Wednesday, May 31, 2006

Burn Baby Burn


Those who read me, know about the fire issues. No need to go there yet again or I risk boring you all so badly that you're going to find me and torch my place for kicks. Even I'll admit, that would be one hell of a show.

I've been meaning to pop on and tell you a ridiculous story about something that happened at a party I had on Friday night.

First, Crown and I had a party Friday night. Celebrating the visit of Dings, in for the weekend for her mom's bday. Was GTs all around. Since she was available to us in the Tdot for one night only we decided we might as well make an effort to show her a good time.

I'll admit that I somewhat selfishly hoped that she'd have so much bloody fun that she'd fly home to Van City, pack up the hubbie and pup, and move back to us next weekend. She didn't quite have that much fun. BUT I think we reminded her how we do in the Big Smoke, seen? She'll be back... oh yes... she'll be back. Nobody can resist the late-night-gay-Matty-dance-off for long. It's simply not possible.

Anyway, back to the fire story. Early on in the evening, shortly after the life of the party showed up - I'm refering of course to the one and only Scarbinator - I was cleaning up (shocking, I know) and she was settling in for a chat with our visiting guest of honour. I'm wiping, they're chatting. Wiping, chatting.

Suddenly there's a sound. A sizzling, frying, smoking, BURNING sound. I automatically look across the room at a collection of candles, certain that the blinds are going up, or the plant, HOY FUCK something is going up!! Keep in mind we're talking in nano seconds, I'm already near panic... when I hear a voice peep up from beside me... "Yo. I think your hair's on fire, fo' real."

Thanks Dynamus. You saved a life.

He was so right, Scarb's freaking HAIR CAUGHT ON FIRE. IN MY HOUSE. ON FIRE. Right in front of my face. Luckily I already had a coupie vodka-sodas in me and I handled it like a champ. Dings and I took turns slapping out out the flames and reassuring our fashionable friend that the damage was minimal. I even tried to convince her that it was a great way to get rid of any stray split ends.

She handled it like the true party girl that she is. I can tell it's not the first time she's set herself on fire, and you know, it's probably not the last. Respect for rolling with the punches and continuing to entertain us all night long with your hilarious self, Scarb.

And me? Well, I think I handled myself pretty well too. I promptly blew out all the candles, turned on the kitchen fan to air the joint out, poured myself a stiff one and got back to the fun.

I'll admit this here for you all though, the old neurotic Beaches reared her ugly head in the a.m. when I had to wash the reminants of Scarbie's burnt up locks from my dining room chair and floor. An ever so slight panic attack at what could have been, then a slightly larger panic attack at the state of my floors. At least we all know what neurotic behaviour of mine would win in a fist fight.

Scarb, they say these things happen in threes. I believe when it comes to close calls with fire, you and me are now at TWO? Crap.

Tuesday, May 16, 2006


Because I always keep my word, and better late than never.

Here it is pre-cut. Wet, long, kinda nappy:

Here is is post cut. Also wet. Not sure why I prefer to take pictures while fresh from the shower? Perhaps that's a topic for another post:

From the back:

And, amazingly dry, but up to it's old familiar frizzy tricks:


Why Can't You Do It?
Why can't you set your monkey free?
Always giving in to it -
Do you love the monkey or do you love me?
Why can't you do it?
Why do I have to share my baby with a monkey?
Don't look now
There's a monkey on your back -
Don't look now
There's a monkey on your...

That's right. We strapped a stuffed monkey to our dog's back and laughed our fucking asses off for a good 5 - 10 minutes. Some may call it mean spirited. Around here, we call it "GTs."

I'm sure he came away from the whole experience more fulfilled for having given his people some seriously good belly laughs. I promise we made every effort to pretend that we were not laughing at him, but by the looks of his unfurled curly pug tail, I don't think he was buying our bluff. Bad people.

Also, I can't believe I remember the lyrics to this post's name sake. Seriously, this was my favourite song for at least a year. It got to the point where my mom had to knock on my door and ask me to, "Please play another song. Any song. Maybe some more of the gangster rap. You still like the gangster rap, don't you?"

Friday, May 05, 2006

We Don't Need No Water, Let the MotherF'er Burn

In what can only be considered a bizarre form of karmic punishment for an apparently horrific evil I performed in a past life, our fire-alarm system is on the fritz.

That’s right. I, deathly afraid of fire and fire alarms, am currently living in a home where the fire alarm goes off ALL THE TIME for no apparent reason. And yesterday it happened ALL NIGHT LONG. Beginning at about 6pm and not ending until approximately 5:30am, when Crown, finally at his wit’s end (mine ended somewhere around, oh, when the FIRST ALARM sounded) ripped the bloody thing out of the ceiling.

We’re assuming that there is some kind of electrical malfunction at the heart of this issue, rather than assuming that we’re living with some sort of noxious gas that is tasteless, odorless, yet deadly. But those of you who have read this blog before, or who know me at all, probably understand that while my brain says electrical malfunction, my body is strongly in favour of the noxious gas option.

Which means that my body didn’t sleep last night at all. Which means I’m extremely tired. Which is why I’m explaining things that don’t need to be explained to people who aren’t as tired as I am. Sorry.

Suffice it to say, somewhere around 3am I was silently lying in bed, heart pounding, palms sweating, clutching the snoring dog to my chest, waiting for the horrible drill to sound again and praying that our deaths would be swift and painless.

By 4:30am; however, I was just all, “Let this motherfucker burn to the ground already. Bring it! I want to feel the sting.”

Obviously we survived the night. But now I’m entirely terrified to be alone in my own home and have seriously entertained the option of sleeping on a bench outside in the courtyard. Good thing this didn’t happen in February.

I must have burned and pillaged some serious villages in the 1800s or something. I mean honestly.

Girls Just Want to Have Fun

Now, ya’ll gotta know I love Cyndi, and Lord knows how I loved this song when it came out in 1983. But, I was eight. It was true then -- eight year old girls did just want to have fun in 1983.

But now? Sorry Cyndi, but I have to disagree. These days girls may want to have some fun, yes, but not just fun. These days girls of all ages, want to have a whole lot of things that are preventing them from having much fun at all.

They want to have skinny thighs.
They want to have designer jeans.
They want to have perky boobs.
They want to have the “it” bag.
They want to have perfect hair.
They want to have boyfriends.
They want to have flawless skin.
They want to have sex.
They want to have a BFF.
They want to have protection.
They want to have no more cellulite.
They want to have great careers.
They want to have smarts.
They want to have muscles, but not too many muscles.
They want to have respect.
They want to have popularity.
They want to have celebrity status.
They want to have diamonds.
They want to have freedom.
They want to have cars.
They want to have husbands.
They want to have long legs.
They want to have equality.
They want to have plastic surgery.
They want to have clean closets.
They want to have clean floors.
They want to have a clean slate.
They want to have babies.
They want to have perfect bodies after having babies.
They want to have their MTV.
They want to have well-adjusted families.
They want to have time for themselves.
They want to have a voice.
They want to have role models, but they don’t have much choice these days, do they?

The messages for girls are invasive, all encompassing and everywhere. They tell us, from an increasingly young age, that we should not only want all these things, but that if we don’t have them, we are not good enough, that we are failing at simply being girls and women.

We should be working harder, we should be reading more, we should smile a lot, we should buy expensive skin cream, and we should wear very high heels. We should run, but not too much because we’ll get thin, but bulky. We should take pilates and yoga, to balance that out. We should be nice to boys and skeptical of girls. We should cook and clean and work and raise the kids and stay in shape and look after our parents and look after our skin and blow our hair straight every day. Then, after all these things, we should have fun, damn it. Because isn’t that just what girl’s want?

It’s time to end the cycle of manipulation and self-deprivation that is infiltrating our little girls and creating damaged teenagers and scarred women. Perhaps we can’t bring down the media machine that perpetuates these damaging messages for their own profit and gain. But we can put a stop to it in our own homes and in our own minds. The cycle can stop with you. No more out loud comments about how fat you look. Your children are listening. Every time a negative, self-depreciating comments wants to come out of your mouth, I challenge you to say something positive about yourself instead. Your children are listening to that, too.

Eight-year-old girls should just want to have fun. That is what will allow them to reach eighty years with a strong sense of self-worth, self-value and inner strength. Let’s help them get there.