Netflix Free Trial with My Name on It

I went to the movies today. It was hot and baby booties more finishing work than actual knitting. Really, I needed to get out of the house. And Spider Monkey has NO interest in the Twilight series.

I made some observations:

First, people under the age of five do not need to see vampire movies. I don't even think they WANT to see vampire movies. A woman in a tank top and random tattoos had three girls under the age of five with her. I saw them in the popcorn line, thinking that the amount of zany bracelets on their arms were a bit of a hazard, with fifty on each arm, and was wondering about their circulation. I figured they were going to watch Toy Story 3 or Shrek or one of the other three G movies at the theater. But no, they were going to see Eclipse . . . I had to move because they were noisy . . . because they were BORED . . . because they weren't where they belonged in the G movie theater. AND the mom, or guardian, or whatever she was, kept leaving. Leaving. Left them completely alone. For whatever pedophile to take (see my third observation below). Just got up and left. To go get more popcorn after one of them spilled a complete large bag on the floor. To take one of them to the bathroom (I suppose she could have sent them alone to the bathroom? I guess that would have been worse?) . . . two children, under the age of five, alone in a darkened room with fifty strangers. And very cold fingers from all the rubber bands on their arms.

Second, in addition to needing a license to have children, I think you need a written plan for your tattoos. So I can veto it. Back in the day . . . when I had friends that "needed" tattoos . . . they did not put them in ridiculous places. They were still ridiculous, don't get me wrong. But they put them on their backs . . . on their upper arms . . . maybe a tramp stamp or two. Things that would and could be covered up by clothing, if need be. Now if you want to make artwork out of your body and connect them all in a sleeve, okay, I respect that. That takes planning . . . by someone . . . even if it's just your tattoo artist. But the amount of bad tattoos, in random bad places . . . neck, ankle, calf . . . why does anyone need someone's name on their calf? Not connected to anything. You just woke up one day, somehow ended up at a tattoo parlour, and someone made you get a tattoo at gunpoint and this was the result.

And understand that it is 100 degrees outside. It's part of the reason I'm at the movies. But do you have to show me ALL of your random, "maybe this might be a good idea", tattoos? I don't show you my back fat. I don't try to wear tube tops . . . at least not without a sweater over it. I don't wear short shorts. And it wasn't one or two people. It wasn't just the lax caretaker of the children whose limbs were going to fall off from the zany bracelets. It was everyone in the theater except me and the grandmothers. And not even all of the grandmothers.

One girl, who was somehow ageless, but could have been anywhere from sixteen to her mid-twenties, was . . . let's just say, not skinny . . . in the way I am not skinny . . . but more. She was wearing plaid shorts and a gray tank top. Her haircut was asexual and NOT in a "I'm a stylish dyke" way, more in a my grandmother cuts my hair with a bowl way. No makeup on her and completely random tattoos. And the tattoos were kind of my grandmother did these with a razor blade and a Bic pen. So I guess at least the look was consistent. And the tattoos were arranged in a way that they could only be completely covered if she wore knee socks, long pants and a turtleneck. Did I mention that she was with what I think was a date, or husband? And yes, it was a man. Sigh.

It was as though everyone in the theater found a picture of Emiem and brought it to someone's basement tattoo party and said, "I want to look like this . . . but not as good. Can you do that for me?" And I wanted to ask where these people had jobs, but oh . . . right . . . they can go to the movies at noon on a Thursday. Maybe they work the evening shift? Or maybe four twelve hour shifts?

Third, there were an amazing amount of single men watching Eclipse . . . in that I would be amazed by ONE single man at a showing of Eclipse. And I have a feeling they weren't there to meet chicks. And they had the same tattoo plans, being that they were seemingly not planned and visible.

I guess I shouldn't be all that surprised considering the time of day and the neighborhood, but come on people. Get it together. I wanted to call a makeover show . . . and I'm the one that, according to my friends, should be on a makeover show. In the restroom, as I was leaving, I looked in the mirror and realized that I was easily, EASILY the most attractive person in the place. And I don't have THAT much self-esteem.

So middle America . . . or at least the part of America that can go to a movie at noon on a Thursday . . . you really need to get your shit together. Geez.

So the lesson is . . . and I determined this after I had moved seats two times and was about to stuff a well-lit cellphone into what would be an uncomfortable orifice . . . and darn it, my parents told me to do it what seems like years ago . . . that I should really just get Netflix.

Guilt about Cutting the Friendship cord

So here is the dilemma . . .
There are people who drift apart. Sometimes, that is a mutual thing . . . you just don't connect anymore. You don't work in the same place, you have different interests now, in a different spot. But sometimes it is NOT a mutual decision. And when you are the one cutting the cord, well, sometimes it sucks.

I have a friend playing a show this evening. He texted me about it about a week ago. When I didn't text back (it was a mass text, so I was not being impolite) he texted again to make sure I was coming. It's 8 pm on the day of the show. I'm not coming. I'm sitting in my living room.

And part of me thinks I'm lame. And part of me really, really wants to be nice and support his efforts. How hard would it be to get up and go? I really don't have anything else to do, except maybe watch the 14 episodes of Rebel Monkeys on my DVR. Except that if I go . . . I may be the only person there. If I'm not the only person there, the other people there are people I don't want to see. I don't like the guy's music. At all. And if I go . . . I'll have to stay. And lie. I don't lie well.

So I sit here and type, waiting for my nails to dry, trying to think up something else to do. Other than sit here and feel guilty. Because this is the pivotal cutting the cord event. Not replying to his "Happy New Years" (yes, I know . . . it's not years) was not enough. I should probably have a nice talk with him, explain why I'm cutting the cord. I'm in a different place now. And he really, really wants to talk about being unhappy. And I don't really want to do that anymore. He is a nice person. He is making his way in the world and doing the best he can. But one night he tried to convince me that I wasn't really happy . . . listing reasons that I should be unhappy . . . and I decided that was rather toxic. So I didn't call anymore. And didn't return his texts. And I don't think telling him would do any good. Really.

So perhaps I will shower and go out shopping. Or watch all those "Rebel Monkeys". And pretend that I am in Miami. But I have to cut that cord.

The Power of Yelp

I am giddy with imaginary power . . . caused by the Internet.

I'm sure everyone knows about yelp and if you don't you probably should check it out. There are reviews for everything, plumbers, restaurants, HAIR SALONS! And mostly, I use yelp to read reviews of things I haven't tried. And I'm an informed reviewer of reviews. I know to take things with a grain of salt. Heck, read the reviews of my brother's restaurant "group" sometime. They don't always get "5 stars". The rants are sometimes pretty funny to read. And I know my brother doesn't read them . . . much like I don't read my reviews on "Rate my Teacher". Thus the imaginary part of the power.

I lost my stylist a year ago. Well, that makes it sound like I took her out in the woods without breadcrumbs. My stylist made a career change a year ago. And she was an amazing stylist . . . did my hair and my MOTHER'S hair and we were both happy. If you have met the both of us, you know what a feat that is . . .

So the bar was set very high. And when she retired to become a phlebotomist, I tried to see it as a opportunity to find someone closer to home. 45 minutes is a long trek, even if it is an opportunity to have lunch with my parents. So I tried the "hip" place in Berkley, which is really for men. And after two haircuts that I wasn't happy with, I decided that it was REALLY for men. They do men's hair very well.

So I then searched . . . yelp specifically . . . and found this place in Detroit. It was in my old neighborhood, next to cool shops and next to Motor City Brewing Works, one of my current favs. But I only read the first review and then checked out their website. Owner said she was a former Derby Girl. Cool. My kind of place. So I called them. But I got a machine. (Machine can sometimes be a very bad sign) And I left a message. Melissa or Michelle or a person with an M name, called me back a few hours later. I told her my plight. She asked if my hair was already dyed. Ummmm. Yeah. Has been for years. I'm not walking around with crappy roots. Now, to her credit, Melissa or Michelle or person with an M name did not know that I'm almost forty with gray hair. M name told me that she would have to talk to a stylist and that the stylist would get back to me. "Probably not today . . . but tomorrow." Okay.

I waited a week. I thought about just driving down there and walking in. But then I decided to yelp. I read ALL the reviews. And most of them were not good. Not good at all. Some of them even had more than a few stars but still had "constructive" comments. And they didn't call me back. So I looked at some salons closer to home. Found one in Ferndale that was willing to get me in that day. Today. In a couple of hours. And they don't care that my hair is already dyed. And they didn't have one negative review.

Now granted, no one is happy all the time . . . but no one cared enough to type a negative review.

But I cared enough about the salon not calling me back. So I wrote a review saying that. True, if I was the business owner, I would get it taken down. I can't review their store because I haven't been in it. But it made me feel better. And maybe someone will read it and correct things.

I'm kinda bummed that I'm not going to eat yummy pizza today and I really wanted some brioche from Avalon bakery, but my hair will not look like a brown mushroom after 3 pm today. Hopefully.

And I am giddy with imaginary power.