Peroxide Sunday

Sitting over the bathtub with my hair soaking in Red Rose tea, I couldn't help but think anything but, "this would probably be something I should blog about". Or not, because it definitely will make any sane person question my (questionable) intelligence. But nevertheless, I hope you can enjoy this story of my Peroxide Sunday.

Perhaps it was wrought by watching too many episodes of Green Acres, with Lisa in her pretty dresses and tarty blonde hair. Perhaps it was brought on by my missing my old schizophrenic hairstyles, back when I would decide on a whim that I wanted burgundy hair and would dye it myself and cut it a few inches shorter all in a half hour timespan, when I didn't care if it wasn't straight because I was younger and I could just pretend that I was trying to go for the non-conformist look, like that time I convinced my hairdresser to do opposite spikes at the bottom of my longish hair, so I had blonde streaks that were a good three inches longer than my brown hair. Anyway, whatever it was, and despite any excuse I can think of, I can hear my mom in the back of my head saying, "Damn. Well, that was stupid."

Anyway, I decided that my reddish brown hair with non-tarty blond highlights that I'd been salvaging since December was no longer fun. I decided to bleach that bitch, bleachier than I've bleached it ever before. And so I decided that I could do it myself, despite all the advice I've ever received ever in my life. Whims are not brilliant things, you know. The first bleach job turned it a fierce shade of orange, which would have been really awesome if I were auditioning to be Carrot Top's stage crew, or maybe Ronald McDonald's cousin... but not so much for my conformist occupation as a clerical assistant. So I turned to Google. Google advised me that I probably shouldn't dye a darker colour over it. It might turn purple. Or green. Which I would have valued in my youth, but today... not so much. So being the ohhh so intelligent (snerk) person that I am, I procured another container of bleach.

And this one promptly took away the orange. Yay! Unfortunately, it only stripped the orange at the top. The top was left a lovely shade of white, leaving the bottom to be a lovely shade of orange. The sad thing is, this has happened to me on more than one occasion. You think I would learn. But damn, that was stupid.

I furiously turned to Google once more, where I read about naturally dyeing hair with coffee and/or tea. Seemed easy enough. Brew some tea. Dunk head it in. Horrible hair colour gone, yes?

So I considered myself lucky that I had just bought a box of 48 tea bags. I made a big pot of tea. I waited for it to cool down. I dunked my head in it. It ran down into the bathtub, dripping and dripping. I got an old cloth, saturated it in the tea, and sat there with it on my head, laughing hysterically, holding a pair of scissors, willing myself not to cut my hair into a Pixie cut. I dipped my brush in the brown water, ran it through my hair...waited and waited and waited. Nothing. Soaked my hair. Nothing. Got out the hairdryer. Furiously blew my hair dry, hoping the heat would cause the stain of the tea to set. Nothing. Ran out to the kitchen, grabbing the 3/4 cup or so of coffee that was left in the coffee pot. Soaked the top of my hair in that. Nothing. Except now my hair smells of coffee.

Moral of the story? Stick with your natural hair colour. Not that I'm absolutely sure what exactly mine is. The second moral of the story is that two wrongs don't make a right, especially when the wrongs involve overpriced bottles of peroxide and being mistaken for Carrot Top's little sister. Or something like that. Breakfast drinks probably can't fix it, though I did not yet try orange juice. I live in mortal fear now of anything with the word "orange" in it.

Sunday, bloody Sunday.

90s revival and other such things

We spent the last two weeks attempting to beat Super Mario Brothers 3. That's right. We paid cash money to purchase Wii points to purchase a game that was released in 1988. When we were two. Videogames have come quite far in the past twenty one years.

For one thing, even though we could play this game upside down and backwards in our sleep when we were youngins, we had the assistance of the Game Genie back then. I remember my mom used to write the codes out for my brother and I on giant posterboard in thick red magic marker, which she would hang on the wall beside the TV. This leads me to believe that I was playing this game before I could read, because otherwise I would have just read the book myself. It also leads me to believe that it is quite sad that I can remember stupid things like that but not my own cellphone number. But I digress.

Anyway, regardless of the fact that my thumbs still sort of knew my way around, I could not fly this time. I did not have infinite lives. I could not put in a code and start at world 8. I could not pass world 8.

Alas, it took us WEEKS. I would come home from work and sit down and play this horrible horrible mindsucking game. I would cuss at it and stomp my feet and get very angry.

And tonight we passed it.

And what did we do?

Started that thing right over again to beat again, that's what.

In other news, I have finally found my iPod. It was in my laundry hamper, and no, I do not know why. I had finally given up on looking for it, assuming I had left it somewhere and it had a new home. I was hoping the new owner was enjoying the eclectic mix of Counting Crows and Travis and Elton John and Radiohead and everything else that is awesome, that I was missing. I was cursing myself for not having any of that music backed up. And as soon as I started looking for that $200 piece of freaking plastic, I found it. Moral: Quit looking for things and they will appear in absolutely ridiculous places.

Stupider still was my attempt to clean off music from said iPod to replace it with new music. I couldn't delete the Spice Girls. It was like stabbing my youth in the back. I couldn't delete the Barenaked Ladies, either. I am still in mourning over Steve's leaving the band. Deleting any of his work would be impossible. I am more than happy to be reunited with my Counting Crows, as I was getting sick of listening to Films About Ghosts over and over and over and over and over and over and over again.

Also: my mother has been badgering me on Facebook to write a BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG every 2.43 seconds like some sort of small mechanical dog stuck on repeat, so if it seems like this entry is contrived or about nothing it is all her fault. :)

Blog.

Blog blog blog blog blog blog.

That is all.

Dear Wii Fit,

Dear Wii Fit,

Please read and understand the following notice of dismissal from my life, effective Monday, November 24, 2008 at 12:00 a.m. EST. If you have any questions or concerns please feel free to call me between the hours of 8:01 a.m. EST and 8:05 a.m. EST.

Mr. Wii, unfortunately, it appears that you have been having some difficulty fulfilling the original terms of your contract. Your motivational skills are poor and your clients complain that you practice weight discrimination and posess an inate inability to increase morale.

Since your hire date, on or approximately September 15th, 2008, you have only shown up to work approximately eight days of each month. Each of these days, you had the gall to ask a client why s/he had been gaining weight. Was s/he wearing heavier clothes? Had s/he been late night snacking? Was s/he stressed? Perhaps s/he was not getting enough sleep?

When your client informed you that she was extremely guilty of all of these offences, you proceeded to ask her what else s/he had done today. Had s/he been "heavily" exerted today? For how many minutes, approximately? When client complained that she felt these questions were highly inappropriate and perhaps of a disturbingly sexual nature, you advised her to practice Yoga positions to be more flexible. You then called the client "extremely left of centre" and unbalanced.

While we do appreciate the unique skills and assets of every team member, you have proven to lack personality and make things awkward for everyone in the room. You have breached confidentiality a great many times, by announcing a client's weight and then stating very loudly, "THAT'S OBESE". Quite frankly, Mr. Wii, we feel that we have given you more than enough chances to redeem yourself.

An attempt was made to present you with this information in a more personal manner. However, upon our arrival you advised us to "run on the spot" for several minutes. When we were completely finished phase one of your distraction strategy, you proceeded to throw hula hoops at us.

You may pick up your batteries and software at the reception desk, anytime before noon on Friday. We ask that you hand in all company property at that time. You will be escorted by security if any issues should arise.

Kind Regards,

Jennifer

Don't be fooled by the rocks that I got, I'm still I'm still Jenny from the block.

My name is Jennifer.

Yep. That's right.

Just like at least 1,440,203 other girls in the world. Oh no! Not the world, at all! One country in the world - the great USA!. No, seriously, I have a source: Jennifer - Its Origin, Meaning, and Popularity.

So when you call my office and I say Jenn is speaking, and you say "Oh, great! That's just who I'm looking for!", undoubtedly you are going to start talking about something and I am going to have no idea what you are talking about. And I'm going to say, "Excuse me, I'm not really sure that I can help you with that. Do you know which Jenn it is that you are looking for?". And then you are going to say, "No!" and I'm going to have to go through a big long list of everyone named Jenn who works with me or is affilated with the organization for which I work. This could take hours. This could take years. This could take decades.

Facebook: Providing A Mother Near You With Unlimited Passive Aggressive Opportunities to Stalk You

I won't soon forget the night my mother phoned to tell me about this new website she'd inadvertently discovered... the "Facebox". I was not living with her at the time. When I logged on next, I had a Friend Request sitting there mocking me. This resulted in a thorough sweep of the Facebook page. Drinking pictures removed? Check. Smoking photos removed? Er, check. Photos of me in bars in awkward positions? Removed. Friend Request? Accepted.

My mother adores Facebook. Though I live in her basement, she posts things on my wall such as, "What time are you working tomorrow?", when undoubtedly she knows that she can probably ask me that next time I come up to use the loo. And that I typically work from 9 - 5. She writes scathing messages with subjects like "kitchen" with brilliant content, including profanity and extraneous punctuation, that she will relay to me again once I wake up. It is hard to hear the extraneous punctuation in her speech but once accustomed to the language, the listener can quickly determine if it is a "WARNING!" warning or a "WARNING !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" kind of warning.

My every move is tracked. "Why did you accept so-and-so's Friend Request? Why are doing this? Why are you doing that? What does this mean? What does that mean? Why is so-and-so's status set to ________________? Is that from a song? I don't like it. You should take it down. Write a new blog. Please, write a new blog. JENN, write a blog."

So I was a little dismayed to see Facebook's new feature that allows you to comment on people's status messages and Mini-Feeds. Any song lyrics will now be followed promptly with "What does that mean?". All random jokey statuses will be followed with "Explain?" and I really, really, really hope it doesn't let you comment when someone accepts a Friend Request. Hoooooboy. "Why did you ad this person? BE CAREFUL, YOUNG LADY!".

Besides the fact that I am 22 and still receive cute little messages on my wall such as: "Note to self.....if I sleep after supper then I can't sleep at bedtime. I figured you would of caught on to this by now." Yes, mother, I know you have a severe disdain for my napping habit, but now my friends are probably wondering if I sleep in footie pajamas and with a teddy bear. But that's totally wrong. I sleep in duckie pajamas, with a Cabbage Patch Doll. Yeah. Don't make people get the wrong idea here.

Why Some Days I Am Sure I Was Put On This Earth For Someone's Sick Amusement

Life is a joke, it has to be.

In no other animal society, do individuals hoard all they can, selfishly and ignorantly , as we do. Okay, well, I'm sure they do. But damn, am I cynical tonight.

It started off as good a day as any day could possibly be. The coffee was hot. Cigarettes were in supply. (Not abundant supply, but supply). Lucky (well, not so lucky anymore!) pink lighter had been found at the depths of the pockets of the sweater that I had borrowed. The cat hadn't puked on any of my belongings, which is how I measure the awesomeness of an upcoming day - because not stepping catsick is certainly a normal way to gauge how optimistic you should be. My spirits were high and, by golly, by 4 o'clock this afternoon, I was going to have my driver's license.

FULL STOP, BITCHES. No. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. And do you know why? TRAINS, my friends. TRAINS. Apparently, all those little cautiony things they have at train crossings, which to my knowledge include ARMS and LIGHTS and CHIMES, you still have to be observant at these crossings, which I had thought I was being, but no, apparently not observant enough, because my head cannot do 360 degree turns or something.

Nevermind the reasons, which I can assure you are stupid and idiotic, such as: the Ontario Government does not want you to collide with a train, and the Ontario Government does not want you to collide with anything else, and the Ontario Goverment wants $40. Whatever. I mean, I don't mind paying $40 to take my road test each time, because I figure THE ONTARIO GOVERNMENT DOES NOT HAVE ENOUGH MONEY. You know, besides the money they get from GAS and from my PAYCHEQUE and from EVERYTHING I PURCHASE, they are poor.

But seriously now. Does the Ontario Government think I WANT to fail my roadtest? I mean seriously. There isn't much that sucks more than people being all happy and like HOW DID YOUR TEST GO, than to have to shake your head and say, "AWESOME. IT WENT AWESOME. AND IT WAS SO AWESOME AND I HAD SO MUCH FUN THAT I GET TO GO AGAIN."

I propose a card system, like they have at sandwich shops. You give me a card, Ontario Government, and stamp it every time I fail this fucking test. Every three stamps should be free. I CAN'T PAY FOR ANY MORE ROAD TESTS, ONTARIO GOVERNMENT, BUT IF YOU CERTIFY ME THAT I CAN DRIVE, I CAN GIVE YOU MORE MONEY VIA GAS TAX.

I'm not too familiar with academic failure, besides mathematically. I have not failed any "tests" per se, until now. I can study things and memorize things and take great pride in my ability to spell big words and correct errors of people who are smarter than me. BUT BOOK SMARTS DO NOT HELP IN A ROAD TEST.

In closing, I did not hit anything. I did not hurt anyone. No horns were sounded. No animals were hurt in the production of this road test. Looking forwards to seeing you again, Ontario Government and Your Delightful Minions!

Yours,
Me.

PS: Don't ever say WHY DID YOU FAIL YOUR ROAD TEST. I did not set out to do it. kthx.


Another topic of Why Some Days I Am Sure I was Put On This Earth For Someone's Sick, Sad Amusement: EYEBROWS

Eyebrows are stupid.

The more you look at them, the stupider they look.

You try to tweeze them and get them looking not stupid.

But they still look stupid.

They are a strip of hair that goes OVER your eyes and looks STUPID.

And the more you look at them, the stupider they look.

The more you yank at them, the more they get red and owie.

And the more you yank at them, the more profane you get.

I HATE YOU, EYEBROWS.

Ahem, you may now return to your originally scheduled Wednesday evening.