You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better. ~ Anne Lamott
Am back. On Facebook. Ugh. I feel like I just handed over every shred of decency I have to Mark Zuckerberg and he is doing unspeakable things to it. This better work better than it did last time girls!
Yes, I remember what I said about Facebook and all its co-conspirators last year. I still stand by that. I have even more arguments against it (planking, homicide due to wall posts and Farmville) now and, quite frankly speaking, cannot wait until the next thing comes along. Oh sit down Justin "I just bought MySpace" Timberlake. Best you will do is piss YouTube off. This business of you trying to be an actor and trying to relive your Social Network days makes you look silly, cheesy, and deficient. I digress...
Are we fighting yet, Amy?
As a precaution, I have created an account that is part my name, part not. So if you want to add me as a friend, and if I think you will not stalk my life and irritate the fuck out of me with your narcissistic wannabe bullshit are worthy, I will add you. You can email me privately for further information.
If I do not respond to your email or add request, I want you to give some really deep thought as to why I have not before you blast me about it and start calling me all the bitches under the sun in your news feed, status box, etc. I mean really really deep thought. And then choose my answer(s) from the following list that best apply to you (and they do): a] I am not interested in your drama. b] I am not interested in you stalking my life. c] I really just tolerate you because I find myself in socialized situations where I am required to or I may loose my job. d] You are a friendwhore, we are not now nor will we ever be friends, and I would not be caught dead on your friends list. e] Your "join this club" invitations and all the other spam you posted on my wall last time I was on Facebook created so much spam I had to abandon a much loved email address. Fuck off with the invites, I can join myself. f] We may be related but that does not mean I like you or would consider you a "friend". g] You bore me with your feeble and pathetic attempts to look cool. If you really were as cool as you want me to think you are, if your life was as cool as you attempt to project onto me, you would understand that cool never ever tries. Cool just is.
(Originally posted on my old blog "The Domestication of a Punk Rock Foodie" on February 15, 2010)
It was supposed to be a lovely day at the spa. A treat for me. For the most part it was. Until it came time to get my hair did. Who knew my two-tone root emergency would prompt a cat fight?
Back in the day, I used to see Carla for all my hair dressing needs. Carla's husband knocked her up and told her he would not stand for her to be around chemicals that might give their baby a third arm or a cyclops eye. Asshole. Carla was a hair care goddess. I could say, "Do what you like" and not leave the spa looking like Denis Rodman. Now she's a mini-van mumma and she hasn't looked back. I miss her and hate her.
After being scalped and scalded with hair bleach by some sista who clearly had no idea what to do other than pose out, I ended up in the chair of the spa manager, George. In the beginning, things were great with George. It was magic. He was my therapist, my not gay gay hairdresser, and my follicular messiah.
Then he got complacent.
Three hair cuts in a row that were meh and this became a crisis for me.
I have nothing going on in the looks department so my hair is my crowning glory (ya, I'm a Leo). It pained me, but I did not have a choice.
I had to break up with George and see someone else.
What I should have done was change salons. But I am a fool. I cheated on George in George's salon. Right. Under. His. Nose. I had to be all ninja about that shit too. Believe me, I burned off the karma for cheating on George immediately. I ended up in the chair of a bat shit crazy woman who stalks her kids and wanted me to not only have an opinion about that, but wanted me to agree with her actions. But she is the most amazing colour tech in the world. So I endured the drama for a couple hours every six weeks.
Then there was the Sunday last summer when George busted my ass.
George does not do Sundays. Bat Shit Crazy worked every other Sunday. Perfect. Getting my roots touched up was becoming a Black Ops ninja nightmare.
Then it happened. George should have been having a lovely Sunday somewhere else. But no. No. NOOOOOO!!. He came into work. And there I was, in a chair, in the middle of the salon, mid colour application, hair standing on end with aluminum foil nesting on top of my head. My only options were to jump into my purse (too small, if you can believe it) or slide right off the chair and hide under the mirror (ewww, other people's hair). I was a hawt mess with nowhere to go. George's stank eye was like a laser.
Six weeks later, all humble and humiliated, I went back to George's chair. "I knew you'd be back" was all he said. For two hours. It was purgatory but that's what a girl gets for cheating on her hairdresser.
I have a dinner engagement this Friday and the only day I could address my skunk root explosion was today. George doesn't see clients on Monday but with his blessing and recommendation, I booked with someone else.
I thought I was in good hands.
Not so much.
Those hands did not know how to show up to work on time. Those hands and their lack of respect for their employer and this client landed me back in Bat Shit Crazy's chair. As per George. Payback is a bitch and he had me behind the eight ball. For two hours I got to hear about loyalty and being on the client list of two stylists in one salon and how this is just not normal in the industry. I took it. Normally, I wouldn't. But I was desperate and Bat Shit Crazy is cleaver. She waited until the bleach was on my hair before she packed my bags for the guilt trip. That was when Late As Fuck And Doesn't Give A Shit showed up for work, demanding I switch chairs. Bat Shit Crazy told Late As Fuck And Doesn't Give A Shit she was taking the client, getting the credit, and the tip. Luckily there was no stabbing each other with scissors or bludgeoning each other with hair spray bottles, but even I can't repeat the language Bat Shit Crazy and Late As Fuck And Doesn't Give A Shit used at the washing station. Horrifying.
This has truly been one of the most dysfunctional relationships I have been involved in.
My roots are gone and so am I. Anyone know a good salon with a gayer than gay hairdresser/therapist/fashion consultant who needs a new client/patient?
(Originally posted on my old blog "The Domestication of a Punk Rock Foodie" on October 14, 2009.)
There have been two certain, absolute truths that I have learned as an adult:
1. There is no polite way for a lady to eat a banana. Or a Popsicle. 2. People will come and go from your life. Keep the dearest and beloved ones, divorce the spirit killers and time murderers, and always remember the lesson, even if it is “I will never do THAT again.”
The banana has officially joined ranks with the carrot and the cucumber to form the triple crown of sexualized produce. The Popsicle really needs no explanation. I know you and I know you have a vivid, phallic filled imagination. Please play safe and don’t forget to use your tongue… to catch the drips.
And now for an attempt at profundity…
I believe we are all on a path (you can call it fate or your destiny or your karma or your life plan, whatever flips your pancakes) and that every once in a while, people cross that path to teach you something about you and the world you live in. Some of those people stay in your life but I have learned that most will go and only a few are actually the sort of people you would want to keep around.
How do you know if a person is worth keeping around? Chew on this: You wake up in a hotel room in Las Vegas with a dead hooker lying beside you. You are completely unaware of how you got to Las Vegas and how this person ended up in bed, dead, with you. Who do you call? And off that list of people, who would come to your aid with garbage bags, shovels, a road map to nowhere, and absolutely no questions? That tiny list of people is the people in your life that are worth keeping around. I am lucky enough to have a couple of people like that in my life. And I have some garbage bags… just in case!
Spirit killers and time murderers have got go. This is not negotiable and who gives a rat’s ass what the return policy may be. When these types reveal who they really are to you, pay attention to what you are being told and shown. If they look like, behave like, and exist like a drug addicted emotional train wreck, chances are that is exactly what they are. If you feel like you are being lied to or that the story you are being told seems a bit “off”, summon the courage to ask the questions that are written on your heart… and don’t take bullshit for an answer. Pay attention to your intuition, it will never fail you. Learn the lesson that is being served up to you, and then divorce these fungi immediately. They will only suck the life, energy, goodness (and in my own experience, money) out of you and do everything they can to make you feel bad about yourself. They are like trash on Tuesdays… kick that shit to the curb. I know that there is a natural inclination to be nice and have compassion because that is what we were taught as kids. However, just because someone graciously serves up a plate of horse shit to you does not mean you are required to eat it. Any time any person makes you feel less than who you are, and especially when they do it to make themselves feel better, you gotta cut that shit out of your life like its cancer. Your worth should never suffer or be reduce by some loser’s egomaniac bullshit drama. Never.
Then there is the people who fall in between these two groups. The drifters. They drift in and out of your life or their stay in your world is short lived. Sometimes they are friends, sometimes they are lovers, sometimes they are just the person standing in front of you in line at the ATM machine. Cherish the time they spend with you and when they are gone, remember the lessons and joy they brought to your world. Try to understand that as much as you may want to have that person in your life forever, as much as you may want to spend the rest of your days loving that person, your path is unfolding as it should, everything happens for a reason, and you will have to let go. It sucks ass that they are no longer in your world but over the course of time you will come to discover that there is a blessing in having known them at all.
Sooooo, Kells and Sausage… you’ll always be in my soul. Your garbage bags are my garbage bags.
To The Zoo Crew, Ozzie, and Phil… you can respectfully suck a bag of dicks. May you all be forced to listen and watch Susan Boyle for eternity. Sober. And may you have to burn off every ounce of bad karma you ever generated as a mosquito.
To Captain Celery, Happy Belated Birthday and may the sun always shine on your lovely face.
I'm still here But it hasn't been easy I'm sure that you had your reasons I'm scared for this emotion For years I've been holding it down And I Love to forgive and forget So I Try to put all this behind us Just Know that my arms are wide open The older I get, the more that I know.
From "This Boy" by James Morrison (James Morrison, Tim Kellet)
