I have barred Companion from the house until he gets his Chachi-mop mown down.

“What?” he said, incredulously.

“I said, ‘Don’t come home until you get a haircut.’ I am not bedding down with Scott Baio tonight.”

“Ugh,” he ughed, but then he complied. I promised I would keep the lentil stew I’m making warm. That’s better than it sounds, I swear. It’s not just a pile of hippie barf. There’s carrots and bacon, and some other crap.

Man, if I had a diner I’d be bringing them in in droves. Tonight’s special: Some Crapped Up Stuff I Found. Served with Sauce avec “lumps de foreboding.” Poor Companion. The only reason he comes home every night is because he has nowhere else to go. And the bench warrant. Heh.

I saw a doctor yesterday, about Teh Vertigo. I could not believe my good fortune: the place is in walking distance. At this point, in this crazy faggy town, anything walkable is worth it. I would walk for a beating, if they were giving them away. Free beatings in Capitol Hill, FORGET IT.

Anywayz, the NP I saw thinks my head it not busted. I knew that. She’s having me do something called Brandt-Daroff exercises that involve me rolling around on the bed dramatically. This is good, because this way I can reenact my favorite scenes from Wuthering Heights daily. “OH, HEATHCLIFF. NICE ASCOT THINGIE.”

Companion read the instructions and said, “If you’re supposed to do this until the vertigo subsides, what are you supposed to do? Because yours hasn’t been subsiding at all.” Stupid logic. I guess he’ll just have to feed me and try to get a bedpan under there somehow. Which reminds me. I should be doing the exercises on his side of the bed.

The NP (Nosy Person) said that I should cut out alcohol and caffeine. When I started openly weeping about this she told me I was funny. I think I like her. She also cut me a prescription in case the exercises don’t work.

“Oh, I’ll just take the OxyContin,” I said.

“No, this prescription is for an anti-nausea medication,” she replied.

“Right, so…OxyContin then?” I said.

“Get out,” she said. I need to find a medical practitioner who will fall for that.

In Other News: Pimp Mah Hair

Long-suffering readers will know that my hair is usually some shade of Special Effects red or pink. I used to get the hookup from the Ballard local punk rock barbershop, Scream, but I have gotten kind of fed up with them, especially since the Root Fiasco of Ought-Six. The last time I went in there, they were out of my color. They haven’t had a color chart with dyed hair samples for months, because as the counterperson told me, “Yeaaah, the manager’s a little slow on that stuff.”

SO, F that N, as my sister would say. I found a fabulous website out of Indiana, Amphigory, with friendly customer service people and the dye is only nine bone. With an order of six and with shipping, it was cheaper than heading down to Ballard. Also, if you check out their hair dye page, you can click on the swatches and see pictures of real-life people with the color in their hair. Awesome!

Recently, I figured something out about Special Effects as well. I have been cutting the dye in half with my cheapo Aussie Moist brand conditioner, and the color goes just as far on my hair, stains my scalp and skin less, and makes it extra soft. I just mix the conditioner and the dye in a bowl and slap it on. I recommend this method for “cherry bomb” and “virgin rose,” but I don’t know how it would be with any other.

I am thinking about this because she doesn’t know it yet (I guess she will if she’s cyberstalking me), but I am about to begz0r Supa to bleach my roots again, because Companion’s agency made the mistake of inviting him to their holiday party. Aw, fnif, Baby’s First Corporate Holiday Party. He grew up so fast. He’s taking me, and I agreed to come as long as I can “do my own thing.” By “do my own thing” I of course mean “drink too much punch and hump the xmas tree.” I can’t resist piney spiky dead things. SHINY!