All I need is a paper bag – it’ll be a multi-tasking device, both for wearing on my head and barfing in if I happen to catch a glimpse of myself in any ill-positioned mirrors.

I do not exaggerate. My hair is in fact THAT sad looking. I should just shave my head and put my formerly sexy locks out of their misery. But I DID promise pictures, and it’s better if you see for yourself why I’m so distressed anyway. Behold, my trailer-trash former stripper hooked on meth cautionary advertisement new look:

I don’t know if you can tell, because I suck at photo edit programs, but the roots on the top of my head are red-orange-blond. The worst possible combination of all three, actually. And the rest is a faint, mousy brown. I kept making nervous noises and the technician kept assuring me that it was fine, good, everything would be lovely once it was dry.

And then, when I questioned what appeared to be the traces of radioactive material in my roots when it WAS dry, she insisted that everyone’s roots are ‘brassy’ at first, but that it will fade if I give it a couple of days. Fade to WHAT? It’s been approximately 24 hours, and it isn’t fading enough to make me believe it’ll be anything CLOSE to what the rest of it looks like. The moral of the story, people, is do NOT fuck with a good thing. Leave it the hell alone. Because I used to look like this:

As it turns out, there isn’t a carbon monoxide leak in my house. Only the sewer gas fumes, which equals methane poisoning which equals me being just as dead if I try to stay there before the plumber gets around to fixing the problem.

Tomorrow, I’m leaving work at lunch (let’s hear it for half-days!) to go to the salon and get my hair dyed a light, caramelish shade. My hair has been dark for as long as I can remember, so I’m sort of nervous about it – what if it sucks? – but also excited. Yep, you heard me, getting my hair dyed is probably going to be the most memorable thing I do all week. And because I have very little shame about having virtually no life, I will be posting before and after pictures. That’s right, squirm with glee! I know I am.

I finally got a plumber to come check my new place, and the big LACK of surprise is that the pipes underneath the house are old, cast-iron, and also cracked in several places. And therefore sewer gas is leaking back into the house itself, creating unpleasant fumes.

He also said he doesn’t think the sewer gas is causing me to get sick – my headaches and such have been too severe or something? So he checked the very old furnace in the living room, and, DRUM ROLL please, there’s probably a carbon monoxide leak. A bad one, if the intense gas smell is any indication.

I know what you’re thinking – how could I NOT smell the gas if it was so obvious? I’ve got a very poor sense of smell, okay? And in Montana it’s still winter at the end of April, so I’ve had the heat running regularly, so the house just always had a funny smell. Until I moved out due to being very sick, deciding to stay with a friend for a few days to find out what the problem was, and then went back with the plumber to investigate and HOW I never realized that those gas fumes were that bad, I don’t have any idea. Anyway, good thing I moved out when I did, because otherwise I probably just wouldn’t have gotten out of bed one morning. Cheery thought!

Adding to my vexation, the aforementioned plumber is going to be at a conference out of town until next Monday, and he’s the only plumber available. So I’ll be bunking with my very generous, good-natured friend K (I have to suck up in case she decides to read this, but we all know it’s her DUTY to take me in, right? Right!) for an indefinite period of time. Because I also have to call someone tomorrow about going to investigate the furnace.

I am officially homeless. And since renting seems to be creating such problems, and I’m not the sort to buy because that would just be too practical, as well as being way too much of a commitment, I guess maybe I’ll get some crayons and a cardboard box and call myself a starving artist? Or hobo chic? Maybe I’ll take some photos and see what you guys think first.

Edited to add: I’m aware that carbon monoxide doesn’t have any scent, but according to the plumber the gas from the furnace (which did smell) had some kind of burnt emissions thing going on, and thus led him to believe there is probably a carbon monoxide leak.

Last night, in a very abrupt and spontaneous fashion (as is her nature) my youngest sister, Te, got married. It all took less than six hours – the license, the officiate, the swapping of rings and spit, and the traditional cake fight.

She wore her blue jeans and her adorably nerdy glasses and they held hands and stared each other down and made promises of forever, to cherish, to honor, to have and to hold.

I love her so much, and I hope she’s happy with him.

But every time I go to a wedding it reinforces my belief that I will never get married myself. There’s a small part of me that wants to stare into the eyes of my lover and know that this is it, this is all, this is everything – but there’s a larger part that doubts I can make those kinds of promises.

To cherish and honor forever, for better or worse? Even if he gets so sick he can’t feed himself? Even if he becomes a raging workaholic and I never see him? Even if, god forbid, one or both of us sink into alcoholism?

I fear trusting another person that much, sharing so much of myself and my life. What if we both end up being disappointments?

Love is breathtaking and deep and wide, and certainly worth taking risks for. Maybe I’m just not the risk-taking kind? Anyway, now both of my sisters are married, and they’re both younger than I am. So unfortunately the only person my grandma has left to nag into wedded bliss is me. All of that energy will be focused on my finding a husband and getting down to the baby-making business ASAP, before I become wrinkled and unmarriable. SHIT.

It’s time to leave town.

The faint glow from the dash was illuminating his face when he said to me, “You’ll find someone else.”

My stomach twisted painfully – I’ve heard those words before. Once, while I was getting my heart broken – no, not broken, splintered into thousands of pieces as tiny as pin pricks – the person I so desperately loved patted my shoulder and said to me, “Don’t worry, Amber, you’ll find someone else.”

I didn’t understand it. How could he say that to me? How could he imagine me finding ‘someone else’ when I couldn’t imagine surviving for the next five minutes without him? How could he look to the future when I couldn’t see past my tears? I couldn’t comprehend it. Later, I understood.

He didn’t love me, not nearly so much as I loved him. Had he loved me,  he would have been just as  shaken as I was, it would have been his knees giving out, his body collapsing to the damp, grassy ground. Instead, he was placating me. Trying to assuage his own guilt by handing me empty promises of someone else. I didn’t want someone else, but he wasn’t giving me a choice. He was telling me, the best possible scenario would be for me to get over him and find someone else.

And then, on a dirt road under a full moon, I heard it again. I stiffened and sucked my lower lip between my teeth and accused him of being a condescending prick. He glanced over at me, surprised, and immediately apologized. His intention wasn’t to be condescending, he assured me. How else could he be, I demanded? How else was I supposed to take those words?

I realize now, I wasn’t necessarily supposed to take them – I could just as easily leave them. Either way, the ending was the same. I was left standing on the side of the highway, staring at fading tail lights, alone.

When I was five or six, I was a princess. I was a beautiful princess trapped in a cold, dark cave and I needed to start a fire to stay warm and keep wild animals away. So I lit a match.

And then, my mother hauled ass into the bedroom pin-wheeling her arms and screaming in panic because her imaginative eldest daughter was trapped under a burning mattress. Ahem.

Yeah, I set my mattress on fire. And got trapped under it. And after my mom was done using bath towels to put out the flames and shaking me senseless – maybe in a vain attempt to rattle my brain back into it’s proper place? – she told me NEVER to go near her matches or lighters again. And then, knowing my contrary nature, she pretty much hid everything that could even be remotely related to fire from me.

Not that it worked. I built several more ‘campfires’ and such throughout my childhood, and it’s a miracle my mother didn’t drop over from a heart attack induced by my adventurous spirit.

Anyway, NOW I am nervous around fire. Now that she isn’t around to reap the benefits (peace of mind, nights filled with sound sleep, etc).

My problem is this: I have an unbelievably large, scary amount of leaves – I’m thinking about ten YEARS worth – to clean up in my new yard. I’ve been diligently raking them into a pile, and I have a fire ring I can burn them in. I even got a burn permit from the county, but I’m thinking that given my history with all things hot and orangey the second I try to burn them up the entire neighborhood will end up in flames and knowing my luck it’ll be a windy day so before the fire department can respond the town will be ablaze, and I’ll be hiking my ass to the next STATE because oh god, the shame.

You see the problem? Me + fire = DISASTER. Probably of epic proportions.

I could suck it up and put on my big girl panties and just go BURN the bleeping mess, but…isn’t this why men were created? Where’s a willing boyfriend or LDS missionary when I need one? (Another story for another time).

Anyone else have any fun stories about playing with fire? Or perhaps encouragement? I’m willing to accept tough love at this point (read: GET OFF YOUR BUTT AND GO BURN THE DAMN LEAVES, YOU BIG BABY).

My sister T and I (yes, this IS the same sister who announced my so-called lesbianism in a car full of virtual strangers) went to the bar to indulge in karaoke on Saturday night.

And yes, despite past experience with her entire and total LACK OF SHAME I agreed to let her pick a couple of songs. This led to me bopping up to the stage, giddy at the prospect of singing ‘Hit Me With Your Best Shot’ by Pat Benetar. Except when we got to the stage and I was gripping the mike and everyone was staring, T murmured that no matter WHAT I wasn’t allowed to move.

‘No matter what’ is not the phrase you want to hear when you’re standing in front of a room full of rowdy drunks, ESPECIALLY when approximately half of the drunks are Canadian bikers. So I stood rooted to the spot, my eyes locked helplessly on the damn display screen, and Wannabe came up, people.

For those of you who need a refresher course:

SO, TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT WHAT YOU REALLY REALLY WANT
I’LL TELL YOU WHAT I WANT WHAT I REALLY REALLY WANT
I WANNA HUH I WANNA HUH I REALLY REALLY REALLY WANNA ZIG A ZIG AH.

Oh, please god NO, was pretty much my immediate reaction. Except then the music was playing and we were all singing and if the floor could have opened a giant swirling vortex and sucked me in I would have gladly gone without a fight.

Jesus. And T, who is without mercy as well as shame, was shaking her butt the whole time, giggling like a fool. God.

And the drunken bunch of leather-clad bikers LIKED it. Which leads me to wonder weather I should feel more secure in my dignity, or LESS.

I went to work yesterday morning and convinced my boss to let me leave at noon for the weekend, because, wait for it: I had to take some stuff to the city dump. Which is only open on Tuesdays and Fridays from 1-4, and a Friday trip was clearly the better choice. AND, it’s been above sixty degrees with perfect powder blue skies for the past few days. And yes, the whole weekend is scheduled to be all sunshine and spring flowers and frozen yogurt. So I took a half-day of vacation and left, and then did yard work for the whole afternoon. God, it was fantastic.

And the only POSSIBLE thing that could make this weekend any better has happened: tonight, the bar is having KARAOKE! No I cannot sing and no I do not care. I never pass up an opportunity for public humiliation, just ask my friend K! (She has witnessed many such opportunities). Although I stupidly promised my sister that if she would sing with me, SHE could pick the song. And now I’m remembering all of the options at her disposal, and thinking I was perhaps hasty in agreeing to it. I mean, I think I know which song she’s going to pick, and YES she is that cruel.

I hope everyone is having the kind of weekend that calls for sunglasses and mile-wide smiles.

I do not love when I am busy disagreeing with someone on the phone, and they hang UP on me. In fact, I quite hate it. Quite.

I do not love fudge, or truffles, or anything else too sweet to eat. I do not love Prince or heavy metal or upper middle class teenagers who feel sorry for themselves, thus becoming labeled ‘emo’. I do not love boys/men in skinny jeans. Have you seen this? It’s horrifying.

I hate fighting with my sister. It makes my heart hurt, which makes me eat too little or too much, causing either middle of the night turbo barfing (thank you, acid reflux) or 5 + pounds thanks to the consumption of chocolate and/or fried foods. I do not love gaining weight.

I don’t love gangster talk, such as “Yo, my home boy! What up witchu?” GAG. I don’t love being able to see underwear on people with who I am not intimately familiar. I do not love being mooned, and yet somehow it happens frequently.

I do not love snowstorms in April. Do not, do not! I don’t love being forgotten, or purposefully excluded. I do not love lazy people, and have no patience for them. I do not love doing math. Ever.

I cannot stand people who mistreat their children, and am equally annoyed by people who judge the parenting of others. I do not love hypocrisy. I do, however, really appreciate irony.

Smoke hangs on the air, causing a slight haze and perhaps a false sense of mystery. We sit side by side, listening as Joan Jett blares from the jukebox. I sip my beer. I’m floating – a little bit lightheaded, a little bit loose.

He’s smiling, saying something. I try to pay attention, but I find myself watching his mouth move instead of listening. I smile back, and it becomes answer enough.

He takes my hand, turns my palm up, and traces his finger very lightly across the middle of it. I start to make a joke about getting my fortune told, but it sticks in my throat. I tug my hand free.

We both reach for our drinks.

There is no mystery, not really.