Tangled (except not)

That was me being witty just then. You’re welcome.

Let me tell you a fun story about my hair that literally spans three and a half years. This one time I decided I was going to donate my luscious locks because people in this world just need wigs made out of my hair. They just do. So I started to grow it out and grow it out and grow it out.

There came a point when I realized long hair, one length, sans hair product, style, or color was not really attractive, but I was doing it in the name of disease, and I forged on ahead. [Also, in all seriousness, I’ve watched too many family and friends suffer from cancer, and I felt, at the time, as though it was the only thing I could do that would make a difference. It still doesn’t feel like enough.]

Behold the one piece of photographic proof that Asians can get wavy hair.

Behold the one piece of photographic proof that Asians can get wavy hair.

But then I decided to get married. And we hit this brick wall of: do we keep the hair or do we whack it. Because, you know, I didn’t look good. And there’s this thing about looking good on your wedding day. As it turned out, my hair was the exact length it needed to be for Pantene Pro-V’s Beautiful Lengths program, and so, two weeks before I married Husband, I cut eight inches off.

I also got an eyebrow wax.

I also got an eyebrow wax.

Husband’s family was dismayed because they’d never known me short-haired. Fact: I am a short-hair girl. Have been my entire life. There were two points, up to that juncture, during which I had long hair: fourth grade just … because, I guess, and pre-wedding. It might happen again, who’s to say, but I get antsy and prefer it short anyhow.

But this isn’t about my preferences. This is about The Hair.

So it was separated into several little ponytails. It was cut. It was bagged up. And then … it just kind of sat in my house for awhile. I brought it to campus, certain that if I were within a few minutes walking distance of a post office, I would unquestionably mail it. There is something kind of gross/weird about keeping one’s hair in one’s work desk for two years.

And then I took it back home because it was clear that plan was, how shall I put it, total crap.

I mean, it's clean. And harmless.

I mean, it’s clean. And harmless.

But there’s a time limit to how long you can hold onto donatable hair, as it turns out, which is five years, and it would seem a real pity to tell everyone I was going to donate it, cut it, and then not actually donate it. In fact, it would have been arguably really stupid of me, and I don’t do stupid. I only do rad.

HOWEVER, the hair, it is in a baggie, it is in a padded envelope, sealed, and addressed, AND I WILL MAIL IT TODAY IF IT KILLS ME.

Pantene Beautiful Lengths


It’s Been Too Long (and have I got a story for you)

You know you’ve turned into a relatively crappy blogger when your readers start liking posts you wrote months ago.

I apologize.

I have a job, and I accompany voice students (let’s leave the escort jokes in our back pockets for now, thanks bye), and I’m in a show, and I have a cat, and my husband insists upon eating regular meals, which hasn’t always happened.

So I got busy, is what I’m saying. So busy that I felt as though I couldn’t possibly sit down and compose a blog post in 10 minutes or less.

False. Blogging: I’m doing it wrong.

A note about my physical stature: I’m petite. And not just in the short way. In the “I could fold you up and put you in my pocket” sort of way. I’ve essentially always been smallish, except for a couple of years when I decided to try on obesity (I didn’t like it), and I’ve learned to adapt.

A photo of me + indication that I am, in fact, in a show thanks to the pin curls I had to rock under a wig cap and the mass amounts of makeup I had to wear so I didn't look pallid.

A photo of me + indication that I am, in fact, in a show thanks to the pin curls I had to rock under a wig cap and the mass amounts of makeup I had to wear so I didn’t look pallid.

A note about our garbage dumpster: It is, of course, taller than I am, and I live amongst some very rule-abiding neighbors who keep the lid down at all times, bless their hearts.

And, of course, this doesn’t require any special disclaimer or note (but here it is anyhow): I have to take the garbage out sometimes. I like to think Husband will do it all the time, but that is simply not the case, and this particular garbage bag had double-plastic bag-wrapped kitty poos, which essentially meant ain’t no one touching that thing but me.

So I took it outside and left it by our door for a few hours because that’s how I roll. I had to build up the gumption to actually make the trek to our dumpster, is all I’m saying. And when I picked it up, I didn’t notice the puddle that had accumulated under the bag.

For whatever reason, it pooled, but it didn’t leak a trail on the way to the dumpster, which to tell you the truth would have been helpful under the circumstances of the following events.

1. I made it to the dumpster.

2. I opened the lid with one hand, about six inches, because I am nothing if not a total weakling.

3. I tried to sling the garbage bag into the dumpster.

4. That failed, and I ended up slinging it more towards my face.

5. I got garbage juice on my mouth.


There are few things more traumatizing for a germophobe that garbage and dumpsters in general, so as you can imagine, I am about ready to call my therapist for an emergency session because, guys. ON MY MOUTH.

And then, for good measure, hours later I discovered I got it in my hair, too.

So. I’m back, you’re welcome, and yes I scrubbed extra hard in the shower today.

Oh Say, Can You See?

The other night I sang the national anthem at a Utah Jazz basketball game. If you think I’ve mentioned this too many times, you’re going to need to get used to it because this whole pseudo fame has just gone straight to my head.

That Matt Harpring sure is a tall fellow.
I sure am a short little girl.

I came in to work a whole hour late today and everything.*

*Also, I may or may not have worked too many hours and have been required by my boss and the college the past couple weeks to come in late and leave early whenever I am able.

Anyhow, the day was generally awesome aside from mass hysteria, resulting in several Facebook and Instagram posts, plus a lot of chitter chatter to friends about a whole lot of things (oboe concerts in college, Snopes, Cheetos, what have you).

But it all led up to this, for which I’m fairly proud:

And the Jazz beat the Nuggets, which is what you always want to happen, and I was kind of famous in the bathroom and the arena and the parking garage, and that was all fun and good.

The Low Point

There is one thing you just don’t ever want to see, as a germophobe or I presume any other human person, on the rim of a drinking fountain as you bend in for a drink because you live in the world’s driest state, and you are parched beyond belief because you weren’t allowed to bring a water bottle in and the water bottles that are being provided for you cost about $5 apiece:


This thing happened to me. Of course it happened to me. A grasshopper once fell in my hair — anything can happen. Blood on the water fountain just happened. And it wasn’t, say, a bit of ketchup. It was the unmistakable, bright crimson of a stranger’s blood.

It gives a whole new meaning to stranger danger.

Making People Uncomfortable

I’ve spent a lot of time on this blog focusing in on the weird and generally stupid things other people say. Because, probably not all that surprisingly, people say a lot of weird and/or stupid things. And I’ll be one of the first people to admit that I am a weirdo and say dumb stuff, but today really takes the cake.

Injury can sometimes lead to stupidity: I bit the inside of my upper lip the other night, three times because why not, and that inevitably led to my having two awesome canker sores (technically three, but one is remarkably smaller than the others and often goes unnoticed — sorry, little guy). I was trying to push through it, even though you can see them when my mouth is open wide enough, even though they’re now completely affecting the way I speak, even though the right side of my jaw is beleaguered over chewing everything. Something had to give, though.

But I didn’t want to deal with racists/serial killers, so I opted for Rite Aid this afternoon. And, in fact, the pharmacist was really nice, so maybe I should stick with them from here on out. I digress. I walked up to the pharmacy counter to ask about the plethora of canker sore treatment options readily available to me (seriously, like, fifty … or something), and I said, quite confidently I might add, possibly the weirdest thing that’s ever come out of my mouth in a public place.

“I have two canker sores the size of CHILDREN in my mouth right now …”

Photo courtesy of gettyimages.com
Yeah, they’re that big.

Of all the things in the universe — all the things, people — I decided children were the most logical option. This brings to mind, of course, a very unique mental image. And suddenly I realized how easy it is to say weird, generally stupid things. They can just fly out your mouth — fall trippingly off the tongue — into the air and their soundwaves can hit other peoples’ ears before you can suck them back in.

The pharmacist, I am pleased to report, remained unphased by my odd statement and proceeded to help me decide upon the best canker sore treatment for my current situation. I appreciated his willingness to overlook my apparent, public distaste for children and pathetic attempt at hilarity. His face said, “Yeah we get people with child-sized canker sores all the time,” although chances are his mind was thinking, “You might be a serial killer.” Or, you know, a weirdo.

Image courtesy of soap.com

To set the record straight: I’d say they’re about 1 carat in size each, which is nothing to sneeze at but nothing in comparison to your four-year-old.

I’m also pleased to report: The goopy stuff he chose doesn’t taste half as bad as you’d think, although you probably won’t catch me sucking on the tube any time soon.


Tonight I sat on the laundry room floor, huddled up in a ball, staring inside our washing machine while it spun our clothes around and made weird noises.

Husband: “What are you doing down there?”
Me: “It’s making weird noises.”

And this is when it occurs to me I will probably never be in a position where owning a home is a good idea. All those Pinterest boards about home decor, furniture, storage and organization can probably just be put aside — to be shared with friends because God only knows putting any of them to use in a place I own will lead to more fetal positions and probably some horse tranquilizers to boot.

In my defense, I’ve never owned a high efficiency washer, or even one that was front loading, and after the delivery man breaking our dryer vent and our discovering the washing machine draining tube was too short, not to mention our having to wait till the landlord could come around till today to fix things (people who have things to do and busy schedules — what’s up with that?), I was skeptical that the growing mountain of laundry in our bathroom was never going to be traversed. It was like the idea of a washing machine and dryer was just that — an idea — and we’d never actually have them to actually use.

Image courtesy of amazon.com

So when we returned from Lowe’s, and Husband did some washing machine/dryer rock climbing, and we luckily discovered we DID have high efficiency laundry soap, and I started to sort out what I’m fairly certain was over 100 pieces of dirty laundry (which smelled awesome, btw, you’re welcome for that thought), it was only natural, I think, for me to react in such a manner. Plus, our washing machine. It was making weird noises. It was spinning our clothes around without water for awhile. It locked and wouldn’t let me in. I don’t know if I can trust a washing machine that won’t let me reach in, whenever I want, to see if the hot water is actually hot.

Because sometimes you just gotta reach in your washing machine. Is all I’m saying.

There’s something very horrifying at the thought that, supposing something were to go wrong in a home we owned, we couldn’t call someone else to take care of it, for free. When I read an email from our previous landlord, letting us know we were the best tenants they’d ever had in their 20+ years of apartment ownership and to let him know if there was anything he could do to help us in the future, I wondered if that also covered getting us out of any trouble that might befall us … for the rest of our lives.

If that’s on the table, then I will totally take him up on the offer.

(Pause here, with Husband pausing the DVR)

I’m sorry — I had to pause just then because our washing machine just played a monophonic song for us. Seriously — a whole song letting us know the load was finished. That’s not going to be annoying in the future. Perhaps I should ensure my body clock instinctively knows when all the laundry is finished so I never have to turn the signal on again. For eternity.

Also, as a totally unrelated side, G4 recently aired an old Batman movie marathon, and since we have a shiny new DVR and about 1,000 channels, it only made sense that we record all of them and then watch them while eating cookies. Yeah, you heard me — cookies. Anyhow, the movies we’ve seen thus far have raised a lot of questions, like why is there a midget hanging out with a bunch of bikers? And why are all of them wearing copious amounts of stage makeup? And why would Batman have ice skate blades in his boots? And didn’t anyone notice how Batman’s lips went from obscenely full to nearly nonexistent?

Image courtesy of jumpingpolarbear.wordpress.com

But most importantly, why didn’t Tom Hardy play THAT Bane? Because that Bane is clearly the more superior.

Image courtesy of batman.wikia.com
Seriously, you guys. So legit.

Husband, just now: “Wooooow. I can see why the Batman franchise took 12 years off.”

The Anatomy of an Audience

When Husband and I went to the 3:30 am showing of “Dark Knight Rises” opening day, we were fairly certain we would run into at least one or two odd characters there; after all, what sort of people actually even WENT to 3:30 am showings? We figured there would be people in homemade costumes, the types of people who knew more about Batman than the masked man himself, so we prepared ourselves for all the weirdness that may ensue.

As it turned out, things were perfectly fine. And, in Utah at least, the types of people who go to a 3:30 am showing of a movie are a whole lot like us; they couldn’t get decent seats any other time but felt this innate need to catch said movie during opening week, on an IMAX screen, in a theatre that had reserved seating. You know, the particular types.

Image courtesy of megaplextheatres.com
I see today at 6:15 pm is a pretty good time to check out the movie in case you haven’t yet

What we did not anticipate were any sort of audience oddities when we decided, on a whim, to see “The Avengers” (yeah, I know, I know, we’re such losers for not seeing it when it first came out) on a Saturday around 11:30 am.

And yet.

To tell you the truth, I think my subconscious began to realize something was up during perhaps even the previews, but what occurred was so out there that I don’t think I really got a clue till about 30 minutes into the movie. Because what I’m about to tell you is seriously so weird, guys. Since the movie had been out for the entire summer already, and all my friends and coworkers had seen it once, if not twice, indicating we were the last few losers in the country, the audience was pretty sparse. But during a particularly quiet part in the movie, I realized there was a very distinct clipping noise coming from the gentleman t0 our right.

clip clip

clip clip clip

clip clip

And when I turned to Husband to say, “Is someone actually clipping their (okay — I know, this is really grammatically incorrect, but seriously guys I was in a movie and I was DISTRACTED, okay) nails right now?” I saw out of the corner of my eye the gentleman, to our right, clipping his fingernails — and here’s the really wild part — without taking his eyes off the movie screen. Not once.

As a particularly compulsive individual, I thought I’d give the guy a break — perhaps his fingernails were freakishly long and his wife forced him, at gunpoint, to go to the movie with her RIGHT THEN, causing him to leave home without having time to clip them down. I mean, it’s possible.

My favorite quote from a really wonderful movie: “It’s possible. It’s possible we’ll find your husband neck-deep in potpourri investing things.” – Shall We Dance

But after about 45 minutes (or perhaps even an hour or an hour and a half) of him alternating between clipping his nails and then cleaning them out and then — this is horrifying — cleaning out his teeth with his clippers, something had to give, people. I am curious as to how long his nails really were, seeing as they kept him ocupado during a fairly lengthy period of time, proving my original assessment of “Well, he’ll run out of nails at some point” completely wrong.

Photo courtesy of gettyimages.com

I didn’t really want to see, though.

So, children, the moral of the story is: don’t be worried about the 3:30 am screenings. Be worried about those middle of the day screenings because you just don’t know who in the heck is going to show up. But it’s probably going to be pretty good. And by good I mean awful.




I am pleased to report that when I very calmly said, during another quiet part during the movie, “Please stop” that he did, in fact, cease and desist. But then I cursed myself for not asking sooner — had I KNOWN it were so easy …


“Now, gimme a word, any word, and I’ll show you how the root of that word is Greek. Okay? How about arachnophobia? Arachna, that comes from the Greek word for spider, and phobia is a phobia, is mean fear. So, fear of spider, there you go.” – My Big Fat Greek Wedding

I’m the type of girl for whom roughing it is staying in a hotel that doesn’t offer room service. That’s going to be significant later on.

The other morning I hopped into the shower to begin what I like to refer to as my extreme beauty regimen (that’s not true. I’ve never, not once, referred to it as such. I just made that up now.) It’s a grueling 30 minute process that involves stuff like cheap shampoo and a really old hairbrush and makeup brushes from Costco. So. I hopped into the shower, and as I was doing my swirly twirly thang, I noticed a spider crawling along the edge of the shower.

I don’t do spiders.

Spiders in the shower remind me of camping, and I don’t like camping. Don’t tell Husband this, though. I spent a lot of time convincing him it made sense that we register at REI when we were engaged because I love the outdoors, don’tcha know. In the end, he remained unconvinced, probably because he took one look at me and thought, “This woman is lying to me.” In which case, he was absolutely correct.

It took until late in high school before I quit screaming every time I saw an arachnid. I suppose it was a partial understanding that they weren’t actually going to inject killer venom into my tiny frame, instantly murdering me, and partial not wanting to kill Dad with a heart attack. The man could run through our house lightning fast. And to be fair, I do pretty well around all sorts of insects (aside from cockroaches…seriously I saw my first last summer and the experience made me want to lay down on the floor and just DIE I tell you.)

This one time, a dead spider fell from the ceiling onto the manuscript I was so carefully copyediting.

That kind of traumatized me.

But this particular shower inhabiting spider was different. It was into running and jumping, which I fully support if you are a four year old child, but to which I turn my nose up if you are a venomous beast attempting to share my shower space. Shower space is sacred, man. It also turned out to be the Spider-Man of spiders, with this creepy ability to stretch its legs out REALLY FAR to move around. Basically it reached out and touched me, I’m pretty sure.

Husband didn’t do much to help, I’m sorry to say. He’s lucky I didn’t discover his cavalier attitude about shower spiders after we were married and sealed for forever or else I might not have entered into this blessed union. (That is totally and entirely untrue, btw.) It was clear I was going to have to tackle this particular obstacle alone, so I did the only rational thing I could think to do — I skipped washing my hair, jumped out, took a picture, and then smashed the thing dead.

I come from a family that believes in spider relocation. I kind of strayed that morning.

But, as you can see, this was the sort of spider that DIDN’T NEED TO KEEP LIVING:

I call him Beast.

This picture was neither edited nor enlarged (aside from, you know, fixing the color levels and contrast). The spider was actually this enormous in real life.

Later that evening, as Husband was hugging me, he took a couple sniffs and said, “Uh…yeah…” which translated means, “Your hair smells dirty.” But I think we can all agree that if he’d gallantly saved me from the wretched entrapment I found myself in that morning, my hair would have been super fresh and clean.

Like a summer’s morning or something.