So my band (Secondhand Thong) had a couple gigs recently.  It’s always an adventure.  Sometimes we end up playing somewhat inappropriate venues.  Last Saturday we got heckled pretty bad by a few drunks and an old lady.  Whatever.  Nobody threw anything, and we got paid in beer.  Somebody (not one of the other grrrrls in the band) stuck a hairbrush in my gig case though.  It was full of dishwater blonde dirty hairs and Aquanet stickiness.  Gross.  I threw that…away. 

 

Unfortunately, we’re kind of “on hiatus” now due to Candy (guitar babe) wanting a little more time to herself.  Supposedly we’re going to magically get back together in November, but I don’t see it happening, so I’m kind of on the scam for other musical opportunities.

This morning I was eating breakfast, trying to get ready for work, and I heard the sound of two vehicles colliding.  Then a car alarm.  Then, very soon, emergency vehicles, several of them in quick succession.  It sounded like the car accident I had two weeks ago.  Flashback time.  Not a good way to start the day, but then, neither was being really hung over, or crying in my boss’s office because I hate the “new exciting job thing” that they gave me.  I am having a really hard time staying organized and on top of an ever-changing nebulous job description- a moving target, if you will.

 

The consolation prize  for the job is that I get an office with a window and a different mix of coworkers. 

 

The consolation prize for the car accident is that I got my car back on Friday, sort of wrinkled, a permanent reminder that the accident was my own fault.

Yesterday I got my hair cut.  Since I usually I cut my own hair, it is a rare occurrance to have someone else do it.   Other people always screw it up, whether it is a cheap chain place or an expensive place.  I can screw it up, pay nobody, and have only myself to blame.   So I  just drink a beer and get down to business with a scissors and a mirror.  But I was getting my hair colored anyway (I am less afraid of using a scissors than toxic chemicals) and I figured, what the heck. 

 

She screwed it up (using that crazy thinner tool).  WTF!!  With my glasses sitting on the counter, I couldn’t see- after several snips I realized that it sounded WRONG.  I will cut it myself from now on as usual.

 

I had told Jack when I left to go get his hair cut too.  When I got back, he knows he is supposed to say “nice hair” or some Jack variant of that, but he never does.  He said, “Cut my hair.”  So I did, as usual.  Nothing has changed.  As usual.  It’s like Gilligan’s Island around here: I plot to get off the island, something screws it up, and it’s banana cream pie forever after.

I went to a different grocery store the other day.  Same kind of store, different location.  They didn’t have the beer I wanted (Pabst, 30 pack, in cans), so I didn’t buy any.  Then when I got to the pasta section, I swear it was as though I was on another planet.  There were no “small elbows” anywhere to be found.  The pasta was all in disturbing shapes never before seen.  Large elbows…somewhat familiar, but wrong.  Ziti? Radiatore?  All wrong.  What the heck is “Farfalle?” 

 

I only eat small elbows.  Sometimes, small shells are ok, but only in a mayonnaise-containing salad.  Spaghetti is pretty ok too with spaghetti sauce.  But everything else?  Small elbows and only small elbows.  Logically, I know it is the same subtance in a different shape.  And that’s just wrong.  Illogic won.

 

Digging through the display, though, I found some of the prize booty and made them last night: small elbows with spaghetti sauce.  Also, the beer I bought elsewhere ended up all in the fridge at Secondhand Thong rehearsal, and I am once again beerless…