Wednesday, June 23, 2010
So after work I promptly rectified the situation. I've been getting my brows waxed since I was in Grade 6. My mom plucked my eyebrows at home a few times when I was in Grade 5, but that went nowhere positive, so off to the Merle Norman she took me.
I still go to Merle Norman, but the one downtown mysteriously disappeared, so I stepped in to the newest day spa on the same block as work and, lucky me, they had an appointment open.
The place was nice. Soothing music, soothing paint colours, quiet but friendly staff.
Then the woman doing my wax told me she was going to do a 'touch up' by threading.
I don't know if you've ever had your brows threaded. I hadn't, but my old roommate swore by it. She had nice eyebrows. (Still does, I assume) She also told me that it didn't hurt as much as waxing.
Before she got to business, the lady with the thread told me that it was better for me than waxing, because waxing pulls at the skin and causes wrinkles.
I had a bit of a freakout. Silently, because I don't like to cause a scene.
Do I *rrrripp* look like *riiiiippp* someone who *riiiipp* should be concerned about wrinkles?
Good thing I had something to distract myself with. Because let me tell you. That roommate is a liar. Waxing, threading, tweezing - however you slice it - is still ripping the hair out of your face.
And it's going to freaking hurt no matter what you do.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Monday, June 21, 2010
The music industry has forsaken me.
It's been four years since I finished my last paper, wrote my last exam, handed in my last assignment. I finished my time at the U of C and proudly went out into the world, thinking that I had finally arrived and damn it, everyone would continue to cater to my needs and wants and desires for the rest of time.
Imagine the rude awakening this has resulted in. Here's the thing - the world has changed. No one cares what 26 year old employed women in a relationship but not yet engaged or married want. No one, not even fashion magazines, care what I think or what I need. I don't use acne products, I haven't yet faced facts and started shelling out for anti-aging eye cream. I have no need for lip gloss that will bring all the boys to the yard, I perfected my "I don't give a damn" hairstyle years ago, and aside from the occasional spa visit to rip out all of the visible body hair below my scalp and to get my heels buffed, I'm super low maintenance. I drive your average Japanese 4-door sedan, I go on occasional vacations, and my boyfriend picks the movies we go to because it's just freaking easier that way.
Given the choice between something blowing up and a couple overcoming obstacles through dance, the explosions are going to win. I don't want to drag Gary to see Step Up Part 62, especially if he's going to be miserable the whole time. Also, most of the time the actiony films have cute shirtless guys in them. Win-win!
No one cares what I want or what I'm going to buy. Purchasing decisions are made by mothers and teenagers, and I am neither.
I realized this morning that all of the music I listen to is old. We're talking OLD, people. Most of it is 15 odd years older than me. I was raised on a healthy diet of Lennon, McCartney, Zeppelin, Jagger and Van Morrison. This is what I still listen to. Right now, my iPod is running a playlist of music that only gets airtime on the AM dial.
When I workout, I listen to Madonna. Old Madonna. Good Madonna. The Spice Girls. ABBA.
I stopped buying music about three years ago. I can count on one hand the albums I've purchased in the past two years - Ray LaMontagne's Gossip in the Grain, who sounds like my golden oldies; and the first two volumes of the Glee Soundtrack.
Which, for the record, are mostly covers of old songs I already love.
The music industry has completely abandoned me. Or I abandoned it. Somewhere along the line I stopped tarting up and going to the club to get shake it. I stopped binge drinking and going home with strangers (KIDDING! I never did that, stop hyperventilating, Mom!) and cruising around with the windows rolled down and the stereo blaring.
That's bad for your hearing, and gas is expensive.
I knew it would happen. I knew the day would come when I would spend all my time listening to Bon Jovi and singing along to Journey and bopping embarrassingly in the passenger's seat to Britney Spears, circa 1999, and on the rare occasion that I turned on the Top 40 Radio station, I'd have to ask after every song, "Who is this? Why are they singing about drinking Jack and Coke? Aren't they 15?"
I just thought I'd have pre-teens in the backseat to torture when I did it.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
I could never understand why people 'forgot' why they broke up with someone. This was, until recently, when I was trying to enter a contest with a local TV station.
I'm such a sucker for those "tell us your best story" contests. Because I have me some goooood stories. Recently I entered a Best Shopping Story contest and a Best Father's Day contest. What would have been better is if both were the same story, but I digress.
So when I saw this contest, asking for your best (worst?) bad dating story, I chuckled to myself in my office. Which has a terrible echo, and I'm sure the three ladies who sit in the cube farm outside my door hate me because I do a lot of chuckling to myself. Heh, heh, heh. Most often about my own wit.
So I opened my email, cracked my fingers and ...drew a total blank.
That's the funny thing about memory. Oh, lawdamercy, some of the dates I've been on have been AWFUL! Like that guy who...or that time we went...or, uh...shoot.
Two and a half years off the meat market and I've forgotten what it's like. I'm that smug bastard friend who says things like, "Oh, I remember being single! I had so much fun!" and "What do you mean, dating is hard? Dating is fun! Go slap on some lipstick, get out there and have FUN!"
I would smack myself if I wasn't concerned about visible bruising.
Of course I remember some of the more hurtful, painful, emotional speed bumps on my dating highway. Like the guy who FINALLY came over to my place after weeks of not calling me back because I threatened to burn the 'shit he left on my nightstand'. Or the guy who wouldn't take a hint and kept calling me, at my office, long after we'd 'broken up'. Or that damn Bradley Hayes* who eluded my love from 1989-2002, told me on September 18, 1998 that he didn't want to go out with me "right now" and then did the total jerk maneuver of asking a friend of mine out RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME on December 18, 1998.
I've always been good with dates.
Uh, for the record, that day was also the day that I first met vodka shots. Yellloooo!
Oh, or the guy who took me to a comedy club, where I was mocked and picked on by a low-grade comedian for an hour before I excused myself to go cry in the bathroom. Yeah, that was romantic.
But some of the best stories, the funniest ones, the ones that made my friends cringe over jagerbombs and double dogs and those delicious pot stickers at OJ's, the ones that I know would have won that freaking contest are gone forever.
Monday, June 14, 2010
My brother got a puppy. I'm so excited, because
She's so cute!
Also, I should add that it seems really unfair that I would probably be the best Aunt in the world (after all, I learned from the best Aunties a girl could have...), but I've decided to shack up with an only child. The concept of my brother having kids? Let's revisit this subject in, oh, 15 years.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
Tuesday, June 08, 2010
Saturday, June 05, 2010
Iron Man 2 - meh. First one was better. RDJ, on the other hand, only gets better with time. Growl.
SATC 2 - Insipid. Annoying. Like watching a train wreck, but without any of the excitement. Skip it. SJP, tragically, is NOT getting better with time.
Prince of Persia - Jake Gylenhaall. Gyllenhaal? Gyl-len-haaal-io? Whatever. EXTREMELY hawt. Entertaining quest-y adventure film. The best of the three. Looking forward to a sequel where Jake spends the entire film shirtless and kind of sandy. I'd go see it at least five times.