Ex the Text

I don't know when it happened, but somewhere along the way good old traditional telephone communication went the way of snail mail. And I have to say, while I don't miss licking stamps, I'm pissed about the text talk.

It is not, nor will it ever be, appropriate to have important relationship discussions via cellular technology. Sending me HEY U messages every morning is not the same as a wakeup call. It just doesn't induce my panty-dropping mechanism. And given the fact that umm, words are my profession, said texters lose even more cool points for piss poor spelling!

IDK...SMDH...RFLMAO...

What is that, anyway? Yiddish? Morse Code? I speak the honest to God truth when I say I have had to Google some of the text messages I get.

For the record, SMDH means Shaking My Damn Head. And that's just what I do when people start with the textversation.

A text from him: wz thinkin I would fly up 2 C U this wknd. Whatchu got up.

My response: Busy.

In the time it took him to misspell two sentences, he could have called. In fact, he should have. I bet if we timed it, he could speak those words faster than he typed them.

It's sad times when we've all become too busy to just pick up a phone, and say Hello. But I gotta run, so...TAFN. TTYL.

LOL.

Funny

Sarah Palin makes my teeth hurt

Any day where the nation’s collective attention is focused almost solely on Sarah Palin is just going to suck. So, when I broke a molar around 4 p.m. last Thursday, it’s no more than I should have expected for the day.

It was just like any other day at the office. Until I bit down onto some snack nuts and the earth shook. Or, at least my jaw did. Something happened.

I made an emergency doctor’s visit for Friday a.m. (which I’m still too traumatized to talk about), and headed home to get ready for the Biden-Palin debacle. Later that evening, I doped myself up with some Aleve—partially because of the tooth, but mostly in prep for Palin watching—and settled down for what had to be the single most lacklustre non-event of my entire human existence.

Did that debate really not happen right before my eyes? Did I waste away precious seconds of my life watching Palin neatly sidestep any attempt at real engagement by the moderator and Dem. VP candidate Joe Biden? Please tell me it was the drugs. Somebody please tell me I did not see what I think I know I saw. (How's that for Palin-speak?)

I am more frustrated with this woman than any minimally intelligent person should ever be. I want to like her. Lawd, knows I do...but, I just can't. I am over her. I cannot believe that she chose not to answer one single question directly. Over and over and over again. Nothing happened.

I can’t wait for November 4. That day, when she asks Americans to vote for the McCain-Palin ticket, I hope they’ll all take a cue from little ole Sarah…redirect the nation’s attention to something else, preferably a vote for Obama.

Gloria...my Gloria

I used to have a hair alter-ego. Her name was Gloria, and she had fabulous hair. Gloria usually showed up on salon day with a to-die for cute crop, hair all shiny and bouncy, ends neatly trimmed, perm freshly applied. It was glorious being Gloria. I loved her.

Last year, after my skin and hair rejected the perm, Gloria packed up her sh*t and left. Taking with her the heady scent of fresh no-lye relaxing. Gone were the days of admiring glances at my trendy, closely cut flyness. Gloria was just gone. All I had to remember her by was a cabinet full of Gold n’ Hot curling irons in assorted sizes, an old silk head scarf and half a stick of Paul Mitchell slick pomade. Now, I’m the one who glances sideways at other women on salon day. Their hair all sleek and chic; mine twisting and curling, knotting and napping and doing just about any damn thing it wants whether or not I agree.

I am not this hair. But what hair am I? Is it Bonquisha, Ms. Clairol, or Shenappy-happy? I don’t know, but I’m having an ongoing hairdentity crisis and my hair SOSs have so far left me SOL. Man, I miss Gloria.



I never considered myself to be that girl…the one who ties her identity to her hairstyle. I laughed secretly at women–-strange ones and known ones--who felt long hair is the only it…smirking in arrogance because I had the cheekbones and the flair for barely there hair. Rolling my eyes as they flick born or bought hair over their shoulders, hair which honestly made them look way too old. But that was then, when I was in control of my hair.

Now that my locks are firmly in control of me, the joke is on me. This wild, wiry mane laughing outright. Taunting me to try, just try, to do something about it. And so I do, tussling and twisting and detangling with all my might, for hours on end. Only to be reminded minutes, hours or days later, that, yes, I am in fact this hair, so we might as well settle down and get to know each other.

Day by day, I’m learning. And that’s all I can do, really. But if you see Gloria, if you spot her turning a corner, hair gleaming and looking fly, tell her don’t forget about me. I’m waiting anxiously for her return.