Zen moment

Thanks to the weather in Dallas, I get to wake up really early tomorrow to fly home. Normally getting to the airport and having to stand in line at the ticket counter for almost an hour would put me in a bad mood, and finding out that there was no way for me to fly out until tomorrow would put me over the edge. But not today. Someone must have slipped something into my drink. Or I've seen enough episodes of Airline to know that there's nothing the poor person behind the ticket counter can do when the weather shuts down the hub you're supposed to fly through. So I gladly took what I got and went back to the awesome new apartment. The closest I came to getting pissed was seeing the people who think they're too good to stand in a long line try to sidle up to the ticket agent, playing like their cancelled flight is just something that can be taken care of really quickly. Like the other 100 people in line aren't experiencing the same problem. Unless you have a lung in a cooler that was supposed to fly commercial, you're not too good for the line. I also got annoyed when I was right at the front of the line and the geniuses in front of me were trying to haggle with the ticket agent like they were at an open-air market. As if the ticket agent was going to make seats just magically appear on some flight or make the weather in Dallas better. The best part is that I get to go to work in jeans tomorrow since I have to be at work immediately after landing. That will be fun. Tennis shoes and jeans in chambers is a no-no where I work. Unless you're me and it's tomorrow. Good thing I actually have some shirts here; otherwise, I'd be choosing between my Gettin' Lucky in Kentucky, Keep Lexington Lame, or Texas Law t-shirts (all dirty). Sad when you're burnt orange expression of school spirit is the classiest thing you have to wear.

The new apartment is great. Turns out I don't like having movers. I felt really bad just standing there watching these people pack up my stuff. I offered to help, but they said I'd just get in the way. And some feat of physics meant that I was unable to get all the paper back into the boxes after unwrapping everything that was packed. How does that happen? How was it that I could unpack like 50 glasses and not then be able to get just the paper back into the box? Turns out having stuff wrapped with care is just a pain in the ass. By the end of every box, I was waist-deep in paper. The guys come to uncrate our table top tomorrow and then the process of moving will be over. Yay!!

Big weekend

Leaving for the Big D for my 10 year high school reunion. I will get to see my lovely fiance, although he will most likely be bored out of his skull. It'll be good to see the girls from high school. Normally we only ever see each other at weddings and the most recent wedding was in May, so it's not like it's been forever since I've seen them. But it's always a good time. There will be one girl there from our circle who sort of dropped off the face of the planet for 10 years. So that should be fun. She was the hot one in the group - the one who you wouldn't go out with alone because that invariably meant cute guys would want to talk to her and the dumpy friends of these guys would want to talk to you. Good times. The part of me that still sees the world through junior-high eyes would like to see some bitches who tanned too much and now look like hags. I don't know where this comes from since I got off relatively easy when it comes to being on the receiving end of adolescent cruelty. Which is amazing given my appearance in junior high and the beginning of high school. Anyways, I have my dance routine all ready in case a Romy and Michelle opportunity presents itself. I have a feeling I'll just stand in a corner with the women I know and love and occasionally fake a smile for someone I vaguely remember. Good times will be had by all. Except my lovely fiance. But I'm sure the sheer joy he will experience by seeing my lovely face will make up for everything.

The eyebrow lady was awesome. So although I may be walking into this shindig with some fucked up hair (bangs were such a good idea in theory), at least my eyebrows will be rockin'! I was a little disturbed when I was at the salon because I heard some woman talking about how she was waiting for her daughter to finish with the eyebrow lady. The daughter comes out and she can't be older than 10. What 10-year-old is even thinking about their eyebrows, let alone thinking of getting them threaded? I have a feeling the mom might have encouraged this. It all reminded me of a disturbing episode of Sunset Tan (I watch it purely for anthropological research purposes) where this woman spends like $1200 to prevent her young daughter from looking pasty in school pictures. The saddest part was when the mom actually encouraged her daughter to get the "Lindsay Lohan" and the poor kid came out looking like an oompa loompa. Might as well save that cash for the therapy your daughter will need to correct the damage you have done to her, lady.

Over it

Life's good. The difficulties created by the existence of choice notwithstanding, I am very aware of the fact that I have nothing to complain about. And I'm grateful for that. Not that this knowledge always prevents the mopes; the mopes happen. I just give myself a very short window in which to mope. One evening and that's it. Over it. Done.

Getting my eyebrows threaded today. I recently realized that my eyebrows don't match. Neither eyebrow is a disaster, but they look like they belong on different faces. Let's hope the famous Fatima does right by me.

Complaining

So the stupid Live Earth extravaganza ruined my Saturday night. No Suze Orman for 2 weeks in a row. And this weekend it was all for a bunch of spoiled celebrities who probably traveled on private jets for shows that had a "carbon footprint" the size of John Mayer's head. I like my Suze Orman. Partly because I always feel a little better about the sorry state of my finances when I hear some of the things that other people manage to get themselves into. I may be broke and swimming in debt, but it's all under control (or it soon will be under control; thank you, clerkship bonus). I'll admit that the idea of actually having extra money after rent and bills are paid freaks me out a little. I'm used to being broke. I know broke and I can do broke. What I don't know is disposable income that needs to be grown into something I'm supposed to retire on. I don't know what to do with it. Not that I'm complaining about it (despite the title of this post), it's just new for me. I need me some of that private equity.... I don't know what it is, but it appears that it involves rich people.

I'm also going to take this opportunity to complain about choices. Choices make things difficult. They make you sit there and evaluate what you're doing when you don't have much of a clue to begin with. I haven't had to make too many big decisions in the last few years and limited options tend to make the decision pretty simple. In college, I had all of two job offers, only one from a stable firm; easy. The price difference between UT and law school in NYC made the law school decision really, really easy. The clerkship thing was pretty much a no brainer - I took the offer I got (and it turned out beautifully - bonus). Picking a law firm wasn't that hard. So, I'm facing choices for the first time in a long time. And I don't like it. It upsets the natural order of things, i.e., inertia. I really have no idea what I'm doing. Thank goodness the fiance is an expert at talking me down to earth. Which is good. Otherwise, I'd just have to join the circus. I know I shouldn't complain about having choices. It's a dumb thing to complain about. But it's what's been driving me nuts lately. So there. Maybe next time I'll complain about the fact that the half pint of ice cream that I'm eating every night doesn't seem to be helping me put on any weight.

A proposal

Hair stylists should make the client do their own hair after it's cut. That way, the client knows whether she'll look like a tool when she tries to do it herself. My current style, which is sort of layered on one side (thanks for those layers I didn't ask for), and a bob on the other (couldn't even bother to make each side match, huh?), is proof positive that God gets angry when you cheat on your stylist. Of course, when I left the salon, my hair looked fine. But, lo and behold, after a shower I discover that the new do isn't so hot when stlyed by yours truly. I'm not Vishnu, I only have two arms, I can't wield some big-ass brush and tame the cowlicks that cover much of the back of my head. I know that I could probably go back to this woman (if I could remember her name) and ask her to fix it for free, but this just makes me wonder if I wouldn't leave with a more fucked-up hairdo. So I made an appointment with a stlyist that has a client I know (and she has cute hair). His name is Troy, which I figure is a good sign that he's probably got talent. I'd honestly be scared to go to some guy named Bill. Because a hairstylist named Bill = mullet.

What's the difference between all wheel drive and four wheel drive? If four wheels are driving (or whatever), isn't that all of them, so is it the same as all wheel drive? Yes, as a matter of fact, I do get ripped off every time I go to the mechanic.

Consumer report - Christian Dior cream to powder foundation = totally awesome. Light and lasts all day. I'm in love. And the lady was all slick, showing me one eye with concealer and one eye without. Turns out, I have large, nasty bags under my eyes. Who knew? So I'm a chump. With bright eyes.