Thursday, March 22, 2007
She is a harsh taskmistress, no?
Today I had planned, after the departure of Romeo the carpenter (who is not here yet), to throw a small bag in the crapmobile and motor myself to the shore. Merujo goes on shore leave! Lock up your men and salt water taffy! But, wouldn't you know it, the fates have conspired against me. It appears that while today will be a decent day at the beach (if you like freezing your ass off on the water), both tomorrow and Saturday will be rainy. While I'm not opposed to rain at the shore - it is wet there, anyway - the Big Crazy Eye and I don't do so well driving in the rain these days. I get all freaky and panicky just driving home from work in a downpour in familiar territory. The combination of chilly rain and poor vision three hours from home is not really a particularly outstanding one. So, it looks like I'll be hangin' at home. Could be worse. And I'll save money (that I really didn't have for the shore trip, anyway!!)
It does suck just a tiny bit, though - I'd found a hotel room for $35 for tonight out at Rehoboth (off-season, weekday night prices are a Good Thing) and I was ready to even drive down to Chincoteague and look for dead, stuffed Misty. Eh, I'll survive. Maybe I'll take a summer Thursday off, when the weather is good and I can actually put my tootsies in the water without suffering hypothermia. That would actually be cool, come to think of it, because I could hop a cheap boat ride along the inlets of Assateague and get a chance to see the wildlife (and take crappy photos of said critters.) The boats don't run until May.
But there's something about being down at the shore when it's empty. Barren. Windy. Cold. Quiet. It's a very peaceful thing. I'll find some local quiet, and that's cool.
Hey, I can even try to jump start my brain and get some radio writing done. I haven't had anything on WAMU since January, and I need to get my shite together there.
And (she writes, rationalizing her weather-induced lesser choice) I can spend the big bucks I would have coughed up for gas today for a hair cut. Yes, Ms. Budget Life does not go to a swanky salon anymore (not that the salon I used to go to before the eye was actually swanky. It's all relative.) I have become a Hair Cuttery girl. I color my hair at home with the old $6.95 container of Nice 'n' Easy 116A, then take a deep breath and play "Hair Cuttery Russian Roulette." It's the Apocalypse Now of salons. You know, you're Martin Sheen, your life is really screwed up, and you really don't have another choice. So, you accept the mission. You stagger up river (okay, up the Pike) and you are never sure of the outcome. And, just like driving up the Pike, you encounter freaks along the way.
Just as long as I don't leave looking like Marlon Brando, I guess I'm doing okay.
Let's see if I get a stylist today who shares a common language with me. (Generally, Russian and German are not the languages heard at Hair Cuttery.) I had some really bad haircut experiences when I lived in London because the stylist and I did not share enough of a single language. I think it scarred me for life. (Really, one of them cut a pineapple shape into my hair. He liked "natural shapes." I didn't know enough Italian to say, "Dear god, get your hands off of me!")
Romeo, wherefore art thou? Guess I'll go make some coffee and wait by the balcony.
Yeah, just call me the fat Juliet of North Bethesda. Actually, I'm so excited about the damn carpenter, I might just kiss him.