This might very well be the most boring post in the history of blogging. I thought about writing about how Peggy Olson from Mad Men is my fictional spiritual doppelgänger and how I love her so hard I think I might break. But then I don’t want to be too spoiler-y for those who won’t be able to watch Mad Men until it airs on Netflix or something. I’ve also heard that there are people who don’t care about Mad Men. But that might be urban legend.
Then I was gonna write some more about my love affair with The Ground Beneath Her Feet, but it’s kind of puppy-doggy and eye-googly and doesn’t make much sense. Because really do you care that I squealed with delight as I was reading when Umeed launched into a Molly Bloomesque and yes, I said yes speech? Probably not.
So that leaves me with the petty anxieties that are taking up all the room in my brain besides the tiny spots reserved for Umeed and Peggy.
While I realize I should be grateful for only being plagued with petty anxieties, they do make me anxious nonetheless.
So the first awkward conversation I anticipate will involve my hair. See, I emailed* the salon to complain about my recent hair event. I know, I know, it makes me sound so damn vain I can hardly stand it. And every time I talk about it all I hear is Amy in the Winona Ryder/Susan Sarandon version of “Little Women” crying “Jo, how could you? Your one beauty!” after Jo sells her hair to get Marmee the money to go visit injured Pa somewhere. But damnit, I paid good money to get my hair professionally colored and here I am sitting on the couch looking like a ninth grader from 1987 who had a run in with a bottle of Sun-In.
I’ve never complained about a hair cut/color before. But damnit, I’m going to be FORTY! soon and I don’t want to have tacky orange hair when it happens.
*I had to email because by the time the badness of the hair got to me, it was Sunday afternoon and calling would have done nothing and yet I was so obsessed with the badness of the hair I had to do something or my sisters would have killed me on Sunday night during Family dinner because I wouldn’t shut up about the awfulness on my head.
Okay, the second conversation won’t be awkward. It will just be annoying because I hate having to say things like “you know that email I sent six days ago about the meeting we’re supposed to have today . . . uh, is that happening or what?”
Finally, this probably won’t even be a conversation but I think you need three to make a series or something. Anyway, I asked to leave the BlogHer Ad Network. Yeah, apparently you have to ask them if you can kindly stop running their junk on your website. I don’t have any animosity toward BlogHer or anything, I just decided the amount of real estate they take up is not worth the minor ducats they pay.