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2004-08-31 @ 1:04 a.m.
where chin hairs grow wild and drag queen frogs are free

Chin hairs. All I have to say is...don't ever turn 40.

I think I got my first chin hair at around 39 or 40. So I cheerfully plucked it out. Meh...a chin hair. Pshaw! I had seen chin hairs on my mom. Of course hers were like 6-7 inches long. And she wouldn't even know they were there. I'd go pssst, Mom...(lowering my voice)'ve got a 6 inch hair growing out of the side of your chin. Were you aware of that?

And then she'd get all freaked out and start clawing at her face. Of course after awhile it got to be like sort of like payback for all the times she had made fun of me growing up. So we'd be in a restaurant or someplace important and I'd furtively point at my chin, as to indicate that she had her bi-yearly 6 inch chin hair and she'd freak out. And sometimes IT WOULDN'T EVEN BE THERE.


Of course God did have his plan for me. He gave me more than one chin hair. He started giving me three. And then five. And soon I'd be sitting at a stoplight, nervously plucking chin hairs wondering why I was getting a five o'clock shadow.


I guess it might be hormonal. Or maybe its based on the amount of stress you're under. So you might imagine my concern when I looked in the mirror this morning...


Other than that it was a largely uneventful day. I, for one, am pretty damn tired of all the humidity we've been having recently. Other then the fact that it makes my hair look cute and curly, it totally sucks.

Also I've been really lonely. Only saw Married Guy once briefly last week. My survivor group was on hiatus last week. "A"s group was on hiatus last week. The effervescent "A" wasn't, but I only got to see him a half hour. My potential art class husband Kevin hasn't shown up for the last several weeks to the drawing class. I guess he probably found out I was planning our wedding before we had our first date and got scared. August totally sucks.

August be gone!!

So when you sit and read diaries, do you ever wonder where they're coming from? Some of us are kind enough to provide an occasional image of our goofy faces. Or our goofy cats. Or, in my case, our goofy artwork, but have you ever wondered about anybody's workspace? The place where they sit and compose their daily, or weekly opuses, hoping to entertain the masses (or in my case the 10'es).

Is it a clean, well organized, well lit space (this is how I imagine Ariawoman)... or a wildly, exotic space filled with ostrich feathers and skulls and opals and sword shaped ferns (this is how I imagine Hissandtell) or a dark, dusty spot with an overflowing ashtray and a deck of dirty playing cards (this is how I imagine His-Holiness) or a Mac with his cat looking on and a bowl of his delicious home made taco dip nearby (this is how I imagine Gerg69). (Sorry guys, I don't know how to do links to your lovely diaries, but I am thinking of you).

My writing space is actually pretty boring. I'd love to be as wildly exotic and artsy as I seem (ha. ha. a legend in my own mind), but I'm actually pretty girly and plain. I live in a rental and can't paint the walls chartreuse. I can't hang a huge metal sculpture of a purple penis from the ceiling. I can't even nail a damn picture to the wall, because they appear to be made of cement. Every nail I've ever attempted to hammer, has crumpled into scrap iron. So here I sit, an artist who can't even hang a piece of her own artwork on her own walls.

Is that not frustrating?

So here it is. The moment you have all been waiting for. Had you known it was coming, you could have rearranged your vacation, or canned your peaches earlier or even made love to your spouse Tuesday night instead of Monday, just so you'd be the first to see...

Yes, I'm sure you're wildly impressed, and if you're the editor of Metropolitan Homes, you're probably already planning your December issue around Diaryland writing lairs.

Yeah, right. (cough).

Anyways, I was so foolish when I took this picture. I actually took a picture of Married Guy and I off the desk. Ha! As if you could really see it. Witty, you're such a knucklehead.

But my desk is really the most important place in my house. I spend the most time there. I'm on the Internet a fair amount of time. I do the diaryland thing. I do freelance graphics work when I'm lucky enough to acquire some. It's really Central Command.

So I have a lot of important things there. I have old "Frankenstein". That's my computer. Its built from many parts. I've had it for five years and the only original thing is the tower. The rest of the parts have been scavaged. My mouse and speakers are from garage sales. the keyboard was from a computer clearance place. And the Dell monitor was from the kind and thoughtful "A", who upon hearing that my old monitor was showing signs of glaucoma (as in the image on it was getting smaller and smaller), had the Dell sitting on his desk waiting for me after one of my sessions.

Then I have a great photo of the Golden Gate Bridge on its 50th anniversary when 50 gazillion people decided to walk across it, and nearly send it crashing into San Francisco Bay. It was a great day (my best friend was in attendance, just as her father was on the bridge the day it originally opened). And it is also a great image to remind me of a place where I spent nearly 30 years of my life. I enjoy looking at it.

I also have a couple pieces of my artwork propped up against the wall. Its not that I like them particularly, its just that I'm just trying to teach myself to like my artwork and I figure if I look at them long enough, I might get a crush on them.

I've got the good ol' scanner. Good for scanning artwork...and your boobs. Yeah, I've done both. Ya gotta have some fun.

I've also got this ridiculous stuffed sequined green frog with pink feathery eye brows (if a frogs could be drag queens, this would be Lady FrouFrog). He/she stares over the edge of my monitor. I bought it at a garage sale for a quarter and it was the best quarter I ever spent, since it still makes me laugh everytime I look up at it.

And than aside from my picture with Married Guy, which of course, you won't see, I have my favorite picture with my Dad.

I love this photo with my Dad. Its actually my all time favorite photo, because somebody actually managed to photographed two people who suffered from depression, smiling at the same time. It was like a photographic phenomenon. Kind of like a Ripley's Believe it Or Not thing. And I also really think it captured our special connection.

I also have something at my desk, that I look at every day. Its not on top of my desk, but rather in my top drawer. Its a note from my Dad. He's gone now. He died in March. He wasn't real demonstrative or real talkative, but he was always very supportive of my writing. In fact, once in my twenties, he let me live at his house, rent-free for a year, while I wrote a movie script. Even after I finished that script, he'd always ask me about it. I don't think that he actually remembered that I completed it, shopped it to agents in L.A., got roundly rejected, and wrote several more.

I'm not sure why I look at that damn note so often. But his support of my writing, literally gave me the only confidence I have. I am like obnoxiously confident about my writing, yet I barely feel worthy of breathing air. Not sure what happened there.

Oh yeah, my mother. The possessor of 6 inch long chin hairs. heh, heh.

Anyways, rather ironically today, when I was over at her house, we were on our usual quest of trying to come up with ways for me to make money, and she hit upon a brilliant idea. She said, "Why don't you write a book?"

Naturally she doesn't know that I write 250-700 words a day and send them off into cyberspace, so I said, "Hmmm, writing a book. I guess I could sit down and write."

Unfortunately all the stuff I write about here...well lets just say that all the people I write about in this diary would have to die, so that 1) they wouldn't punch me in the nose when the book came out. 2) they wouldn't sue me when the book came out 3) they wouldn't beat the shit out of me when the book came out (that would primarily be Married Guy who would probably maim me for life if he ever read my snarky remarks about his lovely spouse).

What a dilemma. Just when I thought chin hairs were the worst thing I had to think about.

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Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty