First practice tonight, and it was pretty good. I was definitely out of tune at some parts, and missed where I was supposed to come in a couple times - but one of the songs that I'd been most nervous about, "Balls to the Wall"? Apparently I did it impressively. Go me. And now I've sung audibly in front of people other than my husband, so that seal's broken.

Tonight, I'm drinking some icewine (stupid wine store didn't have my Victoria Reserve, but whatevs, this icewine is pretty delicious) and starting a new crochet project: the Starling Handbag. I've got some knit projects that need finishing - weaving in ends, a button sewn on - and some sewing projects to work on, but I'm crocheting tonight. Awesome.

Well, we got a van, and, I think, a very good one. It even has - although this was not a selling point, but an added bonus - a little tv for people in the backseat, hooked up to a vcr. And a good thing that we have a second vehicle, because then the hybrid's left front tire started losing air pressure at a ridiculous rate, so we took it in to the dealer. Now, we had to buy a whole set of new tires like a year ago, so of course I'm catastrophizing and thinking they won't be covered under warranty (because it's ridiculous - it's basically like, "Um, if we can even suggest that you might have driven over something that fucked up your tire, that's *your* problem, not ours.") - I should point out that this is the *tire maker's* warranty, not the dealership's. Anyway, so I was kind of dreading having to buy new tires all over again - but lo and behold, they found a hole and patched it and it was totally free, we didn't even pay for labor.

What other excitement has there been? Um. Greg started a cock rock cover band, and I'm singing for them. Or, that's the idea, anyway. Our first practice is tomorrow, and I am super nervous. Super duper nervous. Oh well. Oh, also? My biggest fan is Skeeter. It's really adorable, actually. I don't know why, exactly, but he loves my singing and has to be as close as possible to me when I'm doing it. Like, if there's a closed door between us, he will cry outside it constantly until I let him in, and then he's all up in my business. Does he think I'm purring? Am I hitting some magical happy-cat frequency? What? I don't know, but he loves it, and it's so cute.

I'm starting bellydance class this Sunday, in Hillsborough. Same teacher, but those classes are focusing more on tribal fusion style, and I'm excited about that. (A wee tiny bit nervous, too. I'm good at being nervous. Or bad about being nervous.) I also think there might not be an improv part to these classes. Which is less to be nervous about. (Although I do want to do improv at some point, so I can learn to be comfortable with it.)

And let me slap some pictures on this shit to liven it up a bit. Let's let the parade of vanity continue: I got my eyebrows waxed. Yeah. (Although the aesthetician says that even when they're grown out and what I consider "wild and woolly" they're actually really great eyebrows. Who knew? I am genetically blessed when it comes to eyebrows, I guess? I'd have traded good eyebrows for, oh, no gallstones or no fatty liver or no anxiety, but I'll take what I can get.) Shit, and I also got new glasses, but I haven't taken pictures of them yet. I should probably do that, and also get pics of the new van. It's the Warner Bros. edition, so it's got fucking Bugs Bunny on the side. Yeah. Anyway, eyebrow vanity ensues, before and after:

Basically the same, only neater. And now, bedtime.

PS - Susan pointed out to me that my boobs look insane in some of the pictures I posted the other day. And I took those, so I guess it's just the angle or something. I mean, they're not nonexistent, but they're not that crazy huge. I just noticed in the new haircut picture where I'm blinking - HOLY SHIT, they are fucking insane. All I can say is, Greg took the picture, so it must be his fault. I don't think it was on purpose (*those* pictures don't make it to the blog, heh heh heh* - joking!), but maybe subconsciously he just framed it like that?

*We've been watching Taxi lately, and I fucking love Louis de Palma, so we're always quoting him, most often "As per usual" and the "Heh heh heh" (from the "Louie and the Nice Girl" episode).

Dear Fuckwit in Sanford,
You woke our asses up at 8:40am, to tell us to come out and look at the minivan you're selling. Not terrible, since we took today off to look at and buy a minivan, and we were getting up nine anyway, but still, we pulled our clothes on and got an earlier start than we'd planned on, and agreed to drive out to Sanford to look at your minivan *before* going to the bank. So, you knew that, you knew we were leaving immediately after getting off the phone with you to drive out to damn Sanford, and you had Greg's cellphone. So WHY THE FUCK, when you drove in to work shortly after hanging up with us and noticed the "check engine" light was on, did you not CALL US RIGHT BACK AND TELL US NOT TO COME? WHY? What's up with that, asshole? So we drive an hour and a fucking half out to Sanford, and when Greg calls you as a courtesy to let you know we're almost there, THEN you tell us it's a no-go because your car needs to be looked at by a mechanic. I mean, kudos to you for not trying to sell us a potentially really fucked-up car, and getting it checked out instead of selling it as-is. But two big thumbs-down and two fat middle-fingers-up to not calling us as soon as you decided that. What the hell? You were just going to let get *all* the way there, show up to look at the car, and then be like, "Oh, whoops, guys. Y'all have to turn around and drive an hour and a half back. Sorry." Fuck you, dude. Don't bother calling us back tomorrow to let us know what's up with the "check engine" light - we won't be buying your car. Thanks for wasting a good chunk of our day, you dick.

UGH. I swear, people are fucking morons. We decided to get a second car - a minivan for Greg to cart around band stuff, mainly. We've been trying to get up with bitches on Craigslist, and let me tell you, these people. I don't know what their deal is. They're morons, or delusional, or have no idea how to do actual business, or are just not that motivated to sell shit they claim to want to sell. One woman was nice, reasonable, the car seemed good - but we found out when we got home last night that it was a dud, lots of problems with that specific model. The other guy we managed to get up with yesterday, we drive out to look at his car, it's alright - but he wants CASH. I mean, not even wanting a cashier's check, he's all, "Well, I guess...but really I'd prefer to just get cash and not have to deal with a bank." Really, dude? I think the problem is, this guy was obviously much better off than we were - he had like seven cars and shit, and just felt like getting rid of a couple, but didn't really need to get rid of them. (Although who the fuck needs seven cars? Christ.) Anyone who is in his socioeconomic class is not going to be buying his generally-okay, not-bad-condition but not great used car with - let's be real - TONS of mileage. The people who are going to be looking at it are going to be closer to me and Greg's situation, and they're not going to be any more likely to walk around with $4000 in cash than we are. I mean, if the credit union would even be alright with handing us cash. And as for "not dealing with a bank" - sorry, dude, the bank has to see the title and appraise the car before we can seal the deal, and that means you and the title and the car are going to have to go to the bank with us. What the fuck are you smoking. I don't even know. Then this fucker in Sanford, who lets us waste three goddamn hours for nothing - I was livid. The deal was, he was at work, but we were going to meet him at his work and look the car over and test drive it. I was seriously considering calling him back at his work, after Greg hung up (and of course Greg was all nice about it), and cussing his ass out for wasting our time. He had Greg's cell number! You can't take two minutes at work and call us when we've only been driving for ten minutes, twenty minutes, thirty - even an HOUR into the drive would've been better than an hour and a half! - and let us know to turn around? UGH. Then all the bitches we called who were like, "Uh, let me call you back in twenty minutes," and then DIDN'T. Are you TRYING to sell a car, motherfucker? Or just talk to a bunch of strangers on the phone? What. Greg called one woman yesterday, late afternoon-ish, and she talked to him for like three minutes, and then told him she was in a meeting and would call him back. WHAT meeting, on a Sunday at like two? Some dude showed us a van in pretty crap condition, and the check engine light was on, and he kept saying, "I guarantee you it's the oil - it needs an oil change, and it always comes on when it needs an oil change." I don't know, dude, your van looks pretty crap, and if it really *is* just needing an oil change, get an oil change, and show the van when the light's NOT on. I'm not buying anything with the check engine light on. I mean, I could buy something with the light off, only to have it turn on later, but that's a risk you just have to take. When you *know* the light's on - it could be nothing, or it could be huge, and I'm not paying you, getting the car, and then finding out it's a huuuuuuge problem, because at that point you're just going to be like, "Not my problem anymore." Fuck that. It's enough of a risk buying a used car that seems to be in perfect condition and doesn't have the check engine light on. Why add to that?

Josh very nicely came out in the evening to go look at three vans with us, and the third one was the best we'd looked at, and in good condition. So tomorrow at lunch, we're meeting the owner at the bank, and hopefully we'll leave with a new minivan. Sweet!

Anyway, here are pictures of my new haircut (and I'm blinking in the first one, awesome) - I love it, it's supercute, Mary trimmed it, and put some more layers in, so it's lighter and less sweaty (bonus!), and super wavy/textured. AND! Mary said it's actually in really good condition - the razoring Jess did just "opened up the texture" and made it a little frizzier, but it's not fried. Hell yeah, pass the bleach. (Totally joking.) And now for the vanity parade. (Although, really, with that blinking picture, I should get some self-humbling points? Maybe?)


AND - even though we had to drive all over the place today, it was raining. YAY! (It seems like every time it rains, I'm at work, and I can't really enjoy the rain. But we took today off, and it rained! Happy Hogswatch to me!)

Okay, fingers crossed for the new vehicle!

Two things I'm somewhat ill over:

1-I've been watching Manor House recently, and "Sir John" is a real dick. He likes to say shit like, "My conscience would never allow me to do this in the 21st century," or shit about how it hurts him to see the other members of his household hurting, or he's upset about the inequalities but then kind of throws up his hands all, "What can you do, though? We're here to live as Edwardians, and we must do it properly." And then he does shit like throw tantrums when the cook actually cooks a real Edwardian meal and "Sir John" finds it distasteful. Here's the thing - you're just playacting, so if "your conscience" wouldn't let you hold a fox hunt in the 21st century, "your conscience" wouldn't let you hold a fox hunt on the show, because it's just a fucking show. He's totally loving it - he loves having servants/slaves, and he loves being able to lord it around and no one can say boo to him. The only reason he doesn't do it "in the twenty-first century" is because he couldn't fucking get away with it - people would call him on his bullshit. And he is such a raging dick to Mr. Edgar, the butler - who I didn't like much at first, but he really is the only person in the project who came into it with any realistic idea of what it would be like, and he works so hard, and then "Sir John" is such a dick to him that, in the confessionals, it looks like Mr. Edgar is about to cry. GRR.

2-I just started working on a new sweater for myself, and it's a gorgeous pattern. I really want it to turn out well and especially fit, so I actually knit a gauge swatch. (I hate gauge swatches, but sometimes you just have to.) As far as I can tell, the seafoam stitch pattern repeat is 16 rows over about 36 stitches (with two edge stitches on each side, at least for the gauge swatch, so 40 stitches total). But the gauge itself? 16 stitches and 22 rows *in seafoam stitch* equals 4 inches. WHY? Why the fuck are you going to do that? It seems like 16 stitches and 22 rows equalling 4 inches is somehow the convention - I've seen that as the gauge so many damn times. But when your fucking pattern repeat is 36/40 stitches over 16 rows - why not use that? Figure out how many inches it'll be, and just say, right there in the pattern, "Gauge: 36 (or 40, whichever) stitches and 16 rows equals however-many inches." Because it wouldn't so much of a problem with a more plain stitch pattern - I'd just get out my gauge ruler tool thingy (from Nancy's Knit-Knacks) and count out 16 stitches and 22 rows and measure. But the seafoam stitch pattern has extra-long stitches (from dropped double-, triple-, and quadruple-yarnovers), and counting that shit and measuring it *within the gauge swatch* is going to be a real pain in the ass, if not impossible. What's much easier, is just measuring the *whole* gauge swatch, but that means I have to do some damn math to figure out how big it should be. Pain in the ass.

What I'm not ill over? Having today off as a holiday. Awesome. Also, I'm getting my hair cut this evening, so I figured I better get around to finally posting some hair-related pictures I haven't yet, since it might be rather different after the cut. (If the ends aren't too damaged from razoring and dyeing, I'm just getting a trim, basically. If the ends are as damaged as I suspect they are, I'm going to get more of a haircut, to remove the damaged ends.)

First up, the psyche knot, an old hairstyle I managed to figure out, and I rather like it. (Which I may or may not be able to do again post-haircut.)


And a couple weeks ago, I dyed my hair again - but not purple this time. Here's the before (the purple washed out unevenly, but interestingly):


And here's after - brown:

Man. Yesterday I was in a stank mood. Even Greg will tell you. STANK. I don't even really know where it came from. Today was better, for the most part. There was like one or two grumpy moments, but whatever. Here are some pictures of cats, because I don't feel like blogging, really, I got some knitting to do.

Duh - clearly that's fucking BASIL. Not oregano, Kathy. Basil.

So, I found a bellydance class, and I'm starting in July. I'm pretty psyched about it. But due to a very unfortunate mix-up, I tried to drop in on the intermediate class yesterday. And I hesitated about blogging this, in case the teacher ever finds it (and probably feels bad - but, really, she shouldn't, because it's all down to my own issues), but it's shit that happened to me, shit dealing with my anxiety and stuff, so...here I am, vomiting it up shamelessly on the interwebs. See, I'd emailed the teacher two Fridays ago - classes seem to run in six-week sessions, and you can drop in anytime, but I figured it might be better not to drop in on the last Spring beginners' class (yesterday) but to wait for the next round of beginners' classes (July) and start from the very beginning. The teacher agreed that it might be better to wait for the next round of beginners' classes, but then suggested I drop in on the next intermediate class, as they'd be going over basic moves, isolations, and conditioning, and it would be a good basis for my future studies. The mix-up was that I interpreted "come to the next intermediate class" as the next one held after that email was sent (which was yesterday's class), when the teacher meant the first intermediate class of the next round of classes (which is in about two weeks).

So, all last week I was so nervous about showing up for this bellydance class, and whether I knew enough from exercise videos to keep up with the intermediate students, and you know, then there's my social phobia - so worrying about not knowing a single person and being in a group of strangers. Whatever. I was also worried about liver shit, so I've woken up nervous to the point of nausea every morning, and had to take klonopin semi-regularly, and definitely more often than I'd like. But I don't want to let fear or anxiety keep me from doing something I'm so excited about and want to do, so I just tried to push it down and ignore it. I also had to find some pants, because the exercise...capris I normally wear are possibly a little too loose/bulky and noisy for bellydance (they're cotton, but they kind of rustle and I didn't want to disrupt class or anything - ridiculous, but I'm a worrywort). Do you know how fucking impossible it is to find yoga/pilates-type pants with a drawstring and pockets? I got some yoga pants with the cute foldover top and no pockets, but they're stretchy and slinky, and I'm a little concerned that if I'm gyrating vigorously, they might slowly fall down. And I'm not really worried about dropping-trou totally in class, but I don't want to be constantly hitching them up, which I think is a probability with that pair of pants, cute as they may be. Hence drawstrings. And I might need to use my inhaler, and don't want to be disruptive getting it out of my bag, hence pockets. So I went all over looking for fucking pants - and you cannot find the right style of pants with both pockets and a drawstring. I did find some thick as shit athletic pants with pockets, but they'd be too sweaty, and, really, the right type of fabric and the drawstring are the pertinent parts of this equation. So, I ended up getting some pants with drawstrings and no pockets.

Anyway, so yesterday. Clothes that are at least somewhat practical for bellydance (as it turns out, the pants are slightly too long, and I need to hem them or something), a notebook and pen for taking notes, my inhaler, a bottle of water, etc, etc, directions to the studio, ready to go. Nervous as shit, but also excited. Get there, make it through the warm-up, still nervous, but dealing - and a couple references to "choreography" have been made, so I'm like, "Is this a problem? Did she change the lesson plan? But she told me to come to this class, so...." After the warm-up, she finally notices me, and is like, "I don't recognize you. You're welcome to be here, but this is the last class of this round of intermediate classes, and it's going to be really fast-paced so I don't know if you'll be able to keep up with the choreography." FUCK. So then I was all, "But you emailed me? And told me to come?" And of course she didn't remember, didn't recognize my name, so then I'm like, "You said I should come to the next class, because it'd be on basic moves and isolations, and make a good foundation for the beginners' classes?" At which point she's like, "Oh crap. I'm kind of bad about 'next' - I meant the *next* class." And she was really nice about it, and gave me the options of staying and trying to keep up, or watching to see kind of what class is like - but I was mortified at that point, and just wanted the floor to open up and swallow me. I mean, social phobia, plus anxiety all week long, plus I forgot to mention the night before I'd had nothing but tons of nightmares about doing shit wrong in class and her calling me out in front of everyone else about it. So, total panic. I was like, "Thanks, but I'm just gonna cut out." Grabbed my shit, and made it downstairs and out of the studio before I burst into tears and started hyperventilating. Awesome. I mean, totally not anyone's fault, and just an unfortunate convergence of shit - but a fucking fiasco and basically the worst possible shit to happen at the time if I'm trying *not* to have a meltdown. So I booked home, took two klonopin, and then waited for them to kick in.

Even better? All I did was the warm-up, and there was nothing in the warm-up I haven't done before or was unfamiliar with, and I didn't feel like I was pushing myself particularly hard - but I've somehow managed to fuck up my left hip. I can't fucking walk normally today. I was going to mow the yard - now Greg has to do it (which of course he's like, "It's cool, you'd do it for me if the situation was reversed," but I feel guilty because of course I do). If I'm sitting on the couch, and I go to shift my weight, I have to do it slowly or it hurts so fucking bad and so sharp. Insane.

But yesterday I did do some gardening, and we hung out with Rick in the evening, so, not all bad. We have this tiny (and non-draining) planter for herbs - a Buzzy kit we got at Lowe's or Home Depot. Anyway, it's got oregano, parsley, and chives, and they badly needed transplanting, so I did that, putting them in some empty Cafe du Monde cans and plastic bottles. I ran out to AC Moore for pebbles to put in the bottom (to help draining), and picked up a big tin bucket, two packets of lettuce seeds, and a packet of jalapeno seeds. Greg and I have been talking about getting one of those salad planters, like they have at the farmer's market, where it's all salad greens and lettuce and you just pluck your greens. Well, we haven't gotten around to getting one, and they're usually like $15-20, but the tin, pebbles, and two types of lettuce came out to about $8. (We'll see if it actually works out like I want it to.) I put the oregano in the Cafe du Monde cans (after hammering some holes in for drainage, of course); I put the parsley in one Fiji bottle, and the chives in another; I put the jalapeno seeds in a oolong tea bottle; and I also finally got around to putting together the Buzzy hanging strawberry planter kit. Our tomatoes are doing pretty well, too. Not so much the blueberries, though - the plant is still growing, but no berries.

RIP Farrah Fawcett. Classy, classy lady, who fought cancer bravely, and, I think, did alot to raise awareness of it - which is always a great thing.

I'm happy Ryan O'Neal was by her side when she passed. I'm sad they didn't have enough time to finally get married, but she was with people who loved her (O'Neal, her best friend, maybe some others I'm forgetting - I didn't catch whether Redmond got a special release to visit her). Anyway.