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grease.paint.
An adventure; two redheads in G's tiny, ancient sportscar; the GPS on her phone couldn't find our gracious host's subdivision and we began to suspect that Smyrna does not in fact exist, (which means, when the GPSs rise up and take over, we and the other remnants of the human race will have to hide there to plan our revolt; not looking forward to). The car has an exhaust leak and suspension like an old wooden rollercoaster, and the speedometer broke years ago, but she figures the speed from the engine revs and knows it can't get over a hundred, and I yelled over the terrific sound of it (whatever referential, forgettable music she played was barely even subliminal) "YES BUT CAN IT TRAVEL THROUGH TIME"
I knitted on I-75, and got us lost again.
Ngl, I love the car more than the girl. It's adorable, and we talk about rickety spaceships and judder over potholes and the hot little twice-rebuilt engine warms my toes.
I had naively assumed this was all taking place in the real world; I didn't listen hard enough. Our host had said she was a licensed stylist, so I figured that the address I had jotted down would be a salon - now I'm thinking that licensed stylist is like published author, ie, it precisely indicates what one does not do for a living. It was a (fairly new, hence GPS invisibility) subdivision of ridic swankitude, and daymn was it kitted out for it; nine-foot steel kitchen fridge, pseudo-Rothko and jarring juxtapositions of Japanese and Chinese that made me want to punch things. I didn't ask how he'd made all his money; he seemed nice, as good old boys go, and awfully supportive of his wife's dabbling in earning a living, as if it were a hobby.
She said we were a godsend, because, you see, her marketing people in New York had said she needed two more redheads and there we were, sent by God; now all she needs is a couple more black girls and she's all set. I guess God is responsible for how the not-real world works. We're both pagan, but didn't say anything of it. Because they aren't from the real world, they do have connections and people may even want to buy this shit and put it on their heads, who knows? - but the fun part is where she said that the marketing people want her to get a booth at Dragoncon, which she has no idea about, and thus a crack of daylight enters the black-hole subdivision and we are now gently, welcomingly trolling the mundane.
I tried. to say something. about Homestuck fandom. It was relevant and necessary but wow, where to start? (G hadn't even heard of it - I am still weirded out by the dimensions of the Homestuck bubble, but I'd actually figured this was the case because G's attention span has tall walls around it and she has no filter, so if she was into Homestuck I would have known it before now. But still.)
I have always evaded the femme-industrial-complex (had to apologise over the phone that no I wasn't going to be able to do my own makeup, i have no idea how, but hey I did wear a bra for the first time in about a year); my hair was last trimmed in 2009 by M's aunt, who used to be a dog groomer, and I think that was the first trim I'd had in about ten years. I've never had any kind of professional haircare before. So I got a much-needed trim, and a colour enhancement that as far as I can tell is visible only to cameras, not people, and some genuinely excellent conditioner and instructions to treat my hair more like Ting treats hers, gentle-like. She dropped my six inches on a beige granite countertop, and I stared at them for a while.
She was surprised that my weirdly-bright lip colour was natural and told me I must have 'good iron' which is more or less the opposite of true; I've been asked that before now, but very rarely - it's an odd question, I guess, women aren't even supposed to go around wearing our own real faces anyway, right?
G was, honestly, way way better than I'd expected; much more forward than me, didn't overboard on the cosplayer smalltalk even after Dragoncon came up, left space for trollsy cultural lifelines like the moment we spoke of both having had girlhood crushes on Cheetara. I watched her make sweet love to a camera; I am wooden in comparison, but hers is out of a bottle and mine's just kinda always been there, act / object. I murmured something to her about Tipping The Velvet because I knew no one else there would get it.
There were a couple of others people around by then, 'girls' confessed to over twice G's age, thick bangles and waspwaists to our muffintops; I listened to them talk about the decor, and how Obama ought to wear different jeans. One of them straightned my hair, because she really does do that shit for a living, and she told me to get a real bristlebrush and talked to G about her clients; G told her that the tweenage one who she'd had to cut matts right off probably had depression, and shared her own experiences with youthful unprettiness and inability to care, and yes of course the mother says she's just lazy, and this is one of the more incisive things about another human being I've ever heard G say. But she was talking about herself, so hey.
but, fuck everything (and don't disregard previous post because it was all true), I am liking G again. I asked her to tell me about her 5th-level druid. (Okay so this was partly to get her to shut the hell up about her kismesis. Yes, I know you hate her, and the boy you two are fighting over is godawful and so not worth it, shut up. G's kismesis > G, any day...though I've never found her interesting enough to write blog posts about.)
I have no more intention of trying to help her; in any case, the camera offers her things no human ever could. Affirmation, infinite light.
We signed a release in spite of having read the damn thing, and I don't care because it's easier than trying to file a schedule E for my head this time next year. But I do have a gift card to a swanky restaurant that I may not even have time to visit, sod.
My hair does not smell like my hair; I kind of want to stand outside until it doesn't smell of anything but rain, but I'm too damn tired. I had only a little makeup, a 'natural look'; got home and saw it in the bathroom mirror, and I don't even look like a human being. Precious was confused, tried eating it, became more confused.
I knitted on I-75, and got us lost again.
Ngl, I love the car more than the girl. It's adorable, and we talk about rickety spaceships and judder over potholes and the hot little twice-rebuilt engine warms my toes.
I had naively assumed this was all taking place in the real world; I didn't listen hard enough. Our host had said she was a licensed stylist, so I figured that the address I had jotted down would be a salon - now I'm thinking that licensed stylist is like published author, ie, it precisely indicates what one does not do for a living. It was a (fairly new, hence GPS invisibility) subdivision of ridic swankitude, and daymn was it kitted out for it; nine-foot steel kitchen fridge, pseudo-Rothko and jarring juxtapositions of Japanese and Chinese that made me want to punch things. I didn't ask how he'd made all his money; he seemed nice, as good old boys go, and awfully supportive of his wife's dabbling in earning a living, as if it were a hobby.
She said we were a godsend, because, you see, her marketing people in New York had said she needed two more redheads and there we were, sent by God; now all she needs is a couple more black girls and she's all set. I guess God is responsible for how the not-real world works. We're both pagan, but didn't say anything of it. Because they aren't from the real world, they do have connections and people may even want to buy this shit and put it on their heads, who knows? - but the fun part is where she said that the marketing people want her to get a booth at Dragoncon, which she has no idea about, and thus a crack of daylight enters the black-hole subdivision and we are now gently, welcomingly trolling the mundane.
I tried. to say something. about Homestuck fandom. It was relevant and necessary but wow, where to start? (G hadn't even heard of it - I am still weirded out by the dimensions of the Homestuck bubble, but I'd actually figured this was the case because G's attention span has tall walls around it and she has no filter, so if she was into Homestuck I would have known it before now. But still.)
I have always evaded the femme-industrial-complex (had to apologise over the phone that no I wasn't going to be able to do my own makeup, i have no idea how, but hey I did wear a bra for the first time in about a year); my hair was last trimmed in 2009 by M's aunt, who used to be a dog groomer, and I think that was the first trim I'd had in about ten years. I've never had any kind of professional haircare before. So I got a much-needed trim, and a colour enhancement that as far as I can tell is visible only to cameras, not people, and some genuinely excellent conditioner and instructions to treat my hair more like Ting treats hers, gentle-like. She dropped my six inches on a beige granite countertop, and I stared at them for a while.
She was surprised that my weirdly-bright lip colour was natural and told me I must have 'good iron' which is more or less the opposite of true; I've been asked that before now, but very rarely - it's an odd question, I guess, women aren't even supposed to go around wearing our own real faces anyway, right?
G was, honestly, way way better than I'd expected; much more forward than me, didn't overboard on the cosplayer smalltalk even after Dragoncon came up, left space for trollsy cultural lifelines like the moment we spoke of both having had girlhood crushes on Cheetara. I watched her make sweet love to a camera; I am wooden in comparison, but hers is out of a bottle and mine's just kinda always been there, act / object. I murmured something to her about Tipping The Velvet because I knew no one else there would get it.
There were a couple of others people around by then, 'girls' confessed to over twice G's age, thick bangles and waspwaists to our muffintops; I listened to them talk about the decor, and how Obama ought to wear different jeans. One of them straightned my hair, because she really does do that shit for a living, and she told me to get a real bristlebrush and talked to G about her clients; G told her that the tweenage one who she'd had to cut matts right off probably had depression, and shared her own experiences with youthful unprettiness and inability to care, and yes of course the mother says she's just lazy, and this is one of the more incisive things about another human being I've ever heard G say. But she was talking about herself, so hey.
but, fuck everything (and don't disregard previous post because it was all true), I am liking G again. I asked her to tell me about her 5th-level druid. (Okay so this was partly to get her to shut the hell up about her kismesis. Yes, I know you hate her, and the boy you two are fighting over is godawful and so not worth it, shut up. G's kismesis > G, any day...though I've never found her interesting enough to write blog posts about.)
I have no more intention of trying to help her; in any case, the camera offers her things no human ever could. Affirmation, infinite light.
We signed a release in spite of having read the damn thing, and I don't care because it's easier than trying to file a schedule E for my head this time next year. But I do have a gift card to a swanky restaurant that I may not even have time to visit, sod.
My hair does not smell like my hair; I kind of want to stand outside until it doesn't smell of anything but rain, but I'm too damn tired. I had only a little makeup, a 'natural look'; got home and saw it in the bathroom mirror, and I don't even look like a human being. Precious was confused, tried eating it, became more confused.