Haircut. Too short. Bleh.

Granted, now that I'm getting my hair cut only three or four times a year, that's the way it goes. The schedule is something like this:

Week one: Too short, and I'm not used to it so I'm tugging on it to get it to grow faster. This does not work, but I do it every time.
Weeks two through four: Too short, but getting used to it. Not so much tugging.
Weeks five through 10: About the right length.
Weeks 11 through 12: Getting too long.
Weeks 13 through 15: Really, I am going to have to do something about my hair.
Week 16: OK, my hair just tried to strangle me in my sleep. Really, really must get it cut.

And then the whole cycle starts all over again. Joy.

I got the pictures back from the wedding travesty we threw for Lotti and John. Hee.

Christine Bonomo chastised me vigorously for never mentioning her in my blog. Sorry, Christine. I aim to redress that slight now.

I went over to Christine and Brian's to borrow some CDs, and got to see their nursery. Everything they have is adorable -- from the Babar posters and old tin elephant toy to the big fluffy "Monsieur Elephant" toy for the crib. Mustafa is going to be one of the most fashionable and well-turned-out babies ever. It only makes sense, as Christine has been one of the most fashionable and well-turned-out pregnant women I've ever seen. It's a bit intimidating.

More important than the accessories, Christine and Brian have already built up a substanial kiddie-book library, including one that involves a mole trying to figure out who shat on him. Um, ok.

Christine and Brian are also notable for constantly schlepping light fixtures back from Europe. It's not something I'd ever consider, but they do, indeed, have some great-looking lamps.

Christine Bonomo, Christine Bonomo, Christine Bonomo. There. Is that better, Christine?

File under "Yet another sign of the impending apocalypse":

"A coalition of religious and environmental groups is launching a "What Would Jesus Drive?" campaign Wednesday, hoping to get people to switch to more fuel-efficient cars."

Um, ok. I'm no theologian, but I get the impression Jesus would take public transport and walk. Maybe ride a bike.

I am, however, having horrible visions of commercials featuring Jesus in a hybrid car, or riding one of those Segway scooters.

Lotti and John are getting married this week in a small, discreet, tasteful, family-only ceremony. Wha-- tasteful? Discreet? This, of course, is a sign of the apocalypse.

We restored the natural order of things by throwing a seriously tacky, god-awful, extravagant hoe-down of a mock wedding. If we continue to exist after Saturday, it's all us. Feel free to send money and praise.

Basically, we pulled together every painful, obnoxious wedding tradition and inflicted it on them. At a bowling alley/bar.

I can't believe Lotti and John didn't catch on before the party: Lotti has tortured many a bride-to-be with white-trash bachelorette parties. We just took it a step further. When she showed up, five of us were gussied up in hideous bridesmaid dresses; the rest were posing as obnoxious wedding guests. She still didn't quite catch on until we hustled her off to the bathroom and introduced her to her e-bay wedding finery. (God, I love e-bay -- a wedding dress for $15, and 5 bridesmaid dresses for $12 total. It's a beautiful thing.) Bob Falls posed as the priest, and we did a ceremony that I wrote (I'm so going to hell.) Then we subjected them to the Chicken Dance, the Dollar Dance, a speed bachelor and bachelorette party complete with avant-guard stripper, the bouquet toss and garter throw, a vengeful ex-girlfriend dressed in white, a slutty bridesmaid (me) who hit on the groom, a bridesmaid who embellished her dress with material that commemorated the Camero's 25th anniversary, and, of course, bowling. It kicked ass.

I've come to the conclusion that I'm sort of a closet exhibitionist. I won't make myself look ridiculous on my own violition, but given half an excuse, I'm all over the foofy dresses and pink hairand hideous blue eyeshadow -- as long as other people are backing me up. Tragically, I started out in the wrong bar-cum-bowling alley. Yes, I was sitting around with a pink updo and a huge white bridesmaid dress at Southport Lanes, all by my lonesome, until I figured out the party was, in fact, at Lucky Strike. Doh!

Becky Brown and her husband Dave, who I'd never met before, actually came in for the party. I took pains to tell them I normally don't look like this, but I don't know if they believed me.

If I ever get married, I'm not telling any of these people. They're all scary as hell.

Stupid post-eating Explorer crash. Harumph.

OK, short version: I will post all the gory details about the Mock Wedding of Lotti and John soon. Pictures, alas, will not be available til Thursday.

To whoever it was calling from MADD the other day: No, asking to be removed from your call list doesn not mean I "can never give money to MADD again." It just means you can't call me to ask for it. I know your prganization exists, and am perfectly capable of making a donation under my own power if I so choose. Now fuck off. And yes, remove me from your call list.

To assorted politicians and community reps: We know that in order for the community to change, residents need to get involved. That's why we're here. So you needn't waste 20 minutes of a meeting bemoaning the lack of community involvement. Just let's get on with what we can do and work on that later. Also, it's a lot easier to get people involved wha you can point to something concrete and said "We did that." It's much, much less compelling to say "We meet inconclusivily about this every month."

To anyone who cares: Here's where you can check out my Firefly and Fastlane recaps -- and don't forget to vote in the polls, under "Features." It's no Television Without Pity, but I do what I can with the limited snark opportunity that I have.