Remy

Remy started playing with Mischief a few weeks ago, and played with us a few weekends ago in Ashland at Cramp-Up.

That's pronounced like Amy, but with an R.

She's cute (if I were male, younger and not attached, I'd be asking her out), just a bit shorter than I am, and wears her dark blonde hair in a perfect bun when she plays. Now, when a woman (or man, for that matter, but I'm ignoring them for the sake of gender-correct pronouns in this sentence) can play ultimate and keep her hair in a perfect bun, she has really long hair.

And Remy does.

On Sunday, she pulled her hair down and began twisting it into a bun. It was the most gorgeous hair I'd seen a long while. Long, slightly wavy (probably from the bun the previous day), light and dark blonde streaks. Very pretty.

I complimented her on her hair. And, to my surprise, she responded, "Thanks. I can't wait for it to grey. I have two hairs that are grey and I'm excited about them."

Blink.

Blink. Blink.

"I can't tell if you're being sarcastic or not."

"Oh, I'm not. That's the first thing I noticed about your hair."

Great.

She continued. "I love grey hair. I think it looks dignified. Classy. I really like grey hair. Paul has grey hair, too. It's cool."

Pei, sitting next to Remy, readily agreed.

What the?

I'm thinking of coloring my hair to cover up these shocking white hairs and everyone around me loves them? I'm so confused.

Actually, that's not entirely true. I'm not so confused about the white hairs as fascinated. Do they grow in white, or turn white? If they turn white, how? If they grow in white, why do I have hairs with white (and I mean white) ends and black roots? Do the cells responsible for color just take a break, then start back up again?

And is the amount of white dependent on my stress level? Because I started getting a lot of white when the girls showed up.

Odd.

 Nights like these

It's a night like this one that makes me wish I liked the taste of alcohol, or at least had a vice with mind/reality altering effects.

Something, anything to ward off the inevitable moments of self-reflection and self-inspection that lead to the writing of inane drivel that makes me cringe when I read it weeks, months, years later.

Ah, but those readings and cringings are far off in the future, and the emptiness is here now. Do I fill it with the usual putzing and fluff crap, or to do stop to listen to what the world is telling me?

 Try to order without looking at the menu.

Try to place an order at a fast food restaurant, or any other restaurant, without looking at the menu.

Try looking at the waiter/waitress/person behind the counter. Look them in the eye.

Unless you've been doing it for a while, it's not as easy as it sounds.

 Boobs! Boobies! Breasts!

A note I received from a friend of mine from L.A:
Kitt-

Is there nothing left sacred?  A blog about your breasts?

This is definitely a unique site to visit.  

John
What? A blog about my breasts? When did that happen? Wha? Wha? Did I miss something?

Seriously though? Nope. Nothing is left sacred. They are pretty nice breasts. You'd write about them, too.

Trust me on that one.

 How to get someone else to clean your kitchen

Oh, we had such high hopes for today.

My entire company (yes, that would be Mike, Chris and I), along with Kris, my mom and a couple friends were journeying out to see SW3: Revenge of the Sith this morning. We went to see the 9:10 showing, which is perfect: too early for the casual movie-goer, too late for the corporate theatre buyout and way too late for the passionate Star Wars viewer, who already saw the movie the at midnight the night before.

After the show, on the way to Apple to drop Mike off so that he could pick up the family car (his Jeep having dropped dead yesterday), I noticed I was having difficulty reading street signs.

Sigh. Migraine number two of the year began this morning. Which has me completely puzzled, as I've been sleeping really well, eating right, exercising regularly, and I'm not (currently) menstruating. As far as I can tell, I haven't eaten any aspartame, sulfites or other triggers. I did have four sips of Doyle's Coke at the show.

But still.

When we arrived home, I wandered towards the bedroom, to hear a commotion in the kitchen. Wandering back, I had just enough vision to see the kitchen floor covered in blood, little doggie footprints all over the place.

Turns out, Annie really, really wanted the dishes of last night's communal dinner, and pulled a bag of dishes from the countertop onto the floor, breaking one as it did. She then cut herself on one of them, and bled all over the floor.

Stupid dog.

Leaving the mess to Kris, I went to sleep, in hopes of avoiding the worst of the pain and blindless.

I woke up to Mom expressing concern to Doyle about Bella, who seemed to be stressed. I called out to Kris, who rushed into the kitchen to comfort Bella in yet another seizure. I followed him into the kitchen, to discover, sure, Bella in a seizure, but also the kitchen in the most beautiful state of cleanliness!

Mom spent the whole 5 hours of my sleeping agony cleaning my kitchen. And it was gorgeous! She threw out all the stuff I didn't need, organized what I did need, put away everything that needed putting away, and cleaned everything else. It was amazing.

Later in the evening, after Cold Stone, Mom commented, "There are easier ways to get your kitchen cleaned."

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