evany's extended cake mix
(PS: My diary has officially moved over to my official evany.com website. Let's meet up over there!)
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Friday, Dec. 21, 2007 | link
The professional carpet cleaner, after a long hour of tennis-style grunting, calls out to us from the other room, "Okay! It looks like I got out most of the vomit and urine!"
Marco and I whisper amongst ourselves -- "Well, when you put it that way..." and "Most?" -- and add another $20 to the tip pile.
I've been feeling mildly out of sorts these days, surely just a case of end-of-year, countdown-to-forty internal grumbling -- not blue, really, more a low-grade "what's going to happen?" crossed with a pinch of "sigh." One of the ways you can tell the spring in my step is a little sprung is that I start fantacizing about cutting all my hair off, even though I've been struggling to grow it out for so very long. Even though I'm headed to Utah in January (Sundance!) and my cold, pale neck will almost surely regret the loss of warmth all that hair and hair and hair provides. Even though I've been scouring the archives of The Sartorialist and can't help but note that the street's cutest fashionists all have long, long hair. Even though short hair is way more expensive than long hair because you need more product to keep it flat and you need to get it trimmed way more regularly than the every-six-months schedule I'm currently on. And even though I know from sad experience that cutting off all my hair in a pique always leaves me looking and feeling worse -- some of you may recall the jellyfish I wound up with in my last post-lay-off slump (not the first one, the second one): giant puffy mushroom top with greasy tendrils along the back and sides.
But still! That great sound and feel of scissors hank-hank-hanking through a wrist-thick tail of hair calls out to me.
I love that Heather just up and created a product like that, with professional packaging and models and photoshoots and everything. Real, actual people can make their own real, actual products? That's so inspiring! And how awesome that Trash Ties not only hold back thick, thick hair like mine, but they also have the power to hold me back from an-almost-surely-disastrous hair accident. Thanks, Trash Ties!
Marco, limping slightly: So...I have some good news and some bad news.
Marco spent the next few weeks calling the rear-ender's insurance company twenty thousand million times, and after much badgering they finally sent out a claims adjuster, who made an appointment with Marco to come take pictures of the battered car at 11am the next Saturday. When, at 11:15, she still hadn’t arrived, Marco called her cellphone. After a handful of rings, she groggily picked up the phone and hoarsely reported that she’d be about an hour late. When she finally arrived, a bedraggled woman with a Mohawk and a filthy messenger bag moaning about her rough night, Marco politely asked what it was that she’d been doing all night, expecting a long, lurching story filled with bourbon and flat tires and sidewalk brawling and emergency rooms. “Oh, you know...laundry,” she said wearily.
The woman took some photos of the car and told Marco she'd submit her report by Monday...Wednesday at the latest. When we hadn't heard anything by the end of the week, though, Marco called again and discovered that the insurance company hadn't heard from the adjuster yet, shrug. Marco called back the next day, shrug, and the next...he started leaving long messages of nothing but the crunching sounds of entire bowls of cereal being consumed. But it wasn't until we threatened to start billing them for rental cars (nothing lights an ass-fire like consequences, hoo) that they finally, finally scrambled to get the report from the adjuster and finally, finally returned Marco's calls to report that the car was, indeed, officially totaled. And the very day before the city was scheduled to tow it away, the insurance company came and carted the crushed little Silver Tooth far, far away away.
And then last week the check finally, finally arrived, weighing in at a clean $138 more than I initially paid the car six or whatever months ago. Lemon; lemonade!
Now we just have to get the insane fly-by-night, laundry-tired insurance people to pay for all the time off Marco has had to take off from work to nurse his sad, bruised back, fun. In summary: yay for do-over insurance checks! Pray for Marco’s poor little back! And don’t ever, never let Evany and her faulty mysticism do the deciding when it comes to buying a car.