Bringing sexy back.

You know what hair fashion I really wish would come back? The French braid. I know that regular braids are still pretty stylin’ - the other week when my man and I went to see Dean and Britta at Schubas, Britta was sporting two little braids, furthering her status in Steve's mind as the Sexiest Older Woman He's Ever Seen. And Ariel Meadow Stallings has braids on almost a daily basis. Those braids are great, but I’m talking about the real French braid, starting right at the hair line, with little bits of hair intricately woven in with each twist. I was damn good at doing my own French braid, and moderately good at doing other girls' heads. Man, I spent a summer practicing on all of my dolls AND my mom’s preschoolers to get the perfect French braid, and for what? For that sometime-in-the-future little girl I may have? Such devotion, wasted. I know that some people could probably still rock the French braid in a stylish, ironic way, but I am neither that stylish nor that ironic, so I’m pretty sure I’d just look like a goob.

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My cat is currently on My List, due to a relatively sleepless night of meowing, needlessly bumping her head against mine, and, the coup de gras, playing with the metal mini-blinds. Then there were the times when she would finally settle down the way that we normally sleep:



only to then tilt her head back towards mine in a rapturous purr, leaving me with a face full of fur, and unable to breathe. God!

We used to think that this restlessness was hunger-related, because Babe is an Eating Machine. When we rescued her from her former home, we were told that she was on a diet consisting of 1 can of wet food, 1 can of tuna, and a bowl of dry food that was constantly re-filled. PER DAY. Well, we nipped that right in the bud, and now she gets ¾ of a cup of dry food a day. I feel that what I deprive her of in food, I make up for with love, stability, and putting up with B.S. such as last night.

We’ve solved the hunger issue, though, by giving her 2 of her ¼ cups of food at night, right before bed. So last night’s escapades weren’t because she was hungry. They were because she’s a spoiled Kitty Turd.

I’m just sleepy, I guess. And it is Friday, and work is slow, so it’s not a big deal. Plus, when Babe reaches up her little paws and meows at me to be put on the windowsill so she can watch the pigeon family that lives in the gutters next door (she’s too lazy to actually jump on the windowsill herself, but we won't get into that), well, you know, that just melts my heart.



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Would someone like to come over and make sense of my apartment? To put it plainly, I can’t decorate for shit. Nothing makes any sense. I wrote an email to citycrab in response to her request for votes on her two places to choose to live, and I outlined some of the oddities of my apartment to her:

- One bedroom that has an odd-shaped closet and only fits my bed.
- Another small bedroom that doesn't get any heat in the winter and no air in the summer.
- A massive space heater that can’t have any furniture within anywhere near it.
- Odd-sized windows (found this out trying to hang curtains this week).
- Slanty walls.
- Indoor/outdoor carpeting.

Nothing is organized, so most of my stuff and Steve’s stuff is just laying around because if we put it away, we’ll lose it. Every morning I go through a process of searching for my keys, the dog leash, or the doggie poop bags.

I really need help here. The only thing that I managed to do was paint a Marimekko fabric design on one of the walls in the living room. I had every intention of painting the wall opposite the design the same chocolate brown, but I hesitated, because I’m afraid that it will make the room too dark. See? I’m afraid of doing interior design, because I’m afraid of doing something too risky. Oh, but I have no problem painting big, loopy designs on my walls, though. What?

Apparently, any savvy I might have for various crafts does not translate to decorating my home. So if you have any ideas, send them my way. Heck, if you’re in the Chicago area and I’m confident you’re not a Killer, I’ll even have you over.

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Last of all, have any of you had a Grapple? They’re pronounced Grape – L, as the website wastes no time telling you. An apple! Infused with grapejuice! I’ve had two now, courtesy of my dear boss who has more guts at the grocery store to buy crazy stuff than I do. They're wild!

Party on, Internet.