Jacqui (jacqui) wrote,

Billy Bob Thornton Thinks Shakespeare is Bullshit

*Celebrity Cattyness* *Billy Bob Thinks Shakespeare Is Bullshit* "Getting Flu Shots at Costco* *Cats and Computers* *My Mother, Money, and Madness* *Keeping Up a Blonde Dye Job*

10-5-05 Tuesday Morning -- I'm behind on my posting...

Wow, what's with all the celebrity cattiness this morning? I just got up and right off the bat I hear on the radio that Elton John is slagging Madonna for supposedly not performing her own vocals live, (which I don't think is completely true and what the heck is going on with Elton lately), and someone else said or did something outrageously rude, but darn it if I haven't forgotten it already. Oh yes I remember now, Billy Bob Thornton said he thinks Shakespeare is shit and that actors who perform Shakespeare are just doing it to increase their credibility. I LOVE Shakespeare, seriously. Oh poor Billy Bob, he's showing his white trash roots and now that's three big marks against him, hurting Angelina Jolie, who I think is an awesome bee, being "allergic" to antique furniture and certain cutlery, and now thinking Shakespeare is crap. He'd better hurry up and redeem himself with another Sling Blade and pronto. And he was so damned good in Bad Santa, oh well, not everyone can be a member of the RSC, although I wouldn't mind tossing a burlap sack over him, and smuggling him on a plane to London where I'd make him sit through a real good British production of As You Like It or A Midsummer Night's Dream or The Scottish Play. Some of the best theatre I've ever, ever, ever seen was naturally Shakespeare. I think it takes a bit of education to get into it, but when you do, oh how can you be so stupid as to say it's shit?

I hate that I've felt so unsafe here that I've had to resort to making most of my entries private, because now even my very best of friends miss them when they forget that if they are not logged in, Live Journal won't show them protected entries. I used to do this -- check Live Journal on the fly without remembering to log in first. I wonder how many important entries I missed because of this. Aww hell who am I kidding, I miss so many important entries anyway that any friend of mine here could come home, turn the key in her front door only to have her entire house blown sky high because some mob guys trip wired the wrong house and I wouldn't know about it until after the funeral when someone would be logging in to say thanks for all the lovely flowers.

Anna, (my housekeeper), and I got our flu shots at Costco yesterday. There's a joke in there somewhere but I'm not exactly sure what it is. They only cost fifteen dollars, a long wait, some worry about the efficacy of flu shots versus the risk of actually coming down with the flu from the shot, and a sore arm or two. We were the last two people in line and they had just run out of needles so they ran back in and begged the pharmacy to sell them two more. We waited and waited while my mind raced back and forth between thinking, "Hey, it's okay, whatever happens, happens. If I'm meant to get a flu shot, I'll get one. This is fate taking over for me so I won't have to worry about whether I'm going to get a mini dose of the flu or not." But just before the nurse came running out of Costco waving her two very hard to acquire syringes, a man in an automatic wheel chair came rolling up and asked if he could have get a flu shot.

Now remember that this man had not come in time for the shots. He had not stood in line as we had, oh that sound bad because after all he can't stand in line. But he hadn't waited, he hadn't filled out forms, he hadn't paid his fifteen dollars like we had, and more importantly he hadn't gone through the worry wait to see whether he was going to get stuck with a needle filled with creepy deadened flu serum made in some spooky way that might actually give him the very thing he was trying to avoid in the first place. But he was cute, and he was in a wheel chair, and when the nurse came flying out with those two syringes in her hands the other nurses looked at us like, "You're not actually going to make us give you those flu shots instead of this more deserving wheelchair bound man are you?" The old Jacqui would have given up her shot to this man who she would have befriended and then taken shopping before helping him to his van before handing him her phone number just in case he thought of anything else he might need, but the new Jacqui? Well, the new Jacqui went ahead and got her shot.

Now I won't have to listen to my Mother bitch at me about my not having been able to prevent whatever sicknesses I wind up getting by having had a flu shot, ha ha ha.

I looove my kitty Triple B, (I know it's a terrible name but Beau and Irma's kiddlings -- who I miss desperately -- insisted on it because we had two other orphaned sickly baby cats we were working with at the same time, and she was the tiniest of the three,) with her one cloudy eye and her perpetually shrimpy size -- she is being sooooo affectionate right now, but what I never understand is why she seems to save it all up for these moments when I want to write on the computer. I could be laying, (Anyone wanna help me conjugate this verb, I have such a hard time with it seriously, hens lay eggs, I do what?) here all stretched out with nothing to do but pet cats and she'll give me the fish eye, but when I'm busy or reading she's all over me.

Oh man here comes Leelu, and I have to push the computer that much farther away from me to make room for her, which means I have to type without looking at the keys and strain my back, to say nothing about the hairs building up inside the keyboard. Is it any wonder I keep having computer problems and wind up giving up and buying new ones? This is my brand new computer and its already acting slow and weird.

Uh oh, I just read that Britain is blocking flu vaccine shipments but I don't know why. I'm still leery about the whole flu shot thing and am not certain I even want to get them because the whole thing scares me so much and... I didn't get one last year and although I did get sick, like I do every year, bleh, I don't think it was the flu. The last time I got a flu shot I thought I was going to have to pull over to throw up on my way home from the doctor's office, I got cold and clammy and started having this sudden rush of mini-flu-like symptoms, it was enough to scare a weakened-immune-system-having gal like me off of flu shots for a longish time.

*Jacqui pushes the computer even further away to make room for another cat, forcing herself to have to strain even harder to type up her daily entry.*

Should I risk calling my Mother since I haven't spoken to her in days and am freaking out over this? Okay...wish me luck. Help, my stomach is in knots. My shrink (and to think I actually used to think that going to shrink meant admitting you were insane, now I'm just grateful and spend time counting up the number of people I know who go and wondering whether they are insane or just trying to get meds like me), said, "I think your Mother might benefit from a touch of Paxil." Of if only Mom would take just a "touch of Paxil." So many people's lives would be improved by this, but alas Mother thinks Psychiatrists are all Jews who want to separate us from our money, (Don't freak I have Jewish partner, just talking about my crazy mom here), and people who take medication are just sissies who won't just soldier up and take it like the real men we are all supposed to act like.

Oh yeay she actually spoke to me and it went relatively well, thank God, thank, thank, thank, Goddy, God, Goddy, God, God. (You know I mean this in the great big loving female and male, animal and human, Pagan, Christian, Jewish, Buddhist, Muslim, Wiccan, Jain, [did I leave anyone out there?] all encompassing sense of the word right?) It was still incredibly stressful and profoundly yucky, okay, well, not profoundly yucky -- my friend Mary coined that phrase and when she used it she was referring to her chemo so I take it back -- it was just, well, yucky...and sad.

She's getting older by the second, and at eighty-eight or however old she is, (because she's been lying about her age for so long that she probably doesn't even know how old she is, not as old as Zsa Zsa though, I know that much,) her short term memory is going, she's in a constant state of agitated depression, she can't drive herself any more but still thinks she can, and she is still maintaining control of both of our finances with the help of her secretary who is a tough little money bird. It's all so stressful and scary and I feel so trapped.

Here's a perfect example, on a small scale, of how my Mom confuses me and leads me on, money wise. Mom has been nagging me, no haranguing me more like, to go blonde for years and years. She hassles me about it every single week and whenever she sees someone with blonde streaks, which if you live here in LA is pretty much all the time, she points them out and tells me that if I would only make an effort I could be so much prettier.

She always says she will pay for it if only I would just do it, sigh, so I did, and now she doesn't want to pay for me to maintain it. I should have known because we've been here so many times before.

"You said you'd pay for it."
"No, I most certainly did not."
"Oh okay then, I'll just call the nursery and tell them to come back and dig up their ENORMOUS FICUS TREES, the ones you insisted I get, and have them give us a credit for them. Shouldn't be a problem."

"Oh really, you think I should have that zillion dollar surgery? Sure no problem, then when you balk at the bills I'll just pawn some more jewelry, fine, fine, fine."

The last time I tried dying my hair blondish was ages ago and I hated it, but every few years I cave in to the pressure and go for the whole California blonde streak thing. So we went to her old ladyish salon and I had my hair done. Now, mind you, if you pay any attention to style trends, magazines, or the cult of celebrities and money, you'll know that going from dark brown to blonde is a tricky thing requiring only the very best of colorists and tons of money. But Mom was paying and there was no way either she or I could afford to pay the cash only, (seriously, cash only), Beverly Hills celebrity salon prices. So we went to her salon where the average age of the customers is somewhere between seventy and eighty years old.

Anyway, I caved and went to Mom's nice stylist, who did a good job, but because he was trying not to create too drastic of a change he was a little too timid with the bleach. It wasn't brown and it wasn't blonde enough, so I went back and made it blonder. Then my extremely overpriced hair pals, who did my dreads before Burning Man, persuaded me to make it even blonder so I agreed, but it wasn't blonde enough to match the extensions they had bought for me, so we wound up doing it one last time. That's four times for anyone who's counting and now I have dry, frizzy, multitoned blondish hair that looks like shit.

I don't have any money, or what little I do have, I have to be super careful with, so I reminded Mom that I would be needing to tag along with her to her salon for the blonde maintenance she had promised, (it's been a month and a half and you're supposed to touch up the roots every three weeks, I think), and you can guess what she said. "Oh no, it looks fine, I can't afford to keep paying for your hair. You'll just have to let it go. By the way have you decided whether you want that fourteen hundred dollar hutch of Jani's because I'll buy it for you if you do."

ARGH!!! Why do I keep letting myself get sucked into these kinds of things? Now even if I buy a box of color and try to dye it back to brown the roots are never going to match the ends until they grow out which will take a couple of years, weeeeee. I should just say, screw it and go for a wild cherry bomb red or lavender or something wild, she wouldn't be able to complain or nag me about going blonde any more since she left me hanging. Pardon my whining, seriously, I am aware that there are much more important things going on in this world than my silly hair crisis.

Hey, The Los Angeles County Museum of Art wrote to me asking questions about my Grandmother and Mother's dress design and manufacturing businesses. Took them long enough, they only started The Los Angeles' fashion business, shit. I wonder why the sudden interest, we'll see.

Here's an auction of one of my Granny's dresses that I won.

Okay gotta go. Big loving hugs, Jacqui

PS: Hair Update, I went to Ashley, Mom's stylist, and redid the whole blonde thing, I guess I'm going to try it for a while. I like it, he's really good and it didn't cost five hundred dollars which is what most of the Beverly Hills and West Hollywood celebrity stylists charge, sheesh.

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