I saw this photo online and found it so funny I had to make it my daily mantra. LOL
So I got a haircut last week. It’s taken me a while to blog about it or take a picture of it (normally the first thing my sister and I do when we get a new hairdo) but today I realized my hair was kind of cute.
At first, as soon as my hairdresser was done cutting and styling I hated it. I hated it so much I came close to tears, but I smiled and tipped her (because she did a good job objectively speaking) and left the salon. My friend smiled and told me I looked cute. I just kept smoothing down various sections. You see, I am curesed when it comes to stylists. Male stylists love to play with my hair. They part it on one side, then the other. They scrunch up the curls while it’s wet then blow it out and flat iron me to silky perfection. Ahh…
Female hairstylists? Female stylists that aren’t my sister? Bitches. They barely speak English, they never quite do what I ask for and then they style me so I look like I’m about to accept a Country Music Award for Best New Artist. Yeah, that’s right. Down to the exact reward.
Today, however I woke up and took down the braids I slept in and my hair was adorable. Then I got dressed in an outfit to match my new boots – every girl does it. You know you do. Anyway, I decided to take a half-hour and straighten my hair and realized that my new ‘do is actually very cute.
So, I guess the moral may be that you can’t judge a haircut by the style foisted on you by a tiny Asian stylist, but the moral I’m taking away is this: DON’T GIVE JENNY BIG HAIR! SHE HATES IT!!
There are moments in life that make you realize how un-adult you are. Sometimes it’s a large event like going to Disneyland. I’ve been. Sometimes it’s getting that easy-bake oven you’ve wanted since you were five. I had one so I’m good. So were the cakes. Every now and then it’s something simple and horrifying. A cockroach.
For my money there is nothing more terrifying than a cockroach- no matter the size- and I don’t care what kind it is, how rare it is or how nice it might look with rhinestones and a leash (thanks Tyra Banks for THAT nightmare fuel). A roach is a roach and unless it’s the ass end of a joint that bastard has to die. The un-adult problem starts once it’s dead because then I have a tiny icky body to dispose of and no husband or sister around to take care of it for me. So here I am with a dead cockroach that needs disposing of and I’m alone.
The solution was a well placed paper towel and the trashcan pressed against the counter. Well, to be honest it also involved my dish gloves and a cardboard box so I wouldn’t have to touch the paper towels covering the bug as I slid the bastard bug into the trash.
Of course, the biggest problem with seeing and killing a roach is that it’s just the tip of the icky iceberg. Now I must clean, bleach and scrub every surface in my kitchen. This includes clearing out every drawer and cabinet , buying even more bug traps and spraying every crack with buggy death in a bottle. The only thing that would make it all better would be new PopD podcasts since I’ve recently re-read every Crusie novel and you can’t read while you scrub. I suppose I could get some books on tape, but a man reading Krentz is the best I’ve ever heard and frankly you haven’t lived until you’ve heard a man in his sixties reading the female dialogue in a sassy romance novel.
A time of magic and wonder and straight up murdering a bitch at the mall for taking the last parking space. *sparkle*
Fortunately for me this is also the holiday when common sense and taste go right out the window. Without further ado:
Oh, you thought I was done?! Fools!!
Good luck sleeping after that!
And now for a palate cleanser…
Anyone who knows me knows how I feel about the whole Kardashian clan. If you don’t (for some reason) then how the hell did we meet?
Simply put, the Kardashians are the excrement that other reality shows turn their nose up at. It takes hard work to make The Hoff and The Donald look classy. Congratulations Kardashians! You did it!
Now, I’ve never recorded a single meant for public consumption (yes, I have been inside an actual recording studio before and sung and had it down on tape and everything) but I’m pretty sure someone SOMEWHERE must have heard this tripe and said to themselves “Whoa. Hang on there.” The problem is that either the power of her ass, boobs or dad’s money kept them from saying it out loud. As a result, this exists:
If you are simply going to insist on using tits, ass and cash to promote a singing career, could you please make sure you can actually sing? While even the power wielded by the mighty Tyra couldn’t pull it off, at least her song is something I’d hit the elliptical to:
Then what the heck are you waiting for?!
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