Entries Tagged 'why did i do that?' ↓

In the past two days, I’ve learned the following:

It takes approximately 90 minutes and 42 curlers to get my hair ultra curly

I learned that even when I’ve slept on those curlers all night, my hair still won’t be dry. Even after blow drying it.

Also, it takes a lot less time to unroll than roll.

I learned that it takes about 39 bobby pins and an excessive amount of hairspray to look as though I’m going to prom.

I’ve learned that I will dislike an up-do nearly immediately.

And that people gawk at the grocery store when faced with one.

So I will take it out. And ‘fro it out.

I’ve learned that moody purples eyeshadow quads aren’t really that moody, but did bring out the green in my eyes nicely.

Also, four coats of mascara is sometimes necessary.

Additionally, a peeling sunburn cannot be tamed with Aveeno baby lotion and tan lines can’t be camo-ed with foundation.

I learned that a messy ‘fro half-updo will take a fraction of the time of a prom-ish up-do and only 4 bobby pins. And 2 mini claws.

I learned that I have friends who get really excited to see me girled-up.

And some of them take lots of great photos.

I learned that a photo taken while I’m mid-comment will bring about self-loathing.

I learned more drinks than I will admit to (yet. Wait for it.) makes me feel a little more comfy around a camera. In fact, I might even become a ham.

I learned that when you combo a ball gown skirt, pale-as-death skin and dark hair, a few people will call you Snow White.

I learned that everybody loves a boat ride.

I learned, thanks to Rebecca, about a great new flickr plugin. Which is already saving me time.

I learned that an open bar is both my worst enemy and best friend. Also, that an untended bar might bring about sticky fingers.

I learned that I could have just as much, if not more, fun sitting with friends on the seawall with pilfered liquor, coke and foam cups.

I learned that I am entirely capable of peeing in the bushes while wearing a ball-gown skirt, without getting my skirt wet or dirty. But that this shouldn’t be attempted on an incline, because my feet might end up in a muddy puddle.

Also, I like having polished toes.

I learned that even if he’s already asleep, The Ex will not be speaking to me after I come home late.

I learned that I will feel a queasiness in my tummy the next morning, comparable to the first months of gestation of Isobel, after I down nearly 20 drinks. But I still will not hurl.

Also, I might need to reign in the drinks.

Also, my hair gets bigger when I pass out. Perhaps due to some sort of magical elves.

I learned that this guy was doing exactly what I wanted to be, all day. And the fact that it was right outside my window, reminding me of the impossibility? Sucked.

I learned that it’s not berries.

I owe all of you an apology. Last night’s post was like, the Seinfeld of blogging – it was a post about nothing. (If you don’t get that, no soup for you.)

I started off with a point, maybe. I guess I was trying to say that I didn’t understand why some structure was so rigid, whilst other stuff, I’m all whatever about. The moral to this story is that I apologize for 714 words about nothing, that you may have spent actual time reading when you could have done something more interesting, such as picking sock lint out of the corners of your big toes.

Here’s the deal.

I sit down to write with a cup of tea, laptop perched upon Isobel’s ginormous copy of What do people do all day? and I think of like, a sentence. And the posts just usually write themselves, because if nothing else, I’m wordy. I don’t, like some people, start with an end in mind – which is probably why endings often come suddenly, about 15 paragraphs after where you’d really like them to come. I don’t come up with concepts for posts – at least I rarely have in almost five years of blogging – because that one idea or picture or sentence is what gets me started.

This means that the posts you thought were good were a C-student effort. This means that the posts you think are bad, are still a C-student effort.

If I wanted to be funny, I wouldn’t even try because I’d fail and reading a post back to myself, cringe more times than there’s anti-wrinkle cream to combat. (Keep in mind: I smoke and I don’t wear sunglasses or sunblock, and I’m a natural redhead. Anti-wrinkle cream is about as necessary as air, at this point in time.)

If I wanted to be more upbeat, intentionally? I’d probably end up gagging on my over-use of the words awesome and fabulous. Those are my happy place words, in case you didn’t know. Along with money and righteous.

Sometimes, I drop down a groovy or gravy, too. Because I like to kick it old school.

If I wanted to make you cry? I’d be a heinous bitch.

Moving on.

I’m not trying to be any one, or any type of writer, really. I’m just some chick, sitting down during the quiet moments and spewing forth words that often have little to offer but over-analysis of the self and under-appreciation for the environment that allows them to be said.

Thing is. I rarely have ever deleted posts. Thing is. I have plans to go back to my old ancient before-mommy-blogging-came-into-my-life blog and clean it up and then link it here.

Then. I look back on posts like last night’s and realize how much better that piece of nondirectional time suck was than the way-back stuff. And I’m embarrassed. Here I am, occasionally calling myself a writer and I have historical proof of a complete lack of congruent thought, inability to cull a post in the usual creative format and also, the all important: a lack of effort to just post a picture or two of the kid.

Or not post at all.

So, the long and short of it is: I’m sorry you had to read that post last night, in all of it’s glorious suckitude.

(and this one, too.)