Hair

I got my hair cut today. And cut. And cut. And cut. At one point she said long hair is just pointless, because it just hangs there. Personally, she said, she really likes bobbed or short hair. And really, I would look much better, "fresher", with my hair, say, "to here." But "hair," I said "hair is a celebration of life, a love letter to freedom, and a passionate cry for hope and change!" Just kidding.

Fat on TV?

Butterball-size numbers on the scale require drastic measures such as applying for a reality TV show boot-camp make-over. Wish me luck, fellow size Ls! I Googled the host and she has a reputation. Good. Show no mercy. The inner pig will eat up the abuse while the toity leftie princess will quaff and quote human rights.

Fat Again

Sorry to say, I cannot keep the fat entries at bay. They just keep coming. Like last night at the show, when I split into two people: The one enjoying the band, hanging with good friends who like me despite being fat and seeing A. rock out. And the person who worried the whole time that certain persons in attendance were furiously whispering about how fat A's wife had gotten, soooo fat indeed that at first glance they stared at her with incomprehension, just a nanosecond, just long enough to make her realize what was going on.

Cashew

When the bouncer (I'm exaggerating; just a fat man in a baseball hat) asked us if we were on the guest list last night, I said, of course. I'm the singer's wife. Nah, he said. I only got Karma and Cashew. Excuse me? Enlightenment and Almond? Nah, just Karma and Cashew. Then he gave us a free stamp anyway.

Happiness is a Butter Dish

As I happily reported to Dr. S today, I woke up feeling happy. After seven days of almost total anhedonia, I feel like a normal human being ready to do stuff, such as exercise, by an onion and leeks, get shit done (see adventure in Glendale below) and not want to stab myself in the eye. Total figure of speech. Totally. Dr. S, also happily, in his South Indian accent, agreed that I seemed less "bummed out." I was startled by the colloquialism from this elegant, erudite and eloquent man, but I let it slip. Then he quoted in Hindi a yogi, who recommends not wasting your heart on the many, i.e. shallow, meaningless exchanges with lots of acquaintances, but lavishing your love on the few. Like the yellow butter dish from www.anthropologie.com. Alas, the yellow one is already sold out.

An App That Cures Idiocy!

Helpless, PPD-addled moms, your SOS has been heard. iPhone has a new app called The Cry Translator, which will interpret your baby’s wailing, i.e. interpreting whether the wee one is hungry, sleepy, stressed, annoyed or bored. Infants, of course, are so blasé and bogged down by the ennui of pooping, eating, sleeping and gurgling, that boredom is likely to come up a lot. And for the hungry child, the app has amazing suggestions such as “feed it!” How could I have managed without one?

The above image was "borrowed" from the amazing http://www.idiomsbykids.com/.

Don't Examine Your Tits

The feckin American "we drop you when you get sick" stealth-care system recommends postponing mammograms until your effin 50? And says self-exams are ineffective? What kind of backward, capitalist brainwash bullshit is this? But in the meantime, they lobby for the swine flu vaccine like the master drug pushers they are. Seriously, on Sid, the Science Kid, a PBS kid TV show I loathe beyond words, they devoted a whole segment on the frigging H1/N1. But mama's tits. That's another story.