under that cashmere sweater.

Then my brother got married and so I straightened it

Exhibit B:

It looked pretty and I spent the entire weekend whipping my head around and my dad kept petting my head. Sadly the only available men at my brother’s wedding were my cousins so I had no use for the cute flippy hair except to keep stroking my head because it was so soft and not frizzy. It also cost my entire months worth of grocery shopping, but my lord, it was so worth it.

Exhibit C:

This was at BlogHer. I decided for the braids because California is hot and sweaty and there would be a pool. And it looked kind of cute. Sort of. Actually every time I see these pictures I want to crawl under a table and pray that no one remembers me and my stupid looking hair that made me look like a 14 year old.

Then I got smart and by ‘smart’ I mean I discovered the best product ever known to (wo)man. A product that I have spent hundreds of dollars on but that is the price I will pay for frizz free curls and ‘cute’ hair. Basically I just don’t want a fuzz ball on top of my head.

Exhibits D, E and F:

The product is called Miss Jessie’s Curly Pudding. A scoop of that stuff after a quick wash and condition and your hair comes out like magic. It’s just so soft and curly and lovely and presentable.

I recently ran out of money during my unemployment period and could not order any more product, which begat these pictures. It was awful and horrible and my mother threatened to beat me if I didn’t do anything with my hair and I couldn’t because I had no money. It was the longest week of my life (I also suffer from Severe Hyperbolic Disorder, if you hadn’t already noticed).

Amy mentioned this the other day, but sometimes you just HAVE to spend the money. Even if it’s deemed ridiculous by others, there are just some things I’m not willing and look positively awful by being frugal on. Read: My breast/knee – cap relationship and the fuzzball that Alfre Woodard had to endure.

Now I have lovely hair that I actually sometimes have a mediocre relationship with and Kris likes to sniff my head because apparently it smells like berries. So everyone’s a winner.

Life changing

June 5, 2007 | Filed under: An ass the size of Rhode Island, Whoopdie Doo

“Just around the corner in every woman’s mind - is a lovely dress, a wonderful suit, or entire costume which will make an enchanting new creature of her.” ~Wilhela Cushman

A while back, I was discussing genetics with my aunt and to sum it up, apparently while we women are all well endowed, we just got the short end of the stick when it comes to the perky department. In short, I have pretty crappy boobs. Something I long ago accepted and have always said that if there were any plastic surgery that I would get breast augmentation. Not that it’s a huge debilitating problem, but they always just look so sad and depressed. But I would be sad and depressed and practically on the floor if someone kept attempting to squish me into an area the size of a ramekin each and every day.

Suffice it to say, with the new and improved job and new and improved paycheck, I can now afford to not walk around hoisting my bra up or having boobs down to my knees. This is of monumental significance when you are 23 and thinking that at some point, you would like to get pregnant and really the problem will only perpetuate itself, so it should be alleviated as much as possible now. I like to take somewhat preventative measures with most everything. It’s part of my charm and chronic, genetic neuroses.

I went to Nordstrom the other day, after realizing that driving to Rhode Island for a bra fitting is a might ridiculous, but it had to be done and Nordstrom is what Oprah said. Obviously then we all must do as the Queen says. Contrary to popular belief it was not the least bit awkward. Even that part when the woman told me to take off my dress and I was left practically naked. You just do it, get it over with and leave $250 poorer but with breasts that have suddenly found new meaning in life what, with their new accommodations and all. And I’m happier as well now that my boobs are no longer acquainted with my knee-caps.

Intolerance

June 4, 2007 | Filed under: Just Add Alcohol, Oh The Stupidity You'll See, The District Of Columbia

“Drunkenness is nothing but voluntary madness.” ~Seneca

A few weeks ago I received a phone call from a parent saying that someone had read on my evil little blog that I walked through the streets of Georgetown drunk. I had to correct said parent and say not only have I walked through the streets of Georgetown drunk, but also Chinatown, Gallery Place, Capitol Hill (both the House and Senate sides), Bethesda, Chevy Chase, AU Park, and up and down Connecticut Avenue from 17th street to practically Rockville. All of which doesn’t necessarily make me a raging alcoholic, but a person who has spent a good part of her young adult hood without a stick up my ass.

It hasn’t always been pretty or something that I’m really proud of and I can discuss some really ugly moments with hilarity, but only in hindsight. I am not necessarily proud of myself, but I am a girl who enjoys her wine and when I’ve had too much, I am very well aware and then I make the rather smart and logical decision to umm, not drink, because I enjoy being semi-functional in the mornings and being able to remember where I left my keys.

That said, moving to Upstate NY is a naturally slower pace of life where I’m not rushing around from Happy Hour to events each and every night. Which means that in the last three weeks, I’ve had exactly one bottle of wine and like four beers. No more of this overly priced vodka and club soda, shit. It’s just been straight up Magic Hat and the very last of my Trader Joe’s wine that I smuggled into my mother’s house underneath my sweatshirt.

The lack of drinking has boded well for my mind and given that I’m on some heavy prescriptions, I get up every morning ready and willing and able and not once, feeling like I shoved my head under a tire.

This week I returned to DC for a business trip and Saturday night, I found out the really, really hard way, that I am no longer 19 or 21 for that matter. That perhaps I should stop at three drinks and leave the fourth through sixth drink for the patrons waiting in line behind me. Maybe I needed to move to a place where drinking a bottle of wine an evening isn’t the norm. Maybe I needed the change of pace and my body rejecting vodka so very violently is its way of apprising me of it’s opinion.

This perspective has been carefully considered and duly noted for future reference. And I hope that my liver and I have a more amicable relationship from this point forward.