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February 28, 2003
A Very Merry Unbirthday to Me!
Today is the closest we will get to my birthday this year. If you wish to help celebrate, the best way to do so is to hoist a cocktail in the nanosecond between 00:00:00 and 00:00:01 tonight.
I am twenty-seven, which officially marks the passage from mid to late twenties. Next year, I will start pushing thirty. I plan to push thirty farther away from being an indicator of adulthood. I hope none of you were waiting for that landmark, but I can't have people suddenly start expecting me to pay bills on time and take responsibility for my actions. That won't do!
For the record:
1) I have had six birthdays so far.
2) Ha, ha. Yes, I do look very mature for my age. That is so funny.
3) I have actually met adult people who refuse to accept the whole Leap Year thing and insist that I am making it up until presented with evidence from an almanac or other reference. How does that happen?
4) Yes, Leap Year babies are more special than everyone else. Now you know.
5) I generally celebrate on February 28th, because at least it is in February. However, my lack of a real birthday gives me the opportunity to have as many celebrations as I like, in my opinion. Not to mention the excuse for one hell of a party every four years.
This year, I will be traveling to New York to cohost an epic gala with the fabulous, sparkly Captain Glitter Biscuit, also a February baby, and the warm, fuzzyAgent Mike, whose house is being warmed. Our party is on March 1. Envy our delicious socializing, mortals!
Posted by hilatron at 12:00 AM | Comments (7)
February 27, 2003
Where is My Future?
Yesterday at work I brought the calendar that hangs on the bulletin board next to my desk to the other end of the building in order to copy upcoming events into it from another, larger calendar which hangs on the wall in someone else's office. Most, but not all, of the events on the large calendar had previously been copied, by me, out of a notebook in which I had jotted them down during a meeting. As I wrote down these things in my sort of bad handwriting into yet another set of too-small boxes, a feeling of the wrongness of it all overcame me.
It's not that I think I'm too good to really have to earn a living. (Well, it's not just that, anyway.) It's that I fail to understand the endless shuffling and running hither and thither and filing this and copying that and faxing the other that still seems to afflict the world today. My goodness gracious me, it's 2003! I should not have to be copying things by hand at all, let alone three times. At the very most I should have to enter my meeting notes into an electronic tablet of some sort which transfers the information to the beautifully designed LCD calendar display in the central office, shoots a message off to my mini calendar to do the same, and prints a hard copy right into the correct folder in the digital filing cabinet/fax/print unit, simultaneously creating a new folder and label for it. Is my time really best spent on all this endless repetition?
I become increasingly vexed at the ways in which "modern" earth life fails us. I still have to wash dishes. I still have to walk places under my own power. I still have no flying car. I still have to type instead of just thinking at my computer. Life is not changing for the more convenient at an acceptable rate, and I can't help but feel a bit cheated. Where is my beautifully designed, smoothly running future, where gadgets do something meaningful? Don't think I don't appreciate innovations in entertainment - my tired mind certainly needs new sources of distraction - but where are the researchers dedicating themselves to relieving me of my tedious errands? Right now it's all, ooh, we can make a stereo that matches your computer and it has a neat light display and now you can put in 100 CDs instead of just five, but meanwhile, I still spend an inordinate amount of time at the grocery store, and when I am done, I have to trudge along with a heavy cart instead of frisking beside a small levitation device.
Come on humans!! You're all I've got. One of the great things about you is your visionary capabilities, so get cracking with the improbable physics, if you please. Some teleportation would be nice. A little nanotech wouldn't hurt, so when I wake up at 3 am with a craving for Necco Wafers, I can just materialize some. Don't give me those "gray goo" scare tactics, mister, it's possible and I want some!
And if someone could send me a device that does filing, well then I would just kiss them. Because right now I am that device, and if I get one. more. papercut, there's going to be trouble.
Posted by hilatron at 11:00 AM | Comments (4)
February 24, 2003
Today's Unlikely Fantasy
The next time I am interviewing for a job, and we get to the part where they say "Do you have any questions, Ms. Tron?" I will ask "In this job, will I have to answer the phone, ever?"
Then my interviewers will point to a person sitting at a desk - a well-groomed, pleasant-looking, sociable person whose every fiber is geared toward successfully interacting with a wide variety of strangers, who takes having his or her train of thought interrupted every two minutes in stride, who lives to answer the same question again and again, who can decipher conversations held on poorly transmitting cell phones, and they will say "No, that person there takes care of the phones. He or she just loves it!"
Then I will say, "I have no further questions. I'll take it."
Posted by hilatron at 09:55 AM | Comments (3)
February 22, 2003
Tips on Not Getting Your Sorry Ass Torn Asunder By a Deranged Robot Wielding a Pink Umbrella
If, after a record snowfall followed by three days of unseasonable warmth and a heavy rainstorm, you must wear boots so fancy that they cannot get some mud on them, please at least warn people behind you before you stop short with an exasperated sigh and try to clean your oh-so-important footwear in a snowbank.
Do you see how the robot turns slightly and tilts her umbrella aside as she passes you in the narrow lane that has been shoveled out between snowdrifts? If you do that too, you will not bump the robot. You will not splash the robot. You will not irk the robot.
Seven words: �Drivers must yield to pedestrians in crosswalk.�
When you are coming out of a store onto the sidewalk, it is a good idea to look where you are going. It is a bad idea to walk out into foot traffic and stand still, talking to your compatriot about �Oh, my God! It�s still raining!� Remember the turkeys!
Sir: if you would like to look at the beer, just say so. There is nothing to be gained by your pointed harrumphing but a world of pain, you small, passive-aggressive man.
Do not look askance at the robot�s drippy self, Lady with Fur Coat. The robot does not know what alternate reality you zipped in from, but here, it is raining like a mother. Do not make the robot pour a bucketful over your head.
Finish shopping before you get in line. BEFORE!!!!!
Drivers: the robot assures you that she would not walk in the street if she could avoid it. Thanks to some bad neighbors, however, it is necessary. Beeping at the robot does not get the sidewalks cleared, but it sure does shorten your life span.
Posted by hilatron at 09:19 PM | Comments (2)
February 21, 2003
The Great Striped Hunter
This evening, as Josh and I debated what to have for dinner, Murray brought a mouse out of the bedroom. He is a fearsome killer! We tried to get him to hold the mouse by its tail next to a ruler for pictures, but he was more interested in batting the little corpse around the living room than in preserving his accomplishment for the ages.
He was very distraught when we took his trophy away, but then Murray has no concept of the cost of getting mouse innards out of the carpet. I made sure that he knew we appreciated his efforts by giving him treats to substitute for the yummy yummy rodent-flesh. This worked out fine. Whether it squeals in pain or rattles in a box, it's all one to Murray.
It is to be acknowledged that I have not written anything long or ambitious lately. I am a bit low on topics, heavy on tasks at the moment. I certainly haven't jumped the shark, oh no! Ha ha ha, I laugh a little too loudly and that is how you know that I am nervous.
Posted by hilatron at 09:04 PM | Comments (1)
February 19, 2003
Get your lazy butt out there with a shovel, mortal!
These are posters I intend to get made, to put in the yards of those people who have chosen to not shovel in front of their houses yet.
It's not funny anymore. The two feet of snow were pretty at first, but they are impossible to walk through. And walking in the street is rather life-threatening, now that they are 50% less wide than they used to be. Then there is the snow-melt-freeze process that has been going on, creating a slushy pathway along the side of the road which threatens to give way and shoot you out into the path of an SUV at any moment. I thought I was tired of almost getting run over before, but my tolerance has been tested anew in the last two days of car-dodging. My School-Marm-O-Meter� has been going through the roof as I sludge along to work, pursing my lips and glaring at the houses with untouched walkways. Tsk, tsk!
What's that you say? Did I shovel after the blizzard?
Dude. I rent. Management agency took care of that nonsense.
Posted by hilatron at 10:28 PM | Comments (2)
Let's Do the Time Warp, By Accident!
I don't know if it would explain my unaccountable grouchiness and disorientation for the last couple of days, but I would very much like to know how long I have had my calendar turned to November 2003.
I am sorry if I growled at you. Now that I am in the right time-space, maybe I will be more pleasant.
Posted by hilatron at 12:05 PM | Comments (1)
February 16, 2003
I Luv U, Vicodin
TO: The Fates
Everywhere and Nowhere
The Universe
FROM: Hilatron
Brookline, MA
Earth
RE: Valentine�s Day Event Planning
Dear Sirs:
I am writing with my thoughts on your recent initiative to direct my Valentine�s Day activities. I hope that this feedback will be helpful to you in planning future actions.
First, let me say that the Beth Israel Hospital in Brookline is a clear winner for best E.R. in which to celebrate a romantic holiday. The stench of sickness and stress was kept to a minimum, the walls were relatively clean and recently painted, and the seats were actually rather comfortable.
Special notice must be made of the charming Magnetic Sand Table, which provided Josh and me with much amusement as we waited to be seen by the doctor. It was a time for us to bond and enjoy each other, as I played and he watched from his wheelchair. What a great couples activity!
One tiny concern I had was the high price of our Valentine's Day dinner. Although the selection was great, I can�t help but feel that $1.35 for a soda is a bit high for a vending machine. But, after all, it was a special day. Why not splurge?
Thanks, also, for giving Josh and me a chance to take a break from our usual fast-paced lifestyle. As we waited to be seen by doctors who were busy attending to cases much more serious than ours, we had a chance to slow down, to ease up a little bit, and to take stock of each other and of our relationship. We rediscovered some important things, like the fact that I like to read and that Josh likes to nap.
Perhaps best of all, we will have a priceless souvenir of our special evening, as the X-Ray specialist promised to get us copies of the pictures of Josh�s fractured knee. Now we�ll always have something to remind us of Feb. 14, 2003!
Lastly, you didn�t fail to insure that this holiday would have a lasting effect on us. I�m sure that the next few weeks will really bring us closer together. I, for one, plan to learn a valuable lesson about my level of commitment to the relationship, as I am now the only household member capable of carrying things to and fro. Getting all the meals, doing all the shopping, and fetching glasses of water will surely teach me a thing or two!
Likewise, Josh tells me that he�s looking forward to the inner strength he will surely gain by being rendered relatively helpless for the next few weeks, what with getting around being a tedious hassle now. Oh, and the cabin fever and the physical pain should really provide him with an opportunity to grow as a person!
All in all, Fates, I must congratulate you on a bang-up job of making this Valentine�s Day a memorable one. I can�t WAIT to see what you come up with for St. Patrick�s Day. You guys are so inventive, I�m sure something really exciting is in store for us.
Best regards,
Hilatron
cc: Gravity
Posted by hilatron at 02:55 PM | Comments (3)
February 15, 2003
Hmmmm...ph?
Okay, so none of you liked my valentine, apparently, plus as far as I can tell, a Sweetheart just called me a "STAR DUBY."
What are you trying to tell me, Universe?
Posted by hilatron at 06:06 PM
February 14, 2003
Though the glue is still wet and the doily crooked, I thrust it into your shoebox anyway.
You may not know it, but I am glad you'�re here.
This internet thing is enabling my antisocial tendencies, the ones that cause me to shout "�YES! That is SO me"� when the Paxil Social Anxiety Disorder ad comes on. It is too easy to run away from the kind tendrils extended by readers, to not send the many deserved fan mails to other fabulous bloggers, to not let you know how gratifying it is that you put up with all this babble babble.
It�s high time I got over myself, don'�t you agree? Thus, to returning readers, to the kind people who link to me, to the bloggers who'�ve given me the mad props, I ask: will you be my Valentine? This is for you:
Darling Sweetheart,You are my avid fellow feeling.
My affection curiously clings
to your passionate wish. My
liking yearns to your heart. You
are my wistful sympathy: my
tender liking.Yours beautifully,
hilatron
Poem composed by the Ferranti Mark I Supercomputer
Posted by hilatron at 02:29 PM | Comments (1)
February 12, 2003
We're already beyond diplomacy, Mr. Cat.
Due to the incredibly unbelievable amount of ridiculous crap we are trying to fit into a one-bedroom apartment, our bed is not positioned with its head against the wall with space on either side and maybe matching night tables, like you see in the furniture catalogs. Instead, it is crammed into the corner so that one side of it runs along the wall. Because I volunteered for it out of the sweet goodness of my heart (blink blink), my side is the against-the-wall side. There is a gap in between the bed and the wall, and into this furrow go: my glasses, books I am reading, hair clips that I forget to take out until I hurt myself when I lie down, and my water glass. This way, these things are within easy reach when I need them.
The other night, I awoke to a call of nature. As I lay, mustering the strength to fumble around for my glasses and my beverage, a strange noise reached my ears. It was a bit of a...scrabbly noise. Right next to the bed. My sleepy mind reeled off the possibilities. Rat? Giant centipede? Monster?
Of course it was none of these dire possibilities. It was the cat! My cute, furry little companion! Nothing to worry about! All was well -
Slurp.
Wh. Wha. What?
Slurp. Slurp-slurpy-slurpity-slurp.
WHAT was THAT? That had better not be what I think it was, Cat. That had better not be -
It was. Murray, apparently not satisfied with the abundance of water available in his dish, had decided to try mine. The water that sits beside my bed every night. The water that I depend on to slake my thirst in the wee hours.
And of course you have to wonder: is this the first time? If your cat drinks your water in the night and you are not awake to hear it, can you still get cooties?
So the gap beside the bed has become a piece of territory as hotly disputed as the most changeable international border. In the past few days, I have been forced to deploy all my advanced military techniques - opposable thumbs, scary noises and the like - to defend my turf. Murray, meanwhile, encroaches steadily, using guerilla tactics and taking advantage of the cover of night. During the day, we circle each other warily, looking for signs of weakness. Where will it all end? I fear that this dispute will spill over into the entire bedroom region, forcing me to bar the door at night and subject Josh to the loss of sleep that will surely ensue as Murray launches his assault on the barricade. There's no telling how far this thing could escalate.
And who knows what side Josh will take? That boy's a wild card. His domestic policy is all over the place.
Posted by hilatron at 09:15 PM | Comments (7)
February 10, 2003
Ten Reasons Why I Am Maybe Not Cut Out For This Administrative Assistant Thing
1) People who leave messages in�which�they�speak�verrrrrryyy�
�slowly�until�they get to the part where they tell you something thatneedstobewrittendownandthentheytalkohsofast!
2) Overly fond of planning my own time.
3) Knee-jerk aversion to treating authority figures with respect.
4) Pencil phobia.
5) Administrative Assistants not allowed to phone in thin-skinned.
6) Superiors not impressed by �but it�s a concept outfit.�
7) Tendency to snort derisively in meetings.
8) Tendency to stop paying attention in meetings right before someone is going to ask for the one tiny, mundane piece of information that I have to impart.
9) Unable to shake conviction that I really ought to have someone else to do all these mundane, repetitive tasks for me.
10) Foul mouth not going over big with business callers.
Posted by hilatron at 10:06 PM | Comments (6)
February 08, 2003
What is Sexy?
Last Monday, during my viewing of Joe Millionaire, I had to watch that Victoria's Secret ad. You know, the "there's still a place for 80s hair-metal video girls, albeit with slightly toned-down coiffures" ad? The "it's sexy to wear panties and a blazer to the office" ad? The "everyone loves a girl who's not afraid to operate heavy machinery in her underclothes" ad? Anyway, I suddenly started wondering: when did having wind blowing at one's head become synonymous with "sexy?" You know what I mean. Every time some lazy commercial or fashion shoot director wants to telegraph "oooh baby," they haul out the big fans. And we all just accept that a sexy mama now comes with her own air current.
Then I started thinking about other "sexy" things. Sexy mamas are wet. Sexy mamas are afire. Sexy mamas are covered in mud.
It struck me that it all ties in to the human obsession with the weather. People like their women abused by the elements! My theory is that it is a caveman thing. "My woman is tough. She can withstand a hurricane, a tornado, a landslide. She will forage for berries even during a hailstorm. This picture of her washing the car in a bikini proves that!"
Just remember, the next time your weatherman tells you: "Chance of freezing rain tonight. Gale force winds. High of 35," he is whispering words of sweet, sweet love. Ladies - to land that man, make sure to leave your umbrella at home.
Posted by hilatron at 03:07 PM | Comments (6)
February 05, 2003
Who's the Daddy?
Today�s braineater post made me want to describe this idea I have. I really think I have missed my calling, and ought to think about being a television producer. Just look what I came up with!
I propose that the Maury Povich Show abandon the "talk show" format altogether, my reason being that Maury has already given up on the principles of the classic talk show: 1) allowing people to talk; 2) pretending to care about the guests; and 3) pretending to help them at the end of the show in any way whatsoever.
Maury, you see, is already beyond the talk show. His particular brand of naked, soulless, grasping evil would really be better suited to that black hole of ethics, the game show. I have created a show concept perfect for Maury.
The Maury game show would be called: Who's the Daddy? The actual content of Who's the Daddy? would be very similar to the Maury Show today. New mothers, and those who stand accused of being the babydaddy, would be the contestants. The denouement would of course be the revelation of the DNA test results, ascertaining whether Mom is, indeed, correct, or whether she must go start shrilly haranguing some other sullen, pimply schlub about "responsibility" and formula money. The show would be broken up into three parts, each one allowing the contestants to accumulate prizes:
1) Everybody Fronts
In which Mom and the Accused take turns explaining to the audience why they are the injured party. Since they are really just guessing at this point, the presentation is all about showmanship. Moms can assert that the Accused is the Daddy based on evidence like �the baby looks just like him,� �I was only with the other guy(s) one time,� and �he has a mole � just like his daddy!� The Accused can redirect with concepts such as �I am ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY PERCENT SURE that that�s not my kid,� �Please, that girl�s a ho! Everyone in town has had a piece of that,� and �I�ve been with hundreds of other women and none of them got pregnant.� The winner of this round is decided by an audience vote on who made their case more convincingly. Factors to consider are sassiness, the judicious use of catch phrases such as �You think you a man? You ain�t no man!� and volume and repetition. If Mom wins this round, she receives a year�s supply of Pampers; if the Accused wins, a subscription to Maxim.
2) Battle of the Grandmothers
There�s no sense in jettisoning elements of the Maury Show that are guaranteed to provide quality entertainment. Thus, I propose that Who's the Daddy? institute one of the more successful portions of the Maury paternity festival: the moms of the two contestants battling it out. In this segment, the two grandmas meet in the Ring of Blind Familial Loyalty and choose their weapons: high-volume shrieking, character assassination, or fisticuffs. They go three rounds, and whichever grandmother wins takes the prize on behalf of her child. If Mom�s mom takes the prize, she is awarded a years� worth of unlicensed day care service. The Accused�s mom has the chance to win her son a $2,000 gift certificate to Abercrombie & Fitch.
3) The Test Results
The climax of our show, and the moment that determines the session�s winner, is the test results. At this point, the Mom settles down on the Pedestal of Injured Womanhood, and the Dad retires to the Chamber of Is He a Man or Ain�t He? The centerpiece of the show descends from the ceiling: a huge digitally animated portrait of the contested baby, which through the magic of technology delivers the verdict: �My Daddy is�� a) �[the Accused�s name!]� or b) �NOT [the Accused�s name!]�
The finale depends on the outcome of the test results. If the Mom wins, that is, if the Accused proves to indeed be the Daddy, then she ascends to the Pinnacle of Motherhood Vindicated, and takes the grand prize of free family medical care until the child reaches the age of eighteen. If she loses, she descends to the Ho Pit and is given the opportunity to come back at a later date and try again, if she can name another contestant.
If the Accused proves innocent, he does a lap around �Oh Yeah!� Lane, and is set free with his grand prize of an all-expenses-paid weekend getaway with the former Shipmates contestant of his choice. If he loses, he arrives at the Portal of Masculine Prerogative, where he, unlike the Mom in Maury's little game, has a choice. He can take the High Road, trade in his previous, single-guy prizes in exchange for a lifetime membership at Price Club, and join the Mom at the Pinnacle. Or, he can take the Road of Biological Advantage, keep his previous winnings, and leave with his Certificate of Playerhood.
And that�s our game, folks! Unfortunately, since Who's the Daddy? would be sponsored by baby product companies, Maury would have to abandon his custom of gently reminding guests and audience alike that, although it's perfectly ok to sleep with as many people as you like, MAYBE, once in a while, in the midst of SLEEPING WITH PEOPLE YOU BARELY KNOW, who could very well be RIDDLED WITH DISEASE, making the ten-minute trip to the pharmacy to BUY SOME DAMN CONDOMS might prevent you from having to endure awkward situations such as these! Oh - wait! Maury never touches on the subject of personal responsibility at all, not even once during the entire cavalcade of poor impulse control! Never mind then! Carry on!
Posted by hilatron at 08:41 PM | Comments (13)
By the way...
I am very glad that I went out and was social tonight. It was loads of fun. However, if anyone happens to have taped the new "Buffy" and wants to send me a copy, I will give you my first-born child or, like, cookies. E-mail me baby!
Posted by hilatron at 12:44 AM | Comments (2)
Clang, Clang, Clang Went the Trolley
Going To
To find out what you will look like in ten years' time, if in the next ten years you develop a substance abuse problem, get the IRS on your back, survive some kind of severe trauma and don't generally get a lot of sleep, all you need to do is: go to a metropolitan area with a subway system, get on the subway, and look at your reflection in the window of the subway. Whence this pall of ugliness, of fatigue and bad skin and the amplification of all that is unattractive, oh MBTA?
Returning From
Gentlemen of the D train: when you are done bobbing your heads and craning your necks to ogle the pretty girl getting off the train, why do you then look to me? How am I to take that?
1) "Oh. Girl gone. Must find other girl to look at now."
2) "Whoa, I hope no one noticed me ogling that girl."
3) Perhaps you are hoping that I will cheer you and tell you that I support your right to look at pretty girls?
4) Alternatively, perhaps you are looking for me to scold you, and maybe we can get a little S/M thing* going?
5) "That there was a nine! This one...damn, if she were ten years younger and wasn't hitting the bottle so hard, maybe..."
6) "Wow. That girl is pretty paranoid if she thinks that we are looking at her for any particular reason, if at all."
*I watched Secretary tonight, which is a very fun movie, and I saw it in very good company. But, sorry, I've already decided that I'm far too lazy to be a top.
Posted by hilatron at 12:24 AM | Comments (2)
February 03, 2003
This and That
Braineater is back!
The Leisure Agency is new and improved! Check out News and Current Projects to see what I did all day yesterday. And by "did," I of course mean "roped Josh into being my personal web design consultant on." Thanks Josh! Uh, hope you got your homework done.
I'm feeling all interactive, yo. Does this mean I am now part of the New Media? Well, only halfway, I guess. Anyway, do I qualify for my black turtleneck, designer glasses and special PDA-compatible Diesel pants yet?
Posted by hilatron at 11:17 AM | Comments (2)
February 02, 2003
I'm Joining the Geese and the Rich People (Part 2)
As we learned on Friday, winter holds little for me to balance out the myriad inconveniences. The bulky outerwear that becomes a whole other (floppy, inconsiderate) person when you go to the movies or try to cram onto public transportation. The being cold, then hot, then cold again until you just don't know what's comfortable at all anymore. The slithering and sliding and wobble-teeter-splatting all over the place, because Some People can't get it together to shovel their damn sidewalks. The complications to my beauty routine.
You may have gathered that I am not much of a style maven, but still, I like to adhere to some standards. For example, I like for my skin to stay on, rather than to crack and fall off in big hunks. The Hellraiser look is so out these days. Alas, my skin is not responding well to the recent frigid air. So not well that twice-daily lotionings are barely enough to keep me all of a piece. By "lotionings," I of course mean "the application of so thick and heavy a coat of moisturizer that clothing becomes overly lubricated and slides right off, and hugging becomes an Extreme! Sport." Yet still, my skin makes with the cracking and the scaling. If Palmer's Cocoa Butter cannot save me, what hope is there?
There is also the issue of hair. I like to look as little like a red-haired white girl version of Don King as possible. In normal, humane, non-winter conditions, a touch of gel and a bit of a blowdry are all that is required to create my signature look, known in fashionable circles as the "Not Too Bad." In the dry, crackly depths of winter, things go somewhat differently. I offer you a step-by-step recreation of my winter hair care routine:
1) Look in mirror.
2) Compose imaginary review of bedhead if bedhead were modern art piece entitled "I Slept on My Left Side: The Static/Grease Dialogues." Give bedhead an 'A' for 'Asymmetrical.'
3) Shampoo static/grease away. Condition.
4) Towel hair.
5) Apply dollop of gel.
6) Blow-dry hair.
7) "Why hello, cat. My, aren't you interested in my bathroom activities. It's kind of creepy."
8) Pet cat.
9) ...
10) Regain consciousness.
11) Disengage cat from ceiling tile, where he was embedded by static burst. Watch out for the sparks!
12) Look in mirror.
13) Compose imaginary review of hairdo if hairdo were country western song entitled "Going Back To the Old Haystack."
14) Perhaps a touch more gel.
15) Look in mirror.
16) Compose imaginary review of new hairdo if new hairdo were nonfiction bestseller entitled "Hilatron's Head and Other Alternative Sources of Oil in the 21st Century."
17) Blow-dry hair again in a misguided attempt to "dry out" the gel and achieve that natural look.
18) Repeat steps 7-18 until something resembling human hair is acheived, or until workday has already begun.
19) Don outerwear, including hat that will render all hairstyling attempts futile with its combination of squashing and, at some point on the walk to work, causing head to sweat as I traverse the snowdrifts and slush puddles.
20) Remove hat and brush hair, after warning co-workers to take cover in case the resulting static makes all the light bulbs explode like that one time.
I am afraid I am just not cut out for this winter thing. Not only can I not take part in winter "fun" due to my lack of coordination/masochistic tendencies, I must also face the fact that I serve little decorative purpose during the cold season. Nobody likes to hang out in the ski lodge with a raw, peeling snow bunny who can power a small appliance with her coiffure.
Posted by hilatron at 02:30 PM | Comments (2)