On my mind

I am terrified of hitting a deer on the road, and this fear has only compounded with the addition of Walter to our family. Thanks to switching the clocks back an hour, I now leave work in the dusky hour just before evening, which is prime deer time. I wouldn’t be so nervous if I was capable of spotting reflecting deer eyes on the side of the road, but even when JG points them out, I just don’t see them. Last night, I drove at 35 miles per hour around misty curves, gripping my steering wheel with white knuckles and sweaty palms. What’s that? In the fog?! Oh, it’s a horse. Agh, horses are huge! Oh, wait, there’s a person riding it. Oh. I did my best to breathe deeply during the rest of the way home and thanked my lucky stars that I had one more safe commute under my belt. And then, in dense fog, JG and I almost hit a deer that evening. [Note: When JG slammed on the brakes, the first thing I did was cover my ears because my reflex was to shield myself from the startling noise, not bodily harm.] Commence the hyperventilating.

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I am so excited about tonight’s Project Runway season premier! For the past three seasons, I have gaped at the screen, in awe of the designers’ talent and audacity, all the while shouting my commentary to the empty room around me, since JG can only take so much arty hoohah. I love the tension of the challenge announcement and that dramatic, percussive soundtrack in the background of Heidi’s sing-songy “One day, you in; the next day, you out.” By dangling a spreadsheet in front of my nose, Valerie lured me into joining her PR Fantasy League, and I am only slightly less than clueless as to how I am going to hold my own. I have never taken part in fantasy anything, unless March Madness brackets qualify when they’re made with the rationale of knowing someone who attended there or how much I like the team’s colors. I understand the scoring system whereby my team can garner points by winning, losing, or throwing a fit, and I made it through the Klum Division draft yesterday with two hopefully-decent picks (Chris and Kit), so I guess all I have to do now is watch, wait, and keep score. But, wait! PR shows on my self-imposed television-fasting night — and who am I kidding? I can’t stay up until eleven and expect to be at all useful the next day — so I need to rely on DVR and the silence of the masses so nothing gets ruined for me. Please do not ruin it for me, masses. I shake my fist defiantly.

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I am really grateful to have resilient hair that manages to stay shiny and straight despite whatever lack of care I put into it. It has withstood countless bottles of cheap shampoo and conditioner, bad brushes, and four years of sketchy student hair cuts, and it still behaves relatively well when I rip a comb through it in the mornings, dump my head over to blow-dry it on high blast, and run out of the house. My hair has never turned on me and I love it. At the recommendation from a friend, I’ve made an appointment for Friday to get it cut at a classier place with a new girl. I’m not sure whether to let go and tell her to “just do whatever” because I have such love for my hair and I’m incredibly nervous about having something great when I leave that is impossible for me to maintain at home. I thought about laying out my perspective on my hair situation, but so far, the spiel is more “raving lunatic” than “conscientious client”: “I really like how long my hair has gotten, but the bottom is so thick that I feel like a triangle and I’ve had the same exact long layers for four years so maybe I need a change but it seems to work for my type of hair but can you thin it out so it’s not so bulky because takes forever to dry right now and I need to be able to put it back at least halfway so the layers can’t be too short and I’d like my hair to be stylish without having to be styled everyday, if you know what I mean, and, oh, I really love my hair, so please don’t butcher it because I heard you were really good and if you’re that good, you can give me something chic and easy to care for that doesn’t require a $50 purchase of products or tools.” In other words, I am a nightmare.

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After two years of home ownership, JG and I are (finally!) outfitting our bedroom with real, grown-up furniture. Thank you, volleyball coaching money. Right now, we have a metal bed frame, two mismatched nightstands (one was my television stand in college and the other cost us $15 at Ikea), a hand-me-down dresser from one of my bridesmaids, a defunct television cabinet, a Rubbermaid set of plastic drawers, and a shared closet. On Saturday, we are scoping out an actual bed, two dressers, a mirror, and nightstands, and get this: they will all go together. Holy crap! I am more psyched about an impending furniture delivery than seems reasonable. You know how, on those home décor makeover shows, couples are always saying that their master bedroom was the last thing they touched because no one ever saw it? Well, that’s kind of how it is for us. No one goes in there except us, so we’ve scurried to make our guest bedrooms and bathroom presentable, even if we don’t spend any time in those rooms, while we are sorely lacking in storage and cohesive style in the second-most-used room in the house. No more. The situation is be rectified this weekend. If we find the right stuff. And can afford it. And can agree. Oh, dear.