I spent my birthday and a few days more in Los Angeles with some good friends, all of whom happened to be obsessed with the vampire known as Edward Cullen.
As much as I fought and kicked and screamed and tried to get out of it, Friday night found me at Blockbuster to pick up the just-released DVD.
Racing home, my friends and I got comfy and thus began our journey into the Twilight Zone.
From what I could hear in between the squeals and "This is my favorite scene!" was just enough to pique my interest into where this tale leads.
Not so much that I want to read it, but just quiz whoever will tell me. And watch the following movies, which I trust will be of much higher quality.
The second viewing of "Twilight" on Saturday night had me further thinking, "I could write that," and wondering why I didn't.
I tried reading the book and found it so dull I couldn't finish it. It just wasn't something I could sink my teeth into (pun intended). But seeing that it's a national best seller and everyone I know can't put it down, maybe I don't have my fingers on the pulse of what's quality entertainment.
Instead of telling myself that I suck (ha!), I think I'll take it as a challenge. You're on Stephanie Meyer.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Blondes DO have more fun
It's official. I'm blonde again. Can we let out a collective "Hooray!"
I very much enjoy having blonde hair but it always seems that a poor choice (which usually involves a box of do-it-yourself hair dye) tears it away from me. But I always come back.
It all began when I was born. I was born completely bald. So bald that my mother would tape bows to my head so people knew I was girl. But, when my hair finally did grow in, it was blonde. So I made my way through childhood with lovely golden locks and sometime around junior high or high school, it decided to become darker. I was in denial. I didn't care what color my hair was, if you asked me what color my hair was, it was blonde. Dirty blonde, dishwater blonde, blonde, blonde, BLONDE OK?!
I'd highlight every once in a while after that, the first time being my junior year of high school. I never did anything too drastic out of fear of looking completely horrible. If only I knew what was coming.
Then one day, it just hit me. I want to be blonde again. Really blonde. Maybe it was the living in Los Angeles that did it to me, I don't know. All I know is that I was determined.
So, being a poor college student, what did I do? I let my mother dye my hair. Now, to this day she claims the result of that and the other days were not her fault. I'm not so sure.
Maybe we didn't leave the dye on long enough, but all I know is that I had orange brassy hair. I cried, I wore hats, I hid myself from public view.
And then as soon as possible, I hit the salon. Embarrassed, I listened to the stylist lecture me about at home hair dyes. "I'll never do it again," I promised. (I lied.) And I went home with beautiful dark reddish-brown hair, Cherry Coke hair.
I kept the dark hair going for the remainder of college. I even dyed it at home again with the help of my roommate. You can't really mess up dark hair dye.
But being a blonde was never far from my mind. So I mustered up the courage to do it again. But this time I was going straight to the salon. I went to the salon, told her I wanted to be blonde, she said OK, and I came out with the same color hair I went in with.
So after some agonizing, I called and said, this wasn't what I wanted, and the lady begrudging re-did it. Won't be going back there again.
When it was time for a touch-up, I went to the stylist who gave me my Cherry Coke hair and she did a wonderful job that and the time after.
And I then it was time to move to Wales. Up until a few weeks before I was leaving for my year in the U.K., I had long blonde hair. I had visions of being the typical California girl: blonde hair, tan, it was great.
So I went back to my trusty stylist, who somehow convinced me to maybe go a bit darker. So I thought, carmel, ok, I can do that. No. This was dark, dark, dark brown and somehow I must have given her the impression she could chop all my hair off cause that's what she did.
I feel sick even writing about this. I remember her saying, "It's so nice to get to be an artist for once and do something different. People always want the same thing."
I'm sitting in the chair, forcing a grin, when all I really want to do is jump out of the chair and scream, "I want the same thing!"
And then she charged me $200. I smiled, thanked her, told her how much I loved it. And then as soon as I was out the door, burst into tears. I called my mother, sobbing. Went home and sobbed so much I threw up.
Now, you are probably thinking, it's just hair. You are ridiculous, Megan. But you don't understand. I had visions of how it was supposed to look. And how it looked couldn't have been more opposite. And I paid $200 for it to be so!
I bought shampoo that was supposed to help my hair grow. It didn't.
I remember one evening, some Welsh kids were picking me up to take me to church with them. "You don't look like you're from California," one of them said from the back seat. And I just knew, "It's the hair, isn't it?"
Somewhere in between my time in Wales, I went home for a visit and back to blonde. Back in Wales, I let the Austrian girls highlight it with this weird bleach before my trip to Greece. And then in the summer I went to a salon and had it done for 25 pounds. Hooray! Blonde again!
I maintained the blonde for a year after that. I let my hair grow in rebellion to the butchering it suffered and roots would occasionally reveal themselves, but it was all OK.
Then it was time for my trip to Toronto. I really need to touch up my hair, I thought. But didn't have the money. So, with the pain of my first experience far behind me, I bought the at home stuff again.
Not letting my mother do it, I put a friend in charge and she did a pretty good job. It was definitely blonde.
My precious mother suggested I touch up the front and that is when disaster struck. What started as me touching up the hair around my face, had me touching up my part and had me looking like a neon skunk. Not kidding.
I had plans to hang out with a guy that night and in a panic, stole my mother's brown hair dye and covered up the horror.
"You missed a spot," my mother pointed out the next day. She's so helpful.
So began the third dying in a span of two days. My hair revolted.
Just as I'm leaving for the airport, I look in the mirror and notice how red my hair looks. Like bright red, not pretty red. Horrible coppery red. I looked like a penny. How did it turn red?! There was no red involved in the dying. It was supposed to be brown.
But it was too late to do anything about it. I had a plane to catch. Once in Toronto, my friends complimented it, but I know they were just being nice.
Upon my return I dyed it darker, again. And several times after that. I was a brunette, no denying it this time.
But today, oh today, all was redeemed when I went to the salon and had a licensed professional bring me back to my blonde glory.
Like an old friend, I forgot how much I missed it until it was back in my life.
So go ahead, ask me, what color is my hair? And this time I won't have to lie.
I very much enjoy having blonde hair but it always seems that a poor choice (which usually involves a box of do-it-yourself hair dye) tears it away from me. But I always come back.
It all began when I was born. I was born completely bald. So bald that my mother would tape bows to my head so people knew I was girl. But, when my hair finally did grow in, it was blonde. So I made my way through childhood with lovely golden locks and sometime around junior high or high school, it decided to become darker. I was in denial. I didn't care what color my hair was, if you asked me what color my hair was, it was blonde. Dirty blonde, dishwater blonde, blonde, blonde, BLONDE OK?!
I'd highlight every once in a while after that, the first time being my junior year of high school. I never did anything too drastic out of fear of looking completely horrible. If only I knew what was coming.
Then one day, it just hit me. I want to be blonde again. Really blonde. Maybe it was the living in Los Angeles that did it to me, I don't know. All I know is that I was determined.
So, being a poor college student, what did I do? I let my mother dye my hair. Now, to this day she claims the result of that and the other days were not her fault. I'm not so sure.
Maybe we didn't leave the dye on long enough, but all I know is that I had orange brassy hair. I cried, I wore hats, I hid myself from public view.
And then as soon as possible, I hit the salon. Embarrassed, I listened to the stylist lecture me about at home hair dyes. "I'll never do it again," I promised. (I lied.) And I went home with beautiful dark reddish-brown hair, Cherry Coke hair.
I kept the dark hair going for the remainder of college. I even dyed it at home again with the help of my roommate. You can't really mess up dark hair dye.
But being a blonde was never far from my mind. So I mustered up the courage to do it again. But this time I was going straight to the salon. I went to the salon, told her I wanted to be blonde, she said OK, and I came out with the same color hair I went in with.
So after some agonizing, I called and said, this wasn't what I wanted, and the lady begrudging re-did it. Won't be going back there again.
When it was time for a touch-up, I went to the stylist who gave me my Cherry Coke hair and she did a wonderful job that and the time after.
And I then it was time to move to Wales. Up until a few weeks before I was leaving for my year in the U.K., I had long blonde hair. I had visions of being the typical California girl: blonde hair, tan, it was great.
So I went back to my trusty stylist, who somehow convinced me to maybe go a bit darker. So I thought, carmel, ok, I can do that. No. This was dark, dark, dark brown and somehow I must have given her the impression she could chop all my hair off cause that's what she did.
I feel sick even writing about this. I remember her saying, "It's so nice to get to be an artist for once and do something different. People always want the same thing."
I'm sitting in the chair, forcing a grin, when all I really want to do is jump out of the chair and scream, "I want the same thing!"
And then she charged me $200. I smiled, thanked her, told her how much I loved it. And then as soon as I was out the door, burst into tears. I called my mother, sobbing. Went home and sobbed so much I threw up.
Now, you are probably thinking, it's just hair. You are ridiculous, Megan. But you don't understand. I had visions of how it was supposed to look. And how it looked couldn't have been more opposite. And I paid $200 for it to be so!
I bought shampoo that was supposed to help my hair grow. It didn't.
I remember one evening, some Welsh kids were picking me up to take me to church with them. "You don't look like you're from California," one of them said from the back seat. And I just knew, "It's the hair, isn't it?"
Somewhere in between my time in Wales, I went home for a visit and back to blonde. Back in Wales, I let the Austrian girls highlight it with this weird bleach before my trip to Greece. And then in the summer I went to a salon and had it done for 25 pounds. Hooray! Blonde again!
I maintained the blonde for a year after that. I let my hair grow in rebellion to the butchering it suffered and roots would occasionally reveal themselves, but it was all OK.
Then it was time for my trip to Toronto. I really need to touch up my hair, I thought. But didn't have the money. So, with the pain of my first experience far behind me, I bought the at home stuff again.
Not letting my mother do it, I put a friend in charge and she did a pretty good job. It was definitely blonde.
My precious mother suggested I touch up the front and that is when disaster struck. What started as me touching up the hair around my face, had me touching up my part and had me looking like a neon skunk. Not kidding.
I had plans to hang out with a guy that night and in a panic, stole my mother's brown hair dye and covered up the horror.
"You missed a spot," my mother pointed out the next day. She's so helpful.
So began the third dying in a span of two days. My hair revolted.
Just as I'm leaving for the airport, I look in the mirror and notice how red my hair looks. Like bright red, not pretty red. Horrible coppery red. I looked like a penny. How did it turn red?! There was no red involved in the dying. It was supposed to be brown.
But it was too late to do anything about it. I had a plane to catch. Once in Toronto, my friends complimented it, but I know they were just being nice.
Upon my return I dyed it darker, again. And several times after that. I was a brunette, no denying it this time.
But today, oh today, all was redeemed when I went to the salon and had a licensed professional bring me back to my blonde glory.
Like an old friend, I forgot how much I missed it until it was back in my life.
So go ahead, ask me, what color is my hair? And this time I won't have to lie.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Rock on
I've found my calling and it's called Guitar Hero.
Tonight I had dinner with some friends and afterwards we broke out the Guitar Hero and rocked out.
It was awesome.
Who knew I had so much eye-hand coordination? I sure as heck didn't.
Maybe I'm getting a little ahead of myself, but I think I might be ready for the big time.
That is, if the big time includes an "Easy" level and brightly colored buttons that I can push to hit the right chord.
If so, then I'm definitely ready.
Tonight I had dinner with some friends and afterwards we broke out the Guitar Hero and rocked out.
It was awesome.
Who knew I had so much eye-hand coordination? I sure as heck didn't.
Maybe I'm getting a little ahead of myself, but I think I might be ready for the big time.
That is, if the big time includes an "Easy" level and brightly colored buttons that I can push to hit the right chord.
If so, then I'm definitely ready.
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