There's No Place Like Home, Wherever It Is...

Wassup. It's been a while, I know. Apologies on my part. I've been really busy lately. I have spent the past few months juggling two jobs, packing up all my shit, and watching my sanity slowly slip away with the last remnants of my old life. It's really less heinous then it sounds but I have a flair for drama.
Whenever something weird is happening in my life, I usually have an urge to write. I write anything; stories, songs, poems, whatever. It's therapeutic. Right now, I have an urge to write. I have spent the last year watching my family mourn the loss of a dearly beloved staple in our lives... our family farm. For a year, this has been a constant weight on my shoulders and my back is starting to ache. I have a distinct talent of shutting out such emotion and continuing on with my daily life. It's not like it had no effect on me, I just chose not to respond. I have been accused of being completely devoid of emotion. This is a complete false-hood. I just hate dealing with emotion openly.
I'm losing my childhood home. I have long since said good-bye to my childhood, but I never thought I would have to say good-bye to my home. It has always been there for me, a constant source of comfort to soothe whatever has pained me. There is a quote from the film Garden State that has completely stuck with me since I heard it. The quote states, "When does your home become not your home anymore, but just a place to put your shit?"
That question blew my mind... It was like someone finally stated the question I had been struggling with. When did my home just become a place to put my shit? I think that's been my problem for awhile. Even before my parents decided to sell our house, I began to see our house in a different light. It no longer had that sense of home and comfort that I had always counted on. I haven't felt at home for a long time, and I think that's what I'm missing... a sense of home.
For the first time in my life, the responsibility of making a home for myself has finally fallen upon my own shoulders. I'm not only moving out of my house, but I'm moving out of my parents' house, hopefully for the last time.
I'm finally responsible for every aspect of my life and that scares that absolute shit out of me. I have always been a fan of routine and familiarity, and it scares me to think that I have a completely new life just weeks away... I shouldn't say completely new life. I still have my friends and family as a constant, but there's no denying I have finally realized that I'm going to miss this place I used to call home.

Sunny With the Chance of Guilt

A summer breeze has finally picked up around here. Thank God. I don't know about you, but the first actually warm day of the year has always brought me a sense of renewal, or cleansing perhaps. It's like the first good shower you take after being away at camp. It's pure therapy. Unfortunately, those kind summer winds have forced me to take a look-see at my post-hibernation body. I need to go back in the cave it seems.
And so my dearest readers (namely the three that I'm aware of), I begin my deep dive into denial and depression that is this wonderful time of the year. It is that lovely time of year that I must face my fat-ass and remove my crumb-covered hand from that jar we call temptation. It is time that I must remove myself from that oh-so comfortable ass-print I have been perfecting these last several wintery months, and drag my rather wiggly edifice out to the garage where my bike has been collecting dust. If my bicycle were alive at this moment, it'd be giving me the finger.
However, I digress. The point I'm getting at, is that I need to find the drive that, at one point in my life, allowed me to get to a reasonable weight. Yes, I am only a mere eight pounds away from my lowest weight. But that eight pounds of lazy flab, ok ten pounds on a bad day, has been taunting me since Thanksgiving; and frankly I've had enough! I'm ready to get back at it! But that would require me to remove myself from my sedetary lifestyle. Shit.
Well, there's no time like right now. So what if I downed a whole gallon of ice cream in less than 24 hours? It's was fat-free and no sugar added! Bonus!!!

Savvy?!

I have always thought myself more technically inclined. I have always been able to "save the day", as it were, by switching the television to the DVD setting for my parents. I have often come to the aid of my poor father; after watching him struggle for a good twenty minutes with the DVR, as he so desperately tries to recieve the basketball game he had so successfully set to record earlier that afternoon. It is not until he has begun to sweat, removed his glasses, and fervently rubs his temples while muttering a stream of profanity that even the most vulgur reality show would be forced to bleep out, that I interveen. I have always taken great joy in taking ballet-like strides over to the fraught parent and with a sigh, grab the forlorn object (most usually a remote of some sort), and with a flit of the fingers, I fix the problem. The problem is usually my parents; there is nothing wrong with the television.
I have, on one occasion, been tracked down at a party. I remember rushing to the phone, thinking the absolute worse that my imagination could muster. Picturing my mother in a body-cast, I tentatively picked up the receiver and meekly uttered, "Hello?"
"It's Mom. We've been trying to get ahold of you for nearly an hour!"
"Oh my God, what's wrong?" I answer, my voice raising a decibel with every word.
"Your dad and I have been trying to watch this dvd on Gordon Lightfoot for the past hour and we can't get the player to work!"
The breath escapes from my lungs like air out of a whoopee cushion. "You've got to be kidding me."
"No I'm not kidding you! All we wanted to do is sit down and enjoy our meal. Your dad's been doing yard-work all day and all that he asks is for a little sit-down time and a beer. Is that so much to ask?"
I had a distinct feeling this conversation was veering off course. I heaved another sigh, speaking over the continued saga of what has been my parents' day. "Mom! Mom? Are you looking at the television?"
"For God's sake, yes I'm looking at the t.v.!"
"Ok, turn the channel to 3 and then press the button on the DVD player that says 'Power'."
"Oh will you look at that."

And so it goes. My life has been a series of technilogical feats. It's really amazing if you think about it. For an entire lifetime, I have been led to believe that I was an undiscovered genius. But alas, it was just the ridiculous lack of technilogical sense that humored me until this point in my life. For it is now that the machine is smarter than the girl. I have just purchased a new cell phone. Apparently, my old cell phone was an ameba in comparision with the device before me. I have purchased a Blackberry, ladies and gentlemen. And it is obvious who is more intelligent. My phone has a test to practice texting. I am taking a typing class for my phone. Doesn't that seem a bit ridiculous? I think so! So I apologize profusely if your upcoming texts from me seem more like mutterings from an illiderate than the musings of an intellect. I'm still learning how to turn the damn thing off. The thing keeps chirping and I think it's laughing at me.

Walk-Ins Welcome, Please Have Pscyhiatric Report on Hand

The most uncomfortable experiences of my life have resulted from taking in a walk-in client. I completely understand the reason we, as hairstylists, take in this nomadic clan of the unkempt. Not everyone goes to the same hairstylist all the time. They go where they are. It's the convienence factor. It is the hairstylist's job to lasso in the walk-in client and hope and pray that our work is appreciated enough that the walk-in will turn into a request, and finally into permanent clientele. It's a cycle, don't you see? Unfortunately, when you are dealing with a random smattering of people, you tend to come across some clinkers.

My least favorite of the walk-ins is the mother who thinks that the salon is a fast-food establishment. She has about, I'd say, ten children in tow; all of whom have monstrous amounts of hair, and equally monstrous personalities. She comes up to the counter and stares you down with cold eyes. You grasp your shears in self defense, eyeing the motley crew of children, all drooling and clinging to their mother's coat. They resemble the cast of characters from Lord of the Flies. She cranes her neck over the desk and tries to read our books upside down. Excuse me, but there is a reason the desk is so high; it is when we see people like her coming, so we can lie and say we are all booked.

Slowly, you approach the minute woman. She is always short and petit, so she can camoflage into her surrounding brood. "Can I help you?" you ask, trying to crack a helpful smile.

She shoots a cold glare at you, so hard and sharp that you flinch and your skin actually hurts. "How long?" she spats.

Now, maybe it's just my smart-ass personality, but I never want to give a direct answer to this question. Especially when I can tell the woman is a bitch. Obviously, this woman has entered a salon, a hair-cutting establishment. I know exactly what she wants. But I really do loathe the question, "How long?" How long for what? How long until Satan hires your little minions to do his bidding? I give the kids a glance; not long by the looks of it.

Of course, what she wants is a haircut for each of her offspring. And of course, every stylist is free to do it. The drooling clan of the gentically impaired take a step onto the salon floor, and all hell breaks loose. It is impossible for the childrens' feet to ignore the tempting pedal that pumps our chairs. They pump them up and down, up and down. I give the mother a pleading look, as I try to tell little Tommy that the chairs are not toys and should not be used in a such a manner. My smile seems some-what unconvincing beings that my eyes are about to pop out of my face and I am starting to foam at the mouth. They continue to swivel and swirl, refusing to remain in a still position. Is it just me or do the youth of this generation have no fear? Do they not feel pain? For if it was me, as the child, purposefully ignoring the requests of an in-charge adult, my armpits would have no feeling. My mother would have grasped me under the arms so swiftly and tight, that all circulation to extremeties would be cut off so alarmingly, my arms would theoretically fall off.

The mother obviously is blind and/or deaf. She makes no effort to displine her children. She just sits in the only available saln-chair left, a crumpled mess, head in hand, obviously looking back on her life with great contempt. We finally wrangle the unwiley crew and get them seated in our chairs. We have slapped mussels on their faces, in the form of lollipops. Our shears are poised by the little precious angels' head when the mother finally seems to awake from her stupor. "How much is this gonna cost?" she demands, obviously expecting something in the 50 cent range.

"Children's cuts are $16.00." I reply. I wish the rate was higher.

"Aw hellllllllll no!" She leaps from the chair and swiftly nabs each child from their position. "Ain't no way I'm gonna pay 16 dollars for a haircut!"

In a flurry of fuzz and sucker wrappers, the group is gone from our sight. We can hear the mother kavetching all the way to the other side of the mall. We clean up in silence, secretly relieved that we didn't have to finish the service, but still verbally bitching about their behavior.

You'd think that this was just an isolated incident. But, unfortunately, it is not. There will be others just like them in the future, and many others that make me just as uncomfortable and uneasy. It comes with the job. But you know, for every horrible client I get, there are more than equal amout of people that are just wonderful human beings who make my job absolutely worth it.

It's a Twister, it's a Twister!

A tornado siren is going off in the distance. Pure coincedence, but deliciously appropriate. It's Tornado Awareness Week, and beings that neither my father or my sister could hear said siren; I believe our safety in a cyclone is questionable. However, I'm not talking about weather today, folks. But the tornado siren just sets the mood.

Anne Hathaway has been cast in the title role of the upcoming Judy Garland biopic. I know, gasp. I'll give you a moment... whew. Okay, are you good? I'll continue.

Beings that I am a colossal admirer of the late, great triple-threat, I believe my opinion to be of immense importance. Even though I completely respect and am a fan of Miss Hathaway, I fear she is completely wrong for the role. For years, I have pictured myself in the title role of "Get Happy", the Judy Garland biopic. I'm just saying I'm the same body type, the same height, and I can belt out "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" like nobody's business. I have conquered the dance moves of "Get Happy" from her last MGM production, "Summer Stock", and I can quote every line from "Meet Me in St. Louis". I have watched "Me and My Shadows" numerous times and suffered through the book of the same title. I am made for that role, goddammit. But I digress.

It is not fair of me to just bitch how I did not get the role. I didn't audition, I just read the book. What do I know? I'm just the fan who feverishly digs through piles of old sheet music and records in the local antique store, hoping and praying that I come across some Judy paraphenalia. I might not be the girl for the part but I do have an educated opinion. Anne Hathaway, while musically talented, is just too sweet and tall to play the songstress. Yes, she has an Oscar nod under her belt for a role as a junky. But Judy is not some sickly drug-addict, sprung from rehab. She had guts and soul. She kept her glamour intact as long as she could, or rather, the allusion. She was not responsible for her drug addiction. She was the a show-biz kid, a product of the studios who was warped and manipulated to become another star in the MGM heavens. However, rather than disappearing into the same void so many young girls did, Judy seemed to have a spark about her that made her so different than the others. She had gumption and character that made her one of the most admired entertainers in history. Here's a warning for you Anne- Don't fuck this up.

I will be first in line to see this film, and I will be happy to say I was wrong about the casting. I would love to see Anne Hathaway conquer the role like it needs to be conquered. But if she does fuck it up, I'm getting my head-shots taken and I'm putting together my resume. Here's the question- does the fact that I can swallow pills quite easily count as a special skill?

Back in the Saddle Again

I greet you today with a happy heart. It seems, sometimes, one can have their cake and eat it too. It's utterly fabulous. This particular cake is in the shape of my very own apartment. The cake I'm eating is a fantastic trip to England in a few months. It's deliciously grande.
I'm finally back in the saddle. I almost have control over my life. Well, almost. There's always a bit to be wrangled. But the ignition under my ass has finally turned, and I'm rearing to go.
I even managed to lasso a roommate, my colligiate cousin, a lovely girl who embraces my love of the quirky and vintage; and also understands my hobbit-like mannerisms at times. She's even willing to split the cost of a portable dishwasher. God bless her.
And now we delve into the land of decoration. I have just started searching the web for ideas, though I already have a few of my own. First off, I want to do the bathroom in a rich plum. My sister's best friend has a plum bathroom, and I utterly adore it. Actually, I friggin' love her entire apartment. So, I believe her habitat will serve as continuing inspiration. Then I want to do the living room in a rich coffee, maybe with some cream and sage. It sounds like I'm baking. But, the most delicious foods often make the most delicious colors.
I think the kitchen will somewhat match the living room; most likely sage green or a nuetral cream. I have no idea, actually, there are sooo many possibilities! Anyway, I just wanted to update my most loyal of readers on the the on-goings of my life. This week is Customer Appreciation Week at work, so I'll be a bit flightly for the next few days. Just wanted to touch bases with you all!

Free Your Mind and the Rest Will Follow...

I'm checking the time, and no one with any sense should be up this early on a Saturday. Well, I clearly lack sense on a daily basis, so why shouldn't I start not making any sense at the ass-crack of dawn? Am I making any sense? No? Good.

I have long-since toiled with the thought of being confined to certain expectations. I clearly have not been very attentive. The fact is, I live with my parents. There should be no shame in this. However, when this issue is brought to light in conversation, there is nothing but grief for me. "Oh, well at least you're saving money." or "I wish I had done that." To that particular comment, my eyes light up like a child at Christmas and I try to stoke the waning fire of freedom. "Really? You wish you would have stayed with your parents?"

To this query, the respondee looks taken aback, clearly frightened by the crazed look in my eyes. "Um, well no." They answer, "I couldn't take it."

And so with this blog, I want to hitch up my shorts Barney Fife style and make a few things perfectly clear. First of all, I want everyone to know that in a perfect world, I would not live with my parents. In a perfect world, I would live in a hobbit-hole in Hobbiton and knock back a few pints with Frodo. Alas, life is not perfect, and modern society does not allow for my dream.

In a fair world, my pay check would allow me to actually pay rent. Wouldn't that be fabulous? But, technically, I am still a beginner hairstylist trying to get my name out in the world without the fleeting statement, "God, that girl fucked up my hair."

Do not feel sorry for me. You may be out on your own, but I'm being fiscally responsible. Or at least that's what I tell myself when I cry myself to sleep. I will move out of my parent's house, not someday, but very soon. And I will not be in debt, so suck on that. Living with the parents adds a bit of stress not seen by the naked eye. Yes, I do not have have to pay for food or lodging but I do pay an emotional toll. Aye, there lies the rub.

I'm an adult in an adolescent living situation. It clearly sucks. I always have to let my parents know where I'm going to be, even though sometimes I cannot answer that question myself. I'm kinda a go with the flow type of gal, unless it deals with scary movies and control of the telelvision volume. However, I digress. This is not because they care about me, which they do but that is besides the point. It's because they do not want to awake in the middle of the night with my face smashed up against the window screen begging for the door to be unlocked. My father is a very routine-oriented man and this has been an issue in the past.

I cannot leave my shit around the house. In my own house, there's going to shit everywhere. Deal with it. My friends find this fact particularly humorous after they tried to taunt me with threats to get my shit off the stairs. This is a continuing running joke amongst a small group of them. I'm not a particularly dirty person. My messes are organized chaos. But they are organized dammit, and I like it that way. My mother does not agree with my organized chaos theory, apparently, and there have been some emotional and physical bruising caused by this difference in opinion.

Thank God I'm employed. I take refuge in my job. I'm not just a lazy shit who yells at my mom for more meatloaf. I actually have friends who are entertained by my wit, therefore I'm a joy to be around. I'm a hoot. I can't help it. These facts alone keep me going. I know, I sacrifice so much. In years to come I will probably look back at this time in my life with altered nostalgia. But for right now, I take full advantage of bitching and until I sign a lease, I will continue in my solitary pity-party.