This One's for You, James

So I'm sitting at Forensics (Speech and Debate) Nationals, and I'm stuck at a high school in Kansas City without a car, waiting for the head coach to come pick me up when she finishes judging a round at a different school in Kansas City in about an hour. I hate not having a car.

However, this school has provided us all with Wi-Fi that doesn't require a password and has fairly liberal allowances for websites. I've already Facebooked, shoe shopped, Father's Day shopped, played Snood, and so now here I sit, listening to Pandora and wondering what to do. I don't want to read anymore (sorry David Sedaris), and I don't feel like fending off the inevitable conversations that will crop up if I pull out my crocheting. It's strange that headphones are the universal symbol for "don't talk to me." but when I pull out some yarn and a crochet hook, people think that I secretly do want to talk to them, my headphones are merely a prop, and I can hear what they're saying. I can't. I don't care that your aunt once crocheted someone a blanket, or that your favorite childhood hat was lovingly made by your grandmother. I'm abstractly happy for you, but I don't want to hear about it. I certainly don't want to explain to you that I'm not actually knitting, because that requires two needles, not one hook, and I don't want to explain to you why I like crocheting better, what the difference is, and which one you should pick up as a hobby.

And I meant to write this earlier, but I got ahead of myself, so I've decided to blog. I don't really have a topic, so I'm just going to ramble. And rant, apparently. It's been a while since I had a good long ramble.

There is a coach here (or I assume she's a coach--she's in the coaches' food room) who has cankles. She also has pasty white legs, and to add insult to two already pretty serious injuries, she wears black sneakers with black socks with army green capri pants. And she has a really bad haircut. And she carries two messenger bags (which is completely unfathomable to me. I'm carrying a backpack today, because I knew I'd be here for 8 hours, and I wanted entertainment options. Why doesn't she just put it all in one bag?) which she straps across her chest going two different ways, thereby bisecting her breasts twice. It's actually kind of reminiscent of a revolutionary soldier. Or at least what I imagine a revolutionary soldier looks like. The American Revolution. Not Star Wars. And here's the worst part: she's a redhead. Here's my completely conflicting set of ideals on redheads:

1. I hate any redhead who is prettier than me. Actually, just redheads who are prettier than me whom I hang out with. I don't have an issue with Julia Roberts, because I don't know her. I essentially want to be the prettiest redhead in the room. I'm rarely the prettiest woman in a room, which is fine, because most other women have blonde, brown, or black hair, and therefore I'm not comparing myself with them. But I don't like redheads who are prettier than me.

2. I hate any redhead who is ugly. Now, I want them to be less attractive than me, but I have no time for a redhead who just puts no effort into it. Half the world thinks we have no souls or are ugly, unfortunately pale people with strange brown spots, so let's give the group a helping hand and all put our best effort into, okay? I will admit that I have my days where I don't look my best, and I'm willing to look past those, because everyone is a mess sometimes, but those should be the exception. Again, I don't care about non-gingers who are a mess--I don't compare them to myself. Just give it a little effort. Buy a blow dryer, straightener, hot rollers, curl lotion, or whatever else you need to make your hair work. Buy some eyeshadow. For the love of Pete (don't ask who Pete is), buy some eyeliner, or AT LEAST some mascara. Red eyelashes mean that they're basically invisible and you look like a scared rabbit with nothing surrounding your eyes.

So yeah. Redheads.

I realized that I've never officially published my Scariest Man Alive and Creeper Lists.

Scariest Men Alive:

1. Christopher Walken (I know he was in a Fatboy Slim video and he danced and it was awesome. And I know he's funny on SNL. And I've seen Sarah Plain and Tall and he falls in love with her, but he's terrifying.)

2. Jack Nicholson (and I've never seen The Shining, nor do I want to. This decision is based on his portrayal of the Joker in the 1989 version of Batman)

3. Tom Cruise (This is the most depressing one, because he used to be so attractive, and I suppose he still is, but I'm distracted by his crazy eyes. If he were on the Hot/Crazy Scale, he'd be no where near the Vicky Mendoza Diagonal and most certainly in the Shelly Gillespie Zone.)

Creeper List:

1. Wayne Newton. (Doesn't he just scream "child molester" to anyone else?)

2. Tom Jones (his hair hasn't moved in 30 years)

3. Barry Manilow (The nose. It's really terrible to say, but no one needs a nose that big)

4. Neil Diamond (Whom I'm considering removing from the list. He's the man who gave us "Sweet Caroline," but he's also the man who wore sparkly jumpsuits for most of the 80's)

And my battery's about to die, so I'm going to post this and read for a while.