First, tomorrow's my anniversary. On my anniversary, I'll be heading to my hairstylist so she can fix my hair. When I made the appointment for Saturday morning, it was to get my usual brownbrownblackbrown, not brownbrownblazingredbrown. Staring in the mirror as she styled my mop, I noticed something was awry and started to feel a bit weepy. Yes, about my hair. Why? Because I don't have the BALLS to deal with this stuff, people. Confront her?! *gulp* After some time developing anxiety hives, I timidly mentioned my concerns to her avoiding eye contact through the mirror.
Me: Doesn't it look a little light here? [pointing to my roots, freshly dyed a totally different color than the rest of my head.]
Her: No way. You're sitting under these spotlights, is all. It's the same color!
Me: Yeah? It just...I dunno...
Her: You're so crazy.
To this, I had no retort. Because, well, yes--I am crazy. But also, I tried to tell her, "Um, you totally fucked up my hair mere DAYS before my departure for BLOGHER, and SHUTUP don't tell me YOU don't know what a BLOG is EITHER!" It's just that it came out more meek. But during the drive home, I started to feel more brave. Or at least, more deeply depressed and full of rage. I planned to call her from home after staring at my roots in the master bathroom. My husband had eyed me suspiciously, but more or less seemed utterly frightened and locked himself in the manroom. With the courage that only telephone transactions can muster, I phoned her and apologetically demanded she fix her error. I finished her off with about three or four thankyouthankyousorrysorry!'s and a cheerful farewell.
So, the redo is tomorrow morning. I really hope she doesn't charge me, because that will be an UGLY scene. When I get home, that is, and tell my husband that I paid her submissively and tipped her generously for her troubles.
After this, there will be the we-managed-to-avoid-divorce-this-year! celebration. I think we'll see Inception. Maybe eat some food and try to stay awake long enough so as not to beat the sun to bed. We are rockstars, I tell you.
After tomorrow, there is the countdown to BlogHer. Which, really--in theory--shouldn't take up any excessive amount of time. But, ah, it will. Let's eye the list, shall we?
1. Pack four outfits and two pairs of shoes in a shoulder bag. Find out how to use public restrooms to change gracefully and without contracting flesh eating virus. (I'm staying at the Hilton one night, you see, which means I can't check in 'til afternoon, and must check OUT late morning. So much of my time during these two full days will be without a home base. Feel sorry for me, will you?)
2. Review BlogHer schedule and find out if I'll be attending the sessions or enjoying the silence of my hotel room. And, uh, don't expect any live-blogging or any of that bullshit. I will be carrying my UNDERWEAR with my to most of these sessions, so my laptop simply didn't make the cut.
3. Mentally prepare for social interaction. I'm gonna try to do this without the aid of alcohol, people. I don't do the drink all too well. (As in I am a control freak, ok? Don't judge me.)
5. Make about 500 lists and scenario screenplays, pack diaper bags ahead of time for possible outings and survival situations, and attach spreadsheets of children's schedules to every wall of the house. Brace for impact when more-than-capable husband becomes enraged at my emasculating tendencies. (Control freak? I told you.)
6. Remember the camera. (I will totally forget the camera.)
So, that about sums it up. I was thinking of giving you a hypothetically-possible-or-likely-awkward-social-encounters-while-at-BlogHer post, but I think giving you a rundown of the real thing upon my return will suffice. In fact, I'm sure of it.
*Do you hear a certain animated Christmas character when you read this? Guess! I have no prizes to give away, but we can pretend.