The curse of red hair: an angst-ridden litany....
What Follows is Absolutley True - A Redhead's Hell
First, odd random things that have happened in the last few days:
At work this week I went into the kitchen and again mused over the cryptic note taped to the freezer in 48 size Arial font. This mysterious missive says "Another Coke exploded in the freezer" Note lack of period at end of this stunningly simple declaratory statement. Now, just alone, this sentence would have been an excellent and profound piece of Dada genius. However, below that was typed "Please do not put Cokes in the freezer." Apparently the sign preparer opted for a more conventional way of expressing his/her self, which I find truly tragic. I considered painting over the "Please do not put..." statement with a paint brush dipped in White Out (itself kind of a Dada thing to do), but decided that if the writer was going to destroy his Dada masterpiece, then so be it. Tough luck, babe...
Speaking of Dada, I had some beautiful Tristan Tzara and George Grosz prints in my bedroom when I was in college. They were rare; I've never been able to find others. My dear friend Sussan willed them to me when she moved to Japan. Stupidly, I did not have them framed and mounted (ok, I did not have the dinero), so they were naturally destroyed over the course of a couple of fun years. Pity. They were soooo coool.
Another bizarre incident at work: yesterday I was informed that my Corporate Express order had been delivered to another colleague's office, rather than mine. So I dutifully walk over to her office, across the complex where I work, and pick up said order (2 big boxes) and try to leave. However, I make the mistake of stopping by Carl's (my old boss) office to say happy birthday to him. I am immediately offered a large piece of strawberry shortcake. (Note: I am a vegan, but I sometimes cheat on desserts - say, for example, a luscious piece of shortcake is offered to me with whipped cream. I'm going to eat it, OK?! I know, I will burn in hell, but I don't drink, smoke, or drink coffee, so I need to have *some* vice, otherwise I will be boring.)
So I balance my gargantuan piece of strawberry shortcake on top of my boxes and gracefully start to walk back to my work area. I am almost halfway there when lo and behold, I am cursed by the evil Paul. Paul is a Consultant, and thus by nature Evil to the Core. He's distressingly corporate in appearance, but does have a mischievous sense of humor, so we do jest a lot. Paul appears and his eyes light up when he sees my piece of cake. He laughs, and says, "Hey, Annie, look down!!!" I smirk at him, and he places his hand on the back of my head and tries to push my face into my luscious strawberry shortcake. I retort with a swift attempt to visciously kick his shin (we have that kind of relationship where physical violence is OK), but he darts away and ambles smugly down the hallway. I walk victorious out into the parking lot to continue my journey to home base, only to sort of lose my balance, causing my piece of strawberry shortcake to fly into my face. And my chest. And my pants. So there I am, covered with whipped cream and cake and strawberries, in the middle of the parking lot. Amazingly, no one acknowledged my condition. I had to walk into my building, through the lobby, and upstairs, looking like a refugee from a high school food fight. I had *cake all over* my Bad Kitty zip up hoodie, one of my prize possessions, goddammit. I had to slip into the kitchen and rinse my Bad Kitty in the sink for ten minutes, while divesting myself of my frosting topcoat.
By the time I got back to my office, Paul was back (he sits next to me), and I stormed into his cube like a force of nature, displaying my dripping Bad Kitty, still smudged with bits of frosting. I accused him of jinxing my cake soujourn, and told him "I'm watching you. Like a hawk. If you fuck my shit up one more time...." He howls with laughter and return to my desk, abashed that I cannot effectively threaten him because he thinks I am hilarious. But he calls me "Annabelle" all the time in an affectionate manner, so maybe I will forgive him.
Tonight I went to Whole Foods at 8:00 pm, because I try to avoid going to Whole Foods at all during the day for very obvious reasons. Since 8:00 pm is usually a safe time to go, I make my way to the overpriced temple of health, and as I arrive in the parking lot, my jaw clenches in despair. The place is f**cking *packed.* Packed, I tell you. Now, the primary reason I hate to patronize WF during the day is that when you enter the parking lot, you are plunged into a cthunian vortex of Collective Massive Stupidity. Everyone's IQ lowers 100 points (individually, not collectively), and there is a massive display of Parking Stupidity that is unrivaled anywhere on the planet. Depsite my tendency to not get road rage, I am consumed with fury whenever I have to park at Whole Foods. I scowl, yell, and insult people's parking abilities with abandon. Where else on earth will you see not one, but TEN vehicles situated in the middle of the parking lot lanes, situated so that no one can pass in either direction? It's not just me who feels this way - my friend Jeff, who is a cop, sometimes pulls into the Whole Foods parking lot just to be able to yell at people on his PA system, directing people into some semblence of rational parking behavior. "You! In the green Volvo!! Move your vehicle out of the way. NOW!! NOW!!!" Ahhh, how I envy him. I need a PA system in my Jetta. I really really really really do.
The only fun thing about Whole Foods is getting to talk to Jeff, my technician at the meat counter. (Yes, I'm a vegan. One who feeds raw meat to her dog and cat every single day.) Jeff is hilarious in that kind of tweaked but extremely intelligent and well read kind of way. Plus, he gets to use something called "Control Tower IV," an extremely impressive looking machine mounted on the wall, with numerous tubes and hoses exiting from it. I asked him "so..what happen to Control Towers 1 through 3?!", which cracked him up for months. What a cool job. I love hanging with him and watching him ignore his customers to talk to me.
Now, to red hair: most of this will have to wait for a later posting, because I'm having Major Issues right now with the hues of my long tresses. But while in Whole Foods tonight, I saw a very cute redheaded boy (two, actually) with long red dreads. Then I saw an ethereal red headed boy who liked like he is in some obscure indie band from the UK (as do all ethereal boys, pretty much). This caused me to reflect on a disturbing trend over the last few years: I have been getting crushes on redheaded boys. This just CANNOT happen - I'm a redhead, and so was my dead, so emotionally I've always had this block against finding redheads remotely attractive, because, you know, it's better NOT to go there.
But I had a terrible crush on the redheaded English actor Julian Rhind-Tutt. I am totallyh embarrassed to admit this. I've liked him for a long time, but when he appeared on Keen Eddie this summer, my lust meter shot up to "Smokin!!" I mean, that luscious bone structure, cheekbones that could cut glass, that sexy full mouth, and that gorgeous, silky red and gold (but mostly red) long hair. Plus a sexy voice. Then I watched him in that indie film "Miranda," with Christina Ricci, and he stole the entire movie. Every scene he was in, he sucked the life out of every other actor present. Not due to beautiful cheekbones, but because he was so funny. He's a hottie - an unconventional one, albeit - but a hottie indeed.
Around this time I realized that I have been finding other cute red head boys to be "cute." Like my friend Alison's boyfriend Rob - definitely sexy in a really masculine and quirky way. Flaming red hair. Off the wall wit. Nice muscles. Nice tattoos. Extremely well read. Hot goatee/buzz cut combo. We exchange books all the time and he turns me onto great writers. If he wasn't involved with a dear friend, I'd be forced to confess my attraction. Perhaps this is some kind of spiritual process - I am stripping myself of all my prejudices....but you know, at this point I would date a redheaded guy. However, redheaded guys never date redheaded girls, or so I am told. Bummer.
The rest of this confessional existential crisis will have to wait for tomorrow. I'm suddenly exhausted.
First, odd random things that have happened in the last few days:
At work this week I went into the kitchen and again mused over the cryptic note taped to the freezer in 48 size Arial font. This mysterious missive says "Another Coke exploded in the freezer" Note lack of period at end of this stunningly simple declaratory statement. Now, just alone, this sentence would have been an excellent and profound piece of Dada genius. However, below that was typed "Please do not put Cokes in the freezer." Apparently the sign preparer opted for a more conventional way of expressing his/her self, which I find truly tragic. I considered painting over the "Please do not put..." statement with a paint brush dipped in White Out (itself kind of a Dada thing to do), but decided that if the writer was going to destroy his Dada masterpiece, then so be it. Tough luck, babe...
Speaking of Dada, I had some beautiful Tristan Tzara and George Grosz prints in my bedroom when I was in college. They were rare; I've never been able to find others. My dear friend Sussan willed them to me when she moved to Japan. Stupidly, I did not have them framed and mounted (ok, I did not have the dinero), so they were naturally destroyed over the course of a couple of fun years. Pity. They were soooo coool.
Another bizarre incident at work: yesterday I was informed that my Corporate Express order had been delivered to another colleague's office, rather than mine. So I dutifully walk over to her office, across the complex where I work, and pick up said order (2 big boxes) and try to leave. However, I make the mistake of stopping by Carl's (my old boss) office to say happy birthday to him. I am immediately offered a large piece of strawberry shortcake. (Note: I am a vegan, but I sometimes cheat on desserts - say, for example, a luscious piece of shortcake is offered to me with whipped cream. I'm going to eat it, OK?! I know, I will burn in hell, but I don't drink, smoke, or drink coffee, so I need to have *some* vice, otherwise I will be boring.)
So I balance my gargantuan piece of strawberry shortcake on top of my boxes and gracefully start to walk back to my work area. I am almost halfway there when lo and behold, I am cursed by the evil Paul. Paul is a Consultant, and thus by nature Evil to the Core. He's distressingly corporate in appearance, but does have a mischievous sense of humor, so we do jest a lot. Paul appears and his eyes light up when he sees my piece of cake. He laughs, and says, "Hey, Annie, look down!!!" I smirk at him, and he places his hand on the back of my head and tries to push my face into my luscious strawberry shortcake. I retort with a swift attempt to visciously kick his shin (we have that kind of relationship where physical violence is OK), but he darts away and ambles smugly down the hallway. I walk victorious out into the parking lot to continue my journey to home base, only to sort of lose my balance, causing my piece of strawberry shortcake to fly into my face. And my chest. And my pants. So there I am, covered with whipped cream and cake and strawberries, in the middle of the parking lot. Amazingly, no one acknowledged my condition. I had to walk into my building, through the lobby, and upstairs, looking like a refugee from a high school food fight. I had *cake all over* my Bad Kitty zip up hoodie, one of my prize possessions, goddammit. I had to slip into the kitchen and rinse my Bad Kitty in the sink for ten minutes, while divesting myself of my frosting topcoat.
By the time I got back to my office, Paul was back (he sits next to me), and I stormed into his cube like a force of nature, displaying my dripping Bad Kitty, still smudged with bits of frosting. I accused him of jinxing my cake soujourn, and told him "I'm watching you. Like a hawk. If you fuck my shit up one more time...." He howls with laughter and return to my desk, abashed that I cannot effectively threaten him because he thinks I am hilarious. But he calls me "Annabelle" all the time in an affectionate manner, so maybe I will forgive him.
Tonight I went to Whole Foods at 8:00 pm, because I try to avoid going to Whole Foods at all during the day for very obvious reasons. Since 8:00 pm is usually a safe time to go, I make my way to the overpriced temple of health, and as I arrive in the parking lot, my jaw clenches in despair. The place is f**cking *packed.* Packed, I tell you. Now, the primary reason I hate to patronize WF during the day is that when you enter the parking lot, you are plunged into a cthunian vortex of Collective Massive Stupidity. Everyone's IQ lowers 100 points (individually, not collectively), and there is a massive display of Parking Stupidity that is unrivaled anywhere on the planet. Depsite my tendency to not get road rage, I am consumed with fury whenever I have to park at Whole Foods. I scowl, yell, and insult people's parking abilities with abandon. Where else on earth will you see not one, but TEN vehicles situated in the middle of the parking lot lanes, situated so that no one can pass in either direction? It's not just me who feels this way - my friend Jeff, who is a cop, sometimes pulls into the Whole Foods parking lot just to be able to yell at people on his PA system, directing people into some semblence of rational parking behavior. "You! In the green Volvo!! Move your vehicle out of the way. NOW!! NOW!!!" Ahhh, how I envy him. I need a PA system in my Jetta. I really really really really do.
The only fun thing about Whole Foods is getting to talk to Jeff, my technician at the meat counter. (Yes, I'm a vegan. One who feeds raw meat to her dog and cat every single day.) Jeff is hilarious in that kind of tweaked but extremely intelligent and well read kind of way. Plus, he gets to use something called "Control Tower IV," an extremely impressive looking machine mounted on the wall, with numerous tubes and hoses exiting from it. I asked him "so..what happen to Control Towers 1 through 3?!", which cracked him up for months. What a cool job. I love hanging with him and watching him ignore his customers to talk to me.
Now, to red hair: most of this will have to wait for a later posting, because I'm having Major Issues right now with the hues of my long tresses. But while in Whole Foods tonight, I saw a very cute redheaded boy (two, actually) with long red dreads. Then I saw an ethereal red headed boy who liked like he is in some obscure indie band from the UK (as do all ethereal boys, pretty much). This caused me to reflect on a disturbing trend over the last few years: I have been getting crushes on redheaded boys. This just CANNOT happen - I'm a redhead, and so was my dead, so emotionally I've always had this block against finding redheads remotely attractive, because, you know, it's better NOT to go there.
But I had a terrible crush on the redheaded English actor Julian Rhind-Tutt. I am totallyh embarrassed to admit this. I've liked him for a long time, but when he appeared on Keen Eddie this summer, my lust meter shot up to "Smokin!!" I mean, that luscious bone structure, cheekbones that could cut glass, that sexy full mouth, and that gorgeous, silky red and gold (but mostly red) long hair. Plus a sexy voice. Then I watched him in that indie film "Miranda," with Christina Ricci, and he stole the entire movie. Every scene he was in, he sucked the life out of every other actor present. Not due to beautiful cheekbones, but because he was so funny. He's a hottie - an unconventional one, albeit - but a hottie indeed.
Around this time I realized that I have been finding other cute red head boys to be "cute." Like my friend Alison's boyfriend Rob - definitely sexy in a really masculine and quirky way. Flaming red hair. Off the wall wit. Nice muscles. Nice tattoos. Extremely well read. Hot goatee/buzz cut combo. We exchange books all the time and he turns me onto great writers. If he wasn't involved with a dear friend, I'd be forced to confess my attraction. Perhaps this is some kind of spiritual process - I am stripping myself of all my prejudices....but you know, at this point I would date a redheaded guy. However, redheaded guys never date redheaded girls, or so I am told. Bummer.
The rest of this confessional existential crisis will have to wait for tomorrow. I'm suddenly exhausted.