Monthly Archives: July 2012

It’ll Be Just Like “Friends”!

I’m doing it. I’m taking the plunge and inviting a stranger into my home. I’m getting a roommate. I’ve been living alone (with brief visits from my wayward sister) for the past five years and it will be a big adjustment. I’ll have to stop and think before I go about my usual routine and scare a poor, innocent girl.

The girl in question is a friend of a friend. I think this is the best way to go about a new living situation if you have to do it. There is no pre-existing friendship to ruin with close proximity and I have a support system of mutual friends in case she ends up being a psycho. I’m sure she’s not a psycho (especially if she’s reading this…) but a girl can never be too careful. I have loads of precious NKOTB keepsakes in the apartment that I’d hate to see get caught up in a civil dispute.

I’m sure the whole situation will be fine. I’m easygoing (and hilarious) and she seems legit. We have similar hair and an overall similar aesthetic. I’ll have to find out what size shoe she wears…this could be a great wardrobe doubling opportunity. I just need to make sure I remember to wear pants while sweeping the floor to various 90s jams. As long as I stay clothed (at first) and keep my cat conversations to a minimum, I’m sure she’ll adjust quite well to my loud, hipster apartment. Maybe she’ll even teach me to be cool again. I seem to have waved goodbye to hip and have been hurtling toward lame for quite some time. I could use a nudge in the fab direction.

So, new roomie, if you’re reading this:

1. I promise to wear pants unless you say it’s cool to have “No Pants Sundays”

2. I will keep the boybands to a minimum while you’re home.

3. If you hear me talking to my cats just know that I am not expecting a response. Usually.

4. Yes, you can borrow my shoes.

5. I reserve the right to ask you to define any slang term or phrase you use without being called an old lady.

Welcome to my home ;)

Dear Justin Bieber: An Open Letter

Dear Justin Timberlake Bieber:

Before I begin, I want you to know that I’m a fan. I truly am. I’m a fan in the sense that I bop to your music if and when it is available and I really rooted for a positive DNA test on that whole “baby daddy” scandal. That last part was more for my entertainment than your well-being, but regardless, I had faith. However, you’ve recently proven that you are just an 18-year-old boy with an attitude problem. I’m afraid I can no longer come to your defense.

It has come to my attention that you had a particularly combative interview with Detroit’s “Mojo in the Morning”. He attempted to pay you a compliment by comparing your newest album to Justin Timberlake. You pitched a bitch fit. Sure, maybe saying that he thought it was JT before someone told him it was you was a little less than flattering. I guess you’re not at the top of Mojo’s memory list. Cry about it. He’s an adult man. You should be grateful that he even bothered to listen to the album instead of just faking his way through your interview like I’m sure countless other DJs do.

Justin Timberlake was in a boyband that only teenage girls, gay guys and creepy old women listened to. Sound familiar? You weren’t in a boyband but it was the same damn thing. Before your most recent (Justin Timberlake-esque) album, anyone over the age of 15 (besides me) had to lie about owning your music. You were a little boy with big britches and you’re lucky people still care about what you say and do. Yes, you get compared to JT a lot and perhaps that’s a little irritating. I used to get called Kelly Osbourne about ten times a day and I’m not even famous. This wasn’t recently. This was before her chic transformation when she was a pudgy, drug-addled whore. Justin Timberlake is a gorgeous, multi-talented performer who has maintained relevancy despite his beginnings as a teenybopper. If you’re smart, you’ll stop all your crying and do everything you can to be more like JT. At the very least it should guarantee you a decade more of success. So shut up.

Grown Man

In closing, I’d like to say one more thing. You’re tiny. I mean…just tiny. If you want grownups to buy your albums despite the fact that you’re reportedly 5’7″ (generous) and a buck 30, you need to humble it up a bit. Your fans are getting older and moving on to bands like Of Mice and Men so you need new ones. I’d be happy to oblige if you quit your entitled tirade of whining.

Small Boy


High Praise for Hot Hair

As recent posts about my crazy hair may have hinted, I went to get my hair done yesterday morning. Thank Gos. It was a hot mess of a hair-mergency. Normally I would have made my appointment at The Dollhouse with my favorite stylist, Sara. However, Sara made the decision to quit working for “the man” at The Dollhouse and spread her wings at the brand new (and fabulous) Roxanne’s Hair Studio. I wasted no time making an appointment after the official opening. I would have hair worthy of seeing the outside world again. I would.

My very profession cellphone picture of the front

 To celebrate my newfound optimism and because we like prizes and snack foods, my friend and I hauled our butts to Roxanne’s for their Open House gala on Friday night. Sara had mentioned that a friend of hers opened the salon and gathered all of her favorite (and most talented) stylist friends to come work magic under her roof. I assumed that since said friend was in her 20s, that the salon would be tiny but functional. Wrong. Beth Garner opened a huge, deliciously decorated and fully stocked hair studio. I was blown away. Everywhere I looked there were young, hip people snacking on yummy hors d’ oeuvres and sipping adult beverages through their mustache straws. If the open house was any indication, Roxanne’s is going to boom. After standing in the only unoccupied corner we could find, my friend won a raffle prize and picked up a great volumizing serum from Osis. I did not. Being the sore loser that I am, I suggested we leave immediately and pouted my way home.

This place is enormous!

The next morning we woke up bright and early to head back out to Roxanne’s for our mutual appointments. My friend had coerced Sara into coming in on her day off since she was only in town for the weekend and I took that opportunity to slide in for a cut during her processing time. I’m shady like that. Armed with iced vanilla lattes and the glow of our upcoming denastification we breezed through the doors of the studio. We were greeted by a smiling receptionist who looked too fresh and gorgeous for the 10am hour. In her defense, I think she wakes up looking like that. Beth, the owner, looked up from her sweeping and gave us a big grin and a wave seconds before Sara emerged to get started. Clockwork, I tell you.

Since the studio was no longer filled to the brim with hipsters and young professionals I was able to really get a look at the place. After surveying the area I came to the conclusion that I kind of wanted to set up a cot in the back and never leave. The music was current without being top 40, the decor was fun and flirty without inducing a diabetic coma and the atmosphere bred feelings of relaxation. I really enjoy a hair studio that is relaxed and professional without sacrificing a cool factor. This place is not pretentious. Thank Gos. While my friend got foiled I struck up a conversation with Beth to find out a little more about her background. She went to school in Tennessee and moved her southern charm up north (where the cool kids live). While working at Dollhouse with Sara, she said that she was going to open her own place and steal Sara away from there. And then she did. I know, I was blown away too. Someone followed through with their dream. That’s how you know you should trust her with your head. She gets shit done.

Put your booty in one of these chairs

I’m thrilled with what my hair is doing and I love the new place I get to visit every six weeks. I highly suggest you check it out before it catches on and you can’t get an appointment. Call them now. Ditch wherever it is that you go and start up a love affair with the ladies of Roxanne’s Hair Studio. They’ll make you feel pretty and I bet they’d even call you in the morning instead of sneaking out in the middle of the night.  They’ll talk to you about what you’re looking for, what you would do to maintain a look and what you feel are your problem areas. They are there for the long haul because if you look good, they look good.

If that litany of preachy paragraphs didn’t get you to switch to Roxanne’s, maybe this will: They have flavors for your coffee. If you end up waiting in the adorable waiting area, you will be treated to a fresh brewed cup of coffee with the flavor of your heart’s content. Everyone loves flavored coffee. Everyone.


This is better than my living room.!/RoxannesHair

When you book an appointment, tell them I sent you. Oh yeah, I said “when”, not “if”. Do yourself a favor and get beautified or massaged at Roxanne’s. You’re welcome.

From the Archives

I wrote this a few years ago for some reason. Enjoy!

What is it about a spider that can transform an otherwise rational person into an illogically terrified pile of uselessness? I like to think of myself as a semi-intelligent human being, but no matter how many times I ask myself that same question, the only answer I can come up with is: “They’re Icky!” Beyond the obvious ickyness, I am firmly convinced that spiders have an amazingly sinister intellectual capacity. They are capable of plotting, planning, scheming, and overall terrorism. The following account of one of my many “Spider Incidents”, as I have come to call them, will undoubtedly prove my theory.  

For me, getting my drivers’ license was a trying process. I overcame serious nerves to take the Drivers’ Training classes I rode my bike miles every day to attend, and I failed the road test the first time. When I finally did receive the prized piece of laminate, I volunteered to drive everywhere. Groceries were getting picked up, sisters were getting dropped off, mom’s mini-van never saw so many miles! My confidence was rising, and soon there would be no stopping this drive-aholic. The feelings of bliss and cockyness came to a head the day I got my very own car. It was a shiny new (ok, more like rusty old) 1991 Cutlass Calais, complete with moon roof and red interior.  

That moon roof was open all summer long, which in retrospect was a horrible idea for an arachnophobe like me. I thought nothing of my veritable “open door policy” until one fateful evening as I was desperately trying to make curfew. I was cruising along a major street in my hometown, on my way home from the mall. I was chugging along (a 91 Cutlass can do little more than chug) at a pace of about 60 mph, as this particular road slightly resembles a racetrack, and silently urges me to push the speed limit. N Sync was blasting from my speakers and I was in teenage girl heaven. For a brief moment.

Suddenly, I noticed a dark mass in my line of vision. A big one. I thought, “No, this couldn’t be what I think it is.” But alas, it was. A big hairy spider had just dropped down from who knows where, and was staring at me, from two inches away. Since my mind was paralyzed with fear, I can only hypothesize as to what happened next.


My first instinct was to slam the seat back as far as it could go. I was in no mood to get to first base with Charlotte (virtually every spider who confronts me will be called Charlotte , in an attempt to lessen the creepiness, and increase the lovable children’s book-ness). Once I was as far back as possible, ever further than possible, since I no longer had a chin at that point, I cranked the wheel to the right in an attempt to pull over quickly. I did not even glance (not even at my blind spot, as I had been so aptly taught to do) at the road to assess any potential danger from other vehicles. Once there is a spider in my vicinity, it is the only immediate danger as far as I am concerned. Luckily my thoughtless wheel-cranking landed me in a liquor store parking lot, and not somebody else’s drivers’ seat.

Once stationary, I leapt over the center console and into the passenger seat. Or, that’s what I would have done if the seatbelt wasn’t still fastened. Instead I managed a jerky flail and landed half of my rump on the gear-shift. I felt no pain. I was still in “get me the eff away from this spider” mode. Adrenaline pumping, I managed to get the seatbelt undone, and propel my body out the passenger side door.

I found myself standing alone at midnight in a liquor store parking lot. My cell phone was in the car under close surveillance by Charlotte . I couldn’t call for help and she knew it. We engaged in a stare-down. Eyes narrowing, (all eight  of hers), we both made our move. She scrambled up her web of terror, and though I was outside the car and presumably safe, I flailed again. Seeing an opportunity in her position on the steering wheel, I cut my losses and flip-flopped that wheel harder and with more intensity than any flip-flop will ever know again. Once my eyes were once again open, I saw with great relief that Charlotte had met her demise. She was no longer a giant hairy threat. She was merely a curled up ball of gross on my floor mat.

What makes a spider choose (yes choose) that exact moment to make an appearance? A moment that could very well endanger the lives of other drivers and me? Malice. That’s what. That situation ended in one of two possible ways. Late for curfew or car accident. Either way, I was in trouble. Thank you Charlotte , from the bottom of my teenaged (and sarcastic) heart.


Today while walking through the plant at work I noticed something about myself. I like walking through small spaces to see if I’ll fit. I haven’t come across one that won’t allow me passage, and I’m not sure of my reaction when I do. Truthfully, I’m giving myself plenty of space. I just like to assess a tight squeeze, boldly march forward and then congratulate myself on not being too fat to fit.

Some of these spaces may require a slight turn, so as not to knock over a pallet with my behind. Of course, I return to forward-facing to finish the journey so as not to let others on to my tricks. Again, the quick turnaround is rewarded with a self-congratulatory pat on the back. Metaphorically. If I started literally patting myself on the back every time I walked in between some stacked skids I’d definitely have some explaining to do. Although, the behavior would match the hairstyle I seem to be rocking. I look crazy. My purple has faded to a sort of 70s color spectrum. I want to say “mauve” but I have no idea what that color looks like. I may as well have gone into the salon with a swatch from that beanbag in your parents’ basement. It’s bad. My once edgy rat-tail and shaved side have morphed into a mess of overgrowth and bobby pins. This is the frumpiest I’ve looked in quite some time. I’m tempted to post a picture as proof, but I’ll let you all just imagine the damage. It’s pretty good.

What a great dusky color…

 Perhaps my current frumpy display is the reason I have to seek out moments of joy by squeezing in between pallets and drums of paint at work (and write about it). Nah. That’s not it.

Virtual Meat Markets

I advertise myself as “single and loving it”, which for the most part, I am. I enjoy my free time and never having to check with someone else before making decisions. I also like having the ability to listen to boybands whenever I want and make Musicals and Rock Operas a mainstay in the ol’ DVD player. Football has never crossed my TV screen and I’d kind of like it to stay that way.

Of course, there are things that are a little more difficult to do without a significant other. Just recently I got a pretty bad sunburn on my back and had to let it peel since I couldn’t reach it to put on lotion. I may have even pulled a muscle trying to make it happen. That alone is enough to send one running to the many online dating sites that seem so easy. Oh, and then there’s the sex thing. I’m 27 and breathing, so, I think about it.

I tried and for a hot second but the only “match” it gave me was someone I went to high school with. We hung out a few times but we were not on the same page. I thought we were hanging out to gossip about old classmates and a little for the pure ridiculousness of us going on a date. He was serious about it. Oops. We didn’t mesh well due to my overall masculine take on all things emotional and the fact that given any physical contact I was liable to crush him completely. (POF to the old pros) is another site I’ve been using for a few years. I have yet to meet someone in person who I met on that site. Oh, I take that back. I did meet someone who seemed normal and was marginally attractive. He couldn’t stop staring at my rear end. Everything he said had something to do with the badonkadonk. At first I was flattered. My rear is giant and sometimes that’s up certain people’s allies. This guy was a little ridiculous. I started getting nervous about any future encounters and what he may have in mind so I stopped answering his texts.

I still have a POF account and I check it periodically. If only to scoff at the suitors who fill my inbox. If someone manages to string together a few sentences without a gross misuse of the English language (and they’re not pictured in jorts or cutoff Ts) I’ll generally write them back. It seems as if every man on any dating site is really into things that don’t involve the letter “g”. They love fishin’, huntin’ campin’ and muddin’. It’s getting past these initial judgments where I run into problems.

Every guy on POF

There are also some personal issues to be worked through. At what point do I answer “I like a curvy girl with some meat on her bones” with a picture I haven’t painstakingly chosen to just appear “curvy”. I mean…there comes a time when I just can’t honestly call myself “chubby” anymore. Do men respond well to brutal, self-deprecating honesty? Hopefully better than I’d respond to utter letdown. Maybe I’ll stop choosing only the best photos and post the terrible “double chin” angles and arm flab pics that would never usually make the cut.

Maybe I won’t have to post anything. I’m still holding on to the hope that I’ll have a meet-cute a la romantic comedies. I suppose I should start spending time with people other than my lovely lesbian legion in order to make that happen. Something about a giant crowd of lesbos that doesn’t exactly scream, “come throw your hetero-game over here!” Or does it?