The one with the blog

So, we’ve started TIVOing Friends reruns lately, and I have to say, though it may sound lame, I find I am much better able to relate to the characters now that I am a 20-something myself. Bad jobs, being broke, feeling like you have no idea what you’re doing with your life: all of this was somewhat lost to me when I watched the show in High School. I mean, why does no one warn you when you go off to college that once you are done with college, your life is pretty much going to be a succession of bad apartments, bad jobs, and a drastic decrease of actual funtimes until you’ve toiled long enough to get a better apartment, better job, and have enough money to actually buy yourself some fun?

You know, they say money can’t buy happiness but I don’t think being happy and being rich are mutually exclusive. I mean, we ate at Chipotle last night, which is enjoyable and all, but you know why, specifically we chose to eat there? Because WE HAD A COUPON. I am now making decisions based on whether or not I have a coupon. Before you know it I’ll be making weird casseroles out of leftovers and spending an hour on Sunday afternoons clipping coupons. So, basically I’ll be my grandmother. Maybe I should start eating dinner at 4 PM also.

Your face, would you please shut it

So, I had a big day planned today. There were facial masks, deep conditioners for my hair, which was approaching Scarecrow territory, manis and pedis and a full afternoon of girl time while Ian was at the theatre.

And everytime I take a shower, if I’m in the house by myself, Charlie has an ANEURYSM. Because, apparently, while I am upstairs showering, downstairs, in the living room THE WORLD IS ENDING and OHMYLORD why am I not running to his aid while he makes the most annoying noises in the world?

I’ve done it again

Fried yet another blow-dryer, that is. This is, I believe, the third blow-dryer I’ve had since moving to Chicago in 2004. Second time I’ve had to buy a new one since living in this house.

For those of you that haven’t had the scintillating pleasure of having a blow-dryer self-destruct on you, here’s a succinct account of what you experience when this happens.

First, you get a whiff of a familiar smell. You think to yourself: “Self, what is that? Smells like…burning. Burning toast? Burning meat? Are my neighbors grilling?” And then, in a split second you realize: nope, that’s the smell of burning hair. Which immediately leads you to the next thought, which is generally something along the lines of “SWEET BABY JAMES, my hair is on fire!”

And then, about 5 seconds later, before you even have a chance to turn it off and assess whether or not your tresses are actually aflame, the blow-dryer just conks out. No more blowing. No more drying. But no more burning hair smell, either. And then, if you try to turn it back on, it generally either does absolutely nothing or it will make sort of a grunting constipated yak-sounding groan, and then do absolutely nothing.

Then, if this were a movie, it would undoubtedly cut to an overhead shot that pulls away quickly as you shake your fists in the air screaming “Noooooooooooo!”

So, yeah. That was the highlight of my afternoon. Now, I get to decide how to dispose of the old blow-dryer.

Here are my current ideas:

–Throw it in the alley and run it over with my car

–Take it back to the Ulta that I bought it at MAYBE 6 months ago, tops. Open the door of said store, and huck the damn thing at the nearest glassy-eyed salesgirl. Bonus points if she has long acrylic tips, crunchy hair, or chola eyebrows.

–Put it an empty paint bucket and sit it on the steps of the Damen blue line stop with a hand lettered cardboard sign that reads “Free 2 A Good Home! One POS overpriced blow-dryer!”

–Pack it up and send it to Ulta’s corporate headquarters with a note constructed from newspaper clippings that reads “Fix this craptastic thing, or I will have to kill again”. Also will include small dusting of babypowder inside the package so that whoever opens it will TOTALLY think they have anthrax, and they will wonder why anthrax smells like a baby’s tuchis.

So, clearly, my level of rage about this whole thing is DEFINITELY reasonable and TOTALLY not something that mental health professionals would find questionable.

I’d really love to discuss this epic tragedy further, but we’re at a Level Orange dog-pee threat here, and though Charlie’s pee-pee dance is somewhat amusing, a puddle of his urine slowly spreading across our hardwood floors is somehow less charming.