A Cautionary Tale

Yesterday, Summer, Sharona and I went for a long-overdue Drunk Brunch. There won't be many more of these, as Sharona is getting married, and apparently there's some bullshit rule that if you get married, you have to live with the person you're marrying, and as that person happens to live in Houston, well... you get the idea.

Anyway, I've recently discovered that despite years of believing exactly the opposite, I am actually a fan of the Bloody Mary. Our regular Drunk Brunch destination is very prompt with the free refills, which resulted in my being rather tipsy on a Saturday afternoon.

As is often the case, we felt like shopping after Drunk Brunch, and before I knew it, I had a dressing room started for me at the Betsey Johnson store. And then I tried on this:



I was instantly in love, and despite its hefty price tag, my arm began reaching into my wallet for my credit card. And I couldn't stop it. And there are no refunds -- only exchange or store credit. And no special clause for drunk shopping, either.

Luckily, I tried on the dress this morning and still loved it. It would have been a real tragedy if I'd bought an ugly, unflattering dress due to Bloody Mary goggles. And I can only blame Summer and Sharona so much for egging me on, although the two of them are, actually, bad shopping influences. Let this be a lesson to you, kids: Don't drink and shop. Have I mentioned that I'm only working part-time at the moment, and have been slowly chipping away at my savings account? Awesome.

Easy Breezy

This is one of those things I find hilarious that may put me squarely in a minority of one.

I was at the gym today, which I've been trying to do every day before I start the job next week, in a last-ditch effort to get myself bikini ready, with the hope that if I can eat nothing but rabbit food from here on out I'll be able to maintain it while I'm sitting behind a desk four days out of every week. That, incidentally, is working out about as well as you'd expect.

When I'm at the gym, I get a great deal of enjoyment out of closed captioning, specifically the misspellings. I'd never be able to suffer through the elliptical without it, in fact. Today's program was Merv Griffin's Crosswords. I quickly discovered that playing along without the luxury of audio is basically impossible, so instead I started mentally copyediting the closed captioning. Host Ty Treadway informed us that we'd be right back after the break, and this glorious caption appeared on the screen before me:

[musical notes] ... breezy synthesizer music ...
... breezy synthesizer music ... [musical notes]

I am so sad that I couldn't hear this breezy synthesizer music for myself. What does breezy synthesizer music even sound like? I bet that bums out deaf people.

I laughed out loud each of the three times we cut to commercial with the breezy synthesizer music. Luckily, the gym was mostly empty, and the few people there looked crazier than I was, so no one thought it odd that a little redhead was guffawing at the TV.

On another note, if you mention in a group email that babies taste like bacon when sprinkled with a pinch of smoked paprika and no one responds, does that mean you maybe took the "eating babies" joke too far? I'm thinking it might.

Working Girl

Guess what, y'all? I got a job! In an office! At my favorite magazine! It's only for the summer, but that's just fine because once the summer is over, all the rich people will be back from the Hamptons and looking for personal chefs, and I should have figured out contracts and rates and recipes and menus and whatnot by then. It also means I get to buy work clothes, because it's been over a year since I worked in an office and I've gotten fat since then, and I'm guessing I can't wear boxers and tank tops to work, which is what I usually wear at home. And since I'm being hired for mostly techie stuff, I'll still have creative energy left over to work on my demented screenplay with Curly, and maybe get that young adult novel that I've been kicking around in my head down on paper. Also, Fridays off, which means ample beach time. Plus, money to go to Puerto Rico with TYM to celebrate our two year anniversary. This summer's going to be pretty great, I'm thinking.

John McCain Hates You

Like summer isn't going to be bad enough, what with no tomatoes and high gas prices -- now John McCain has vowed to veto every beer. I guess all those working class whites will be voting for Obama after all.

Drastic Times

The other day, I got an email from a stranger who'd found my blog while searching for Amy, hairdresser extraordinaire. Apparently, Amy had left Timothy John's Salon, where I and Summer and Sharona and so many others have gone to get our hair done by her for what feels like an eternity -- an eternity full of awesome haircuts. As is usually the case with hair salons when stylists leave, no information about her whereabouts is available.

Naturally, there is panic. Sharona is getting married in August -- who will do her hair? Summer and I have agreed that we can wear our hair in ponytails for the entire summer if need be, but that's only a short-term solution. We also agreed that starting over with someone new is NOT AN OPTION. So we brainstormed on how to find her. I suggested getting our hands on a UPS uniform and trying to deliver a package to her at the salon. Summer suggested making posters and canvassing the area:

LOST: AMY, THE HAIRSTYLIST
[insert sketch of Amy here] If found, please email us at: [insert email here]
P.S. She's neither dead nor in danger, she just left the salon where she works and we need a haircut. KTHXBAI!

Both insane ideas, for sure, but totally worth it if it means being reuinted with our precious Amy. Last night, I Googled the crap out of her, and finally found her on MySpace. And she'd logged in recently, which gave me hope. I sent her a completely insane, rambling message about how badly I need her haircuts in my life. (I'm paraphrasing)

And now I wait. There's either a new salon in my future, or a restraining order. Wish me luck -- the situation is dire.