Emotions-shmotions

I think I officially qualify as a basket case.

Notice I didn't post yesterday? Reason #1 was that I had a major brain fart yesterday afternoon and called my hair salon to make an appointment for that evening or the following afternoon.

I thought I was making an appointment for Friday night or Saturday afternoon, and was confused as to why my regular girl wasn't in. Ooops. Though it was actually Thursday, I dropped by for a much needed haircut and took a chance with a new guy - who I've now chosen as my new regular hairdresser. Goodbye Judy, welcome Eric!

Unfortunately, the halogen lights at the salon hit my 3-month roots just right, and between the regular ugly dark root and the too-shiny-to ignore white strands (of which I have WAY too much, given my age!), I stopped by the pharmacy for my "Candied Pecan" haircolour in a bottle. I'm a much happier camper this morning.

When I came home, I got started on the latest Kathy Reichs novel, Bones to Ashes. And I don't want to spoil it for anyone (so if you want no spoilers, stop reading for this paragraph and next) but I found this one a lot harder emotionally than any of her other books. I made it halfway through the book last night, and I spent much of the last hour or so bawling my eyes out. I don't know why it got to me so much. Even after I put the book down, I couldn't stop crying.

I'm one of those people who get really into what I read/watch. Yeah, I've cried over sappy long-distance commercials. I cry ALL the time during dramas, and even during silly chick flicks. And boy, do I cry over books. Especially when I feel a special attachment to the characters, like I do to Kathy Reichs' heroine. After what - 8 books? - it broke my heart to see Tempe's own heart so full of sadness. Anyway, I'll report more on my emotional state when I get to the end.

Maybe some people would think that I need to challenge myself to be less emotional. But quite frankly, I'm ok with it. So what if I cry over books and films? I figure I have bigger fish to fry!

I finished Lean Mean Thirteen before dinner last night. I'm (also?still?) sad to report that it was... meh. I'm a pretty loyal Stephanie Plum reader. So I'll keep reading future books. But I wouldn't have gotten into the books if I'd started with 13. Her last few have made her magical formula of mystery, humour and romance into a bit of... well... a formula. And then she escalated it to a pretty whacky level or weirdness with this last one. I may re-read to see if I miss anything. But (fans will know what I mean here) the Rangerbabe in me isn't satisfied.