It's been five weeks since my last root dying (bless me, Father, for I have sinned) and if you're anything like me (God help you) (very God-y post today), you know how THAT is. Roots for days. And because it's the stupid HOLIDAYS, which I HATE, no one is available to do anything around here. Who do I have to FUCK to get my roots done around here? Apparently Mr. Clairol. Sorry, Mrs. Clairol.
So I got me some root cover at the grocery store, because nothing but the best for me, and it's been sitting on my counter annoying me since Sunday. This morning I got everything out of the little dye box: the tray, the brush, the two kinds of dye, the stupid instructions that tell you to test it on your arm like you're ever gonna.
I got out the two bottles of color and dumped them into the tray, only to discover I had the TRAY upside-DOWN, so I had to let all the color slip into the cracks on the sides and desperately attempt to mix the two with teensy little jolts of the now-huge-seeming brush. Then I had to squish the brush into the cracks in an attempt to get the poorly mixed dye onto it, and what I'm saying to you is hair is going to be a disaster today. A disaster. You know it, I know it, everybody knows it.
I should cut off that tag.
Today is our work HOLIDAY brunch, which from your Big Book of June Events you'll recall we first had the day after I discovered Roger had been run over. I was in good spirits that year. Since then every holiday brunch I think about how sad I was that year. I really know how to get into the spirit of things.
Look at Lily's little curly foot up there. What a muffin. And no, we did not have a panther invasion; that's Steely Dan. Just 10 days till he's fixin' to sing a higher note, and I for one cannot wait. Oh my god that cat is rambunctious.
In what way do you think you're the least womanly and the most manly? Like, I'm the most girly in my love of makeup and sparkly things. I'm the most like a dude in that women who prattle on drive me crazy, and also gift bags. Someone at work is leaving this week, and she's one of my favorite people, and I was all, "You don't expect me to whip up some kind of goodbye gift bag, do you?"
Of course she didn't.
Oh, and sex. I'm like a dude about sex. When I had a bad day, I used to want to have sex. When Ned had a bad day, the last thing he wanted was sex. He wanted to be all relaxed and in a good mood first. I guess he wasn't a dude about it like I was.
Still not speaking to him, in case you wondered. We've had some perfunctory talks, Do you want this back and so on, but no phone calls and no emails that were more than a line or two. I went back to our Hairapist, because I liked her, and because I wondered how
I let myself get into and stay into something so bad for me.
I already feel better, having talked to her. We're doing EMDR, are you familiar with it? It's faster than talk therapy. Look it up. Google fucking it.
I gotta go be brunchy. Y'all know how I enjoy brunch. There's another way I'm not a girl.