It’s , Sunday night.
I was falling asleep as I was putting Viva to bed when I realized I hadn’t blogged yet today.
“Write, ‘I’m exhausted, what the hell am I going to write about?’” he said.
I’m exhausted. What the -- oh, well, you know.
Then I had trouble getting my wireless network to connect, and now I’m having trouble getting my blog host to load. What the frizzy?
I’m writing this in Word and I’ll keep trying to connect so I can post.
Speaking of frizzy, have I mentioned that I’m growing my hair out? I don’t think it’s going very well, because one of my co-workers who I like very much very tactfully mentioned that my hair must grow very quickly, and imagine how long it would be if I had straight hair!
However, perhaps I speak too soon. On Halloween, all the members of my department had agreed to wear different variations on the same homemade costume, part of which involved each of us wearing a head made of papier mache. I wore mine for a few hours during our Halloween party. At the end of the day, when I was walking to my car, a woman who I didn’t know who was also walking to her car looked at me, looked again, and then just kept staring. I realized that yes, I was carrying a head made of papier mache, and I was just opening my mouth to say something semi-clever and mildly self-deprecating, because that’s my default mode, when she blurted out, “You look like a model.”
“WHAT? I do?!” I said, completely aghast.
“Yeah, it’s your hair.” She said. “It looks perfect, like a model.”
“Oh. Well, thanks,” I said, and got into my car and snickered cruelly to myself, because she was clearly mad as a damn hallucinatory psychotic mad hatter. Because the only reason my hair looked the way it did was because I wore a Head. Made. Of . Papier. Fricking. Mache. For three hours.
What the frizzy, indeed.