Melanie’s Law
You know Murphy’s Law, right? “Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.” Well, I figured out a similar law, as it applies to my hair. This new adage is something along the lines of “If no one else sees your hair, it will look amazing.”
Basically, I can work hard to do everything right for my curls on a night, when, say, I have a date. I shower in the morning, let my hair air dry, use the expensive products – all the things that my stylist recommends. I can do them ALL while playing reruns of Project Runway on my laptop, pausing only to lip synch to Shania Twain songs and my hair will still look frizzy. Sometimes it looks OK, but it never looks amazing.
Case in point, Friday night. I was going to a drag show in the Castro (that translates to a date in San Francisco talk), and I damn well wanted to look good. I did all the right stuff, and here’s the result:
Not terrible, but not as great as it could be. Certainly not as great as today. Because today it is raining and I’m wearing the same gym pants as yesterday and I haven’t seen a friend or acquaintance in three days so I decided to take a break from wearing pajamas and eating plain noodles while standing up to take a shower, and LOOK HOW AWESOME MY HAIR LOOKS:
It’s like my hair KNOWS when I want it to look good, and it’s mad at me, so it refuses to cooperate when it will behest us. But my hair also seems to want to keep me at bay, and instead of just always looking terrible, when the situation is so that I will not see a single person that I know, it looks great. Luckily my hair hasn’t heard of the internet yet, so boo yah sucka sucka!
Ok, I gotta go. My hair might realize what I’m doing any minute and punish me. But I would like to take a moment to point out how ridiculous I look when I take pictures of myself in the bathroom mirror. I call this one Sexy in Gym Clothes or You Are Such A Dork, Melanie, You KNOW This Will Look Like You Are Trying Way Too Hard:
This one here is called The Top of the Head is the Worthless Part or Look, I Mopped the Floors!:
And, finally, I give you It’s 5 O’Clock Somewhere:
Good Hair, Bad Day
Do you guys remember last week and it was finals week and I had more to do than I thought I did and it was really stressful and laundry is the one thing that suffered the most because I didn’t do it?
Well, right when I was about to have a mental breakdown, I looked in the mirror and my hair looked awesome. And then I got my camera and took a picture. And now I will show you, so you, as my blog reading audience, will know what I look like without lesbian braids:
And I was all like, “This hair is good. Too good not to mess with.” So I scrunched it, and it got even better:
I was so focused on taking picture of my hair that I forgot to smile. Or maybe I forgot to smile because I was stuck in a studio apartment on a beautiful day with 300 Spanish flashcards – who knows? But I did then, in my moment of vanity/not studying, decide that I have perfect hair for a 28 year old in the 1980s. Here’s proof:
You are probably wondering if that’s a bikini top I’m wearing as a bra. And, to that, I say, “SHUT UP IT WAS FINALS WEEK. LOOK AT MY HAIR YOU JERK.”
Now you’re probably thinking that my facial expressions in the photos are terrifying. You are correct. Without words, this could be a photo essay from a book on the mood cycles of a serial killer. With good hair. And this would be the back cover…
I Tried. I Really Tried.
I love girlie shit. I just suck at it. Like today, I tried to follow a simple hair braiding lesson that was posted by the incomparably adorable Joanna Goddard. The end result has me looking like a lesbian football player from Germany dressed as Princess Leia. Not that I have anything against any of those titles, but if I’m going to look like a lesbian, I would like it to be Portia DeRossi; if I am going to look like a football player, I would like the abs that come along with it; if I am going to look like a German, I would like a pair of lederhosen; and if I am going to look like Princess Leia, I would like a metal bikini AND an Ewok.
What? You don’t believe me? Well, here is proof. This is the look I was going for:
That’s Joanna Goddard’s insanely gorgeous friend. Yes, I knew that I had my work cut out for me when I started, but the two of them just made it sound so easy. Now, I know they are liars. It’s not easy. Here’s what happened:
1.) I was supposed to part my hair into 2 sections. Joanna suggested that I start the part crooked. So I did. See:
I was holding my fingers up because I love peace. Not really. I was just trying to keep count of which step I was on – obviously I got confused early. And I do like peace, but not enough to make that sign in pictures. But you can see that I followed the first step just fine.
2.) Braid 2 ponytails. I wasn’t worried. In fact, I was thrilled. Braids! I can do that! Yay understanding!
3.) Simple – told me to make sure the tops of the braids were loose. I did. They were. But I took a pic to PROVE it. I could already see that this wasn’t looking quite right.
Do you SEE how loose those tops are? I sure did, hence my fighting face.
4.) “Take a braid and wrap it around the front. Wrap it low and loose near your hairline.” Ummmm. Ok?
That’s not fake anger. I can see the flying saucer shaped debacle that this is becoming. My American Apparel shirt is literally morphing into a muscle tee as the hairstyle nears completion.
5.) “Pin the braid with bobby pins.” Sure. I can do that. None of these steps are hard in-and-of themselves. And my hair loves when I put shit in it, including bobby pins, mousse, pens and little pieces of paper. Don’t think too hard about that.
6.) “Take the second braid and wrap it around the back. Again, I like to keep it low and loose so it sort of flows into the front braid.” Oh, you do, do you? Well, what if your HAIR IS MADE OUT OF ROPE?
7.) “Pin in place. If your hair is long enough, tuck the end of each braids behind the other braid (right where they meet) and pin to hold. Voila!”
I don’t know what Joanna Goddard meant by “Voila!” but I would bet $30,000 that it was not this:
I gained 12 pounds and a girlfriend as soon as I secured the last pin. It was really hard to get pics because I was too busy thinking about buying a house in Bernal Heights, but here is the back:
I didn’t want to give up, so I took the braid that went around back and brought it to the front.
Slightly better. Marginal difference. I wore it out, and the postman liked it. And no men hooted OR hollered at me, which was a nice break when walking down Mission Street. I threw on some earrings and a little powder first. Here is the finished product:
So what do you think? Total failure? I at least had fun learning how bad I look in braids.
And now, a moment of silence for all who were lost in the line of duty.
A Really Good Experience
Usually I am a girl with excellent coffee luck. One of my best friends is a San Francisco food superhero, and she often has a lot of extra coffee beans lying around – so many that she cannot drink them all herself. So, she usually keeps me stocked with some grade-A stuff, if you know what I mean. The kind of stuff that comes from coffee places with names that obtusely reference the importance of caffeine for us new, young, old and busy adults. And as a 28-year-old, narcoleptic undergrad, I consider good coffee a necessary part of my daily regimen.
Unfortunately, my endless well of coffee recently went dry. I do hope that this is a temporary dry spell, but today I could hold out no longer. I’ve made about 15 beans of Trader Joe’s coffee that has been in my freezer since 2010 last for three days. Things were bad. And, so, on my way home I stopped by Four Barrel – a delightful little coffee boutique that is conveniently near my house. And that takes credit cards, which is necessary if you don’t carry cash, which I think is everyone these days who isn’t a gangster*.
I love the way that place looks, feels and smells. Sometimes I don’t feel cool enough to go inside, like when I’m wearing a frizzy bun and my sweatpant bloomers, but that’s probably just mostly in my head. The space is gorgeous, and I’ve always had great coffee there. But today was extra nice because, as I purveyed the coffee beans (gorgeously displayed, as you can see), a lovely young lady came up and asked me if I needed help. And since I am trying to ask for help more these days (it’s part of ‘living in the moment’), I decided that I did need some help.
I explained what notes I like in my coffee, but I’m no coffee doctor, so I just used my own words. I told her that I like coffee that tastes like the holidays – with brown sugar and vanilla and cinnamon – and that I tend to not like very citrusy coffees because I find them too acidic. She then selected a bag of coffee and explained it’s flavors to me. She then, without judging or making me feel poor, she suggested another variety that was significantly cheaper.
I was taken aback, and not because I apparently look like the broke student that I am, but because her suggestion featured notes of orange and pomegranate. She saw the doubt in my eyes and convinced me to that the orange was more candied, with strong notes of brown sugar, and that the vanilla backed up both flavors wonderfully.
I took her word for it, and am now the proud owner and consumer of some amazing Guatemala Ojercaibal. I really appreciate good customer service. So much, in fact, that I wrote this here blog about it.
So, next time you’re in the Mission and you want a great cup or pound of coffee, I highly suggest Four Barrel. They’re cool, but not so cool that they are mean. You know what I’m talking about.
Melanie out.
* Gangster: Like Scarface because he is not real and wears hats. I didn’t mean, like, gang members who are real and live in my neighborhood. You guys are cool in my book. Errr, blog. Wait – we’re cool, right?
The Wrong Way to Read the News
It’s going to be one of those days. It’s barely 7:45 AM and already two different news articles have made me cry. And not just a single tear spilling out, but these have made me really cry – with the salty face water running down my cheeks and landing on the table. And the table is teak wood, so I then had to blindly find my way to the paper towels and wipe off the liquid before my tears destroyed my interior finishes. Then I remembered that I ran out of paper towels, so I stumbled back, crying harder and used my tank top, spilling more face water in the process. The first story, the one that sparked the eye rain, is actually quite sad, and I’m sure it had similar affect on other readers.
A New York Times article about a couple who were both diagnosed with life-threatening cancer within days of each other. And they’re not even mad about it. They’re all in love with each other and happy to be able to have a deeper understanding of each other’s battles. Really??? People say shit like that? I cried and cried and cried. Not sure if I was crying because I was sad for the couple or because I’m selfish and I can’t even find a guy who wants to introduce me to his parents, let alone someone who says things like, “I wouldn’t want to have cancer with anybody else but her.”
Whether or not I’m a selfish jerk, it is understandable why I cried into my coffee and all over my table while reading this article. Shortly thereafter, though, another article got my face juices flowing. It was about another kind of epidemic. It was about something that affects most of us every single day, for better or for worse. It was about something that brings me in touch with my Jewish roots. It was about Groupons.
That’s right, this NYT article about “online deal ploys” made me cry the same amount as the cancer couple one. Says a restauranteur, “… Groupon gave us a massive marketing campaign that a small business like ours would never be able to afford.” I read that, and I cried! I cried out of sadness for struggling small businesses. I cried out of gratitude for the start-ups that are helping them. I cried because Groupon, according to the article, just turned down an offer for $6 billion and I didn’t think of something that Google wants to buy for that much money.
And then it got worse. The article begins with people lauding the online deal sites, but end with their critics – whose main function in the article seems to be to make me cry because I am an asshole for crying earlier. The critics worry that these sites are hurting the restaurants, who make no money off the deals. And one such critic says…hang on…it’s hard for me to quote without crying…”… I worry that when they (online deal sites) wash away, and the tide pulls back, everyone will be expecting the kind of discounts that make it impossible for small businesses to stay afloat.”
And so, I give you evidence that today will be “one of those days.” I will stay away from puppy commercials and children all day.
Insensitive?
Outside Wheeler Hall the other day, I could not decide if UC Berkeley was being a little insensitive or if sometimes the universe just makes fun of people in wheelchairs.
Spanish Class
Forgive me for not blogging that much, but it turns out that Berkeley is way harder than community college. Whoda thunkit? Plus, I’m overcommitted and attempting to overachieve, which leads me to not blog as much as before. So, I’m trying to get better at it, but it’s slow going.
Anyway, remember when I was all scared about changing my major from English to Peace & Conflict Studies? Well, that was because of the language requirement for PACS. Four years. But I figured that people learn a second language all the time, and I’m not terribly stupid, but it turns out that I am.
My Spanish class, taught entirely in Spanish, is much harder than I thought it would be. I am taking Spanish 12, which sounds impressive, but is really Spanish 1 & 2 combined into a single semester. So, in the foreign language department, 1+2=12. I should be fine, or so I thought when the semester began, because I’ve had 2 years of college level Spanish.
Ok, so it was at a dumpy university. And it was five years ago. But I got A’s! And now? NOW I AM THE SLOW KID.
The other day the professor went around and asked us what we eat that is bad for us, and I said, ‘I watch TV.’
At least I said it in Spanish.
Life Without You Is Not Worth Living
Dear C.P.,
Today, I experienced the bitter taste of what my life would be like without you. At first, I was OK. In the sanctuary of my own house, I felt a bit sad and feeling a little bit disconnected, but alright none-the-less. I had my laptop and, with it, plenty of distractions to keep me from dwelling on the empty space you left beside me in my bed. Although I did briefly reminisce about losing you in my covers each morning when my alarm goes off. But the sadness was manageable.
Leaving my house, however, I felt naked, exposed. I felt like every person on the street could see right through me. I felt vulnerable. I felt alone. Without you, my hand had nothing to hold on to as I made my way to the coffee shop. They say you don’t know what you have until you lose it, and ‘they’ are right. I hadn’t even noticed how close we had become until you were so quickly extracted from my life.
Every time I spoke ill of your rang loud in my ears. I cringe thinking of all the times I demonized you or complained about you to my friends. I’ve cursed you and cursed at you. I just wasn’t aware of how intricately intertwined we had become and how important you really are to me. And to think I lost you, LOST YOU, just because I drank a little too much at a wedding. I am so, so sorry. When I tried to reach you this morning, through the fog of my hangover, a man answered. A MAN! I didn’t even know you liked men. And do you know what he said to me? Well, of course you do. He said that he couldn’t even figure out how to turn you on. How can you be happy with that? I know just how to push all of your buttons. Come home to me and I will make sure that your needs are always met, I promise.
When you come back, if you come back, I will treat you with the tender care that you deserve. I will make sure to appreciate you for everything you are, everything you do for me and the ways in which you better my life. I will not focus on the negative any longer, dear cell phone, I will just treasure all 900 minutes of talk time that we are blessed to have together each month.
I hope to have you with me again soon.
Love,
Melanie
Someone Had to Say It
In between massive study sessions, I’ve begun searching for inspiration for the finest Halloween costume in the land. Generally, this means innovative Google searches such as “women’s halloween costume” and “best costume.” I’ve yet to come up with an idea for my Halloween digs, but I did run across this, in the archives of Parenting Magazine, nonetheless:
Am I the only one who’s first thought was NOT, “This kid is dressed as a giant, pink squid?”
It’s really foolish to dress your child up like a bris gone wrong, especially when there are such better costumes out there that won’t scar your child for life.
Like this:
Or maybe, like me, you generally dress up as things you love for Halloween, and you want your children to be able to do the same. I love sushi. Once, I was sushi for Halloween. And now, my kids can follow in my footsteps:
But, seeing as I currently have no child, this post is not about me. It’s about parents with babies. Babies that need Halloween costumes. And if you’re not feeling that giant penis costume or the turtle kid or even baby sushi, then fret not. I have the perfect costume idea: dress your kid up as me!
