Monday, September 24, 2007

We interrupt this blog for important breaking news

This just in...

Fat girls can't play guitar. Well, they can, but it's gonna be one hell of a struggle. I mean, if your big belly and ginormous tatas aren't in the way making reaching the damn thing virtually impossible, then your fat frickin' fingers will make things like an E Major Triad a God damn circus act. How do I know? Because last week I got a guitar.

When I first broke out what seemed like an innocent string instrument from the bag with which it came I was naive to it's true colors. I knew nothing about the beast within and sat down to introduce myself and get to know each other. As I plucked at the strings and got a feel for things I quickly discovered that Mary had brought her little lamb and we put it away in a manger. I deemed myself a natural talent...a daggum prodigy. Five minutes in and I have 2 classics in my pocket. That night I put in the DVD that came with it and learned a couple chords. I'll be playing flamenco in no time.

My friends that play had warned me that my fingers would hurt until I built up "calluses." I was pickin' up what they were puttin' down. I was feelin' a little tenderness...a little numbness, but all was good. I was gettin' it. Holy fires of HELL did I underestimate the power of the E Major Triad. I couldn't do it. My DVD introduced it to me a half hour into my practice time tonight (I wanted to recap what I had already learned first) and it was at this very moment that I knew...Fender is just a code name for Beelzebub. Essentially, this chord requires you to have your second and third fingers on the 5th and 4th strings and your first finger on the 3rd string. My first finger couldn't keep it's girth off the second string and the fat on my palm was curling over hitting the first string. I didn't ONCE get it to sound right so I deemed guitar fat girl inappropriate and put it away.

I watched TV for about an hour and the more I thought about it the more it devastated me. Not only because I just spent money on a guitar I might never be able to play, but because I've been dying to play an instrument my entire life. My predominantly Dutch genes gave me more than freakishly large hands good for milking cows, it gave me an unparalleled stubbornness the likes you've never seen. I looked at my fingertips and said, "You're not bleeding so you must still have some fight left" and took the guitar back out. I got my fingers into position and pressed down. I plucked each string individually, blocking out the pain as I contorted myself as necessary to make that one string sound right. I got to the point where each string was in tune and not muted, took one good strum of Beelzebub and then held my fingers in place, pressing down hard, praying that God and muscle memory would be on my side the next time I tried to play it. I took my cramped hand from the neck of the guitar and tried to straighten my fingers. I decided it was no use and just let my lifeless digits fall to the side to rest. Once, at least I got it ONCE. A few minutes later I tried it again and got it once more. Then I tried the A Major Triad and got it a time or two. It was at this point that I determined that, though not bloody, my fingers had nothing left to give.

B.B. King has Lucille and I've got Beelzebub. I got that thing with the intention of not allowing myself to get lessons until I reached my 10%. Because I'm so close to that, I changed it and I am now planning to get lessons when my scale says 299. I haven't been 299 since my 27th birthday. I'll play it every day and ache to be better. I'll have my friends play it or go see bands play to stay motivated. I will reach 299 and I will get my lessons. Stiff, numb, and what I'm sure will be permanently indented by the strings, my fingers have taken one for the team to prove to me that, though difficult, this fat girl will play guitar. You might as well get my autograph now.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog.

Monday, September 17, 2007

Sometimes life just gets in the way

I hope the plethora of posts you were pummeled with was enough to hold you over for a while. It would appear that life got in the way of the freakishly up-to-date posting habit I had going on for a while. So, here I am to make you abreast of any noteworthy situations.

I am now a brunette. Tis true. I decided I was in need of a change from the light brown with blonde highlights I was sporting. In an attempt to pinch pennies I somehow got it in my head that color was something I could now do myself. After work one day I went to the grocery store, went to the appropriate aisle, and just stared at all the options before me. Now, other than feeling like switching things up entirely by going dark, I only had 3 real pressing bits of criteria. 1. I do NOT want my hair to be any shade of orange, 2. I do not want my hair to fall out, and 3. I do not want my scalp to burn like the fires of hell. I think it helps when venturing into this sort of thing not to have especially high hopes so, high hopes I had none. Here's where I got REAL brave. I got permanent color. Seriously!

I've only colored my hair at home once before and my sister did it. That's how I know that I'd rather my hair not be any shade of orange. Once I got it all done, rinsed, conditioned and wrapped up in a towel I kinda postponed actually looking at it. Not so much out of fear, but more so just the plain excitement of looking different for a change. I've looked the same way, with the exception of hair length, for so long that this was very cool to me and I wanted it to last.

I eventually stepped back into the bathroom and took the towel off my head. I looked in the mirror and I'm pretty sure my jaw hit the floor. It's like I'm a completely different person. My hair is always dark when it's wet so I quickly broke out the hair drier. It barely phased it. I now have dark hair and when the light shines on it there's even a hint of red. I dig it. I also cut it (not myself, I’m not a crazy person). It was to the middle of my back and is now resting nicely on my shoulders. It’s flippy and layered and I have a hint of bangs now. We’ll try it out for a while, but I might be growing it back out.

I got a tattoo. I know. That's about the speed at which I ripped that bandaide off for my mom, too. It's less painful that way. I don't know your opinion on tattoos, but I love them and this was my first. It was my reward for losing 25 pounds. My parents are anti-tat, but my sister forced them to warm up to the idea when she started getting them years ago. She first got a little daisy on her ankle. When I asked mom what she thought of it she sternly said, "Tattoos are for sailors and whores." I said, "Well, mom, she's not a sailor."

When choosing my first tattoo I opted to get something that would pay tribute to my Dutch heritage as well as my grandpa that passed away all the while lessening any whorish labels from my mother. I got (down by my ankle on the outside of my leg) a wooden shoe, tulip, and the word "pake" (which means grandpa in Friese). When I reach the 50 pound mark I will be adding another tulip and a windmill. When I told mom about it she actually laughed and when she told dad he laughed, too. I think I managed to elude whore status.

I have a roommate. This is far more painful than the tattoo, I assure you. Oh, how to describe him. Imagine if you will the perfect roommate. Clean, responsible, considerate, quiet, mature. Someone you can actually be friends with and hang out with. Someone you thank God for every day. Now picture that roommate's complete polar opposite and you have my roommate. At this point, all I'm really thanking God for is that he hasn't yet killed me in my sleep.

He has even caused me to consider never getting married because I fear that his slobbish and inconsiderate nature isn't a random occurance, but more so a specific gene typically present in the male species. I can't live with a slob. I've only lived with this tool for a month and it is no longer a question of IF I'll ask him to get out, but WHEN. Every time I think I can hang on for a couple more months he does something else (like slamming Lola's head in the door last night) that makes me want to kick him in the nuts and shove him out the door screaming "Once I fumigate and have disease control give the all clear, I'll send you your things."

The thought of getting a DIFFERENT roommate has crossed my mind as this is all to try and get a house, but I don't think I can cope. I don't think Lola can cope. As a first step to cutting back on my spending I cut off my home phone (I'll just use my cell) and dropped my cable down to the bare minimum. Now, that in and of itself doesn't sound so bad, but dropping my cable down meant I had to give my DVR back. Any of you that have DVR or Tivo or the like know how that pained me. I almost offered to give my first born or my left tata in it's stead. I've come to rely on my DVR far too much. Every time Lola needs out (which averages about every 20 minutes in the summer) I just hit pause and come back to my show gaining the ability to fast forward through the commercials. Two shows on at the same time? No problem. I could watch one while the other recorded. Oh the agony of it all. Don't ANYONE call when my shows are on. I can no longer pause live tv. WAHHHHHHH!

So there you have it. The latest on multiple fronts. Nothing too exciting. I'm just a tattoo'd brunette whore with a roommate I can't kill cuz it might interfere with my shows. Over and out.