Lately, I’ve been obsessing about Jodi Arias.
When they show clips of the trial on my favorite news channel, HLN, I stand in front of the television, transfixed, and ask myself, “Why? Why? Why?”
Why does her hair look so friggin’ good while she is in prison?
I’m serious. This is driving me crazy. I mean, I know her hair isn’t all that glamorous right now, and people are claiming she’s deliberately looking mousy to deceive the jury. But, look carefully.
No split ends. No frizz. PERFECTly straight.
Do they let her wield a straight-iron in jail? Does she even have permission to possess a comb? What kind of shampoo is she allowed to use? How does she get those locks to look so shiny and thick? Isn’t stress supposed to have a negative impact on your hair? Is she one of those people who shakes her head when you say, “You are so lucky to have such straight hair,” and responds, “I’ve always wanted it curly”?
I hate those people.
I really need for this trial to be over. I keep going to the store and loitering in the hair product aisle, trying to reconstruct the crime of Jodi Arias’ flawless tresses. I wake up in the morning, and eye all of the bottles and appliances lined up in my bathroom and debate who I can put on trial for deceiving me with false promises of frizz-free hair and ends that will reconcile with each other and refuse to split after all.
I know. I know. I’m missing the whole point of this unbelievably long, drawn-out courtroom drama. Jodi Arias has a lot more important things to worry about besides her unbelievably healthy hair.
Like how to score a facial before her next mugshot.
Or, during her next mugshot…
Until I can find the tangible evidence that my doctor hates my hair stylist, thus giving him the perfect motive to tank my thyroid test, I have decided to blame my depression on The Sequester. I mean, if my problems aren’t the result of thyroid dysfunction, they clearly must have some external cause. And this whole sequester thing is definitely stressing me out.
First of all, I’m totally bummed that “Sequester” has a completely different meaning than the one I’ve known all of these years. Until now, a sequester was something I could only dream about – having the government pay for me to stay in a hotel with maid service, room service, and all of the books I could ever want to read since I wouldn’t be allowed access to any media in case Nancy Grace might somehow manage to cajole me into nailing Jodi Arias to the wall.
When the news outlets started warning about an oncoming sequester in Congress, I pictured the whole muddle of them being locked inside the Capitol until they knocked each other off and one person became the victor – kind of like a mix between Twelve Angry Men, Fight Club, and the cardinals in the Vatican conclave. I was sorely disappointed to find out that this was not the case.
I was even more alarmed by rumors that this whole sequester thing might delay my tax refund. After all, I use my tax refund to pay my psychiatrist, so if I don’t get my refund, I don’t…well, you get the picture.
Of course, I should be completely straight with you, and admit that we have received an unexpected endowment from the county recently. Although, to be honest, I don’t think it would pay for the gas to take the check to the bank, much less thirty seconds with my psychiatrist.
In fact, I find it depressing that the county actually paid for a stamp to send this check to us.
And then Hugo Chavez died. The only person more paranoid than me. The person who said, “Would it be so strange that they’ve invented technology to spread cancer and we won’t know about it for 50 years?”
Remember? I’m the one who said terrorists are poisoning our food. And now I’m depressed. Hugo said there are mad scientists spreading cancer – and he died of cancer.
I think the connections are pretty obvious.
If my doctor had just said, “Your thyroid is wonky, and that’s why you’re depressed,” we wouldn’t be in this big mess.