Love Her

My girl, Contessa Brewer, was feeling her oats this morning and engaged in a smack down with some Palin-loving wing nut. Girl almost got rashy, she was so mad. I love her and this morning, she gave me reason to cheer.

At the risk of sounding stupid, you go, girl.

Additionally, she interviewed some guy who wrote a book called, "Nanny State: How Food-Fascists, Teetotaling Do-Gooders, Priggish Moralists and Other Boneheaded Bureaucrats Are Turning America Into A Nation Of
Children." The topic was Obama's suggestion that there is a link between poor eating and lifestyle habits and the cost of health care and that the government could be doing more to combat the problem. The author took exception to the idea that workplace obesity screenings and taxing of sugary drinks would, over the long haul, have a positive effect and that, those of us who take care of ourselves, could stop paying for the health care of those who make poor choices.

This is a subject that really riles me because I struggle every month to pay for my health insurance. I have a very high deductible (the "Hit By A Bus" policy) and find that I don't really need much more than the annual look-see cavity check because, although my methods are questionable, I generally take care of myself. Some of this is a result of good fortune and a sturdy breed stock, but primarily it's because I make sure that I eat some vegetables and get off my couch. It just rankles me when I hear someone who is obese go on about their health problems, as if there were no connection.

The crux of the matter for the author seemed to be that "we have to draw the line somewhere" when it comes to government intervention and to that I say, how has that been working so far? He made the short-sighted statement that taxing sugary drinks won't keep people from drinking them and while that's most likely true, he didn't seem to get the concept that the added taxes WOULD HELP TO PAY FOR HEALTH CARE.

Dude, get your head out of your ass and stop stumping for the Processed Food Industrial Complex. I can see right through you.

Blisters and Scabs

Now, that ought to get your attention. This post falls into the category of, "Thank God I visited this upon myself and not another."

About every 10 weeks or so, I go through the uncomfortable ritual of bleaching my hair. This essentially involves putting corrosive chemicals on my scalp for periods of up to 75 minutes or more. Generally, it's 45 minutes before I begin to experience some discomfort; at about 60 minutes, it becomes downright painful, in a burning, searing sort of way. We (bleach blonds) put ourselves through this is because we never want to pull the product off while our hair is still yellow - we just have to tough it out.

In order to achieve maximum blonding, I use a pre-prepared, 30-volume (peroxide) developer and Wella's cream bleach. This week, I ran out of 30-volume, but had plenty of 20 and 40.

Does anyone else get where I'm going here? I remember a very early, basic algebraic instruction. You know...(-)__________20__10__0__10__20__30__40_________(+). Right? So, you can plainly see how I would assume that a combination of equal parts 20 and 40 volume would result in 30 volume.

My scalp will tell you differently. It certainly notified me the moment my platinum specialist, Berlin, slapped the cold goo on my pate. The instant sting should have been a signal, but I gritted my teeth, donned my plastic cap and went about the business of tightening up Berlin's faux-hawk. While my scalp burned.

At about 15 minutes in, Berlin insisted that I, "take it off, man." ("Dude, I can see your red scalp from here. In fact, it's purple.") So, he rinsed it off with cool water and, while it felt good in one respect, it hurt like a motherfucker in another. I was unable to see the top of my head, but reports were that it was really red. With blisters.

(Additionally, this whole exercise has sparked a lively debate around the back-room table at the salon and there are a couple of guys that are just not talking to each other about it. My word.)

So, at this juncture, I'm in pain, I have yellow hair and sores on my scalp. Totally sexy.

But, we bleach blonds are a sturdy lot and I refuse to go about with yellow hair, so the next day, I "toned" it. Which involves putting yet more corrosive, albeit less-strong and tone-balancing, chemicals on my scalp. For about 20 minutes. I rinsed and the result: yellow roots with dull, peachy-purple ends. Super duper.

The next day, I went about my business and wore a hat while doing it. My hair looked like ass and I monitored the sores for scab formation so I could do what ultimately needed to be done...the reapplication of the 30-volume and bleach, this time with pre-prepared solution. At about 4pm on Day Three, I mixed up a batch and....put it on. No sweat. No real burning (it's all relative at this point). I'm gold, bother literally and figuratively.

I was naturally concerned that my hair would melt so I probably pulled the mixture off before the hair became completely platinum, but I let the experience-so-far dictate my caution. The hair is a little on the fluffy-baby-chick side of yellow, but a certain improvement, with very little further skin damage. I'll use some blue shampoo and I'll be right as rain, I'm pretty sure.

Wow.. What an odyssey. I'm not sure how Gwen Stefani does it.

Birds of a Feather

My girlfriend, T, sent me the following email and I'm posting it here because it is a perfect example of kvetching at its finest. It's one of the reasons she continues to be a good friend - her whining is top-notch.

So, with no further introduction, please enjoy.

Tamara Nielson

I'm a good person. And reasonably easy to please, I think. I try not to stere...

11:27 AM (1 hour ago)

Tamara NielsonLoading...

11:27 AM (1 hour ago)

I'm a good person. And reasonably easy to please, I think. I try not to stereotype folks.

Let's say you have a police officer for a relative. I'm not going to sit here and tell you that the are, positively and without a doubt, abusive bullies of lower than average intelligence. Okay, so I'll think it - but I won't say it.

Can't say I'm as flexible with real estate agents and their ilk. ("Ilk" - what a great word!) I'll apologize ahead of time if there are any beloved family members who are agents. And I'm sorry you've mistakenly assumed they had a soul. They don't.

So we've talked about Rush Limbaugh-guy, right? The one that was bragging about lying to a bank appraiser about there being pedophiles in the neighborhood to drive down the price? Nice. Those are his credentials. "I'm a conscienceless liar... and a Christian!" And I've also mentioned that severely injuring his nutsack is on my 'bucket list', right?

Let's move on to the next Rucker Hill agent. Two words. TED BAXTER. With a silver mustache. That he strokes in a very unnerving fashion. At least the real pretend Ted had an endearing quality to him. This is the joker who was raving about the view of the gigantic aircraft carrier in Port Gardner Bay from the living room and kitchen of one of his listings. Apparently, on a warm summer evening, you can open the window and hear them play 'Taps'. Yanno, just like you're on an army base. Ooooooh! So romantic!

So I'm sticking with Jerry the Weasel, our listing agent and erstwhile 'buyer's agent'. He's agreeable enough. In fact, that's the problem. He's enthusiastically agreeable to EVERYTHING I say. What a disingenuous fuck. It's really getting to be like fingernails on a chalkboard. And those eyes! Those bright, friendly eager eyes. Like a gerbil that smells food. He doesn't lie, though. To use his words, he "fibs". WTF? Dude, could you BE any more of a pussy? I'd rather work with a lying motherfucker than a 'fibber'. At least Rush has a sack to kick. Arrrgh.

It could be worse. I could be listed by Lorena. Here's the deal - if you're in sales and you look like Aileen Wuornos, go the extra mile and get a professional photo done. It's not that you have to be attractive, but maybe just a little less DANGEROUS looking? I was using the real estate search engine, Zip, and she came up as "my realtor". It was disturbing enough to have her mug on the side of every page I looked at. And I was starting to beat myself up a little about being shallow. I mean, who cares what she looks like, right? Well, she called me this morning to tell me she was my realtor. When I told her I already had one, Lorena got angry. Very angry. She said that if I'd found anything on Zip, I HAD to go through her. Fuck man, the chick knows where I live. Brrrrrr. So I did the only thing I could think of - I gave her Jerry's cell number. God, he's probable dead now.

So that's the latest from the land of rodents and reptiles known as "The Real Estate Market". More to come, I'm sure.

See what I'm sayin'?