Old Lady Veldhouse

Well Blog, I'm a regular silver mine these days. My follicles are drying up at an incredible pace and I'm left with what are becoming more and more pronounced streaks of white at the roots of my hair. I get that I just turned 29, but can't this aging thing wait until at least 30?

Oddly enough (and despite the comment I just made), I've been ok with this visible sign of how long I've been around. I noticed my first gray a couple years ago and since then they have multiplied here and there. But lately, it seems that this trend has been going on at an accelerated pace. I color my hair anyway (because I like it red, dammit) so it's not like I can't mask the wisdom that is creeping from my scalp. However, over the last few months I've let the red grow out just so I can examine exactly how gray I'm going. Well, Blog, I'm going pretty gray. Not like Anderson Cooper gray, but more like Patrick Dempsey gray where you're all "he's not gray" and then you look at a picture of him and you realize "hey, he's a little gray".



But he's not... oh wait. There it is.



Meanwhile in Obviousville...

 

I clearly have a long way to go until I'm blending my hair into a white background like Anderson, but look how he rocks it with his steely gaze and media sensibility! Sure he's a dude, but I could rock the white if I had it. Hopefully. Plus I'm a lady, so if I ever get sick of it I can just cover it up with some other color that I'm into. Like red.

 

We'll see how long these mousy brown/blonde/gray roots can grow out before I can't handle them anymore. Part of me wants to see what I look like with my natural hair color since it's been years since I had no dye saturating my locks. It's going to be a long process if that's the case. By the time I've got everything grown out, I probably will be blending into white backgrounds. Because you know me, always standing in front of white walls and backdrops and such.

Trust me. They're there. Making me more distinguished every day.

 





 

I Tried to Avoid Spoilers, but Maybe Ignore This if You Haven't Seen the Most Recent Episode of Downton Abbey

Blog.

Downton Abbey.

W.

T.

F.

I haven't cared about a TV series in a very long time, and now I know why. IT IS AN EMOTIONAL ROLLER COASTER. Caring about fictional TV characters sucks. I'm depressed about make believe things, Blog. Make believe things that happened 90 years ago, 4,000 miles away. This has absolutely nothing to do with me, BUT OH HOW IT DOES.

A while back, I let you know about how Downton Abbey was a catalyst for me to feel feelings again (coincidentally on the same day I auditioned for the theatre I'm doing right now). It has since turned into an evening obsession since I realized I could successfully stream season 3 from the PBS website using various hotel wireless connections that prove to be better than what I have at home.

And then last night I realized season 3's finale was on PBS itself. On the actual TV, Blog. I watched it as myself and every other American who cares about fancy parties and servant snobbery began to HATE JULIAN FELLOWES FOR CREATING THIS DEVASTATING WEB OF LIFE AND DEATH THAT WE CAN'T QUIT.

Why'd you do it, Julian? Why?

Instead of feeling alive as I once did, I feel dead. Just like some of the cast, APPARENTLY.

Someone who watches this show, please come down to The South and hold me. Andy knows nothing about this. At least I got him into The Bachelor enough so we can bitch about Sean and the harem of waifs he's been whittling down over the last few weeks.

But Downton, Blog. WHAT'S GOING TO HAPPEN AT DOWNTON?!

I need to sleep now. Good night.

This Is a First

Blog, a right of passage happened today. I got into my very first car accident that didn't involve severely injuring or killing a wild animal. No! I instead legitimately hit a car. No, not even hit. I think the correct term is "t-boned". I t-boned the drivers side of a car at a pretty nifty speed, if you don't mind me saying so myself. It was exhilerating and terrifying all at the same time. I feel pretty good about it for the following reasons:

1. This dude (yup, I got a good enough look at him to know he was a white male who is probably around the same age as myself) literally drove his car in front of mine as I was going down a main drag in good ole Minneapolis. There was no light and no notice that I was about to completely smash the front end of my 1997 Sable into  the side of some ambiguous silver four-door sedan.

2. As everyone (or most people) knows, when you hit a deer, you hit it because it runs out in front of your car at an interval that allows nothing but a gasp and a tap of the brakes to take place. That is exactly what happened to me this evening. Ironically, t-boning a silver four-door sedan at roughly 20 miles per hour caused less visible damage to my car than that one time I knocked out a headlight by hitting the ass of a deer back in North Dakota. I didn't even kill the deer. It ran away from my as I emerged from my car to yell at it in anger and frustration. Tonight's incident just left me surprised and shocked. Yes, a deer will run away from you. But a dude who just allowed his car to be totally fucked up by mine? I'm surprised.

3. I used my horn. This means nothing in the police report. This means nothing to the guy I hit. This means nothing to my insurance company. But the fact that one of my first reactions was to honk my horn comforts me for some reason. It makes me feel like I was the first one who responded to the whole situation. I got to take advantage of what little control I had over the situation by alerting anyone and everyone around me that some shit was about to go down. I got to let everyone hear the precursor to the actual accident. You're welcome, gawkers. I'd like to think I drew more witnesses in with my supersweet horn honking abilities.

So I called 911 for the first time. I filed a police report for the first time. I schmoozed with some very sweet and nice witnesses for the first time. And I missed my burlesque class for the first time. I was really looking forward to working my triceps this week too. No lie.

In a way I'm glad it happened. I suspect the damage to my car is minimal (I'm hoping anyway). I got a nice lesson in car accident ettiquette (note: don't drive away if you are t-boned!). And I ended up spending a nice evening with my roommates, wine, and tealights (turns out I'm all about ambiance after recovering from the initial shock of a traffic accident). Though I'm anticipating next Tuesday when I can once again spread my legs and snake my body in a classy stripper fashion.Yes, I was on my way to the burlesque class I've been taking when this all went down. And I plan on continuing to learn the art. Don't judge, Blog. You know you'd want to drop a shoulder strap to this song if ever you had the chance:

Depression Works for Me...

I just want to say Blog, that every day I become more and more convinced that literary greats were considered great not because of talent and practice, but because of mental unstability. I mean, would you want to read a novel, poem, short story or play written by someone of sound mind and lifestyle? I think not.

Or maybe you would Blog. I really don't know what sort of literature whets your intellectual appetite. But think about it. Sylvia Plath, Ernest Hemingway (tool), Oscar Wilde, Hunter S. Thompson... Think about it Blog...

I only say this because I feel most inspired when I am most depressed/confused/sad/upset/or generally emotional. I can only imagine the shit I'd come up with if I suffered from depression or bipolar disorder or OCD.

And then comes the question, would you rather be depressed all the time and come up with amazing literature or be happy and content with the only drawback in life being the writer's block you suffer because you have achieved mental stability?

Yes, it's possible to have both happiness and literary prowess I guess. You can be happy and write. But really, if that's the case, I'm sure your shit would be ten times better if you were depressed and writing. Or even better, if you were on drugs and writing. Think of one famous musician who's never smoked weed or done cocaine. Think, Blog, think.

That's what I thought. Creativity and brilliance comes from fucked up people.



Really? Is it that healthy to grieve your fiance's death by wearing white all the time? I think not.




Hey! I'm an alcoholic and married to a crazy...




I think we all know what happened here...




"Dearest, I feel certain that I am going mad again." Then she drowned herself. Perfect.




Drugs. Just... drugs.

Note that if they're not looking incredibly depressed, they're looking a little drunk. I rest my case.