Where's global warming when you need it? Honestly, this isn't fair. We have a totally mild summer and now an absolutely frigid winter? I thought we were going to get hot, not go into another ice age. If ice age is where we are heading, screw that. I'll off myself. I hate being cold. Hate it. Granted, I probably could dress warmer. But when I'm sitting in my office wearing a shirt and two sweaters, a skirt, pantyhose and socks, with my heat cranked up as high as it will go and still I'm still cold...that's getting ridiculous.

I am so ready for summer.

I'm tired. My eyes are sore and dry from crying for three days. But for the most part, I feel good. I feel like things are changing, mostly for the better. I think the ailing relationships in my life are mending. The strained ones are fading away, leaving room for more productive, and healthy things. Not that those relationships are bad or over or anything like that; they're just being reexamined. And I don't think I'm the only one going through this stuff -- it seems like 2005 is the year of getting healthy for a lot of people. I'm proud of all of my friends who are getting healthy. I'm proud of me for doing it, too.

Good bye, Grandma. I love you.

Moby is shooting a music video on Thursday. Which makes me SO HAPPY I CAN'T EVEN TELL YOU. Because first of all, it means that the single will be released soon. And secondly, because it means there will be more yummy Moby footage out there to watch. And third, it could be taken to imply that a DVD will be released for this album at some point and as we all know, I loved the "Play" and "18" DVDs. Funny stuff, that. The only sad thing is that I will not be in New York on Thursday, so I can't participate in the shoot. If I was in New York, I would take the day off to do it, but I am not, so I can't. Oh well. Some other day.

But yay! More happy yummy Moby goodness on the horizon!

I'm such a dork.

Happy birthday to my Virginia friend, with whom I have been exchanging music for, what, close to a year now, I would think. It has been wonderful getting to know you and I look forward to hearing more of your tunes in the future.

Happy, happy!

I'm watching the film version of Angels in America that they did for HBO last year. It is so weird. I was in this play in college and it was a big deal. It was probably the most controversial play they had done up to that point at my college and it was a big deal. It was a "happening." Everybody was abuzz about it. It was a big deal. And I got to be a part of it. I was part of somthing that rocked the community and made people think. I knew every word of the play, I knew everyone's speech patterns, I knew every sound cue and every light cue. I loved that play. I loved being in that play. I loved going to the theater every night and doing that play. I loved it. And now I'm watching other people say the lines I said. Acting out the scenes my friends worked so hard on. I know every line as it is being said, even after all of these years. I still know every line. I don't even have to pay attention; I know what's coming next. It's so bizarre. It's like my life on the screen, but it's not my life.

It's my favorite scene now. I was thinking the other day about how I would have shot this as a film. They're doing it right, but the acting is a bit off in one particular case.

It's so weird. So weird. I know it doesn't make sense. Just trust me. It's weird.

Okay, I promise that not every blog entry from here on out will be about my hair or lack thereof, but I have to post this one.

I went to do karoke last night because one of my friends was hoping to win the $500 prize. Seeing as it is a contest judged on applause and there were only the two of us there rooting for each other, we didn't really stand a chance, but it was cool. Actually, no, it wasn't. It was a crappy bar full of the kind of people I try to avoid. I hate sounding elitist or prissy or bitchy, but I don't like frat bars. And what's worse than frat bars are the bars where the frat boys hang out after they have graduated from college. If you don't know the kind of bar I'm talking about, consider yourself lucky. It's just not fun to hang out in a place where everyone looks the same and acts the same and thinks the same. Gimmie a little variety, please. Granted, there was one guy there who is in a rock band who looked a little cooler, but the rampant stupidity in the place kind of outshone even him. Anyway. After the first round, both my friend and I were eliminated from the competition, which was fine with me. Meant we could go home. But I had put in a request to sing two songs and they needed a couple of people to fill some time, so I went up to the DJ to ask if I could sing my second song just for shits and grins. He was talking to someone else at the time and while I waited for him, this other random woman who was up there turned and started talking to me. I talked back a little. Just enough to be courteous. And then she pulls out the, "And just for the record, I think you're really beautiful with your hair that short." Just for the record? Where did that come from? And what record? Have your friends been sitting over there all night ripping on the bald girl? Do I look like I'm terribly concerned with that? She went on to say that she'd do it if she had the guts. I had to pull out my, "Yeah, I did it for the play I'm currently in" line. I had to do it. I had to play the, "Hey, check me out. I'm an actual actor and an actual musician, not a karoke wannabe." It was low. It was petty. But she was so fucking condescending. Maybe she thought I was a cancer patient, or a holocaust survivor, or whatever, but what the hell kind of a thing is that to say, even to a cancer patient? I know she meant it as a compliment, but it was so condescending and pitiful. Had I been through chemo, the last thing I would want to hear from some girl with the perfect hair and sixteen tons of lipstick, but liner that has smudged off on one side of her mouth, is that she thinks I'm beautiful, no matter what her friends say. You know what? I think I'm beautiful. No matter what anyone else says, I think I look good. No, I will probably not keep this hair style forever. But I can more than pull it off. I can own this hair style. I don't need permission to do so from a sorority chick.

I'm sorry. I know this was a really ugly post, and very harsh on my part. Not really in line with my "I'm going to try to be a nicer person" thing. Sorry about that. But now that it is out of my system, I can go back to being a nicer person. Cookie, anyone?

So the resounding opinion is that I look good with no hair. Apparently, I have a nicely shaped head. I like it. Though my mental image of myself still includes hair, which is kind of weird. It takes me a second when I look in a mirror to remember that, oh yeah, I don't have hair. But I really do like it. It feels good. It looks good. And I actually do feel more feminine, believe it or not. I dunno. I'm going to stop rambling about it. But suffice it to say, I look good with blonde hair, red hair, brown hair, black hair, and no hair. There is nothing I can't pull off.

Except tooting my own horn. That's just distasteful.

Tee hee.

So, I have joined the ranks of the hairless. And I have to say, I think it's sexy.

Can a person make a conscious decision to die? Assuming said person is in really bad shape and said person's body is just about ready to give out anyway?

More word from my grandmother's neck of the woods -- she's ready to go. Her kids are having a hard time seeing her like this. For a family that will do anything to keep their loved ones going for one more day to admit that watching someone die of a heart attack is easier and better than watching them wither away like my grandmother is...it has to be really awful. Really awful. She says she's ready to go. The doctors say everything will probably just shut down, except for her heart because she has a pacemaker, and she'll just kind of go into a coma. So my question is, could my grandmother just decide to go? She is ready to go. Her quality of life right now is dreadful, she misses her husband, she's just barely hanging on as it is. Could she just decide, "Today is the day" and stop living? Stop holding on? Can one person have that kind of control over his or her own involuntary body functions?

I don't want to lose my grandmother. Nobody wants to see a loved one die. But she doesn't want to be alive anymore and I have to respect that. I think we all have to.

I love you, Grandma, whatever your choice is, however you want to handle this. I love you.

I cleaned the hell out of my bathroom today. Note the usage of the word "hell," as opposed to "shit" or "fuck," neither of which sounds appropriate when used in reference to cleaning a bathroom. But anyway, I cleaned the hell out of it and even though my house now smells strongly of bleach, I feel very good about it. We're talking cleaning away mold and mildew and getting a new shower curtain and washing the walls and everything. I cleaned my living room a bit, too, and I feel good. I always have to be in the right mindset to really clean and I always feel better afterwards. Like I'm not only cleaning my house, but I'm cleaning my life, too. I'm getting healthy and it feels great.

It's just hair. It will grow back. My grows particularly fast and particularly well. So why am I so freaked out about shaving it all off?

I know at least one of you out there reading this is saying, "If you're so worried about it, don't do it." Thank you. I know that is an option. I don't have to shave my head for this show. The director and writer are not opposed to me keeping my hair, though they would both like it if I got rid of it. The writer, especially. I know I could always go to them and say, "Look, guys, I'm more marketable with hair, so let's just put me in a turban, yes?" and they'd probably be agreeable to that. I know this. But you all should know by now that I am not the sort to back away from things that scare me. I seek them out and conquer them to prove that I'm alive. To prove that I'm strong. To prove that there is nothing I can't do. A life lived in fear is a life half-lived, right? Right. So just because this scares me doesn't mean I'm not going to do it. You learn nothing if you don't make mistakes or take chances.

Disclaimer aside, why am I so freaked out about shaving my head? I've been thinking about this a lot and have come up with several reasons. And I'm going to talk about them because my other choice is to tackle the enormous pile of stuff that needs to be filed that is sitting on the table in my office and that's just not fun. I can file later.

First of all, I have really gorgeous hair. It is a beautiful color and a beautiful texture. I have a lot of hair and it's really soft. It seems a shame to get rid of it. I looked into donating it to one of those organizations that makes wigs for cancer patients and whatnot and I don't think it is long enough to donate, which makes me a little sad because it really is beautiful. I think I have one gray hair in the front, too, and even that is beautiful. When the women in my family go gray, they go silver. Imagine my hair, with it's beautiful texture, in a shimmery silver color. I am going to be one foxy grandma, lemme tell you. So I have this really beautiful hair and it makes me sad to part with it. I know it will grow back. But my whole life, I have loved my hair. When I thought I was the ugliest thing on the planet, I took comfort in the fact that I have beautiful hair and pretty hands. So what is going to happen to my self-image when I no longer have one of the things I find most beautiful about my appearance?

Secondly, what if I just look funny with no hair? I think it would probably look better if I was waifish, and maybe this will inspire me to become waifish, but right now, I am not waifish. I can't even pass for a chemo patient. What if I just look silly? Some people can pull off bald and some can't. Same is true for men and women. Granted, I do have several friends who think I'll be able to pull it off. My lawyer friend said I can do it because I have striking eyes. It made me happy that that was her instant reaction, so I thank her for that. But for every friend I have who thinks it will be sexy, there is another who gives me those sad puppy dog eyes, like I'll be mutilating my appearance beyond the point of recognizability or salvagability. Who is right? We won't know until I do it.

And thirdly, there is the femininity aspect of it. I've heard of some women who just in cutting their hair short felt significantly less feminine than they did with longer hair. I don't know if it is because of the short cuts I have had, but I have to admit that I have felt that in the past. But as I'm reading this book right now, it is making it abundantly clear to me that hair has nothing to do with femininity or what makes me a woman. I will still have my breasts. I will still have my reproductive organs. I will still have my personality. I will still have my artistic abilities. I will still have my hands. I will still have my curves. The chapter I read on the train this morning was about breasts and it just kept reiterating how much humans are attracted to curviness and it made me really happy that I have breasts and hips that make me curvy. I have a nice figure and that's not going away with my haircut. I guess it's possible that having no hair might inspire me to dress more girly and I'll rediscover my femininity that way. And continuing to read this book and exploring my female roots from an internal/spiritual perspective will help. Nevertheless, I asked a couple of my guy friends yesterday if they will still love me if I have no hair. Both responded that yes, they will. Thanks, guys. Though you'd be pretty crappy friends if you said no.

On a side note, I think I may have to change a nickname. I think fucknut may have to become sparky or spike because he's really cleaning up his act. For real. After years and years and years of talking about it, he's finally taking action and I am so proud of him for that. He'll call me for no real reason now, or to prevent himself from having a cigarette (he's trying to quit). I'm so glad that he's decided to take care of himself, and I'm thrilled that he knows he can turn to me for help if he needs it. So yeah, fucknut may no longer be the best name for him. I kinda like spike. But he is one of the ones who has promised he'll still be my friend when I'm bald. And for the first time in a long time, I believe him.

But anyway, back to the hair. If you look back a little ways, you'll see that I am very attached to it. If it's not right, I don't feel right. Yes, I can always wear a wig. Probably my orange one. And yes, my hair will grow back. And yes, I have sworn off dating all together and maybe this will help me stick to that. That's a whole other blog, though, so don't worry about that one right now. And who knows? I could love being bald so much that I decide not to grow my hair back out. It is a big middle finger to the societal perceptions of what is beautiful. Spike has said that he'll photograph me once it is shaved and I'm hoping to get at least one, nice, artistic, beautiful, simple picture out of it so I have some visual image of myself as an object of beauty, even when I have been stripped of the things I have used to define myself as beautiful for years. It's like when I was a model for a figure drawing class (clothed, thank you). It did me a lot of good to see my body transformed into art. Something beautiful, despite it's flaws. Or perhaps because of them.

Part of me is really excited. Part of me thinks it will add a delicacy and vulnerability to my appearance and personae. Part of me thinks it will make me invincible. Part of me is looking forward to shedding the shackles of my hair and freeing whatever lies beneath this societally imposed appearance of mine. And part of me is terrified of losing what is familiar. But if we only hold onto things that are familiar, we miss out on a lot of new, exciting experiences and learning opportunities.

It is only hair. It will grow back.

The Chicago subway is significantly quieter than the New York subway. I'm not talking about the trains themselves, but the people on them. In New York, it seems like everyone is traveling in groups and they all talk to each other -- on the platform, in the tunnels, on the trains. In Chicago, everyone seems to be traveling individually so nobody talks to anyone else. In the Washington Street tunnel between the red and blue line trains, the only sound to be hear is the sound of footfalls and the occasional russle of a plastic bag. On the platform, when friends meet accidentally and greet one another, it is in hushed tones. It is rare to find people talking at full volume on the trains, or if they are, they're talking on a cell phone and all of the other passengers secretly hate them for having friends.

I was reading more of that book my mom gave me on the train this morning, about female anatomy. I think that will be my goal for this year -- to embrace my feminity and all of the wonderful and terrible things that come with it. It's about time I did that.

I think the key to writing anything is to just do it. The things to keep in mind are that if you censor yourself, it will suck. If you try to be funny, you won't be. You will have to write about 37 things before you'll write one that you like, but you have to write those 37 crappy ones first before the good one will come out. I think if you can remember those things and not get frustrated by them, you'll be fine.

I say this mostly to myself because if I am called back for Boom Chicago, they will want a writing sample. Just a short scene between two people. So I've kind of made a deal with myself that I have to write a scene a day between now and then so I have a bunch to choose from and maybe one of them will actually be funny. Those of you in my close geographical proximity may be called upon to judge some of these scenes and let me know which ones are funny to people other than me and which ones are just plain crap. But I have to remember: don't censor myself. Don't limit myself. Don't try to be funny. Don't worry if I write crap. Something good will come of it.

Keep your fingers crossed for me!

Well duh.

Three days into the new year and I'm already bored stupid at work. I really should clean up my office. I really should clean up my house. I really should just go shave my head and get it over with. Get a fresh, clean start to the new year, you know? I'm actually really excited to be losing all of my hair. I think it will be liberating. You know how I'm always going on and on about how bald men are sexy because they are giving a big middle finger to society and what society thinks they should look like. Well, I'll get to be that person. But moreso, because I think the pressure on a woman to have beautiful hair is greater than it is on a man. I will get to walk around confidently with nothing to hide behind. No hair, no excess fat, no nothing. Just me out in the world. I'm kind of looking forward to it.

Sorry, that was really rambly. I'm in kind of a weird mood because I watched the documentary on John Kerry last night and I'm really wishing the election had gone differently. And I'm really wishing I had come into work with something more to do than clean the spam out of my inbox. And I'm really wishing my office was somewhere else because new people have started moving into offices vacated by my former co-workers who are now gone because of the reorganization going on here. Meaning keep your fingers crossed for me that I just so happen to be exactly what Boom Chicago is looking for. It's time for me to get out of here.

I deleted your emails today. Time to get healthy.

Warning: My dork flag is flying pretty high as I post this.

Probably the second best Christmas gift I got this year was a tea kettle. It whistles like a harmonica. And it means I can have tea anytime I want it. Anytime. I can have a cup of chamomile tea before bed. I can have green tea on a Saturday morning for breakfast. I can have tea anytime I want and it makes me so happy I can't even tell you. So thank you to my actual brother for the wonderful, wonderful tea kettle. I love it.

I just signed up to audition for Boom Chicago. I will not be cast. They are only casting one person at this point in time. But the audition sounds like a LOT of fun. So worst case scenario, I'll go and have a blast. Maybe they'll like the bald chick. Either way, keep your fingers crossed for me. How awesome would it be to go live in Amsterdam?

Happy New Year, kids.

So I've been thinking about people and relationships and stuff. I know a lot of people, myself included, who think that they are so messed up in one way or another that nobody will ever love them, or that if they let someone get close enough to really know them, that other person will run screaming in fear. But if you actually talk to those people and find out exactly what it is that they think is so horrific as to label them unlovable, you find that every single thing on that list is either 1) something that can very easily be handled, or 2) something that is on the same list as thirty thousand other people. Honestly. My friends have the same issues that I do. They have the same problems as each other. They have the same problems as the people they want to hook up with. So why is hooking up so difficult? Is it because we don't forgive these things in ourselves, so we can't forgive them in others? Or are we so afraid that someone else might find out what's wrong with us that as soon as the issue is broached (when the other person admits his/her fault) that we freak out and run away? I don't know that I'm making any sense, but this is one thing I've been thinking about recently. The things I am so afraid of people finding out about me are thing that are completely forgivable or understandable. Depression. Bad skin. A penchant for crossword puzzles. Maybe we all just need to walk outside and say, "Hey. My name is Kitty (or whatever your name happens to be). I've battled depression before, which makes me kind of moody," and then we can all get on with our lives and our hooking ups and all that rot. I dunno. Just a thought. And of course, much much much easier said than done.