Yes, I did make a typo.
I tend to be a much worse writer and proof reader of my own writing than I am of others. I'll blast anyone, then I am tasked to write something myself, and it's riddled with errors, and sometimes makes no sense. Case in point, this blog.
So, yes, I just sent out our holiday cards, and I know I missed some people, so you need to give me until January to get them all out since I did the first batch from memory of people's addresses.
Well, I intended to write the phrase "point to point" and instead I wrote point to pint. Bah. The humanity. So, yes, even I, the great one, makes mistakes.
So now it's time for your lashing. Today's grammar lesson includes possession as posed by the elusive apostrophe. For those of you who sent a Christmas card to us from your family (which means more people than you) pay attention. I'm going to teach you the difference between This pluralization and possession.
If I were to say: "I'm going to the Walter's house for dinner tonight," the apostrophe in this case denotes that we own the house in question. Possession.
However, if I were to say: "Happy Holidays, Love, The Walters," I DO NOT use an apostrophe. There is no ownership. There is only a pluralization. I'm telling you this card is from all of us--The Walters, not just me, the Walter.
So, why, and girls I'm calling you out because I notice many more girls do this than guys, are you saying: "Happy Holidays, Love, The Walter's"
?
Please remedy this in time for next year's cards, and enjoy the last typo you'll see from me in print for a long time.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Am I Funny?
I've never been a big fan of my looks. I have a big, wide, bulbous nose, small eyes, crappy skin, and fine hair. I know the mirror doesn't lie, but at least sometimes I think, tonight, I don't look half bad.
I have always blamed the camera not liking me, and being completely unphotogenic when I see countless pictures of me looking bad. However after recently seeing a lot of pictures taken of me, I've thought to myself, no Jen, you really look like this. The camera doesn't lie either. When I see myself in pictures I think, this is an ugly person. Not, I don't look good, or unattractive, I look flat out ugly. And with my much talked about (by me) weight gain, I look even worse. I took a picture of myself today with my big ass belly looking like jolly old Saint Nick. I thought I had distorted the angle, but it was just my fat stomach in the way.
I say all this because I have just returned from a trip to the Dominican Republic for our friends Jay and Jocelyn's wedding, where I was about to tell the story of my hair getting butchered. I wanted to take shots of the style in question, and I couldn't even get past my face in the pictures to concentrate on how bad the hair is. Does everyone feel this way? Is it like your voice on a recording? You think you sound so weird and different, but everyone says that's exactly how you really sound? Or am I really the ugly person who appears in all of these photos?
The pics I am about to put up here also show me with my dirty looking tan, with white eye areas. I can't even tan properly. I'm beginning to think I'm being punished for all the bad things I've done in my life, and people's clothes I've made fun of in last ten years when I became jaded to the world around me (coincided with my move to L.A.). I wish I had the brains to say that it doesn't matter because I'm so smart, but honestly I'm only of average intelligence, and as I get older I know less and less, remember less and less, and have no ability to learn new things. I'm like the guy from Memento who can't make new memories (if you haven't seen it, don't even talk to me, because you now mean nothing to me). So, I ask you...am I funny? This may have to be a claim to fame for me. Everyone has one, and so shall I. I'm already working on material for my next dinner with friends.
Well, anyway, please excuse my horrific face, and try to focus instead on the haircut when you see the pics below.
Before leaving for the DR, I bought scissors to trim my bangs. I then left them in the car ten minutes after buying them. Typical Jen.
I have a hair appt. this weekend, but instead of waiting, I just had to make an appt. to get them trimmed. Now, based on me having at least five major catastrophes with hair in the past (peach colored hair, white hair, black hair, Edward Scissorhands chop job, etc.), that I would learn to trust no one with this hair.
As I was walking to get it cut, I thought, I should probably just wait.
Instead the following events occurred in this order:
1. Walk into humid salon.
2.Notice hair stylist is the same girl who gave me a massage in the morning. Are these two jobs interchangeable?
3. Notice the rusty curling irons, dated hair books, and am forced to pick out a picture for her to go by, and the photos all look like this:
So, if anyone has seen me lately, they would know that my hair doesn't fit into any of these inverted bob, Aniston fever, or spike punk styles. Although three years ago, I may have had the blond's 'do.
5. Plead with Bella (the stylist, and I use that term loosely) in English to only cut my bangs. I am snipping with my fingers in front of my hair, then saying, "Just a little trim," with my thumb and forefinger in the universal little bit or a pinch position.
6. She assures me in Spanish of nothing I can understand, but we're both nodding, so I think we're good. I should have brought the handy Spanish phrasebook that was in our goody bag to the shop, but my memory failed me again.
7. Moments later, the scissors are cutting the back of my hair without warning. I immediately start with my, no no no's, but she keeps nodding like she's telling me everything is fine, and she knows what she's doing. I have no choice but to let her proceed.
8. I am sweating, and can't believe what I've gotten myself into. The lady waiting for her kid to get braids done is smiling nervously at me in the mirror.
And by smiling, I mean sympathetically mind reading my every thought about the horror that is ensuing in the chair.
9. I continue throughout to tell her, "All one length, " and "No layers." To no avail. When the dull scissors are done tearing through my hair, it's a geometric mess. Oh, and the bangs I asked her to snip just a little bit, are not even to my eyebrows. I love the short bang, just not on me. I've tried it many times, and many times it hasn't worked.
10. I beg her not to blow it dry, because I can only guess what it will look like. She insists again.
What I looked like after that can only be compared to this photo at right. In fact, I think I saw this shot in the book as a wedding ceremony option. Interstingly enough, this woman has no top on.
11. I wanted to run to the room, and wet it down, but I had no key. So, I had to go all the way to the beach to find Trent.
12. When I arrived, I was so embarressed that I looked like this, that I started crying. Yes, crying. It was more that I couldn't believe that I had done it again, and it was officially short again than I was upset about it being cut. It took me three years to fully grow out my hair since I got derailed by it falling out for four months (Thanks TrailRX for getting it all back), and it was finally growing, and now this! Cool your jets, I only sobbed for like 10 seconds, but it was very very bad. Imagine me at the pool with tons of beautiful women and men around me in their thongs, and me in my dork sundress with hair looking like this chick. If I only had that pretty lace necklace to divert attention.
13. I took three showers at the pool shower to keep it wet all day, so it wouldn't dry all tweaked out. I entertained the idea of going slick and wet to the wedding, but the wet-haired model is just not a look I can pull of either.
14. It took me 1.5 hours to style it that night. It was long in the back, short on the sides, and every other length everywhere else. When I finally got it straight and somewhat under control, I walked out of the room, and the humidity hit it, and it poofed right back out again. I think I may have ruined all of the beautiful couple's wedding pictures. My hair took up most of the shots.
These pics don't really
show just how bad it is, but here I am today at my desk, ugly, fat, and now with bad hair. No wonder the women at Lyla's school ignore me. I think I scare them.
I have always blamed the camera not liking me, and being completely unphotogenic when I see countless pictures of me looking bad. However after recently seeing a lot of pictures taken of me, I've thought to myself, no Jen, you really look like this. The camera doesn't lie either. When I see myself in pictures I think, this is an ugly person. Not, I don't look good, or unattractive, I look flat out ugly. And with my much talked about (by me) weight gain, I look even worse. I took a picture of myself today with my big ass belly looking like jolly old Saint Nick. I thought I had distorted the angle, but it was just my fat stomach in the way.
I say all this because I have just returned from a trip to the Dominican Republic for our friends Jay and Jocelyn's wedding, where I was about to tell the story of my hair getting butchered. I wanted to take shots of the style in question, and I couldn't even get past my face in the pictures to concentrate on how bad the hair is. Does everyone feel this way? Is it like your voice on a recording? You think you sound so weird and different, but everyone says that's exactly how you really sound? Or am I really the ugly person who appears in all of these photos?
The pics I am about to put up here also show me with my dirty looking tan, with white eye areas. I can't even tan properly. I'm beginning to think I'm being punished for all the bad things I've done in my life, and people's clothes I've made fun of in last ten years when I became jaded to the world around me (coincided with my move to L.A.). I wish I had the brains to say that it doesn't matter because I'm so smart, but honestly I'm only of average intelligence, and as I get older I know less and less, remember less and less, and have no ability to learn new things. I'm like the guy from Memento who can't make new memories (if you haven't seen it, don't even talk to me, because you now mean nothing to me). So, I ask you...am I funny? This may have to be a claim to fame for me. Everyone has one, and so shall I. I'm already working on material for my next dinner with friends.
Well, anyway, please excuse my horrific face, and try to focus instead on the haircut when you see the pics below.
Before leaving for the DR, I bought scissors to trim my bangs. I then left them in the car ten minutes after buying them. Typical Jen.
I have a hair appt. this weekend, but instead of waiting, I just had to make an appt. to get them trimmed. Now, based on me having at least five major catastrophes with hair in the past (peach colored hair, white hair, black hair, Edward Scissorhands chop job, etc.), that I would learn to trust no one with this hair.
As I was walking to get it cut, I thought, I should probably just wait.
Instead the following events occurred in this order:
1. Walk into humid salon.
2.Notice hair stylist is the same girl who gave me a massage in the morning. Are these two jobs interchangeable?
3. Notice the rusty curling irons, dated hair books, and am forced to pick out a picture for her to go by, and the photos all look like this:
So, if anyone has seen me lately, they would know that my hair doesn't fit into any of these inverted bob, Aniston fever, or spike punk styles. Although three years ago, I may have had the blond's 'do.5. Plead with Bella (the stylist, and I use that term loosely) in English to only cut my bangs. I am snipping with my fingers in front of my hair, then saying, "Just a little trim," with my thumb and forefinger in the universal little bit or a pinch position.
6. She assures me in Spanish of nothing I can understand, but we're both nodding, so I think we're good. I should have brought the handy Spanish phrasebook that was in our goody bag to the shop, but my memory failed me again.
7. Moments later, the scissors are cutting the back of my hair without warning. I immediately start with my, no no no's, but she keeps nodding like she's telling me everything is fine, and she knows what she's doing. I have no choice but to let her proceed.
8. I am sweating, and can't believe what I've gotten myself into. The lady waiting for her kid to get braids done is smiling nervously at me in the mirror.
And by smiling, I mean sympathetically mind reading my every thought about the horror that is ensuing in the chair.9. I continue throughout to tell her, "All one length, " and "No layers." To no avail. When the dull scissors are done tearing through my hair, it's a geometric mess. Oh, and the bangs I asked her to snip just a little bit, are not even to my eyebrows. I love the short bang, just not on me. I've tried it many times, and many times it hasn't worked.
10. I beg her not to blow it dry, because I can only guess what it will look like. She insists again.
What I looked like after that can only be compared to this photo at right. In fact, I think I saw this shot in the book as a wedding ceremony option. Interstingly enough, this woman has no top on.
11. I wanted to run to the room, and wet it down, but I had no key. So, I had to go all the way to the beach to find Trent.
12. When I arrived, I was so embarressed that I looked like this, that I started crying. Yes, crying. It was more that I couldn't believe that I had done it again, and it was officially short again than I was upset about it being cut. It took me three years to fully grow out my hair since I got derailed by it falling out for four months (Thanks TrailRX for getting it all back), and it was finally growing, and now this! Cool your jets, I only sobbed for like 10 seconds, but it was very very bad. Imagine me at the pool with tons of beautiful women and men around me in their thongs, and me in my dork sundress with hair looking like this chick. If I only had that pretty lace necklace to divert attention.
13. I took three showers at the pool shower to keep it wet all day, so it wouldn't dry all tweaked out. I entertained the idea of going slick and wet to the wedding, but the wet-haired model is just not a look I can pull of either.
14. It took me 1.5 hours to style it that night. It was long in the back, short on the sides, and every other length everywhere else. When I finally got it straight and somewhat under control, I walked out of the room, and the humidity hit it, and it poofed right back out again. I think I may have ruined all of the beautiful couple's wedding pictures. My hair took up most of the shots.
These pics don't really
show just how bad it is, but here I am today at my desk, ugly, fat, and now with bad hair. No wonder the women at Lyla's school ignore me. I think I scare them.
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