2001-06-23 - 12:10 a.m.

On the internal soundtrack: "Eres Tu"

So, I did it. I was getting too involved in LiveJournal discussions and was tired of being "Anonymous", so I got myself a LiveJournal. Look there for short tidbits that don't merit a journal entry here, and check out my list of regular reads -- they have lots of interesting things to say, plus you'll find me in their "Comments" now and then.

A few weeks ago, I was telling Poindexter about the discussion on Ernunnos' LiveJournal about happiness. (Poindexter, by the way, has near-zero interest in this whole online community thing, but he likes discussing the issues that come up.)

At some point during the discussion, his answer to one of my neverending philosophical questions is that the reason people sometimes don't make the choices to make themselves happy is because it's hard work to make those choices and carry them through.

I asked him for an example, and he talked about an experience in his own life that I don't think I can relate here. But it got me thinking, and set me off on my own tangent.

In my previous entry about having a hard time focusing on non-priority projects at work. The web surfing was getting a little out of hand. I did fine when I had a priority project, but if nobody cares when I get something done, it's really hard to focus.

But the thing is, if I spend all day web surfing, as much fun as the web surfing is, I don't feel good at the end of the day. I don't feel good about myself, and I don't feel useful.

So, as a direct result of that discussion, I decided to try harder to find ways to make myself focus on work and be productive so I could feel better. It's hard, though. I've slipped up. On the days I do well, though, or the days I have high-priority projects, I come home in a fabulous mood and enjoy my evening more.

Anyway, I told Poindexter about my effort, so he could call me on it, and said I was going to be "The New Evelynne". Then the trip to the salon was more of "The New Evelynne".

His first question, of course, was, "Is The New Evelynne any good in bed?" I said, "I dunno, you'll find out tonight."

OK, let's get last weekend over with before I really start this one.

Last Friday I got my perm. Woo! Squiggly-head Evelynne. The New Evelynne. Yeah. Pictures coming after I get them developed, since the digital camera is en route to the repair center.

I went to a rather expensive salon in the District, which I justify because I'm too lazy to get my hair cut more than twice a year.

I am not sophisticated enough for this salon. I try, you know -- I agnonize for half an hour over what to wear the night before I go -- but I don't have that knack for dressing stylishly and applying makeup that make a person look well-put-together. Like a quintessential New Yorker kind of look. (If you are good with this, and live in my area, please e-mail me and I will hire you to take me shopping. Thanks.)

This is okay, most of the time. I look pretty good in a pair of faded jeans, an old sweatshirt, and messy hair. But that look is just not appropriate for this place. So I feel funny there.

The good news, of course, is that I come out looking a lot better than when I went in.

I had three people fussing over me. The guy cutting my hair, the perm person, and then some other random stylist -- a short, muscular Italian-looking guy with a ponytail -- who just decided to get involved.

I love gay male hair stylists. I do. I love how they are so charming and attentive and fuss over small details that would make a straight man's eyes glaze over with a combination of boredom and fear. I love how they stand around and look at the pictures I've brought and feel my hair and say, "I think this one would work. Your hair is very fine, so we need to blah blah blah..."

So, getting a perm is boring. But I think I greatly amused the sink attendant when she rinsed my head. The area on my scalp behind my ears is extremely ticklish, so when she aimed the water there I couldn't stop giggling. When my mom used to give me perms, she would always laugh at me when she rinsed, and I think she always rinsed a little extra there. At home, of course, I would scream with laughter but I managed to hold it in at the salon.

When I got home, Poindexter looked at me from all angles and said hm. I kept catching him staring at me for the next half hour. Finally, out of the blue, he nodded in approval and said, "I like it."

Other weekend tidbits:

We went to the Lebanese Taverna with Rob and Rianna and hung out at their place afterwards. We sat on the screen porch and yammered for over three hours, and we didn't even have any drinks. Amazing. At some point, I commented that we spent an awful lot of time sitting around gossiping about the train wreck lives of people we are acquainted with. Rianna said, "Yeah, and we're like 'I would never do that'. I guess it's because we are the type of people who overplan everything so we don't make stupid mistakes."

My brother was here last weekend. He went to a wedding in Georgetown. Thankfully, they had power, even though most of M Street was without it because of the problems they've been having (an exploding manhole?). He got sick and thinks it was food poisoning from the salmon he ate. My poor baby brother. I fed him peppermint tea and toast and wouldn't let him touch anything in the kitchen, just in case it was actually a contagious virus. I did this once before when he was here with the flu. He thinks I'm crazy, but he doesn't mind being waited on hand and foot, either, which I do since I won't let him get his own food and drink.

Oh! On Sunday I went shopping. I bought some (hopefully stylish) clothes and the Barbies. I am all excited because I finally, finally, found a bikini that I am 100% happy with. It's got a SCOOP BOTTOM.

It seems that most every bikini I've tried on in the last five years have bottoms that are straight across the top in front. This is extremely unflattering because it can hide the curve of the hip (making you look like you have less of a waist) and compresses that natural little pudgy curve outward below the bellybutton instead of framing it below. (The current SIsi models, Victoria's Secret models, and most Playboy models are too thin to really have this -- look at Marilyn Monroe to see what I mean.)

So, I bought two bikinis that scoop a little in front, since I had to have something. One black, one blue. But they didn't quite fit right, and I was never totally happy with them.

Then, finally, last weekend, I found it. Fits perfectly. And it's RED. Gotta love it. I am done my bikini shopping until this red one wears out. Actually, if it does, I'll have somebody make me another one using the old one as a pattern.

Speaking of bikinis.

Despite being blessed with a "height-weight proportionate" figure, or perhaps because of it, I find a very wide range of women's bodies attractive. I actually don't care as much for models or for women who look like me. I love the models in Kitters said she didn't want to put on a bathing suit and go swimming because she is not comfortable with her weight. I told her she should check out a nude beach and see all the non-movie-star people who are so comfortable with their bodies, naked no less.

But I thought: What about me? I've got hairy legs. Why can't I just quit shaving/waxing, accept my hairy legs and go out in public with them? If hair removal wasn't an option, would I go swimming with my hairy legs? Am I being a hypocrite here?

I don't know. I think that unshaved legs on me look unhygenic. Plus I look like a guy, basically, the day I go to get waxed. But that's societal conditioning, just like society conditions people to think that thinness is more attractive. Shouldn't I just go against that societal conditioning, let it grow, and revel in who I really am?

On the other hand, there's a lot more non-thin people at the pool than there are hairy women. I bet I'd feel better about it if I had just one other hairy chick to hang out with.

(All you hairy-women lovers who keep coming here via Google, if you would write and tell me what the big attraction is, I'd be much obliged.)

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