I’m addicted

Killing a few momentos before the eye doctor before the baking party before moving more, football game, rushing home, before the lake, before my haircut.

I'll be damned there's no model for my hair. Am I supposed to look like Beyonce (Bouncy) with her afro puff stuff? Kelly Carlson ? (I'm obsessed with Nip/Tuck.) Mariska Hargitay would be lovely but in the way these things don't matter: I could walk around with hair down to my ass and he'd love it. I need inspiration, or better, someone to inspire me. Not just love me for how I am. I have that. Who can love me for when I'm all polished and with purpose. I'm taking a new political stance: If I can't keep a lover or take another husband, I have to get a gay boyfriend. If Rocky lived here, he'd whip my ass into shape. But he's not so I have to quit holding him as the standard of comparison.

Help! I have hair with no purpose. Those who really know me know I'd rather shave my head than have hair with no purpose. And that's not even begging the question of color. I'm thinking caramel-- blond and red and brown. But then there's dark brown. A good mediterranean tint. Shit. I'm fucked.

In other, better news. I can start my fall garden next week! The list:
-potted mums (because you have to), vases of spidermums and last of the dahlias
-calendula
-larkspur
-lobelia
-pansy
-pompous grass
-snapdragon

the end.