Where have all the curly-haired boys gone?

Is there a magical land that they trot off to after they hit their 27th birthday? Are they like the elusive unicorn that is often talked about but never seen? Do they slowly blow out rather than fade away into the obscurity that follows with lacklustre locks and receding hairlines.


It’s depressing really. To think that all curly haired boys begin shaving their heads or the wiggly pigment in their hair begins to unwind and straighten up with the pressures of adulthood and responsibilities. I mean curly-haired women keep kicking it way into their 50s, becoming free-spirited hippies or Soho artists or crazy ladies with many cats and wild, wavy hair.

I mean there is no lack of cute curly-haired babies:

Definitely, no lack in curly haired boys: ( I 3> you, Nick Jonas, and Corbin Bleu and Rupert Grint!)

Absolutely no lack of hot curly-haired guys: (OMG Brody Jenner, Adrien Grenier, Zach Mann, John Mayer, Eric Dane)

But where do they go when they hit 40 and above? They all seem to fade away. There are almost no over-40 actors in Hollywood with curly hair and none that I would consider good-looking. So what happens to them?

Where have all the curly-haired boys gone? Have they shorn their hair so short that you can barely see a single curlicue and taken up with a publicity hungry ex Top Model with an addiction to reality television a la Peter Brady?

Or have they all suffered a far worse fate becoming models for Halloween masks for crazy mad scientists?

The truth is out there.. keep the curlicues alive!

I make Lists III

My Favourite Flavours of Potato Chips Right Now:

1. Ruffles Sour Cream and Bacon
2. Lays Ketchup
3. Old Dutch Corn Chips Original Flavour
4. Lays Salt & Pepper
5. Smart Foods White Cheddar Popcorn


That is all.

I Make Lists II

My Favourite Pieces of Clothing Right Now:

1. My beige striped sweater.
2. My Purple Prairie Dress from Value Village
3. My White and Red peep-toe pumps
4. My Maxi dress from Joe Fresh
5. My Julia.... sigh....

That is all.

I Make Lists

Best songs out there right now:

1. “I’m not going to Teach your Boyfriend How to Dance with You,” The Black Kids. www.myspace.com/blackkidsrock
2. “Just Dance,” Lady Gaga. www.myspace.com/ladygaga
3. “Blind,” Hercules and Love Affair. www.myspace.com/herculesandloveaffair
4. “Cath,” Death Cab for Cutie. www.myspace.com/deathcabforcutie
5. “Shut up and Let Me Go,” The Ting Tings. www.myspace.com/thetingtings

That is all.

Melancholy and the infinite sadness....

Sometimes I get tired of being sad. It is very exhausting you know. Constant crying gives you bags under your eyes and gives you combination skin. It is true. Please don’t argue with me. I am an expert. But I’m kind of over it. Not happy, mind you, far from it actually. But not like manically depressed and sobbing.

I am melancholy and the infinite sadness. I am melancholy but I will be infinitely sad. So what of it? What should I do? I can only do so much? My mobility is limited by circumstance. I can’t exactly go travelling. I can’t bring myself to go out and party every night. I can’t lull around hanging out with friends.

I need to do something. I have been trying my best to hold back on the self hair cutting because even I’m getting tired of that. I need something new to devote some of my melancholy towards. My kitten is a good source of mindless time passing, but he has his limits and is too blind to really peak my interest for that long. I think I am a bit too old to develop an eating disorder or start cutting. Drug habits and alcoholism: it’s like been there done that. Writing is a bit too self-involved. There aren’t very many interesting vices or habits left to pick up? Maybe I will try juggling or become a porn addict....

Tears dry on their own.....

You can feel it coming but usually it is a slow build. I’ll hear the news, say all the robotic responses I am supposed to say and then say good-bye. Then without the tinging fear in your voice to concentrate on there is nothing left to save me from my fears. Alone with my thoughts, I can’t help but replay the scenarios over and over again. The regrets, the worries, the pain, the forgotten promises and dreams yet realized. There’s nothing that can soothe the wounded soul.

So I’ll excuse myself. I just need a few minutes to compose myself. To wail and to rail and to scream and to complain and to whine and then I will be fine. Minutes pass and I feel a reprieve. I wash the smudged mascara off my face. Take a few deep breathes. I look at my reflection and see nothing but swollen eyes and a fake plastic smile. But it will have to do for now. I need to get back before too many people ask what happened to her.

So I head back. Tail between my legs. Head down; no eye contact. Just try to make it back to the safe haven of the computer without causing a scene. But as soon as I sit down I see the phone where the news came from. The harbringer of disaster: you feel like throwing it across the room in frustration. I see the balled up tissue I used before I realized this would be a “time out cry” not a “quietly so no one notices cry.”

And it all comes flooding back. First sniffles and then waves and waves of tears. Still, I make no eye contact with anyone. It seems like the safest route. Then my heart starts racing. I want to just get up and leave. I want to just quit and live under my comfy down quilt for the rest of my life. I want to do something but I can’t seem to help her no matter how much I try.

But I just stay seated. Take a couple of deep breathes. Stick my head between my knees and just try to calm myself down from the brink of delerium. But it’s not working. My attempts to remain inconspicuous have turned ridiculously obvious and I can’t seem to calm down or even just breathe evenly.

So I work up enough stamina to coherently say that I won’t be able to work the rest of the day and hightale it out of there. Finally beneath the shield of my sunglasses out in the open I can cry and sniffle as I please. And by the time I reached my car, my tears had dried on their own.

You Give Me Fever

Maybe it's the heat. Or maybe it's the constant barrage of weddings and babies and lovey dovey coupledom. But for some reason I keep noticing them. Everywhere. Cute ones, not so cute ones, ones that look like ones I've dated before, ones that look like ones I wanted to date before. In groups, in couples or all by their lonesome. They are everywhere. Ones that are looking at me; ones that are looking at someone else; ones that I wish were looking at me; ones that I wish were looking at someone else.

What do they like make up half the population or something?

Live Like You Were Dying

Everyone contemplates what they would do if they have only one or five or ten years to live. I would travel. I would call my high school sweetheart and tell him I still love him. I would sky dive. I would walk in the surf. I would give longer and tighter hugs. But would you do if you knew your mom had only five or ten years to live?

Would you still take that trip you’d been planning in the back of your mind for about ten years? Would you still skip out on Sunday dinners to go smoke pot with your ex-boyfriend? Would you remember the past since the future is just too scary to contemplate? Would you think about all the things she will probably miss or would think about everything she has already been a part of?

Take whatever kind of pull towards home that these thoughts conjure up inside you and then multiply that by 1,000. Now you know what it’s like to be an Indian daughter.
You know that 1991 song “Everything I Do, I Do It For You,” by Bryan Adams? Sure I guess it is supposed to be all romantic but from the first time I heard that song, I thought of my parents. If you are brown you know this old sob story. They left their upper middle-class jobs in India to come to Canada and work hard labour for 40 years in order to provide better lives for their children. And then we turn around and end up all emotionally unstable and (gasp) still unmarried.

Sometimes when I hear my mom talk about her nieces and nephews, I wonder if she is jealous that they are all married and settled. I mean at least I got my degree, but I am not exactly working a great job that she can brag to her friends about. I’m not sure how I turned out all weird and artsy and without an iota of corporate ladder ambition, but I know that it is not very brown of me.

Sometimes I think I will try and be a better daughter by meeting and dating brown people (such a bad idea, but that is a story for another entry), getting a better job, cooking Indian food and spending more time with her. It is exhausting. Most of the time I just want to cry and mope and curse the world. But there’s little time for that in between the visits, and the walks and the phone calls. Maybe that is a good thing but maybe not. The other day I found myself wondering when my life would be mine again and my instant gut reaction was in five or ten years.

The More you Ignore Me, the Closer I Get

When you sleep
I will creep
Into your thoughts
Like a bad debt
That you can’t pay
Take the easy way
And give in
Yeah, and let me in

Anyone who takes relationship advice from Morrissey has issues. I understand that. But there is no doubting that the Mozfather take on relationships is eerily akin to my own. However it would be sorely off base to say I enjoy the thrill of the chase. That would imply that the ebbs and flows of the relationship inspire a surge of confidence in myself and my pursuit of what I want. I liken the experience to that of a kitten nipping and meowing at its owner’s feet; following him around incessantly until he is so tired of tripping over you that he finally picks you up.

But then once he picks you up, you realize that in mere moments he is going to realize that you have kitty breath and can do little more than look at him quizzically. So you scamper off. But then you still want to be with him. So you stay close and jump up for quick cuddles every now and again.

And the longer he stays away the more I wonder what he’s doing. Even if just a day goes by without a phone call or a text or an email I find myself unconsciously heading to the Market on Yates, or the Black Stilt or even just a wanderlust walk that lands me smack dab right in his neighbourhood.

It a bit sad, I guess. I mean what would my women’s lib sisters say if they heard me comparing myself to a kitten and referring to him as my owner? Not good.

He’s not that great, I know. It’s a go nowhere situation. But there’s something about him that keeps clobbering me over the head and dragging me back by my hair.

So uncool it’s cool again.... The personal blog is resurrected

I think it was Plato that said nothing is officially dead until someone says it is. By today’s standards of cyclic trends and mass consumerism, I think the more apt statement would be once the media says something is dead it’s time to bring it back to life. If personal blogs are really dead as most media savvy pundits are claiming (http://thetyee.ca/Mediacheck/2008/06/24/PleasureBlog/), then I believe it’s time to resurrect what has died.
There will be changes. No more drunk photos; there’s always flickr for that (http://www.flickr.com/photos/preetadelic/)! No more boring, “this is what I did on the weekend” diatribes. If you want to know what I did last weekend, call me. No more lambasts about Britney Spears’ latest trauma or Amy Winehouse’s weekly conjugal visit to go see Blake, my Blake incarcerated. This is a blog about me. ME! If it interests you, great! If it makes you laugh or think even better. But ultimately it is for me to sort through my issues and go on and on about ME. Self indulgent, self-obsessed, over contemplating ME.

ENJOY:)