So, Sarah's wedding is a little over two weeks away (eeeeeeee!), and I'm still trying to figure out how to style my hair. The only thing I knew I didn't want was to wear it down, because I have the world's finest, straightest hair and would much rather have it shellacked into some sort of up-do and not have to worry about it the rest of the day.
So I scoured YouTube for a few tutorials and found something I liked that seemed easy enough. I've done up-dos before, and I know how to french-braid. How hard can this be?
So I set out my styling instruments of torture implements, and got ready to do a trial run.
Well, except for the toothbrush. Unless I get desperate.
First things first: putting a dollop of mousse the size of a duck in my wet hair and blow-drying it upside down.
Sexaayyyy.
And because that's not enough to give me texture, some hairspray and dry shampoo.
I look like a Whitesnake video.
Time to curl it! I previously had a hairdresser manage to give me curly hair using a flat-iron, so I figured I'd give it a shot.
Not bad! So I kept going, only to discover that my hair had lost its will to obey me.
I can't tell if it's bored or rebellious.
Fine. Time to break out the curling iron. After 47 hours and some very sore arms, I managed to get my whole head curled.
Yikes. Maybe it'll look better if I shake them out a little bit.
The higher the hair, the closer to Jesus, I guess? Whatever. So I tried the side braid -- I would have taken pictures of my three attempts, but I don't have the 12 arms required. It didn't work, needless to say, and by the end of it most of the curl had come out of my hair. Time for Plan B.
I'm weak. And high on hair spray fumes.
I can still try the up-do without the braid, so I got to it. First I teased the crown...
...and tried to pin the curls back. Alas, I had no more curls to work with, and it looked like shit. In my desperation, I threw it into a sort-of side ponytail and just started haphazardly pinned it into the messiest bun I could think of. I didn't even look at it. And what do you know... it actually...
...looked kinda...
...good!
Even though my actual hair for the wedding may not look anything like this, at least I know I can salvage a disaster with a combination of alcohol and not caring.
I was at Fado's with a girl from the soccer team, the place so packed we couldn't find a table and sought refuge on the upper balcony, sipping rum and Coke and people-watching. It was better than trying to talk, anyway, because the Black-Eyed Peas were blaring and trying yell over it just made the headache worse.
So I sipped my drink and laughed at the girls below, wearing too much jewelry and teetering on stilettos and letting muscle-bound frat boys hit on them, and things honestly haven't changed all that much from high school if I really think about it.
Well, one thing was new, at least, because a guy walked up and started talking to me.
"Hey," he mumbled, staring at his feet.
I felt an instant wave of sympathy for the guy, because who hasn't been there before? It was dark and I couldn't really see his face because he wouldn't meet my eyes, so I smiled and kinda leaned down so he'd look at me, and I introduced myself. What hell, right? He's just shy.
"Hi," he said.
Oh. "This place is kind of crazy, huh? You can barely breathe in here."
"Yeah." Oh. Oh no.
"What's your name?"
"...[mumble]."
"...WHAT?" I yelled.
"...[mumble]."
"Oh. Well, hi! Do you live around here?"
"...yeah."
Crap. I started scrambling. "That's handy. I wish I lived close; this place is really cool, but I don't get much of a chance to drive downtown. Trying to get home after a night out can be brutal, y'know?"
"...."
At this moment, I realized I was a dentist working on a patient without anesthesia.
The conversation -- if you can call it that, because it consisted of me yelling whatever inane thing came to my head in an effort to fill the silence, which can be pretty deafening even when T-Pain is making your ears bleed -- continued for five excruciating minutes.
After his twentieth one-word answer, I snapped.
I set down my drink, reached over and grabbed him by the shoulders, which was finally enough to get him to actually look at me.
"Dude," I said. "I'm giving you an out."
He seemed confused. "...what?" It was his second-longest sentence of our abortion of a conversation.
"This." I waved my arms wildly, as if I could physically point out just how painful the last few minutes had been. I grabbed his shoulders again. "I know this is really, really awkward and we're kind of banging our heads against a brick wall here, so I'm giving you an out. You can leave right now if you want."
He blinked at me a couple of times. Then he walked away.
I already did this for the American Music Awards, so why not the Grammys, where there's a chance of seeing a performer I actually like? I've got the Yuengling ready. Watch this space and keep the F5 button handy. The fun starts at 8:00 EST.
8:00: Aretha tribute? Nice. Kelly Clarkson better be in this shit.
8:01: LL Cool J. does not age. And he is still hot.
8:02: No Kelly Clarkson. Fail.
8:04: I see Christina Aguilera is still using Dee Snyder's makeup artist. But she sounds great. And hey, she remembered the lyrics!
8:07: Martina McBride rocks, as per usual.
8:10: They're all kicking ass. But YOLANDA ADAMS. BOW DOWN.
8:13: Goddamn, ladies.
8:25: I will always give Lady Gaga credit for singing live and sounding good. But this song blows.
8:28: Where's the blood and semen? That was pretty tame for Gaga. And that song is still terrible. She's barely above Ke$ha in the "be yourself" Pop Anthem Sweepstakes, and way, waaaay behind Pink.
8:35: "My favorite dog is buried in the yard." Thanks, Miranda Lambert. I hate country music so, so much sometimes.
8:38: Muse! It is such a relief to watch an awards show and just watch a kickass rock band that knows what the hell it's doing.
8:42: THEEEEYYYYYY WILL NOT FOOOOOOOOORCE USSSSSSSS
8:43: Sorry, got carried away there.
8:50: Bruno, Janelle, and B.o.B. are up. Three people I like! Bruno Mars looks so much like Erik Estrada it freaks me out a little bit.
8:53: This Motown arrangement of "Grenade" is pretty fabulous, but I'll say it right now: that song has some of the scariest lyrics I've ever heard.
8:55: Janelle Monae is coming with an army of androids to take this planet over. They will all be impeccably dressed.
9:04: I still can't believe they didn't get Kelly for that Aretha tribute. Seriously?
MASSIVE FAIL, Grammys.
9:05: Justin Bieber is left-handed, just like McCartney, Cobain, and Henrix. Too bad he sucks. I give him ten years to pull a Timberlake and actually impress me.
9:11: Ladies and gentlemen, Usher presents Rhythm Nation!
9:14: Best Rock Album is up. Stone Temple Pilots and Alice in Chains weren't even nominated. And the winner is Jethro Tull!
9:15: Okay, so it's actually Muse.
9:22: Gaga wins for Pop Vocal Album. I can't argue with that.
9:23: Her new song still blows.
9:25: Mumford and Sons are aggressively Irish.
9:27: Wait, they're not Irish? They should be.
9:29: The Avett Brothers are also Irish, even though they probably actually aren't.
9:30: Is Bob Dylan Irish? He wishes he were, at any rate.
9:33: Bob Dylan appears to be passing a stone of some sort. An Irish stone, obviously.
9:41: Two-time Grammy wimmers, Lady Antebellum! (Thanks, Lea Michelle. Reading is hard.)
9:44: Miley Cyrus with Kings of Leon? I... what?
9:47: Cee-Lo! I know Gwyneth sang this on Glee, but is her presence really necessary? Also, I'm kinda pissed at her for singing this song before I got a chance to do it karaoke.
9:48: He's dressed like an even gayer Liberace! And there are Muppets! This is awesome!
9:51: Brilliant. Say what you will about Gwynnie, but bitch stayed on key. I'm not holding my breath for Katy Perry to do the same.
9:57: I see I am correct about Katy Perry.
10:02: I kind of loved seeing Nicole Kidman in the audience singing along to "Teenage Dream." I'm easy.
10:04: Norah Jones, John Mayer, and Keith Urban just sang "Jolene." WHY WAS THAT SO SHORT?
10:06: "Fuck You" was robbed.
10:08: I know how to play "Teenage Dream" on guitar. Should I be ashamed?
10:13: STOP LETTING RIHANNA SING LIVE.
10:15: I really, really hate it when rappers use backing tracks. Pathetic. Seriously, Em, you have no excuse. Jay-Z wins.
10:20: Skylar Grey was the best part of that, and I have no idea who she is.
10:23: I also have no idea who Esperanza Spalding is, but good for her. I am confident she was more deserving than Bieber.
10:24: Can Keith, Norah, and John come back? Seriously, that was fantastic.
10:30: Grammy President and charity and blah blah blah I want more Cee-Lo.
10:46: Babs is up. She sounds great, and I really don't care. Christ, how long is this thing?
10:51: Why is Nicki Minaj famous? Is she really any different than Kim Kardashian?
10:54: Wait a minute, this goes until 11:30? Screw that. I need to sleep. I understand I'll miss a performance including Rihanna, which makes me incredibly sad. I hope all five of my readers will forgive me.
Cee-Lo the Space Peacock forgives me. And so should you.
I'm still searching for that elusive, perfect National Anthem. I'm usually white-knuckling it when I watch sporting events, either because the singer starts off shakily or picks a key that's too high and I'll spend the entire song holding my breath because I know something gotta break, and it's probably going to be some hapless bastard's voice.
Or -- and this is almost worse -- the singer sounds fantastic and I'm just waiting for them to get to "Land of the freeeeeee" and fuck it up because the singer in question decides that now is the perfect time to bust out some melisma or "make it their own" or decide that melodies are overrated. Case in point:
What did the word "free" ever do to you, Carrie? You sounded amazing for the first 9/10 of the song. You just couldn't resist, could you? Everyone does this, even if it's not this specific offense, but they've got to find some way to screw it up. Everyone.
Remember how in elementary school, they told us to cut open the plastic rings from six-packs of soda, because otherwise dolphins and turtles would get caught in them and die?
Venus is that turtle your teachers warned you about, after an all-night bender at a drag show in Miami.
I've always been an awards show junkie, which surprises even me because I like pretty dresses but not that much, and the last time I saw a movie in the theaters was in 2009 (my beloved Gran Torino, which got hosed during awards season). I watch about three television shows regularly and one of them is American Idol, so my taste level is already pretty suspect. I genuinely do not care if Tina Fey wins another award.
And yet still I love the Golden Globes and the Oscars. I'll generally watch anything in which pretty statues are given out.
I know you're coming on Saturday. People who have more obligations and bigger extended families than I tend to dread you, but I always enjoy your visits. Family and togetherness and presents and alcohol are all well and good (preferably all at once, since that lends itself to drunken sobbing and kitchen appliances being hurled at one another), and I like shiny red bows as much as the next person. I'm still not sure why you keep bringing up that Jesus guy, though.
You used to be my favorite cable network, and The Universe is still pretty awesome (whenever you actually decide to air it). Back in my bartending days, I especially appreciated how you would still air shows at 3 a.m. while the rest of the cable networks crapped out and switched to infomercials.
So, I have this cat. (I have two, actually, but let's stick with just this one.) Her name is Molly. Molly is... okay, I don't know if there's a feline equivalent of "functionally retarded," but pretend that there is. That's Molly.
Don't get me wrong: she is a sweetheart. She purrs a lot and likes to sit next to me on the couch when I watch football, and she likes to talk. Molly's pretty sassy. She's also dumber than a box of hair. She doesn't understand food as a concept, nor how to eat a treat out of her human's hand. When dinnertime rolls around, she doesn't realize that there is a plate of food and yes, it is in fact for her, unless you shove it in front of her face and slowly walk her plate across the kitchen and set it next to her water bowl. Walk too fast and you've lost her forever, but succeed and she'll sniff it, perhaps taste a bite or two, and then walk off while the other cat helps himself to her meal.
She also, bless her heart, has buck teeth. Honest-to-god fangs sticking out even when her mouth is closed. It's pretty adorable. So when the vet predicted that her current bout of gingivitis would eventually lead to her losing all her teeth, I set out to capture photographic evidence of her fangs before she lost them. This afternoon I found her lounging in a sunbeam, and thought it to be an opportune time. As it turns out, bright sunlight does not really cooperate with my camera.
Not only did I fail in capturing the fangs on camera, but she looks a little bit like a James Bond villain here, or something from the scarier parts of Revelation.
So yesterday I was in Wal-Mart (shut up) on my lunch break in full uniform. I probably looked a little odd with my gun, corresponding Batman utility belt, and badge, considering my arms were full of shampoo, conditioner, and eyeliner. It's not every day you see a firearm in the makeup aisle.
Have you seen The Walking Dead yet? It's on Sunday nights on AMC, and you can catch last week's pilot on On Demand and AMC's website. It's good. Really good.
I'm not really a horror movie aficionado, but it's about a zombie apocalypse. A ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE. There's no way that wouldn't be awesome, right? That's so awesome I'm starting a band and calling it Zombie Apocalypse, and our first single will be "I'm Not Even Hungry (But You Taste So Good)."
While I'm sure it would be nice to only drive ten minutes to get to this office, there is a reason I will never, ever live in the same county where I work. A few weeks ago, I got this letter from a parolee. He sent it from jail.
The "must-watch" advertisements for TV pilots every September can get tiring. I watch a grand total of two shows with any regularity: Mad Men (because it's outstanding) and Project Runway (because I like my Thursday nights with an injection of fabulousness).
Thank Christ the police didn't write this one. Here's the written statement of the girlfriend of one of my parolees:
I was arrested Staurday 15th of may. I was charged with pisson of meth I was told that [boyfriend] wouldn't be charged with it. It was found In my makeup Bag. I took the charge now I belive what is right that all charges against [boyfriend] she be dropped on him thanks.
You see stuff like this and wonder how this guy is anything other than screwed.
Tonight, Colbie Caillat sang the national anthem at the Vikings/Saints game:
Colbie, just because you can do something doesn't mean you should.
Friendly reminder to all the singers all there: don't fuck with the national anthem. Also, the word "free" does not contain 18 syllables. Sing it straight, please. Unless your name is Marvin Gaye.
But it probably isn't, since he's kinda dead. So just leave it be.
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