Because The White Album wouldn't have worked. That's why.

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a wild hare

Officially I'm past due for a haircut. But I've decided to skip it for now. The main reason is, I confess, my ego.

This is why: a few weeks ago, I washed my hair before heading to Chez Ian*, but didn't have time to dry it. So I packed my hair styling stuff and left my house with a wet head. To make matters even worse, I drove with the top down on my car because if was one of those perfect, 72F degree days.

When I got to Ian's house, I expected to be teased about my hair, which had dried into its usual mass of messy curls. Instead, Ian said how much he liked my hair, and why didn't I wear it that way more often? "Silly wabbit," he said**. So I left it the way it was.

After dinner, he got into this odd little mood where he couldn't keep his hands out of my hair - a tactile fascination that was quite pleasant, especially when he pushed back my hair to expose the back of my neck (a highly erogenous area) and gently bit it.

The following week, I decided to take his advice and wore my untamed hair to work. I was surprised by the number of compliments paid to my hair. This took a bit of getting used to, as I was initially embarrassed and kept thinking that my hair needed a good ironing. I was constantly tempted to tie it back with a ribbon, which I did a couple of times. But now I'm cool with it.

* See Key to Characters at right.

** This nickname was derived from two sources:  Madeleine Kahn's wonderful Dietrich parody in the film Blazing Saddles, and a scene from Kill Bill Vol. 1.

Would you like that texter roasted, browned or boiled?

If you're wondering why I'm suggesting that texters be cooked in horrid ways, it's because that's what the lyrics of this commercial's soundtrack suggest.

Here is the English translation of this portion of Greig's Peer Gynt:

Slay him! The Christian's son has bewitched

The Mountain King's fairest daughter!

Slay him! Slay him!

May I hack him on the fingers?

May I tug him by the hair?

Hu, hey, let me bite him in the haunches!

Shall he be boiled into broth and bree to me

Shall he roast on a spit or be browned in a stewpan?

Ice to your blood, friends!

Being a telecoms Luddite, I don't want one of these phones. I'm still bitter about having to trade in my elderly Samsung Didn't Even Take Pictures phone. But this commercial illustrates exactly why text addicts annoy me so much. If it only could convince me that their phone actually "got you in and out" - but with all those options on the screen, how's that going to happen? Hell, it even has an XBox link.

Anyway, enough ranting. I am still sulking over the results of the World Series, although I don't begrudge the winning team for a second.

I suggest hitting the full screen button (bottom right - the little square with four arrows pointing outwards) before viewing the commercial.

a politically incorrect fashion statement

I liked this t-shirt so much that I finally ordered it:

I thought I would probably get some dirty looks now and again. You  must admit the message is a tad provocative to Tea Party types. But so far, all I've received are compliments.

To add a final touch of irony, last time I wore the shirt, I wore my Marlies Dekkers Riding Gear bra underneath. It's hard to describe Marlies Dekkers lingerie, so all I can suggest is that curious readers Google her.

As to why I ordered the shirt, I sometimes suspect I was an anarchist rabble-rouser in a previous life.

the latest from the Borg

After a few weeks at the newish job (a shift from writing marketing copy to policies/procedures copy), friends have asked me what it's like. I don't have a really good answer for them; not yet, anyhow.

The job has its positives: nobody micro-manages me and I have reasonable work deadlines. But what frustrates me is that I wasn't able to just walk into the job and do it without asking questions. This may sound unreasonable, but since I returned from the golden shores of Australia, I never met a writing job I couldn't do better than my predecessors, and without major assistance from others.

I suppose it's stupid to let this bother me. I'm not the sort who dreams of a corner office, and I don't mind admitting my lack of workplace ambition. (My ambitions lie elsewhere, but that's another subject.) But I hate having to ask others if a policy change only applies to conventional loans, or to FHA and VA too - stuff like that.

And there are still too many fricking Snoopys around the office. I came in this morning to find a stuffed Snoopy on my desk. He is wearing a t-shirt that says ONE Getalife. WTF?