Fuck Off Britain

I have only two things to say today.

1) Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out, David Cameron, you giant bag of dicks.

and:

2) There must be some sort of brain disease spreading in the UK that has rendered so many people idiots. You people have no idea what you've done.

That's all. I am so fucking disappointed in my homeland. If I still lived there I'd move. Obviously not to mainland Europe though, so thanks for limiting the freedom we used to have, asshats.

Hair Raising

My hair just keeps getting longer and longer, which...well, I'm told that's what hair does, don't think I'm unaware, it's just that it seems to do it way more regularly than I'd like. Sometimes it's okay on the longer side and it feels good to swish around all free and easy, like a ginger hippy princess.

Some days I wake up having slept just right and I look like I have cool, effortless beach waves and hey, check me out, I just woke up looking this awesome. These days happen about as often as you catch a glimpse of a porcine figure with wings floating past your window.

On the other hand, most days I wake up looking like Janis Joplin on a bender, with a head full of bees.

But as discussed ad nauseum for years  now, I never seem able to get a good haircut anywhere. I've tried. So. Many. Times. And I should probably point out, it's not the haircut that's bad usually, so much as my ability to wear it or style it myself without looking like I did it with a snow blower and too much enthusiasm. That's good and well when you're twenty and everyone's like "Check out that chick with the crazy hair, she must be COOL!" Nowadays it's more, "Jesus, check out that obvious cat lady who got dressed in the dark and probably has a family consisting purely of mannequins that she keeps in her basement!"  That and frightening small children in the supermarket.

Which, when you think about it, is the one up side to all this.

However, it's not the look I'm going for. The trouble is I hate safe, boring soccer mom kind of hair cuts, that's not me. I want to walk in there and go, 'give me funky rock chick hair only a little more age appropriate so I don't look like a total asshole.' But somehow I never do as I'm pathetic and inarticulate.

I'm also trying to partially grow out my fringe  a bit (that's 'bangs' to you American folks) and I don't know about you ladies out there, if you've ever tried this, but I'd put it right up near the top of my "Sharp Things I'd Rather Impale Myself On Than Do" list, right after "Licking Donald Trump".

It's such an unfulfilling, labourious, esteem-sucking nightmare. In my opinion anyone attempting this should be allowed to just not leave the house for nine months till it's rectified itself or your head's imploded, and during that time people should bring you all the food/wine/chocolate/tequila you require until it's safe to go out in public once more.

At least I have coffee again.

I'm Decaffeinated

The last couple of days I've been a wholly un-caffeinated mess, since the coffee maker decided it no longer wished to provide me with my life-inducing morning coffee, for no reason other than it is an asshole. Thing isn't even a year old, it was just like, "Oh did you want coffee? Sucks to be you."

Eat a bag of dicks, Oster coffee maker.

So I'm sitting here cursing to myself and waiting for the nice courier man from Amazon to bring me a new one sometime today because Amazon Prime is awesome. And I'm un-caffeinated, I may have mentioned it. It's not pretty. I've been talking to inanimate objects and cursing at my plants.

I could drive the mile or so to Starbucks (let's face it, I could walk but hell, I'm too lazy today to even contemplate that, and my knee hurts probably because it requires caffeine to function) but the Purolator guy's sure to show up the second I leave the house and that would mean me being un-caffeinated for another day and it's for the absolute benefit of humankind that that does not happen.

It sort of takes the shine off of getting up in the morning when there's no delicious, fragrant cup of "awake juice" waiting for me and making the kitchen smell like heaven. Sigh.

I know, it's just hard to be me.

I also realized yesterday that I've lived 100 feet from the ocean for almost a year now and I've still yet to put my feet in it. What the hell? How are you guys today?

What I Did Last Summer

Last summer I moved half way across the country, from the flat, huge-skied, sun-baked prairies, to the more humid and manageable climate of the coast.

This was a pleasant and welcome event in my life, and my ancient Chevy, Victor (because yes he has a name, shut up) handled the 1500 mile trip over flat plains and sharp, steep mountains, with ease, probably thrilled at the dizzying prospect of no longer having to start when it's minus 30 something out, or broil in the hot, prairie, summer sun.

So one day in July I tossed some choice driving playlists on my old iPod, loaded up my car, and hit the road.

I discovered long ago that playlists are key, to making any long trip palatable, particularly if said playlists include endless opportunities to sing like your life depends on it, loudly and with gusto. And particularly if you're driving 1500 plus miles alone in the car, as I was - well alone except for my plants, all of whom, I have on trusted authority, appreciate my melodious screechings. And, let me tell you, there was one particularly enthusiastic rendering of "I Will Survive" that will keep them happy for a long, long time.

Moving to our current city was like being picked up and plopped down on another planet.  After the flat, apocalyptic winter that characterized our last home - the five months every year of icy blanched landscapes and wearing all the sweaters in my drawer simultaneously, had rendered me almost completely devoid of visual stimulation. Finding myself here, near the ocean, surrounded by mild winters and sunny summers, outdoor cafes and markets, beautiful landscapes and blue skies, was a bit like I imagined a totally color blind person might feel if suddenly presented with the ability to see full spectrum color.

Or a Donald Trump supporter if he suddenly tripped and hit his head on a rock and woke up seeing sense.

What's The Point?

This morning, while deciding I couldn't ignore the urge anymore to make a vegetarian Shepherd's Pie for dinner, I dispatched myself to the supermarket for ingredients, then decided I'd earned a Starbuck's coffee and a seat by the ocean because, oh my, what a strenuous activity it is buying carrots and potatoes and limes.

I should probably point out that I don't actually put limes in my Shepherd's Pie, but after all that cooking I will want a goddamn cocktail (that's where the limes come in).

On a nice morning I usually head to a place we call "The Point", where there's a glorious view of the ocean and the still snow-capped mountains, where I sit in my ancient car and contemplate life while spilling coffee down the front of my t-shirt, because I haven't mastered how to put a Starbucks lid on properly yet.

[I tried to insert a photo of The Point here for your visual entertainment, but Blogger won't let me]

This morning, while sitting peacefully, drinking in the view and the remains of my dripping Americano, before heading home to work, I witnessed a man in cycling shorts jump out of a Mazda holding a cup of coffee, fart uproariously, stretch, get back in his car and drive off.

Guy, that's not what serene, beautiful places are for, you dirty skank. And just because I laughed for like...fifteen minutes, doesn't mean I condone such blatant exhibitionism. I didn't know whether he was honest and confident and secure in his public flatulence, or just a douchebag with no manners. Then I noticed he was wearing those stupid ass running shoes shaped like feet, with toes and such and I had my answer.

After he drove off, I noticed the three separate seagull shits on my windshield and realized that I really have no right to judge anyone's public appropriateness.

Blast From The Past

Some days you just have nostalgia in your bones and I'm a firm believer that it has to come out.

To get it out of me, I created a rocking nineties playlist and I've been playing it in the car all week while bopping my head around like an idiot, while young people I passed probably thought "what IS that shit?".

Every single song seems to take me back to a time and a place or a person or a memory of being young and free, of meeting odd people, of travelling, and playing in a band, late night recordings and staying up all night dancing and drinking.

To be honest I'm tired just thinking about it.

There's even a U2 song on the list and well...don't tell anyone. I am so ashamed.

Me in the '90s. Man, I loved that 1960s' suede jacket.

Have a fun weekend. :)