Friday, February 15, 2008

Nucking Futs

Well, originally I was going to tell you about how my iPod's name is Eleanor and that she's a feisty little wench whose sole purpose in her trivial electronic life is to drive me absolutely insane. She refuses to play songs that I actually want to listen to half the time, she is completely smitten with Billy Corgan, and she has this thing with playing particular songs at certain intervals during my commute; like Death Cab for Cutie's Soul Meets Body as I cross over Route 303, or Tori Amos' rendition of Losing My Religion at the intersection of Prospect and Royalton Road--it's happened THREE times this week and I'm beyond believing in coincidences. They're fabulous songs, but still. I think it's just her way of reminding me who wears the pants in our relationship.

So, when I got over the need to vent to you about Eleanor I decided I'd tell you a story about Macy, the other alpha female in my life, and how she keeps taking her toys outside. Jon and I grab them by arm fulls and bring them in to be washed and dried, and she is continually sneaking them back out, one by one, and moving them around, dropping one then picking up another to move it to a different place in the yard. This whole time I've been chalking it up to her being abandoned and carrying more baggage than either of us can understand, but then I realized what she was doing today as she strategically placed a few more stuffed animals--she's cultivating them! She believes that if she finds the perfect place for each of her toys they will multiply, growing into something so tall and massive they will rival the old tulip trees and drop dozens of stuffed Snoopy dolls and plush teddy bears like leaves. I haven't had the heart to tell her this won't happen, that her beloved toys will become dirty and grow mold and disappear into a 32 gallon trash bag before the tiniest of buds can break through the soil and she'll be left with nothing.

But before I could write a post about either of those things I did something silly and reckless and I'm still not entirely sure how I feel about it so I can't quite find the words to describe it. I've decided to give you a photo instead, and maybe you can help me stop banging my head against the wall.

On the bright side, it's going to take all of 5 minutes to blow dry each morning. On the not so bright side, my first thought when the stylist spun my chair around and I caught a glimpse of my bangs doing a half curl across my forward was: Oh shit! I look like an extra chunky Ben Gibbard.

In any case, I'm sure I'll love it in a month.

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