Lazy Bucky's quickies (Spring edition)

I've started and abandoned about four different posts since the last one that went up, so I guess it had better be quickies or nothin' at all.

• I got my hair did! Squirl's very nice hairdresser (also the stylist who dyed my hair the last time it was done, about a year and a half ago) offered to do it for me pro bono (because who doesn't like Cher's ex?). How could I pass up an offer like that? I went about as wild with the color as I'm allowed to at my present job (where they also make me button my shirt right up to the collarbone; how's a girl supposed to make commission with her cleavage obscured?).
  
  
  It's called violet burgundy, with just a little Roxy mixed in for brightness, whatever that means. I give it the Bucky Stamp of Approval, which is generally reserved for the finer things in life, like Corona Light, solar-powered buttplugs, and drama-free girls who will put out on the first date.
  
  
• Perhaps the TV needs to be turned off while I sleep. I recently had a dream where I was in a natatorium, but for some reason, there was snow in there, so as I walked to the main pool, I kept falling into the drifts and found it difficult to stand back up again (I think this is my subconscious mind telling me "Lose some weight, you four-eyed lardass!"). After I regained my feet, I decided to walk in the opposite direction, where I spied a smaller, wading-type pool. Martin Sheen was in the pool, showing some boys how quickly it drained when the plug was pulled. Apparently, West Wing was on TV as I slept, because I walked to the edge of the pool and addressed him thusly:
  
  Me: Mr. President, do you plan to fill the pool with Jell-O Shots?
  Martin Sheen: Not in front of the minors.
  
  
• While I have no use for their service (I don't need anyone to tell me my credit is about as solid as a bowel movement the day after Cinco de Mayo), I love the free credit report commercials. You know, the ads with the three dorky guys who sing about how their credit sucks ass big-time? I recently found out that there is a pirate hat in each one of the commercials. Of course, the one in the seafood restaurant is rife with pirate hats, but I've also managed to scope them out in the used car spot (it's in the back seat next to the bass player), the "married my dream girl" spot (on a table next to the singer), in the bicycle ad (on a shelf in the garage where the band is playing), and at the renaissance fair (on the drum kit). But I can't find the one in the ad where the guys are waiters at the hip-hop party. Has anybody else cared enough to spot that one? Do tell, do tell.
  
  
• I have about had it with this itchy nipple syndrome. It's not wintertime anymore, I'm not wearing steel wool in my bra, and I'm not being stingy with the goddamned lotion. I know that itchy palms mean money is on its way (or, in my case, it means a fresh growth of hair is always sprouting every time I shave), so what do itchy nipples mean? Is the milkman on his way?
  
  
• Millionaire Matchmaker Patti Stanger has given me a new word for which I find daily use: Bragasaurus. I think it every time I listen to that kid at work open his mouth. Why is the Bragasaurus not extinct? Can't we move that bit of evolution along a little faster? He and I had the following conversation today:
  
  Bragasaurus: (talking about how he's charmed his latest romantic conquest) I really try hard not to brag or talk myself up...
  Me: (incredulous, to say the least) No, you don't!
  Bragasaurus: (caught off guard) Uh...well...that's what I like to tell myself.
  
  And then I smashed him in the face with a subwoofer while screaming "Why don't you tell yourself to shut the fuck up?"
  Well, no, I didn't. But I thought it, and that has to count for something.