Recession

My hair is falling out. Well, mainly around my hairline. I tell people this and they roll their eyes. It's a very personal thing, hair loss. As in, I think I'm the only one who cares. That is until I have no hair left and then people will begin to stare. "Look at his big black eyebrows contrasting against his shiny pink forehead", they will say and "What a shame", they will say. I'm thinking about buying Rogaine. You always wonder about stuff like that, what it will do to you in the long run, other than possibly grow you some hair? I believe its original intent was to treat hypertension or heart disease. So, in all actuality, it is a side effect, like diarrhea or death. Either way, once you start using it you are stuck for life because if you were to stop all your fuzzy regrowth would disappear back down the shower drain. Commitment. I knew this day would come. Everyone in my family has always been a little short in the hair department, even the ladies.

The other day I also noticed the beginnings of a granny armpit. Does anyone else have this? Women do, older women and me. It's that delicate patch of softer skin in the front of your armpit. At the right angle it looks shapeless, wrinkly and geriatrically ladylike. It's not the whole armpit, just that spot. I've noticed it when the elderly wear tank tops.

I'm not even thirty yet. What happens in twenty more years? Superfluous ear hair? I guess we'll never know seeing as the world is ending in 2012. The Mayan calender and PBS says so.

Bitchin' in the Kitchen

Politics. Something I know pretty much nothing about. The House of Representatives, Parliament, log cabin, cherry tree, Oprah.. I don't know. I know I don't have equal rights. I know I can't have Jon's health insurance in the state of Ohio without lying to insurance companies. I know that the United States likes to bully other countries, so I am forced to care about ridiculous, stupid politics. I know I would probably care more if I had a 401k or stocks or worshiped Christ. Is there a way to opt out of America? Not that I hate it, I don't. Why does Canada have to be so cold, and Mexico so dirty? Sweden isn't taking new residents. I wouldn't either if I were Sweden. I would brush my silky blond hair and point and laugh at everyone, if I were Sweden.

You wonder if we'll all blow each other up over politics. Will that be how it ends? Either that or the earth will just eat us up or wash us away. The sun is burning out, you know. I just read something on CNN.com about how the sun is losing its heat spots. It's dying. Maybe that's why it was 60 degrees all July.

Anyway.

So, I went shopping the other day at the hipster haven known as American Apparel. I didn't buy anything. I decided I didn't want to support their ever-cheapening-ill-fitting-irregular clothing business. What happened? It's awful. So, they're sweatshop free? Then who's making these clothes, one eyed, one armed immigrants? Maybe they need a little child labor in China. At least they'd beat the child if it made a shirt with one sleeve bigger than the other. So I went to Target to look at tshirts. What a joke. Why is everything made for squatty, fat men with fat, stubby arms!? I'm not looking for clothes that fit me perfectly, but kind of would be nice. It got me thinking. President Obama should enforce some sort of clothing law where all clothes are to be made for healthy active sized persons. That way people have to not be fat asses or they won't get to wear clothes. They would be shamed into wearing moo moos. I think this is a great idea. They shouldn't be making shirts that fit over small buildings, it's only encouraging people.

Today I met with an advisor to discuss my future college classes, something I hate doing, seeing how the advisors don't really seem to know much about anything. I am sitting in the waiting area when I hear the conversation behind me.

Man one: "Hey, would you still talk to yo brother if he became gay?"

Man two: "Yeah, I guess."

Man one: "What? You'd talk to a gay guy?"

Man two: "Uh, yeah dude, he's my brother."

Man two: "That's fucked up. You'd talk to him if he became gay?"

Man three: "Yeah, dude. He'd probably know tons of chicks."

Man one: "Yeah, but he'd know way more dudes than chicks and the chicks he knows could be dudes. You could be all doin' it with some chick who'd be all like, I'm a dude. Dude, you can't trust gay guys."

Man two: "You wouldn't talk to your brother?"

Man one: "What!? Dude, that's fucked up. Fuck no, he'd prolly want to rape me."

I really wanted to turn around just to see how ugly he was.


Dinner time!

blog post number forty two.

Michael Jackson is being remembered today, in a stadium.

Yesterday this angry lesbian on my facebook made a comment about MJ saying, "If I molested little children, I'd rot in jail, which is exactly where he deserved to be". Hello! I mean, those little kids weren't going to molest themselves!? Anyway, child abuse makes you stronger. And I think lesbians belong in jail regardless of who they touch. I would have let Mr. Jackson put his bony, bleached fingers anywhere for a few million. Did he really even do it? Seriously. It's been so long I've forgotten. When people die others tend to forget the bad things they did in life. I've forgotten. Adolph Hitler, what?

Jon is taking it really hard. He bought the entire Michael Jackson catalog on iTunes and will occasionally have bouts of sadness. We've been listening to MJ music for weeks. It's actually really good. How depressing, I will never get to see him in concert. Jon said there was even a 3D portion in the concert for Thriller. Jon knows everything.

Oh, we bought a house. I haven't let myself get truly excited about it yet, considering our last experience of losing our home. It's super cute. It's the second one we bid on and it's way nicer than the first. Which reminds me of that old American proverb: "First is the worst, second is the best, third is the nerd with the hairy chest". I'm not exactly sure what the third would have been. Let's hope we don't find out.

Is it just me, or are you waiting for MJ to reappear? Like Peter Pan on cables, flying about in sequins or dangling more babies off balconies. I now understand why people think Elvis is still around. It's hard to believe that's it.

Death is annoying.

I'll bet Farrah Fawcett is so pissed she didn't hang in there for another week. Michael totally stole all her attention. She even went through the effort of making that whole documentary about how she was going to die. What a jerk.

Excuse Me, Are You A Homeowner?

Someone actually asked me that once, only it was in reference to being a homosexual. People are so fucking creative.

Schools out, schools out, teachers let the monkeys out. My mom used to sing that to my brother and I at the end of every school year. It was cute.
I got a B in Anthropology. My teacher was a cunt. Of course it was her fault, not mine, because I do everything right. I also got a B in Math, which is fucking annoying because I had an A until the final, which is worth 40% of your grade. It flawed my pretty 4.0. I blame Jesus for not answering my prayers. Nice one, JEEZUS.

We are on the house hunt. It's kind of like House Hunters, but more real-er and more stressful. And without Susanne Wong and her bangs.
Last week we got the house of our dreams for a total steal, 30,000 bucks off the list price. We went out to Barcelona for dinner to celebrate and mid (second) martini toast our real estate agent called to tell us we didn't get our house. And to make things worse, the calamari was overdone. Lame. So we did what any sad persons would do. We went to the ghetto liquor store and bought $150 worth of booze. We picked up a fancy bottle of cognac (mostly to make the black folks at the booze store super jealous), but the time our sad asses got home, we realized we didn't have proper cognac glasses. The night was getting worse. So, a very angry Jon began violently scrubbing what was left of our wine glasses, they were our only hope. Needless to say, the glass broke and Jon's booze-thinned blood went squirting out into the sink. I put my nursing aspiration knowledge to the test. (I haven't taken any nursing classes yet, so I wrapped his finger in gauze and tape) I am a miracle worker.

It's a week later, and after the anger and sadness wore off, slightly, and we managed to polish off all the booze, we've decided to make another offer. The house is super cute. It has a balcony off one of the bedrooms. Enough said.

Cross your fingers.

The Big Top

Jon took me to the circus today to see his friend Lauren perform in the trapeze act. I haven't been since 1986. It was actually quite entertaining. I left feeling pretty happy, but now I'm feeling sad. What is that you say? Did my Xanax wear off? I wish. Just watching people do something they love doing, something totally exciting and interesting, always makes me reevaluate myself and my goals. It kind of made me wish I was in the circus. I was trying to envision myself in a lycra bodysuit flipping around in the air or riding a mini motorcycle round and round in a giant metal ball. I would look super retarded in a lycra bodysuit. But how exciting!? The music would definitely get old, same with the corny clown shtick, as it got old after only two hours, but I've always loved performing. I'm just not that great at it. I don't have a true talent. Although I am pretty good at lots of things, I'm not necessarily great at anything. What a downer.
Sometimes I wonder what I would be doing if my parents really pushed me in any certain direction. If we didn't live in the United States with all its gender roles. Would I have found my true passion at a young age? Would I be a tap dancer? Or one of those creepy pageant kids? Or a pole vaulter? I guess we'll never know..
Now I'm going to be a nurse, something I'm not very passionate about. It's more of a secure career move that I thought would be interesting. But that's not a bad thing, right? Being practical? It's no flipping around on a moving horse though. Boring.
The animals at the circus made me sad, too. Not the trick dogs, they were having so much fun, but the others. Do elephants really like standing on their heads? They seemed to be enjoying themselves. It did invoke weird, dark, old Disney movie scenes, like Dumbo's mom dying. But, I guess you do what you gotta do in these though economic times. An elephants gotta eat.

BOMA

So, Perry Shoar bought Jon and I tickets to see Hercules and Love Affair at BOMA, or Bar Of Modern Art. Well, it turned out to be a DJ set, which is totally gay. It wasn't Perry's fault. He can't read. So we go to this Bar Of Modern Art. It's in an old church in downtown Columbus, which sounds cool, but it wasn't, at all. If you're thinking Limelight, you're totally wrong. The inside looks like a church, with a dance floor and funeral home carpeting. There were giant fake flower arrangements everywhere, those and douche bags. It was pretty bad. We made a b-line to the bar and ordered our drink, which the bartenders didn't know how to make. While we were standing there this little fourteen year old girl walked up.

"Hey guys."

No one looked at her.

"You guys ready to dance? Party? Get crazy?"

At this point I'm pretty sure Perry grunted at her and said, "It's ten thirty."

She was ready to party, in fact she could barely stand.

"Go away." Perry mumbled.

I noticed a tattoo on her arm that said "Belle". I said, "I assume your name is Belle?".

"No. (one eye open) That's my daughter's name.."

Oh my god, she has a child and she named it after a Disney princess.

"You guys ready to party?? It's mother's day tomorrow! You gonna dance?" (stumble, stumble)

At this point I believe Perry was trying to physically push her away, but she stood her ground and ordered another beer.

"Is that a Yoda tattoo?" the bartender said.

(one eye open) "yeeah." said the fourteen year old mom.

"That's a sweet Yoda tattoo." said the bartender, "Oh my god, I love Star Trek. Are you going to see the new one?"

At this point we made a break for the patio.

The rest of the night just kind of spiralled downward. There was a fire pit, douche bags in head bands, lumpy fat girls with underwear lines in tiny dresses and even a conga line on the dance floor. In a way, the people watching was well worth the ten dollar ticket.

Shit is Growin'!

Jon took lots of lovely photos of all the life going on in our yard.