So, We Think We Can Dance

There is this amazing show on TV that rocks my world in all ways. It’s called, “So You Think You Can Dance,” and when it’s on, I sit intently on the couch with my purple leggings, and stretch leotard and unabashedly critique all the dancers on the show, because I know everything about dance. It’s true, just ask me.

After the show’s finished, the dancers tour and perform all over America. My crazy friend Jenielle and I got tickets, and we went to the show Saturday night at the Honda Center in Anaheim.

But first we had to have a drink, because we were embarking on a journey where 12 year old girls rule, and 27 year old girls are considered old and slightly dorky.

Aside from the awkwardness of being in a sea of Hannah Montana clones, and their sad mothers who had to wrestle themselves into their Seven jeans and silk halter tops, we had so much fun!

We gorged on cotton candy and my heart melted as the beautiful dancers stepped on stage. Not only did they do an amazing job, but their movements moved me. Time after time, I was being washed over with goosebumps as I watched their expression and interpretation of music transform their bodies into something magical.

Almost as magical as Jenielle and I are when we dance:

…But we don’t like to brag.

When I Grow up, Part II

When I was little I used to love to see the neighborhood Alpha Beta grocery store where the homeless hung out, transformed into a winter wonderland at Christmas time. It was so compelling that I would forget that it was really 78 degrees outside and the smell of chestnuts roasting on an open fire was actually cow poop, because the dairy 2 miles away.

The transformation consisted of a little window paint and imagination. I remembered thinking that being a holiday window painter would be the perfect job: you get to work outside, you can put your walkman on and listen to the newest Janet Jackson tape, and paint fat Santas until your heart’s content.

I’ve never actually tried to paint window displays, so I fired up my paint application on my computer, and gave it a go:

I think I might need a little more work refining my skill.

When I Grow Up…

When I was a little girl there were a few things that I wanted to be when I grew up. My parents always used to tell me that I should be a doctor or a lawyer,  but I had other, less complicated aspirations for myself. One in particular was to be a shampoo bottle writer.
I’m not quite sure of the technical name for it, maybe marketing and advertising for personal hygiene products…?
But when I was little, all I wanted to do was be the person who wrote the little paragraph on the back of the bottle, which might have looked something like this:

Fancy Lady Shampoo transforms your funky, dry, lack-luster, nasty, tresses into shiny luxurious locks that when other people see your hair, they get into car accidents, or trip and fall, because your hair looks that phenomenal. No more struggling with bad hair days, coxing your hair under a stinky beany, or calling in sick because your hair is scary. Instead you can have the hair other women covet, and men want to run their fingers through, and babies want to pull, and dogs want to hump. Let your hair soak up the calming aroma of luscious lavender, and energetic mint, and try not to think too hard about the fact that we use placenta in our products to not only fortify and protect your hair, but to also to give it that afterbirth glow. Envelope your senses and evolve your ho-hum shower experience into a rejuvenating and cleansing retreat. Unleash the rich lather and unleash the Fancy Lady in you.

I donno, it’s a start, and maybe as a kid I wouldn’t use the words “hump” and “afterbirth” to describe a shampoo, but as an adult, I sure as hell would.

Mamma Sarah

This website allows you to find out what your name would be if Sarah Palin was your mom.

If Sarah Palin was my mom, I would be very accustomed to putting my hair up in one of these thingies:

there would be an abundance of windbreakers laying around our house, and Taint would be my middle name.

Click on this website, type in your name, and a new, fancier, all American name will appear. It’s more fun than guzzling Miller Lite and eating apple pie out of the back of your Chevy pick-up.

I tried both Rebecca and Beckey, and found that my names would be:

Buster Taint Palin & Fleck Rookie Palin

Berlyn’s name would be: Creation Schwarzkopf Palin

Pat’s name would be: Flag Cobra Palin

And our dog Zoey would be: Muzzle Mammoth Palin, which is actually quite fitting for her.

Find out your name and report back to me, I’m eager to find out what Sarah Palin would name you.

Backyard Coop

Berlyn and I went over to our old but new again friend, Sarah’s house for some friendship, steaming hot mac n’ cheese, and a healthy amount of ogling at her livestock.

She has 12 chickens*.

*not all chickens shown

Berlyn tried really hard to squeeze them and give them loving kisses, but those chickens sure are quick, plus they weren’t so interested in receiving some lovin’ from Berlyn.

Gratuitous Gratuity

At my school, I do clients’ hair. Much like a salon: They come over to my station, I sit them down, and try to dissuade them from bleach-blond highlights, and do my best to convince them that a half inch hair cut, isn’t really a hair cut at all.

I do their hair with the utmost of care and expertise, and all in all, it is a very professional experience. Some people are confused on whether they are at a school or not, and I assure them they are at school by gently reminding them of the wavier they signed that states that I can do whatever to their hair and they can’t sue me. Oh the freedom.

At the end of the service, the clients pay at the front desk, and then usually come back to my station and hand me a tip. This is a very happy time for me; my toes do a little dance under my shoes and my upper lip curls in a half smile as I envision the ways to spend my meager tip: A bag of Korean fried chicken perhaps, a tabloid magazine explaining how Brad and Angelina’s marriage is in trouble, or maybe a pack of Hostess Snoballs and a Cherry Pepsi.

Even though it is a very happy time for me, it is the most awkward time for my clients. They fumble around in their bag, explaining how they hoped they could give me more, and they avoid eye contact as the money exchanges hands, maybe because they don’t want to give it to me, maybe because they want a pack of Snoballs and a Cherry Pepsi of their own.

The other night, this younger college-aged girl actually went to shake my hand and passed the tip through the handshake. Um hello? Do you think you’re in a low-budget 80s movie, and you’re picking up your Lotus from the valet? I am not wearing a red velvet valet jacket, and my hair is not permed and scrunched with LA Looks gel, thankyouverymuch.This was monumentally awkward. Just give me the cash and walk out the door, I’ll do my best to look like it was completely unexpected and that I am humbled by your kindness (which I truly am), and you do your best to not be awkward. Okay?

Vacuuming with a British Accent

My old reliable Hoover just broke and it forced me to buy another vacuum, so I bought into all the hype and the convincing propaganda, and I got a Dyson.

It it not just a vacuum, it’s a status symbol. And since no one would ordinarily look in my closet under the stairs to see if I had status, I have to announce it! Look people, Look! Here’s my vacuum, it’s fancy! Aren’t you impressed with my ability to not only choose a beautiful vacuum, but for also efficiently sucking up the crushed Cheetos and toe nails out of the rug before you came over??

I ordered it online because I am afraid of sunlight and ever leaving my home (actually it was because there was a really good deal online), and then waited ever so patiently for it to come. And then four days ago, I abandoned my patience, and started waiting erratically, because I really needed to vacuum, and the Roomba doesn’t work on couches or stairs, I know, I’ve tried.

But then on Saturday, like a brilliant sunlight after the storm, my vacuum arrived! I tried not to make out with it right there in front of my husband, so I maintained as much composure as a girl with a new vacuum could.

I’ll admit, I was a little disappointed when I vacuumed the entire house with it, because I half expected it to revolutionize my whole vacuum experience; that I would acquire a British accent, and that my home would transform into a Design Within Reach showroom, instead it just cleaned my floors.

Words are Fun (The Political Edition)

Since I love words, and this is the year of the presidential elections and all, I thought I’d let you know what my favorite political terms are, as well as some unfavorites.

Political words that are fun to say:

Constituent

Filibuster

Incumbent

Caucus

Fascism

Gravitas

Laissez-Faire

Unilateralism

Political words that are NOT fun to say:

Muckraker

Bureaucracy

Oligopoly

Gerrymander

Perjury

Terrorism

Bully Pulpit

Congratulations to me!

Graduating from hair school is slightly different than graduating from a university.

For one, instead of throwing our mortarboards into the air, we throw scissors.

And instead of wearing academic cords we wear long braided pieces of hair.

Instead of our teachers giving us diplomas, they give us hugs.

And to celebrate, we adorn our cars with tubes of color tied with string, which drag behind us as we drive off into the distance.

All and all it’s pretty great, and LOOK! I got all this fun stuff:

Flowers, cards, more flowers, Burke Williams gift card (from my husband), a fancy engraved plaque, and two certificates of achievements, because I am doubly special.

Congratulations to me indeed.

Now, who wants me to do their hair?

Gradual Graduation

Tomorrow evening I will graduate from cosmetology school. And from all my devoted readers, I want tiny teddy bear with a tiny mortarboard, wearing a tiny shirt that says class of ’08. Please? Thank you.

The sucky thing about this graduation is that I still have a month left of school. Let me explain: In cosmetology school the goal is to complete 1600 hours. Say, you’re late one day, or are out sick for 8 days, or party hard one night and can’t find your hair extensions and realize they are in the toilet with your mascara wand and your best friend’s boyfriend’s Axe Deodorant Spray, then you probably need to recover and lay on the couch all day and watch the Maury Povich show. Which means every hour you miss, is an extra hour tacked on to the end of your time. So, everyone is at a different level; the girl next to me can have 450 hours, and the girl next to her can have 890 hours, and the girl next to her can have 12 hours. Instead of graduating people one at a time (which would be awkward and kinda sad), they only have 4 graduations a year. So all that to say, I’m graduating tomorrow!! Yea me!
But I’m not done with school until October 7th. Boo! It’s going to feel strange to graduate on Friday and then come back to school on Monday. But I think I can handle it.