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the dredded cat

My cat isn’t fat.  Ok, I mean, if you looked at her you would be like, “Wow.  Your cat is pretty fat”.  (and heavy)  But apparently it’s not her fault.

We comb her out, to reduce what we can, but she is a factory!  The hair under her caramel colored coat is fine and wispy, and there are POUNDS of it.  When I comb her, it’s like we are living in a snow globe of feline fluffiness!  This is after just a minute of combing!!

Next to a quarter for comparison purposes.

Disgusting as this picture is, she has beautiful hair.  I’m thinking a wig maker might make me rich if I brought this in!  If only I could get her to grow it longer…then I could fiddle with it and have a cat with awesome hair, like this!…

young, stupid and beautiful

Beauty advice for the ingénue:

  1. never pluck your eyebrows when you are inebriated or stoned.  at best this results in the confusing “Whoopi Goldberg” look.  at worst, the result is distinctly “Rocky Balboa” with bloody eye sockets and scarred facial features.  not attractive.  could be highly dangerous.
  2. never color your hair while talking on the cell phone.  this is not only stupidly annoying, but could result in uneven patches of color and dropped calls.  put the stupid person on speakerphone, or just wait until you have ruined your hair, then call them crying.
  3. eyeliner is for your eyelids.  i know that’s not what the name implies, but it’s for the lids of your eyes, not your actual eyeball.  stick to the skin tissue.
  4. if you are going to do your makeup in such a way that you look like a plastic blow-up sex Barbie, at least try to lower your voice by an octave.  this will make it seem as though you are a trained sex worker, and not simply a stupid air headed bimbo. 
  5. powdering your nose can mean several things.  there is, of course, the actual powder that you apply to your nose, and other facial features.  however, this phrase can also be used to indicate that you have to use the ladies’ room, or ‘make a tinkle’.  be careful though; ‘powdering your nose’ may also be code for an unusual sex position, so use with caution and in the company of those you trust.

 

more tips to come after i consult the experts…

great head

so, if you haven’t figured it out yet, i’m crazy.

weeeeeee…

but really, i should have known this since forever. ‘cause the signs were there. i mean, i was cutting my hair since about age five.

oh i’m sorry, you didn’t know about that? yeah, two of the sure signs you are crazy:

1. you talk to yourself

2. you cut your own hair

right now my hair is in a kind of “Mia Farrow” thing. which is cute. today. tomorrow i may hate it, but for now it will do. some days it’s more Sharon Stone, some days punk rocker, and some days i do the wet slicked back look. hot. of course, if you catch me in the morning, i’ll have the whole Christopher Walken thing going, but hey, he’s pretty great so that’s ok.

i love my hair. i complain about it all the time, but i’m really lucky to have hair that can be as crazy as i am. i actually dated a guy for a while (boy, i could stop that sentence right there and have people shocked. really? you dated before?) but this guy wanted to ask me out specifically because of my hair. he saw me when i was at work, and he said every day for two weeks i had a different hairdo and that was it; he had to ask me out.

i wonder if that’s how i got my first boyfriend, Alan Frasier. i started cutting my hair back in kindergarten, and i guess i didn’t yet have the finesse with my stubborn cowlick (now i just part creatively) so it’s pretty clear in my class picture who the beautician was. ooops. still, i managed to boyfriend-up the cutest, tallest, smileyest guy in my class, who also had the best hair of the bunch of boys.

so is it the whole birds-of-a-feather thing? not saying you are crazy, Alan, just that, well maybe our mutually awesome heads of hair attracted each other. J

oh, Stormy…

I was very Stormy the other day.

Stormy is one of my alters that I haven’t quite figured out. Well, most of them I haven’t figured out yet.

Stormy seems to be a mix of things; part tomboy, part ska beach girl, part free spirit. She has a littler body than most of us. When Stormy has taken over, I can tell, because my body feels like it’s shorter than normal. I suddenly have a junior high sized body, and a different walk. She’s a little more slouchy than most, and walks like Meg Ryan in Prelude to a Kiss. Or maybe that’s how Meg walks all the time, I don’t know for sure. The tomboy aspect comes out in how she does her hair, what shoes she wears, what clothes she puts on. She is spunky, quirky, and has a definite viewpoint that I haven’t figured out. I’m not sure yet what propels her, but she has a mind of her own and plays by her own set of rules. She is uninhibited, sporty and free, which is not really how I have spent most of my life up ’till now. At least, not in the way she does it.

Stormy will dance in the middle of the street if she hears a song on someone’s radio she likes. She won’t worry about what the drivers or people around her will think, she’ll just turn to her sister or friend and say “ooo, I LOVE this song!” smile a huge smile and start swinging her hips. Stormy will walk confidently into any room and not even consider what other people are thinking about her, go about her business, and leave. She can tell when a boy thinks she’s cute, and she might smile at them or wink, but she is so involved in the moment that she just LIVES it and doesn’t worry about any of that other stuff.

That’s not been me. A lot of my adult life – or a lot of the life I can remember – has been spent observing people, trying to gauge their reactions to me so that I can change my behavior if I sense danger or disapproval. If I’m too hyper, I can calm down. If I’m too loud, I can alter my voice. I need to be in tune with the situations around me in order to shift myself – either my personality or my characteristics – to stay safe; to blend in. Stormy isn’t like that. She just is what she is.

I reconnected with a friend of mine from my past, and he told me he was madly in love with me when we were young. I thought he had a thing for my sister, but no, it was me he was crazy about. He described a time we were in the back of someone’s truck, driving along on a summer night, and I was singing a song by the Eagles, or Styx. He said I was the most beautiful thing ever. I thought to myself, “Stormy”.

Stormy isn’t afraid of life.

She IS life.

She runs and loves and feels openly.

She embraces trees and people and ideas openly.

She is the essence of vitality, and what people dream of finding at the bottom of the fountain of youth.

And I have her in me…

I just have to figure out how to let her out…