2004-08-15 @ 10:33 p.m.
Iím not sure why dyeing my hair makes me feel like a fucking retard. Iíve been doing it for probably 20 years, and it always starts out good. I have long hair. Like way down my back. So, of course I strip naked to dye my hair.
What? Whatís that? Nobody else strips naked to dye their hair? Geeze, now I feel really stupid. Its just that I donít want to get hair dye on anything. And thatís part of the reason I feel like a fucking retard. Because no matter how careful I am, and Iím pretty OCD about the whole damn thing, I get dye on everything. And its pretty obvious. Why? Because its dye. I can see it. Are you listening?
Anyways, I always start on my left temple because I have the most gray hairs there.
Squirt. Squirt. Looking good. Squirt. Squir...t-t-t-t. WTF. What is that big smear on my cheek? Where did that come from? My hand did not even move from the bottle or from my temples. I always keep a towel with a wet corner so I can mop up industrial-type dye accidents.
Ok...itís only a little plastic squirt bottle. I can handle this. I have good eye-hand coordination. I used to play tether ball in Catholic School.
Squirt. Squirt. Squir...t-t-t-t. Fuck. I look down and there is a huge slop of brown hair dye on my right boob, and like three smears on my left cheek and several large slashes on my chin. Like did I fall unconscious somewhere in there? How the fuck did that happen? Was I abducted by aliens?
So then there is more rubbing with my wet towel corner and then more slathering back of my hair off my face. I want to get my hair organized. Hair dye BEHIND the hair line. Clean dye-free face IN FRONT. Check!
Squirt. Squirt. Squir...t-t-t-tpgh(sputter)ssssth! A big hair dye loogie suddenly hits the wall behind me and my entire body looks like a Jackson Pollock painting. FUCK!!!!! God, I hope I win the lottery, not so I can necessarily buy a home in the suburbs, purchase a Passat, and get a lifetime membership to the local health spa, but only so I can get my hair dyed professionally every six weeks.
Have I ever mentioned that my kitchen is haunted? The rest of the house? Living room? Good. Bathroom, with its faux hair dye speckled finish? Fine. Bedroom/Den of Iniquity? Superb. But my kitchen? It has paranormal activities. The evidence?
Well, there was the egg carton suicide incidence several weeks ago.
Two egg cartons just randomly leapt to their death off the counter. One minute they were sitting there, waiting to be put away, and then, pffft! They just flew off the counter, of their own accord, smashing as only eggs could, just inches from the cat box. Of course, everything in the kitchen is just inches from the cat box, since the kitchen is only about 5X5. Ok, maybe 6X6 if you squint.
The latest incident? Well I shiver to think about it. Iím actually in the bedroom now. The furthest point from the kitchen. Because Iím scared man. Iím like, "Blair Witch Incident" scared.
I was laying on the couch watching George Stephanopolos and George Will mix it up on that political show Saturday morning. I was really getting into it. Ok, I was really just lusting after George Will. Heís a little sissyish, but Iím all about eggheads. Brainy guys rule.
And my cat was sitting down at the bottom of the couch. She was dozing as usual. Eat-sleep-eat-sleep-eat-sleep. Thatís pretty much all that Sierra does.
Aww Kitty. I heart you with all my heart!!!!!! kiss, kiss...
Anyways, suddenly I hear this really weird noise. And Sierraís eyes spring open and she is up and in attack mode immediately. Ok, not really attack mode. More like Mommy-Iím-Scared-And-Iím-Going-to-Shred-Your-Calf-Into-Smithereens. I immediately thought there was a wire sparking out in a wall or something, so I jumped up. I was also in attack mode. Ok, more like, freakiní hell my house is going to burn down and I havenít paid my insurance yet and I am going to lose everything and my life is over and life sucks and...gasp...Well, it was just the usual melodramatic shit I usually think about at any given moment.
Anyways, the noise appeared to be coming from the kitchen. And it was a definite crackling noise and it went on for a good minute. And I was glued to my spot wondering what the hell it was. And then I started to walk towards the kitchen in slow motion. Isnít it funny how you always seem to walk in slow motion when youíre scared? Of course it was a pretty short walk, since my entire house is about the size of the entrance to Paris Hiltonís closet.
I then slowly turned my head and looked over at my kitchen table and finally saw the culprit. Iím such a fucking idiot. A sack of bird seed I had set on top of the table had flopped over and was hanging off the edge of the table and almost the entire bag had spilled out. So the sound I was hearing was the sound of the bird seed hitting a metal heater underneath the table. You know, as in tiny bird seed hitting a metal surface with great force. Jesus-H-Christ.
So I gave the cat a clonopin, cleaned up the seed and wondered just how a pound of bird seed could hurl itself off a kitchen table. It's not like this is California and we had an earthquake or anything. And then I started to wonder was it something paranormal or are the objects in my kitchen just extraordinarily depressed? Because if the suicide of inanimate objects in my kitchen continues, I may just have to lock up my decorative Amish salt shakers.
Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty