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Blondes may have more fun, but I enjoy having dark hair. Not only is it a color that goths and indie kids strive for, but it makes almost any hair accessory stand out vividly.

The downside of having things stand out with dark hair? White hair. It’s always a nasty surprise to see one stand out amongst my locks. And since I am temporarily without a dog, it means that those white hairs do indeed belong to me.

Yesterday I caught sight of one while washing my hands at work. I went ahead and plucked it out, only to be shocked at what I saw: only the bottom half of the strand was white.

This strand was probably eight inches long, so four of those inches were stark white. The rest on up were black as the Ace of Spades. Which got me thinking: “What the hell happened to me where I stressed out enough to have white hair?”

Really good hair growth is about an inch a month. My hair grows fast, so I figure that strand was about eight months of history. And where the white starts would have been around November. Four months before November would have been July. And July was pretty damn stressful: Murphy had passed away in June, my first-grade desk neighbor drowned in Panama, depression medication dosage was increased, the office had to be packed up for Feng Shui renovations, and I dinged my car in the parking garage. That’s enough to make hair go white and take four months to go back to normal.

Anyone else have this happen to them? I’ve even had the occasional black, white, and black strand pop up.

Author’s note: This is kind of a touchy subject amongst guys since it deals with the menstruation cycle. Jamison, who has been around me for at least seven years, was horrified when I told him about the Diva Cup. If you hate reading about periods and/or vaginal insertions, you’d better skip this entry. Or if you really can’t stand to hear what a gay man and a flame dame have to say to each other during a casual encounter.

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It’s been a long time since a weekend has drained me so completely. I owe it to the amount of driving I had to do and the crazy summer-like weather.

I had cancelled my ukulele lesson for Saturday, which left me with a LOT of time on my hands. That’s fine, I can do laundry and watch the rest of The L Word.

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While going through my collection of friends’ posts on Twitter, one blurb caught my eye: my friend Stochasticgirl mentioned that she hates February.

February used to be one of my favorite months: it was quick, it brought me lots of candy, and schools still acknowledged Lincoln’s and Washington’s birthdays (two 4-day school weeks in a row!). As I got older, the candy stopped coming, two national holidays got lumped together as “President’s Day,” and the passing of 28 days just meant AP tests were that much closer (or the start of a new semester once I hit college). Suddenly the second month of the year wasn’t as exciting as it used to be.

It may be a bit premature of me to use the statement “Beware the ides of February” because this has been the second year in a row where times have gone to pot (a third year will validate this beyond a reasonable doubt). February, for some reason, crams in as much misery as possible in its short span.

To prove my case:

February 2008:

1. Executive Chef goes out for knee surgery and takes longer to heal than expected. Poorly planned meals across the board.

2. Engineering Director trips on a curb outside of a restaurant and breaks his hip.

3. Secretary next to me falls down and breaks her kneecap. For over 6 weeks I am to work 2 desks.

4. Request for a 5 day vacation in May is denied. I am to find my own replacement, despite the fact that there is another admin in the office (of which I might add, I cover for when she’s on vacation).

5. A friend and co-worker is killed in a car accident.

February 2009:

1. Threat of downsizing is finally real for me, as major departments and positions are being eliminated on the hotel level.

2. Corporate announces it will move HQ to Washington DC. Tension is thick; you’re gonna need a chainsaw to get through this.

3. A good neighbor passed away suddenly from pneumonia. As classic burials go, it was pouring rain at the cemetary.

My Grandma Kay used to swear by the statement “beware the ides of March.” My Grandpa Zeke (Grandma Kay’s husband) and her son Francis both died in the month of March; ironically she passed away in March as well. And three people were enough to get me thinking that there was something behind that statement.

Until February reared its ugly head.

I scan Wikipedia on a near daily basis at work. I figure I might as well learn something when I have downtime at work (as opposed to constantly refreshing Twitter to see if any of you have updated). So imagine my horror (and slight intrigue) when I saw the words Bacon Explosion in the Did You Know? section. And that horror grew when I realized that YouTube had actual video of this:



But it doesn’t stop there. Oh no. For you see, during my downtime yesterday afternoon at work, another meat monstrosity popped up: Chicken Fried bacon.

I honestly love meat. For years I avoided vegetables like the plague, nearly gagging any time a leafy green or a bite of carrot accidentally entered my mouth. Even with the threat of high cholesterol in my family, it took a very, very long time before I finally accepted a serving of peas as being a legit side dish. I’m even a proud owner of this shirt, which I have worn amongst my vegetarian friends:

Seriously, this makes the “treats” I discovered at Rite Aid look healthy: