Leafercise

Let’s see, Thanksgiving:  ate everything in sight.  Followed up on Friday night with pizza and much beer with Jenny and the visiting Michaela and Jon, in from Michigan.  Can you say stuffed?

Saturday and Sunday:  raked, mowed, vacuumed, and/or mulched 38 bags of leaves.

Yesterday, I stepped on the scale to assess the damage, and much to my absolute glee, discovered I was down a few.  Whee!  So, the secret to offsetting holiday weight gain:  vigorous yard work, lots of it, for two days.

Christmas could be tricky, though, as far as yard work is concerned.  Maybe there will be a Day After Blizzard, with four feet of snow.  It has to be a lot, you know, ‘cause I need two days of exercise.  Or one, since Michaela and Jon won’t be back for Christmas, so there won’t be a pizza and much beer follow-up.

As for the cleaning up of leaves, I don’t mind the work if the weather is lovely, and last weekend’s weather fit the bill.  Sunny, crisp, and mild.

On the downside, I stepped in/mowed over/vacuumed and mulched no fewer than five doggie land mines.  You know, dog doo hidden under the leaves.

I’m talking dog shit, people.

Leash law?  Oh, yes, Citytown has one.  But when there are bigger fish to fry than to patrol roaming dogs, a law becomes more of a “recommendation.”  If only I knew the identity of the dogs (and their owners).  If only there existed a Doggie Doo Home DNA Kit.  Hello?  Sharper Image?

I know who the wandering neighborhood dogs are, but I wouldn’t dare to be so presumptuous.  With the certainty of the Doggie Doo Home DNA Kit, though, you can bet that this Annoyed Neighbor would be making some midnight drive-by return deliveries.

Keep your friggin’ dog shit to yourselves.  I already have a litter box to tend to.  Or shall I dump my used kitty litter in your yard?  3 cats = 1 dog.  Works for me.

Also on the downside, the big paper leaf bags that must be purchased from Citytown.  At 30 cents per.  I understand that it makes more sense to dispose of leaves in paper bags rather than plastic garbage bags.  I’m all for sensible trash disposal with minimal environmental impact.  But 30 cents per bag?  Is that really the production cost, or is Citytown making a profit along the way?  Plus 7% SALES TAX.  How vulgar is that?  Can’t we waive the state sales tax on municipal leaf disposal bags?  And if I sound like Cheapy McCheapskate bitching about 30 piddly cents (plus tax), keep in mind that I have 40 to 60 bags of leaves every fall and another 15 or so in the spring.  It’s not going to break me, but having to spend over $20 each year to buy bags only to fill them with dead leaves for disposal doesn’t seem right.  Citytown insists that I use Citytown paper leaf bags.  So how about a nickel a bag?  That seems more appropriate, don’t you think?

But, to end on a less cranky note, the weather indeed was lovely, and I lost my Thanksgiving poundage and then some.

And then Monday’s windy weather knocked down the rest of the oak leaves…

More bags this weekend.

=^..^=

Hair-Raising

I hate my hair.  More accurately, I hate the haircut I got on Monday.

I was dumb.  I took a risk and let someone other than my precious Lori cut it.  I know I should have waited for Lori, who has been out sick since returning from her cruise, but for some silly reason, I freaked out a bit when I discovered it had been 11 MONTHS since my last cut.

I thought I last had my hair cut late winter/early spring, as I tend to do, with the intention of not bothering with it for the next four or five months, as I just wear it clipped up every day in the warm weather.  I checked back in my calendar and, yeah, December.  Which kind of makes sense, because my hair was ridiculously long.

So why not wait another week or two?  I got in this weird mindset where I had to get it cut before December rolled around again.  What a dumbass I am.

So I surrendered my tresses to Siobhan.  Who, if I should ever happen to see her again, should consider herself damned lucky that I don’t walk right up to her and bitch-slap her for what she did to me.  She’s a woman.  She should know better about fucking with a woman’s hair.  Seriously, the Mob puts out hits for lesser offenses.

“Three inches off the length and with long layers in the bottom two inches, please.”

Now, let’s do the math.  My hair hasn’t been cut in nearly a year.  Minus three inches SHOULD NOT EQUAL two to three inches shorter than my last haircut, bitch.  I don’t shampoo with Miracle-Gro.

The long layers?  In retrospect, when I saw her make that first layering cut is when I should have called it off.  Game Over.  Put down your  scissors.

But instead I held my tongue.  Perhaps I would like it.

NOT.  The layers go halfway up my head.  (What happened to LONG layers, bottom two inches?)  My stick straight hair cannot handle this.  It has NO body; it cannot hold the slightest of curls for more than ten minutes – ten minutes without humidity or movement, even with half a can of hairspray on it.  So, even if I could make something of it in the morning, it would be completely shot by the time I walked from parking lot to office.  Get it?

And, it’s just plain A BAD CUT.  The slide cutting she did in front is way too extreme.  The sides are two inches shorter than the back.  What the fuck?!  And she parted my hair on the left, not the right, when she cut it, so now one side is shorter than the other when properly parted.

It’s like a bad, grown out she-mullet.  Or a fugly shag.

Did I ask for that?  Did I say, “Make it look like a grown out she-mullet?”  No, I did not.

And she was fast, like Edward Fucking Scissorhands on my head.  It’s happened to me before.  They see long hair and get psycho-happy.  Cut-cut-cut-cut-cut.  Whee!  Cut-cut-cut.  Cut some more.  It’s like giving a box of matches to a pyromaniac.  They get that same glint in their eyes.

And now I’m left with bad hair.  I’ve been in a bad mood since Monday.  I’ll forget about it for a while and then happen to catch my reflection in the mirror or touch it and – POOF! – bad mood again.  Please don’t think I am exaggerating.  This is definitely in my Top 3 for worst haircuts.  In fact, I’m placing it at No. 2.

Trying to be positive:  I’ve already decided to go back (TO LORI!!!) in a couple of weeks and have some of the length in back cut off to make it look less layered.  I had planned to go back to my bob – gradually – in the spring.  Instead, the change will have to be less gradual.  And less attractive.

=^..^=

Let Dem Eat Cake

A Friday chuckle, courtesy of an email from Tina:

On the cake, please write, “Best Wishes, Suzanne”, underneath that, “We will miss you”.

 

Awesome.

Thanks, T.

Happy weekend!

=^..^=

Please Don’t Take My Sunshine Away

I used to be one of the many who consider fall to be his/her favorite season.  In recent years, however, I favor spring over fall. True, fall temperatures are comfortable, and the colorful leaves are beautiful – before they fall to the ground and you have to rake 60-something bags of dead leaves and haul them to your curb.

For me, fall is, overall, depressing.  It signals what is to come for the next six months.  Flowers die.  Trees become skeletons.  Daily sunlight is diminished.

It just plain sucks, man.

When I leave the office, it already is pitch dark.  I drive home, down a street lined with the tree skeletons, and walk to my front door, where the once lush hostas that run along the front porch have wilted and shriveled and are far from welcoming.

I am a living creature.  I need my sunlight, dammit.

Perhaps a glimpse of morning sun on my commute to work, some longing looks out the office windows, and, if the weather isn’t too downright hideous, a lunchtime walk outdoors.  Otherwise, it’s all darkness, and I just cannot be productive.  If I go straight home from work (which is rare these days), I get in at 5:45, but it feels more like 10:00, and all motivation is gone.  Bah!

And to think, I’m not even bothered by the cold or the snow.  Hell, newly fallen snow is the only thing that makes those ugly tree skeletons less ominous.  Like giant lace sculptures, some delicate prettiness to offset the dreary gray skies.

Seasonal affective disorder?  I don’t think so.  It’s hardly fair to label someone as “disordered” simply because she prefers not to dwell in long periods of darkness surrounded by stark vegetation.  Keep your labels.  And your medication.  I’ll just wallow in my fuzzy slippers and hot chocolate, thank you, counting the days until I see buds on the lilac.

In the meantime, I should make a resolution to ski.

Learning to ski some years ago, at the advanced age of 27, I found something good in winter.  Each winter, I would go a couple of times, and it gave me something to look forward to besides waiting on the lilac buds.

Until that winter when I had difficulty getting my lardass zipped into my ski pants.

I took it hard.  I refused to buy a larger size and vowed not to ski until my pants fit again.  It was supposed to be an incentive.  Instead, it kind of turned into a long-term hiatus from skiing.

Fuck it.  I should just buy some size lardass ski pants and go.  Oh, and a new jacket, too, because the two I have are ridiculously outdated.  It’s been that long.

Of course, I will remember the most important lesson learned from the ski instructor.  (Well, most important after how to slow down and how to stop.)  When you get off the lift, don’t just head down the slopes.  Take some time, look around, and enjoy the scenery.

I am ever grateful that he mentioned this, for at the time I was too wrapped up in the technical aspects of skiing to notice the surrounding landscape of snow-capped mountains dotted with pine trees, breathtaking and humbling against cloudless blue skies.  Too many childhood winters spent in ice rinks, I suppose, to ever consider the scenic aspects of a sport.

If only it stayed light longer, so I wouldn’t have to get up at the crack of dawn to get in enough skiing before the day’s end.  Damn.

=^..^=

Make Me Bad

Boo!

(Pardon the semi-cropped out witch’s arm around my shoulder.)

Shame on all my coworkers who mistook Jason for Michael Myers.  Must kill.

Unfortunately, several of my peers backed out, and we were left with only four who kept the Halloween spirit (barely) alive – SpongeBob, a witch, Medusa (great costume, Tina!), and yours truly.

I purchased the mask years ago at a post-Halloween sale and never made use of it.  This year, it came in handy for a last minute, minimal effort costume.  I thought some splattered drops of blood would be a nice effect.  Alas, I forgot to stop at Job Lot to get a cheap paintbrush.  I knew my wee, bitty craft brushes wouldn’t do the job, and I didn’t care to run out to buy a brush.  Sooooo, I put on my thinking cap, and used …

my basting brush.  Not quite large enough, but it did the trick.

The red paint had a pinkish cast to it, so I mixed in a few drops of black to make it more bloodlike.  My splattering aim was off a bit, as the bigger, better splats landed below the mask, on the newspaper.  And despite propping up the mask, the paint was just too thick to run, as I wanted it to.  But check out the line of blood running down from the eyehole!  Sweet!

(Note to self:  Stop by Job Lot to get a new basting brush before the holidays.)

Next, I needed a slashing weapon.  I wimped out, played it safe, and didn’t use a real knife as my prop.  Nor did I procure a chainsaw (but that really would have ruled!).

I recalled keeping some of the busted up wood that the previous homeowner left in the shed (along with a bunch of other crap – non-curbside kind of crap – that he said he would remove prior to closing).  I rummaged and found something useful.  I drew a big blade shape, cut out two pieces of cardboard, taped them to the “handle,” and wrapped it in foil.  I had already cleaned up my paint, so the dripping blood is nail polish.  Such a girl.  (OPI’s I’m Not Really a Waitress, if you’re wondering.)

(Note to self:  When purchasing my next home, do not limit the pre-closing walk-through to the house only.  Include all outbuildings.)

Lastly, though Jason wasn’t hooded, I wanted my hair totally concealed.  A simple ponytail wasn’t enough.  Enter the black hoodie.  Initially, I was on a mission to purchase an inexpensive black hooded sweatshirt.  And then – DUH!  I already own a big, black hooded windbreaker!  With The Devil’s (employer’s) name and logo!  Too perfect.  Also, it would serve to keep my more skittish coworkers (ahem, Sandy) from calling building security on me.

The final touch was some Midnight (purple gray) eye shadow rimmed all around my eyes so that my natural skin tone could not be detected through the eyeholes of the mask.  (It was streaky and partially rubbed off somewhat by the time the photo was taken.)

And there you have it.  A faint glimpse of the KarmaCat.

=^..^=