I’ve gone off on long tangents about my adoration of lavender hair. I think it’s glorious and every single time I see somebody with it, I die inside with envy. Every week I see Kelly Osbourne with her lovely locks and I want them on my own head. I see Tyler Oakley, who seems to be lilac on a whim every once in a while, which confuses me. It’s just the most stunning color of hair in the entirety of the world. Since I’m planning on donating my hair, I can’t do anything too harsh to it — like strip the color from it and add purple. Instead, I did a purple wash thing. I honestly don’t know what it is. It’s by Vidal Sasoon and there are commercials for it all over the television. London something or other. It’s the violet color. I wanted the lilac one, but it wasn’t available at Target the other night when I bought it on a whim. The results were darker than expected. My hair looks black in some light, brown in others, sometimes bright purple, and red in other moments. It’s magical. I don’t understand. I don’t know if this is something I will do again — I definitely like having a lighter hair tone, but this is fun for a while. I never colored my hair growing up, so as an adult, I think I’m going through something of a rebellious streak. Dyed my hair. Got a tattoo. Piercings must be next. [Update: purple hair was awful. I was mistaken. It’s gone now.]
I don’t understand taxes. I mean, I understand what they are and what they’re for; I just don’t understand how they’re calculated. I suppose this is something I should learn and I assumed that as an adult this would be something I’d eventually figure out. The older I get, though, the more I realize that this is a silly thought. Adults are just children in a big body. I am, at least. Most of the people I know are. Maybe this is a skill that should be taught in high school? That along with credit cards, credit scores, how to buy a house, how to tie a tie, how to change a tire, how to escape a deranged axe murderer, amongst other essential things. I don’t know what taxes are composed of. All I know is that I pay some lady to do them for me. I never see her and that’s fine by me. Then, a few weeks later, money appears in my bank account! This year was especially good and I was able to pay off the remaining debt I had from New York City! I still have many other things to pay off, but it’s so nice to have that little burden off of my back. I have Europe to pay for now. But that’s going to take me some time!
I’d kind of burnt myself out for a bit. My adoration for the boys became too much. But now, my old love is back with a passion. A passion in my loins, mainly. Look at them. Who can blame me? They are just ridiculously good looking. Who would have guessed they would all turn out so well? They looked so boyish on the X-Factor, but now they’re all dashing and handsome and I want to punch them all in their adorable faces. On my walk yesterday afternoon, I belted out their entire discography for the listening pleasure of the entire neighborhood, I’m sure the new neighbors appreciated my beautiful welcome to the countryside. That’s one of the advantages of living out in the wilderness. You can sing all you want and you can tan naked whenever you please. Not that I do. LOLZ, of course I do. I don’t do tan lines. So, my complete adoration of them has returned and I’m dying because I have to wait until noon to watch their new music video. UGH! I am getting more and more excited to see them in concert AGAIN this August in Chicago. It’s going to be turnt up. They’ll probably fall in love with me all over again like they did in Las Vegas. I can’t help being irresistible.
Last Saturday, the weather was absolutely dreamy. It was in the eighties and could not have been any more perfect. I was spinning around and around like Julie Andrews on an Austrian mountain. I needed a cool and refreshing treat to devour whilst sitting on the boardwalk, but I didn’t have anything. Recently, I received a copy of the new David Lebovitz cookbook that had a recipe for tangerine-champagne sorbet. I didn’t have tangerines or champagne, though. All I had was a can of pears and a half drunk bottle of white wine. So, I decided to go all Iron Chef and see what I could create. I blitzed the peaches and wine in the blender and then sweetened it with some simple syrup. Turned out quite tasty. So I churned it and froze it and enjoyed it later that evening. Could have used a bit more sweetness, but it was light and refreshing and I was so pleased with myself. The day after, though, the weather turned into absolute shit. Rain and wind. The next day snow. I was beyond pissed off about all that. So, the sorbet is still in the freezer, waiting for springtime to return. Someday it will. It has to, doesn’t it?
DOLLY PARTON TICKETS!:
Reader! Reader! You won’t believe the wonders that have happened to me! This is going to be the greatest year of my entire life so far and I’m saying that with the knowledge that last year I stayed at the Chateau Marmont and sang in San Francisco. When I am in London this June, not only will I be taking afternoon tea at the Ritz and going to see a Dawn French comedy show — I’ll also be seeing DOLLY PARTON in concert at the O2 Arena! Did you die? I’ve died a thousand deaths already since I booked my tickets. (They’re terrible tickets, too, but I don’t give any bothers about that. Dolly and I will be sharing the same air.) I don’t even remember anymore how my love for Miss Dolly began. I grew up listening to country music, but Dolly was never one of the major players in my strange upbringing in the world of country. My mother would take us to Fan Fair every year — this bizarre festival where all sorts of celebrities stood around in booths like animals in a zoo. I gave Pam Tillis a dozen eggs. Leann Rimes waved to me. Shania Twain knew my name. My sister was printed on the front page of a Nashville newspaper being kissed by Wynonna Judd. It was a weird time. But, Dolly was never at Fan Fair, at least I don’t think. We never went to see her concerts. I knew of her, but she didn’t play any role in my childhood. Then, later on, when I became an adult I discovered her — actually started listening to her, I suppose. I adore her. I love everything she had ever done. I watch her movies. I sing her songs. I fantasize about her being my grandmother. I’m jealous that Miley Cyrus is her god daughter. When I see her standing on that stage with her tiny body and big boobs and big hair — I’ll drop dead. It’s going to be the best damn night of my life.
End of Archaeology Unit:
When I first started using Coursera, I didn’t think I’d grow very attached to the classes or the assignments or any of it, but this archaeology class has been such a good time for me. It wasn’t the most in-depth look at archaeological practices or history, but it gave a beautifully simple introduction to how archaeology works. I learned way more than I expected to and I’m going to sincerely miss it. This is the last week of the course. All I have to do is write a short essay and I’m done. It really brought my old passion for history back. I was always going to become an archaeologist or an Egyptologist. It’s just a matter of when. I know now, years after high school, that this is the proper route for me to take. Now, I just have the years of schooling to go through! Hopefully most of it’s online. I really like taking things online. Mainly because I have a genuine dislike for other people and a major disdain for getting out of my bed. I like that I can watch lectures on the treadmill and do my homework late at night in my bedroom. It’s the right environment for me. If I don’t feel like doing something, I can procrastinate a bit, which is an absolute blessing. If I do feel productive, I can get an entire lesson done in a day. That’s also a blessing. Online learning is where it’s at! I’m taking other classes now: one about the psychological meanings of Buddhism and another about geology. But they aren’t nearly as fun as archaeology. I’ll sincerely miss it. I’m signed up for a course about ancient Nubia, so that will hopefully fill the void in a few weeks.
“The Apartment” by Greg Baxter:
Even if I’m not traditionally published or anything, I still think of myself as a writer. As a writer, I like to stay abreast of recent publications, their genres, the general storyline. I don’t have the time to read them all, but every so often one of them intrigues me enough to get a copy. The Apartment is one of those. It was highly praised in Entertainment Weekly, a publication wise enough to publish some comments of mine, so I took a look. It’s only two hundred pages and about an apartment hunt in Europe. What’s not to love? I adore Europe and short novels are fascinating to me. So fascinating that I wrote one! (Haskell & Eudora, available now for Kindle!) Enthusiastically, I hopped on the treadmill and got about halfway through before I just couldn’t be bothered to carry on. This is tremendous. I will soldier on through the worst writing, carry on through the dullest narrative, but I couldn’t finish it. There were no chapters. There was no properly formatted dialogue. It was depressing. It was bleak. The main character was a bore. It was just awful. Though it was hard for me to give up on something that had been praised by many reviewers, I just couldn’t. Avoid this tragedy of a “novel,” reader.
Disinterest In Cooking:
I love to cook. I love to bake. I went to France to study the pastry arts. But, for some time now, I can’t bring myself to cook anything. I eat frozen Indian meals and pour bowls of Cheerios. I pop popcorn and munch on bits of cheese. I can’t even bring myself to boil the water to make pasta. I’m pathetic. I’m not even depressed anymore, so I’m not sure what’s wrong with me. I think of the time it takes to cook and wash dishes and I just end up rating more Cheerios and Smarties and drinking too much orange juice. I really need to get back to cooking. Maybe it’s because my range isn’t hooked up. I can bake in it to my heart’s content, but the stovetop is waiting for the gas line to be connected. If I could use the burners on my two thousand dollar oven, I’d be cooking all day, I’m sure. Instead, I’ve got some stupid electric thing that sits on the counter that barely gets hot. I HATE IT! I think I just answered my own question.
End of My Cheap Pants:
Reader, I am rather devastated. Around the time I started this blog series, I found these amazing pants at Target that were cheap and fit quite well. They were a bit short around the ankles, but that was the look I was going for. Sadly, now, after a year of wear and washing, it’s time to retire them. The buttons are falling off. The fabric has shrunk. They no longer fit or begin to look attractive. So, when I get home, they’re all going into a bag to either trash or donate. Most of them are so worn that I doubt the homeless would want them. I’m so sad. I’ll have to go buy more pants. I’m not quite so sad anymore.