I purchased Feria hair color a bit over a week ago, maybe slightly longer, intending to try going to something near my own color, for a change. I haven't seen more than an inch of my 'natural' hair color in years, but I vaguely recall it being dark brown. The roots are, anyway.

Feria's not my usual brand, but it was the only brand that had a brown that wasn't ash.

Tonight, intending to actually use the color, I prepped my bathroom, dressed in my hair color t-shirt (a Gateway tech support shirt), and pulled out the box. For a moment, I was confused. There was a bottle labelled 1 and a tube labelled Conditioner and another tube labelled 3. No squeeze bottle.

So, I don't have the receipt, and I'm missing a crucial element of the hair color and it's midnight, and who wants to go fight with Safeway at midnight?

I am NOT HAPPY.

But in spite of being displeased, I have to wonder, why would someone steal part of a hair coloring kit? I mean, it's not even the part that could be sniffed.

I've done this before, but political rants always make me feel the need to focus on the good in life. And I just wrote one at OD. So, here are seven things I'm thankful for tonight. Thanks to for the concept which I've blatantly ripped off.

1) I'm thankful that I have a roof over my head. I live in one of the most expensive regions in my country, in a city with a visible homeless population. Of those of us who have jobs, many are one paycheck away from being homeless. I'm lucky that I'm not.

2) I'm thankful for my mother. We don't always agree, and sometimes we have huge arguements, but she gave me a solid grounding in self worth and a feminist sensibility that I chose to embrace. And she just wrote my marketing campagin for me.

3) Sobe. Today I'm thankful for Sobe. Oh, I know, it's still a sugary fruit juice, but the flavors are lovely (I like the white kind, and the Dragonfruit kind) and the colors are pretty, and the lizard makes me smile.

4) My dogs. Small furry bundles of unconditional love. Yes, sometimes they do horrible things to my belongings, but still.

5) Fuzzy. He dragged me out of the house and hung my corkboard at my office. And I didn't even have to bribe him with Spiderman (which we've yet to see.)

6) The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood One of my favorite books because it portrays such realistic relationships between mothers and daughters. It's a great book to re-read, and I've started doing that this weekend. And there's a movie coming out in June.

7) Sleep. I never used to be a sleeper. In truth, until recently I thought sleep was a waste of time. This weekend, sleep has been better than chocolate, and I've had the most wonderful dreams.

So, as of the 1st, I was allowed to originate loans. Not just process.

And today, today I did!

My very first loan as a loan officer, which, yes, I have to process, but hey.
Ok, my commission is only gonna be about $600, but still…

This is a rant about restrooms.

When I was a little girl, my grandmother instilled in me the deep fear of public restroom. At the beach, we'd be among the hoardes of women holding the auto-locking doors open for each other. 25 women and girls peeing for a single dime. You can't beat that for cost effectiveness. And then she'd take out her 'beach soap.' It probably had a brand, but it was small, round, patterned with something I remember as a Celtic knot, though I'm probably just mixing memories, and looked very much like oversized licorice candy. In my head, it even smells like licorice, but again, I may be remembering incorrectly. The soap would be wrapped in tissue at the bottom of her purse and dragged out (amidst grumbled complaints about the state of the bathroom) whenever a public restroom didn't have acceptable soap dispensers.

In any case, beach bathrooms are never the cleanest in the world, whether or not they try to make you pay a dime to use them, but a lot of that is because, you know, they're at the beach, and people are tracking in seawater and sand all day. And now that I'm older, they don't bother me as much as they did when I was five, and dreaded the command, “Crawl under and open the door for us.” I mean, really, isn't it worth spending a dime to protect an impressionable five-year-old from such a fate?

Office bathrooms, though. And restaurant bathrooms. Those bother me. A lot.

Our offices are in a buliding of rented suites, two floors around a central, open-air, atrium. All the office doors open to the balcony of the atrium. Two of the corners are occupied by steps, the other two by the men's and women's restrooms, respectively. I can't speak for the men's room, though the guys I work with tell horror stories, but the women's room is disgusting.

Apparently, most of the women who work in this building are unfamiliar with that element of modern plumbing known as the 'lever'. You know, the one used to actually flush the contents of…well, you get the idea. Apparently, they think their mothers work with them, as well, because they don't clean up. Anything. And while we have a cleaning service, they don't do much more than replace toilet paper (if we're lucky), and empty trash. I've seen them with mops, but have yet to find any evidence that mops were used, and I think 'sanitized' is a concept they can never hope to comprehend.

What annoys me about this is that we are, presumably, all adults here. Not even college students (though I have to say that my dorm-floor restroom was pristine compared to this, and Daisy, our housekeeper, even noted which way we liked the toilet paper rolls to hang, and turned them all that way) could be this messy, this gross. And not even busy fast-food restaurants, where at least the bathrooms get tons of use, are this dirty.

And there really is no point to this.
It's just really annoying me today.

I suppose I should count myself lucky that this is all I have to rant about today.

He had great legs. I couldn't help but notice them as he walked up the street. Couldn't avoid noticing really. He was obviously homeless, carrying his life around in what looked, from my vantage point in the passenger seat of our Forester, like a laundry bag.

I don't remember his face, though Fuzzy said later that he was bearded. Don't remember his shirt – though I know he was wearing one. A sweatshirt I think. I vaguely recall it being the dusty blue of a faded sweatshirt. The kind of blue that usually reminds me of summering by the shore, and wearing carefully faded rolled-neck sweaters against the chill.

I remember the way he peered up one street, and then slipped round a building to walk up the other. And I remember glimpsing legs, lean, strong, brown from the sun, and possibly a lack of washing.

He wore khaki shorts over sweatpants nearly the same color. Or, rather, they were sweatpants once upon a time. Now they're mostly holes and frayed edges.

But the thing that made me go home and clean out the closet; the thing that pushed me into the guilt that I often feel when I see street folk, was that his feet, inside his blue sneakers, were bare.

I had an urge to run across the street, and tell him to hang out at OSH at dawn, if he wanted to work as a day laborer. I had an urge to invite him to use our shower, to offer a hot meal.

I had an urge to hand him a pair of socks, freshly laundered, bleached to blinding white. I can imagine how soft cotton must feel on such mal-treated feet, how the whitewhite cloth would look against the tanned skin of his calf.

I did none of this things.
“That homeless guy,” I said to Fuzzy. “He had great legs.”

They're walking across my memory even now.

I have this rule that I have to do one productive thing every day, and this weekend I've had to really stretch things to meet that rule. Well, I did clean out my closet, sort of, and I did do the banking I meant to do, so I guess that's two things. But today, I've done next to nothing.

My allergies have been acting up since Friday, and yesterday and today I was forced to take actifed. Well, the generic version. Actifed makes me sleepy and grumpy and dehydrates me, but at least when I use it I'm not nauseous from mucous and I can breathe. But I took it yesterday on an empty stomach, and it sent me into such a spin that I've slept away most of my weekend time.

It was cool and damp and stormy on Friday and Saturday. I love that weather. Most of the time I find in invigorating and inspiring.

This weekend, we indulged the dogs by giving them bully sticks. Bully sticks are to dogs what chocolate is to women. Heaven in chewable form. (If you're not a dog owner, you'll find it gross, but bully sticks are basted meat, baked and dehydrated. Specifically, they're made from the parts that bulls have, and cows don't. They're smelly, and dogs /love/ them.)

Well, at least the dogs did something fun.

Neither of us have felt well all weekend, and Friday night I picked a fight with Fuzzy because he was supposed to be home at a specific time and wasn't, and didn't call, and I was already pissed because C-dog ate one of my black t-shirts. Brand new. Never even been warn, and now it's a rag.

So she spent most of Friday night on the deck, alone, until I was calm enough to let her in without yelling at her.

I'm ashamed at myself, because at one point I wanted to hit her. (I didn't. I would never hit an an animal. I don't even believe in spanking children.) But really, it's not her fault. She was out of chewies, and was trying to tell me. And, after all, puppies exist to teach humans to put things away.

Many of my friends, co-journallers, etc, have commented that they've been unusually moody this month, and I've noticed that I myself have been downright bitchy. And I hate that I can't control this bitchiness. I only hope that it's an April thing, and will go away when the month changes.

In other news, the job thing is solved. I'm now an independent contractor (yay me), and though they didn't agree to my salary proposal, they countered with something that's actually more fair, and works out better for me.

*sigh*

Is it May yet?

Tonight, in an effort to inspire an LJ friend who didn't know what to write about, I pulled an Observation Deck card.

It said, Observe a ritual.

Tonight while I was online, one friend paged me to say that she'd lost a family member just then, and within an hour another friend sent me an instant message that her father was dying, and that she'd found her favorite ferret dead in its cage. And I'm still grieving over the death of my best friend's dog, earlier this week.

“I'll light a candle for you,” I told the IM friend. “And you and yours will be in my thoughts.”

“You don't know how much that means to me,” was her response.

Well, maybe I don't know for sure how she feels, but I know that the act of lighting a candle, and watching the flame helps to center me, to warm me, and to give me strength.

I'm not a particularly religious person. Actually, I'm not religious at all, and while I do have a spiritual side, my beliefs are a mishmash of different elements of religion and spirituality that work for me. So, while I am quick to light candles, and spare a special thought for the person the candle represents, I don't say any specific prayers, or call on any deities.

I light a candle for a friend having a personal struggle, and visualize it's heat as the warmth of a hand being held, or a supportive hug.

I light a candle for the loss of a loved one, mine or someone else's, and visualize the flame as a beacon, leading everyone toward peace.

I light a candle in tribute to an animal who has gone to the rainbow bridge, and think of the unconditional love we pet-owners are priveliged to receive.

I light a candle in memory of a relative or friend, and see their face in my mind, and the flame warms me just as the memories warm my heart.

Tonight, I have three candles burning.

It's been an eventful day. In the span of one workday, I quit my job, was fired from the same job, and was then rehired into a slightly modified position with a better pay scale and more flexibility.

Obviously I have an odd definition of 'terrible'.

It began with my ongoing frustration with TempAgency to pay me on time. Oh, they managed all right for the first five months of my three-month assignment, but since the beginning of April, every check has been late. The first one arrived on Saturday. The next on a Monday. And this week's check still hasn't appeared in my mailbox. (I'm supposed to receive them on Fridays.)

Then there's the small matter of: My contract was supposed to be three months long, it's been six and no one's bothered to check on how I'm doing.

I skipped lunch hoping to zip home early, and instead got roped into an emergency notary appointment for some people who didn't bother to return their title company's calls and had to sign something RightThisVeryMinuteOrWe'llLoseTheLock! Of course they'd be the types who had to read every line of the thing they were signing, even though it's a required form, and they were being given a copy to take home. Ah, well, an extra $20 in my pocket helped a little. And Fuzzy was held up, as well, and also missed lunch.

We finally got home around 6:30, hot, tired, and feeling faint. Cooking would have knocked me out, so we ordered pizza: Note – the six-cheese pizza from Papa John's is best on thin crust, but don't order if you don't like strong cheese. One of the six is gorgonzola.

Total non-sequitur: Gorgonzola cheese makes me think of Xanth.

I logged on to my usual roleplaying game hoping for some nice light soothing RP between my character and her weyrmate (she's pregnant, he's been fussing, and so has his dragon), only I was still all faint and crabby and ended up picking a fight. Fortunately the player in question is a dear friend, and knew I'd had a day that was causing me to seriously vent. I owe him lots for his patience.

And now it's nearly one, and I'm too tired to write anything creative, and too awake to sleep.

*sigh*

Wednesday has to be better, right?

*sigh*

Whine-mode, cancel.

Well, sort of.
I told the temp agency I was severing my relationship with them because I feel that they're incompetent and irresponsible.
And I sent the actual workplace boss a long email explaining that I liked him, and his company, and would be happy to work directly for him, but I couldn't stay with TempAgency any longer.
And of course, technically, this all happened last night.

If he's willing to negotiate based on the proposal I sent, well, cool. I can live with that.

If not, well, I'm fortunate in that we don't really /need/ two incomes, it just makes things nicer.

And not working would force me to seriously write, and not just play at it. And my mother's been asking me to spend a week in Baja – could fly into Cabo, spend the night at one of the ostentatious waterfront hotels, spend another night in Todos Santos, and then go bask by the Gulf of California for several days. Mmm. Tempting.

And then there's this headhunter who calls me with offers I decline, at least once a month.

So, no matter what happens, life should be interesting.
And oddly, I feel at peace.

Forgive the punnish title, please. It's late, and I'm tired.

A while ago a local radio station used a section of it's morning show to solicit listeners' favorite smells. I didn't call in, but ever since then I've had an entry about scents lingering in the back of my brain. A Yahoo IM chat with my mother today dragged these thoughts to the front of my brain, and this is the result.

I've mentioned before that I associate Chanel No. 5 with Rice Pudding, because of my Aunt Molly and the family diner. And I think I've also talked about the scent of straight pins, when I box is first opened. Yes, intellectually I realize it's the smell of machine oil and metal, but to me, it's just pins.

But there are other smells, less definable, that I also love. Crayons, with their combination of construction paper and wax smell like childhood, to me, and even though I have horrible allergies, I love fresh-mown grass.

I love the smell of coffee, almost more than the taste. I love the smell of chocolate, preferably dark. I love the way liver smells when it's cooking, but not the way it tastes. (I ask, how can something smell so amazing, and then taste like rawhide?) Mint, in any form, is always something I love to sniff, and roses – real roses – .

My other favorite flower is the carnation. I love the clove-y smell. And while I abhor smoking, pipe tobacco has a sweet smokey smell I adore.

But the scent that's been on my brain all day is the smell of the beach. Not just surf and sand, though those are wondrous in and of themselves, but the whole beach experience. The smell of sunblock, and a little sweat, of surf and sand and sunshine. The tired happy feeling of coming home from a day at the shore, and showering, dabbing Noxema on the sunburned section of your nose and cheeks, and then slipping into a freshly-made bed with cool sheets. This – this is the beach smell I mean.

I saw a card at Barnes and Noble last night, while I was there on a book-buying orgy, of two little girls walking in the sand, both with braided hair, half undone, carrying sand pails, and flip-flops, and I could smell that beach smell.

It's the scent of innocence.