Why I'm not a Chemist

I would just like you to know that I often write about the stupid things I do just for the amusement of my friends. So, please to enjoy.

Those of you who dye your hair understand the chemistry involved, I'm sure. This is why you don't end up with pink hair or Light Golden Brown speckled walls.

I have been fortunate that I do not have to dye my hair. My hair's stayed a relatively nice shade of blonde as I've gotten older and hasn't started graying yet. (But, trust me, the first gray hair I get will be yanked out of my head. And, any signs of going gray will be covered with dye.)

I've had my hair highlighted before when (I thought) it was getting too dark and lowlighted after one Pennsic when it was particularly light blond from too much sun. I've put color washes in my hair for fun. However, I really don't use much in the way of hair dye.

I guess I just don't get the chemistry involved. Either that, or I'm just an idiot. You decide.

While I don't dye my hair, I DO dye my eyebrows. Until I met my dance troupe member, I didn't even know of the joy that was eyebrow dyeing. I just went around with my pathetic platinum-blonde eyebrows looking like the victim of a barbecue flare-up accident. You couldn't even tell I had eyebrows unless you were about 6 inches away from me. And, really, people look pretty stupid without eyebrows. I tried to draw them in. But, as near as I can tell, makeup companies hate natural blondes. They make this hideous color of eyebrow pencil I'll call “strawberry taupe,” which is just not pretty.

I now go to Angela to have my eyebrows tinted. Angela is a genius. But wait! Where is the hideous dyeing story that I promised you?

I just paid for a very expensive car repair (and still had another one looming). In an effort to be fiscally responsible, I decided to dye my own eyebrows. Another troupe member did a fabulous job of dyeing her own eyebrows. So, I could to it too, right?

Yeah, we all know where this is going, don't we?

I buy a bottle of Light Golden Brown crème dye for the bargain price of $3.67. I mix up the color and gentle daub it on my eyebrows and lie down to let it set. Twenty minutes later, it's time to remove the dye. I'm disappointed to see that the color barely took. I carefully daub it back on and lay back down for another 10 minutes. It's slightly darker now, but still not the desired color. And, it's late, too. Why did I decide to START this process after 10 on Sunday night?

I guess I'll just keep the dye until tomorrow and try again. (Do you hear what I hear? “Danger Will Robinson. Danger!”)

I go into my bathroom Monday night to set into motion The Great Dye Fiasco. The bottle of dye is now lying on its side even though I left it upright. It seems that it can no longer stand because it's bulging and rounded. Hmmm. Perhaps I shouldn't have left it tightly capped? If only I had paid attention in chemistry class.

Well, clearly I should open it to relieve the pressure in the bottle.

Why, oh, WHY didn't I pay attention in chemistry class? Oh, that's right, because it started at 7:15 in the morning and my coffee hadn't kicked in yet. I usually napped through it. Well, my morning naps were now biting me in the ass.

Did you know that a tiny little 4” high bottle can shoot Light Golden Brown dye 6 feet across the room and hit every wall in the room plus the bathtub, toilet, counter, sink, mirror and light switch? Only the ceiling was left unscathed.

If only someone was around to enjoy my shenanigans and point and laugh at me. I cleaned it up, but my walls are now dyed, too. Thankfully, the bathroom is prepped for painting but hasn't been repainted yet due to my old friend sloth visiting.

Freakville, Population 1

What makes these people talk to me? I was really putting out "Eau de Gah!" this past week at a 4th of July party. Some intrepid party-goers were departing on their Harleys and two friends and I were admiring their bikes. The one man, in particular, had a beautiful classic Hog redux.

As we were talking about the Hogs, I commented to my friends that I used to date a guy who owned a Low Rider. This complete stranger steps right in front of me and says, "So, was he a good fuck? The guy who owned the Low Rider? I imagine that guys who own motorcycles are good fucks. How did yours rate? I've always wanted to own a Harley. You know, you have amazing eyes."

I turn to give my friends the, "Can-you-believe-this-freak?" look and they DESERT ME! Holy Crap. No they did not just leave me wallowing in Freakville, population 1. They are  now and forever more crossed off the “wingman” list!

This man just keeps talking to me as I stare at him like an alien with two heads. Told me how he wants to start traveling once he dumps his inconvenient wife and then tells me how hot he thinks it is that I'm a belly dancer. OK. Who the Hell told him that? Someone I know needs a-killin'.

I’d seen this man earlier around the fire, but he seemed relatively innocuous. My friends and I had been playing some Middle Eastern drums and he’d come over to join us with his little egg-shaped shaker. He was running around us shaking the thing like the person that you give the maraca to because they have no rhythm. He seemed a little hippy, dippy, trippy but otherwise harmless.

“Maybe we could go out sometime once I get rid of that bitch I’m married to,” he says to me. What? Is he STILL speaking to me? I zoned out for a minute there.

“You know, it’s kismet that I got to jam with you tonight. My egg has been missing for several years now but today, I just open the drawer and find it in like five minutes. It was obviously meant to be,” he says and winks at me. I hope that he is not making a pathetic allusion to the imaginary future “us” there, because I may have to join a cloistered nunnery if this is what my dating options have come to.

“You’re drumming was pretty good, by the way. I mean, I’ve played with better, but it wasn’t a complete abortion. You guys weren’t half bad,” he said.

Yeah, right. I’m playing a Turkish 10 and you’re running around me shaking an egg and we’re not “half bad”? Flattery like that will get you ... nowhere .... This exchange seems to be going on forever, yet I am still standing there basically mute. I don’t even know how to respond to the freak show going on in front of me. I feel like an observer at the zoo. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, watch as the hyena moves in on his prey.”

I was just beginning to think that he was the person that needed a-killin’ when my friend's daughter walked over to tell me about her birthday cake that they'd be cutting soon. With very little encouragement from me, we went to look at the cake and changed the cutting time to "now".

“Well, it was nice talking to you*, but I need to go see about a cake. If you’ll please excuse me.” With that said, I left my Find-A-Freak behind at the fire. So much for that "future ex-husband" material.

(*No. It was not a pleasure talking to him. But I just can’t seem to drop the social pleasantries even in these situations. Maybe I need Dr. Phil to help me. Perhaps he’ll tell me that I need attention from men positive or negative and that’s why I keep talking to these people, even when the conversation has turned inappropriate. Personally, I think it’s because I love a good story. When I am having these horrid conversations with the Freak du Jour, I keep thinking, “Man, this is going to make a great story for my friends!” And, truly, they do appreciate my stories. I call it free marriage counseling. After I tell them about my latest dating fiasco, they look at the partner they were just irritated with five minutes ago for not putting a dish in the dishwasher and say, “I love you, honey. I’m so glad that I don’t have to date anymore.”)