Between being beaten up at work, coming home and falling asleep at 6 pm only to wake up at 1:30AM WHEN I HAVE TO BE UP AT 5:50 TOMORROW TO DO IT AGAIN, the job overall, and the fact that people I thought were friends won’t talk to me because of a third party’s petty stupidity, and I’ve pretty much had it with this town and with these people and with this job and with the whole rat race in general.

I’m about one psychotic break away from packing up my car and moving to Saskatoon, changing my name, and refusing to play nice anymore. Because frankly, I may only be 24, the best may be yet to come, but if I want to be around to enjoy it, it’s gotta be more bearable now.

Again, trying to cross-post to LJ from wordpress. As soon as this works, I’m migrating. Wonder if Sasky’s found anything to use multiple wordpress logins at once yet?

I am so VERY TIRED of having to fight the universe to look pretty. It took two days and an hour-long round trip to a different mall to find a suit, and then it took an hour of frustration and continued disgruntlement to find someone to clean up my hair… and for $30, if I had been able to take my eyes out and set them to the side so I could look at the back of my head, I’d have been able to do just as well, if not better.


I mean, curly haired truth. Most stylists have no idea what to do with curly hair unless they’ve been specially trained to deal with it. The lady that usually does mine cuts curl by curl, so that she can see how everything is falling, and she does it dry, so there’s no worry about shrinkage.


The first thing this stylist wanted to do? Wet me down. I managed to talk her out of that, but she still brushed all of my hair out, and then insisted on cutting it in all straight lines. If you cut curly hair like that, well, it’s just never going to be quite right.


I don’t understand WHY after living in this hair for 23 years, stylists want to discount what I can tell them about cutting it the best way possible. It’s not like I’m pulling it out of my ass… I WATCH how the stylist I like does it.


Between being a pants size that doesn’t exist and having a torso too short for normal jackets, I feel like the least I can ask is the ability to find a hairstylist that doesn’t butcher me. Even “ethnic” salons are out there in most good-sized cities, clearly marked, or connected within the community, but curly stylists are so hit or miss it’s ridiculous. It’s not like curls are rare, so why do I feel like such a minority?


And how come people never seem to believe that I LIKE my hair like this? Twice now, I’ve had women from the hair straightener kiosks in malls come at me and be like “Think how pretty your hair could be if we straightened it!”

Today, I finally just snapped at the goddamned saleswoman and asked her why she thought I was wearing my hair curly if I didn’t like it like that, before ripping into her about how she was just promoting the negative body image of any female who falls even remotely outside the status quo of what all the stupid beauty magazines want us to look like.
I think she might have actually gotten it, as she left me alone when I came the other way back down the mall-concourse.

And hooray to Pennsyltucky for not totally sucking for once. Maybe now the Palin Curse will fall off the Bears.

I just finished hand spinning ON A DROP SPINDLE a bazillion yards of bamboo singles that were supposed to become a pair of socks. Then, like the moron that I am, I took it off the niddy-noddy and promptly dropped it, where the cat decided it was a toy. By the time I got it back, it was more like a wad of bamboo singles.

At this point, I’m on day two of The Great Untangle, and it’s seriously crossed my mind just to make it the topper on some sort of demented hat. What a waste of some perfectly nice black and white bamboo.

And of course, the more I think about bamboo, the more I think about this:

auuuuuuuugh!

If you’re squeamish, turn back now.

As a lifeguard, I’ve dealt with a lot of icky stuff. A kid who smashed his foot open on the side of the pool doing a flip turn? Sure. A bleeding scalp wound? Sure. Someone puking/pooing all over the locker room? Sure, I’ll clean it. The big difference between those and a whole other level of ick? For those, you wear gloves. For the cleaning of the locker room/shower drains, generally we (okay, I) attack them barehanded.

I’ve seen my fair share of drain critters and most of them aren’t any scarier than a ridiculously large hairball with bandaids and soapscum in them. Gross, but never on a level of vomititious. However, once you leave the pool and go home, that’s where the scary drain critters live. While I was in a suite at The Evergreen State College, we had two bathrooms between five girls. No biggie, really, we shared pretty well, with only the occasional issue between who was in when. I tended to be the first up every day, even weekends, and as such, I’d be faced with whatever disaster the night before had left.

Okay, I’m hyperbolizing a little. It wasn’t even REALLY often a disaster, unless it was a weekend… and all students know how college weekends occasionally go.

But one day, I want to say it was a Saturday, I go into the bathroom, get ready for the shower, crank the water on, and then look down at the drain.

Bloody tampon.

I shit you not, bloody tampon sitting there in the drain staring back at me. I seriously considered just backing out slowly, grabbing all my stuff, and showering in the other bathroom, but some part of me realized that if I didn’t clean it up, the other four roommates would just let it sit there and fester indefinitely. After about a half minute of soul searching, I went for it, grabbing the bloody mess by the string and depositing it in the garbage can. Then I sterilized my hand with as much Soft Scrub as I could deal with.

Gross.

Cut to thisafternoon.

Our tub drain in the house of three girls has been backing up for the better part of a week, so yesterday I dug out the half-bottle of Liquid-Plumr I had, and hit it with that. Followed the instructions, everything seemed fine, whatever. I get in the shower thismorning, and it’s draining, but still not as fast as it had been.

Okay, whatever, I unscrew the stopper thing and pull it out and look in. The first thing that gets me is a big wad of ex-paper product. Ugh. I bare-hand it out onto the side of the tub, and it’s streaked with something that I take for rust. Okay, old house, par for the course. Then I go for what seems to be a big hairball caught around part of the drain assembly.

For the full effect of this next statement, please realize that I’m naked and soaking wet in the shower, crouching over a drain hole and poking at things.

The hairball, not so much a hairball. In fact, I’m naked and soaking wet and poking at a gigantic gelatinous blood clot that somehow survived the Liquid Plumr.

In a house of three girls, I can only assume this blood clot came from one place, as I’ve not been aware of any gaping wounds ’round here lately.

The question at this point: do I burn my hand off or just amputate?