R and I are escaping to the beach in order to confuse his birthday. He's hoping that his birthday is scared of planes and skin cancer. We'll be back on Wednesday. In time for
my birthday on Friday. Which I'm not hiding from. You people who've been expecting magnets might find yourselves the recipients of prurient beach crap instead. Shit made out of shells, that old routine. The magnets suck. They fall apart. And no one can tell what they're supposed to be, which is hugely disappointing. I'm tired of trying, quite frankly. My entire esteem is hinged on the success of mini-condom magnets. And that's just not right. We'll see what happens. I'll see you on Wednesday.
It's Treacherous, I tell you! A Treacherous Mountain!
So I got the painting. It was really boring and not much happened. A couple of things, though:
Before
1) I came to the realization halfway there that my car has all the power of a camel. An old camel. If you climbed inside an old camel and pointed him up the mountain, it would be like that. Only drier. And with a shittier stereo. Apparently rocking back and forth to
scoot the car up the road doesn't work. Much. It might work a little. I don't know. I'm going to keep doing it.
During
2) I just wanted a freaking smoothie! I was in a college town, for Christ's sake; you'd think there'd be a Jamba Juice or a Java Juice or a Juice Stop or a Juicealicious (I made that one up)
somewhere! Finally I spotted a Kava Juice and immediately made the most ridiculously fucked up u-turn ever made in the history of cars. And promptly got pulled over. But then I got some juice. Strawberry. With protein. And a ninety dollar "you're a moron" ticket. Whatever.
After
3) I came to the realization halfway home that my car is a finely tuned machine. We're talking Professional Grade here, people. PROFESSIONAL GRADE. She can coast down a mountain at 95 with the best of them. Except that one time when I thought, "Wow, that's a hell of a crosswind," and then immediately thought, "No, wait; I'm going a hundred and four and my axles are tearing off."
I love my car.
Watch out for your axles. Make sure they don't tear off.
Go get some juice. And put some protein in it.
R's birthday is Sunday. R hates his birthday. Consequently, he gets all Garbo-ed out and starts going to bed at like seven. It's a lot of fun. Today I get to drive a treacherous mountain road to a quaint town three hours away and buy this painting that Garbo fell in love with a year ago. I
have to do it because it's literally the BEST PRESENT EVER but I'm pretty bitter about driving six hours for this guy who won't get out of the bathtub. I was tempted to leave my cell phone number here so that you could all call while I'm driving and we could talk shit about Garbo and then talk about how great (and not at all passive aggressive) I am and then maybe talk about why
John and Holly McClain could never get their shit together.
A couple of things about my previous post. First I feel like I should go on record and admit that I originally linked to Femme Athletic's main page versus the sports bra page. But it occurred to me about five minutes in that I probably didn't want you guys thinking I was the type of girl who would wear pink lycra shorts to the gym. I mean, I
am that type of girl, but I don't want you guys to think that. Also:
Jen, I am so totally clipping a cell phone to my slacks. And I'm getting one of those "hands free" devices, too, so I can spit and pant and scream dialogue at people while I run.
Snowshoe, briefcases may not be currently en vogue, but if a person is going to run on a treadmill in slacks, that person is carrying a briefcase while she does it. Period. I think I like
this one. Because it's flame retardant, and I think that's important.
B²... yeah, is math the one with the numbers? Or is that science?
Because I don't really.... wait, what?
Kevynn, it's not healthy to feel that kind of LOL guilt. Especially when you've just used the badass word "duped". Or when you're dating a girl who makes you go to Urban Outfitters. I mean, LOL is pretty much all you have.
And
Scott, I think you're dead on. I must wear a shirt, and I appreciate your bringing it to my attention. I think I'll wear
this one. And I don't think I have to tell you why.
I got crazy yesterday and ordered new and sexy gym clothes from this
company that I adore. In my excitement I went ahead and threw out all of my existing gym clothes that weren't new and sexy; ie, all of them. Since the new gym clothes aren't here yet, I guess I'll be the one on the treadmill in Banana Republic slacks. I'm going to carry a briefcase, too, so I don't look stupid.
Google Fiction! Searches Incorporated Into Brief and Awesome Tales! Part Four.The carnival was alive with neon and moving trash. Inside her trailer, The Freak checked her Timex and sighed. Time for the show. She waddled out to the curtained platform and got ready. The announcer was loud behind the curtain, and every hoot and holler reference to her freakishness left her a little more deflated than before. Finally a mooning crowd was gathered, and the curtains parted. Stunned silence. Then anticipatory silence. Then angry silence.
“She doesn’t
do anything! Can’t you make her
do something?”
“That looks like scotch tape! Scotch tape and candy wrappers!”
“I thought you said she was ‘dangerous’ and ‘pointy’! She doesn’t look ‘pointy’ to me! She looks…
not pointy!”
The Freak slowly flipped the pages of her Desert Living magazine, listening to the announcer try to backtrack. “Now, I said she was ‘point
ish’. See? That part right there? That’s pointish!”
“THAT’S ROUND!” someone yelled. “I bet she doesn’t even have any venom!”
“
Scorpion women suck dick!” someone else yelled, throwing down his ticket. The Freak looked over her magazine with narrowed eyes.
"If I weren't so not pointy," she thought, "I would totally sting that guy."
What's Up, Office Picnic With S?
or
What's Up, Totally Uncalled-For Hostility?
What's up, little fucking bastard kids that I'm ready to push over onto the ground? If you take another
thing away from that littlest girl again I'm going to fuck your shit up.
And your lazyass "suntannin' like a mofo in these stonewashed Gitanno cutoffs and Whitesnake tank top" mom.
What's up, thirteen year-old kid pouring Gatorade on me? Awesome. Let's see if I can check my "I hate shitty kids" rage long enough to
not treat you like some guy in a bar that just poured a Manhattan into my lap.
What's up, "let's have a picnic at noon when it's 105 degrees outside next to a lake that no one can swim in but four babies can toddle into" picnic organizers? A-plus for decision making skills.
What's up, Ants? You like Gatorade, huh? Fuck you guys.
What's up, Pasta Salad? Oops, I mean Creamy Death In A Bowl?
What's up, Guy who stuffed a pinata with Snickers and hung it up at noon so the kids could beat on it at four? Good plan. The kids will no doubt
not be filthy enough; lets make sure they all get to fight over and suck down completely melted chocolate.
What's up, Dragonflies that look like giant behemoth insects until it becomes strangely and graphically clear that you're really TWO
normal-sized insects? Way to make everyone feel super awkward.
What's up, Guy who decided that alcohol would TAKE AWAY from all of this great sitting around in the grass with the ants and the Gatorade and
staring at each other? I hate you most of all. Keep throwing that football. You suck.
I take back the dragonfly thing. Sorry, Dragonflies. That's the Guy Who Vetoed Alcohol's fault. Do you know how bored and anxious you have to be to make
insects mating a social stumbling block? If you do I probably saw you this afternoon. I was the one having a GREAT FUCKING TIME.
I opted for Option Two last night. It went down about how I had predicted. I have a weird bird in my mouth. I have shaky heat stroke. I do not, as it turns out, have a belt buckle lodged in my spleen. I borrowed a pair of pajamas that I swear to God
had to be from the North Face “Bury Yourself To The Neck In Snow” line. I think they were made out of rhinoceros hair.
Saturday Night Option One is in effect for tonight. I didn’t know if I could handle all those cheese slices so I did call K first. She and
The Captain had met this “fantastic” guy in Vegas last weekend, went back with him to Santa Barbara long enough to put his house on the market, then promptly marched him back here. Two days ago they made an offer on a three bedroom/two bath split-level in Peoria. They met last Saturday. So… she’s busy. The Captain opted out in Cali like a scared little girl.
I called my mom and made her swear that we wouldn’t have eggs, that she wouldn’t drag out the bamboo steamer, that if we had anything barbequed I wouldn’t have to play that “guess what’s in the sauce” game with Dad, that we wouldn’t watch anything on a Ted Turner network and that she would give me all of her catalogues. She swore, but she was totally lying. I could hear her oiling that damn steamer, and she wouldn’t tell me what Dad was whisking.
I drove past an old apartment of mine this afternoon and I saw the same hooker that used to go knocking door-to-door to drum up work in the complex. I recognized her by her glasses. I’m surprised she’s still out turning tricks, what with that head for business and all.
Friday Night With The Dude Out Of Town! It’s all about the options.OPTION ONE: The never-before-seen Chicago on DVD. Air conditioner down to a luscious 68 degrees. Baba ganoush with extra little pickles. Horrid yet affective green clay mask. Perhaps a deep conditioning of the smells-like-eggs variety. Clean sheets by ten-thirty. Teeth bleaching trays snugly and wetly in place. Medicated Chapstick to take the edge off. And my secret gross out
Monkey Salad tee shirt. Sleep till noon.
OPTION TWO: Dinner at B’s. Too much sushi, too much
Cardinal Zin , too much Sopranos marathon. More sexual tension than you can shake a gorgeous stick at. Crash out on the couch with all of my jewelry on. Air conditioner on 92. Forget to take my belt off; wake up with
that scar again. Mouth will no doubt taste like there’s a bird in it for two days. Home by noon. Or four. Or Sunday. Unpredictable, this one.
Saturday Night With The Dude Still Out Of Town! It’s still all about the options.OPTION ONE: Dinner with the parents. “Silly Supper Night” like I’m eleven. Scrambled eggs or French toast or thirteen American cheese slices. Die Hard 2 will be on TBS, and we’ll watch it even though it's a seven and a half hour committment what with that Superstation "Dinner and a Movie" bullshit and the suckass censored swearing offends my very soul. We’ll talk about bamboo steamers (again) and wonton wrappers (again) and why both my parents are seriously thinking that maybe the new Korean market would be a good place to just full-on move into. Home by nine. See Friday Night Option One.
OPTION TWO “The Bar” with K. Return K’s persistent phone calls; take her up on offer to go “sailin’ with the Captain” knowing full well that nights out with K—and that fucking “
Captain”—invariably end up costing $50 in cab fare after the inevitable and narrow escape from the across town “after party- slash- crack house" that the Captain thought sounded like a good idea at the time. Home by… Jesus, maybe Monday?
My Three Hours At The Mall As An Eighty-Four Year Old Woman.or
Yes, You Can In Fact Take Things Too Far At The Salad Bar.1) The mall. "THE MALL". Some people understand malls. Some people you can ask, “Hey, is there a J. Crew in this mall?” and they’ll look at you like you asked if there was a Cinnabon at the airport.* “Yeah, it’s downstairs by the Dillard’s between the Lane Bryant and the Victoria's Secret. Across from the pretzel place. The
good pretzel place.” I lack that gift. I only mention it so that you’ll understand that when I go to the mall it’s a serious commitment. There’s no “running in.” There are no “quick exchanges.” I’m walking around and around that fucker. Just so we’re clear.
* there is, right?
2) I’m big on not making eye contact with the kiosk people. I almost never need a glow-in-the-dark yo-yo or a helicopter-spinny thing or magic crayons. But last night this woman was innocently offering dabs of hand lotion, and as luck would have it I was ripe for a lotioning. Before I knew it she had me back at kiosk headquarters with all of my nail polish off. I don’t know what happened. She just got here from Israel, her name was Liran, she had pretty hair… I don’t know. I bought a nail buffer from her, mainly out of humiliation that my nails looked like I had been digging graves under my OPI. Stay away from the kiosks. I’m glad she wasn’t selling timeshares.
3) I found a tee-shirt that was bright yellow and said something like “Corn is Sexy!” or “ I Love Corn!” or “Erotic Corn.” I can’t believe that I can’t remember what it said now. But I know that I was
this close to buying one for
her, but then thought it might be weird to email someone I don’t know and tell her I bought her a tee-shirt with corn on it. But! I WILL say that I saw it at American Eagle, and if you don’t have an American Eagle store and you want a shirt with Sexy Corn on it, I’m your girl. I have just that much going on.
4) I was browsing around looking at polos when I happened to catch sight of myself in a mirror. I looked so
old! How did that happen? I’m 27! I still get carded everywhere! Just before I had a little mini-breakdown, I realized that I was in Abercrombie and that all of the other shoppers were fourteen and there with a parent. I suddenly felt like a child molester. In the process of fleeing to Ann Taylor I knocked over the world’s smallest mannequin wearing the world’s smallest cargo shorts paired with the world’s biggest belt and what looked to be the world’s thinnest camisole. Another reason I can’t go in there anymore: I have breasts.
5) Stay out of Charlotte Russe. I went in looking for cheap sunglasses and had to take a shower just to get all the flaky glitter and stripper perfume off me.
6) I randomly ran into C in Express. He was waiting for Other E who was trying on a skirt. Wanting to freak her out, I walked over to the dressing room door: “What’s up, E?” I asked, smiling at her would-be shock. “I’m trying on this skirt,” she answered. No shock. No mild surprise, even. It was as if we’d come to the mall together and I had helped her pick out that skirt. It sort of killed my “surprise buzz”. I told R about it later and his comment was, “Other E is easily distracted. It’s possible that she forgot where she was.” I think that’s probably what happened.
7) So I went to the salad bar for dinner, as I am wont to do, and I have this thing where I get two plates and I build small yet identical salads on each plate. I hate giant salads. If I pile everything on top of everything else, pretty soon I have a seven-layer salad and I can’t get to the stuff on the bottom. If you’re making fun of me right now, go ahead and laugh, but the next time you get a mouthful of nothing but dressing and onions, and then a mouthful of dry-ass lettuce, think of me; Two Plates. Okay. So I get to the cashier, and she looks at my tray with two tiny salads, identical down to their sunflower seeds and vinegar dressing, and then she looks at me. “Who’s the other salad for?” she asks, suspecting salad bar fraud. “It’s for me,” I said. “They’re both mine. They’re twins.” And then inspiration. “Wait!” I say, picking up a couple of pieces of lettuce and building a lettuce bridge connecting the two. “They’re
Siamese twins!” She was almost less impressed with my hysterical laughter than she was with my salad humor. Well. She’s the cashier at the salad bar. She probably gets that one all the time.
Go and read this exchange that
Keely had with her AOL automaton. Make sure you read all of the installments; the suspense is heightened with some foreshadowing.
Yesterday at the Gym.
1) I did not, as previously indicated, stuff myself with baba ganoush and tiny pickles. I went to the gym. And I only thought about baba ganoush for the first twenty minutes. I thought about tiny pickles the whole time. But that’s okay.
2) Don’t even ask me how I made it to the bottom of the Grand Canyon and back. My cardio skills are so deflated I’m like a hooker trying to run the Boston Marathon. I lay across the top of the StairMill (aka: the Trip Over Every Single Step machine) sweating like a… hooker running the Boston Marathon. UNTIL. I saw that hottie guy that I graduated high school with three Trip Machines over. Looking at me. Oh, you better know that I TURNED MY SHIT
ON, YO. Suddenly I was Jane Fonda before she was a communist. My abs were sucked in so hard that later I had to hit myself in the back to unstick them from my spinal column.
3) I can still bench press sixty-five pounds. But I’m pretty sure I’m somehow using my hamstrings to do it.
4) I finally found my dorked out Nike MP3 player. The embarrassment of strapping that orange freakshow to my bicep was instantly forgotten when I realized with crazed delight that I had no less than THREE Michael Jackson songs downloaded. And "Heaven Help Me" by Don Estus. Which isn't exactly gym appropriate... unless your gym has a giant wind fan, eight hundred candles and a bunch of white gauzy nightgowns to throw on.
5) I’m still going to the Step classes even though I look like… um… a blindfolded hooker with one stiletto trying to run the Boston Marathon. And even though I’m all double-jointed so when my arms are extended in the mirror it looks like my elbows are fractured. I hate that.
6) Sorry, elbows. You know I’ve got your back. Or… joint. Whatever.
I was feeling a little bit peckish this afternoon, so I wandered into the pantry to see what food we had that R hadn't flung dramatically into the road in an Atkins-slash-starvation-slash-oddly hormonal rage*. Hey, look! Almonds!
"Hi, Almonds!" I greeted through their plastic lid. "Where'd you guys come from?" The almonds tittered. One almond-- a particularly wrinkly, handsome almond-- guffawed. "Uh, from the
gro-cer-y store? A
duh, Stupidhead."
Why are all the mean almonds always so damned good-looking?
*okay. This part didn't happen.
Mini-Lists! Yay!Beauty maintenance tool that I'm having inordinate amounts of potentially dangerous and long-term scarring fun with: Burts Bees citrus facial scrub.
Annnnnd?: Oh. Yeah. Liquid cuticle remover.
Magazines available for my perusing convenience at the gynecologist yesterday: "Hispanic!" and "Arthritis Today". Oh, and that STD brochure from 1974. Complete with... hair.
Degree to which eating a pint of Ben and Jerry's "Phish food" while watching Dr. Phil's primetime special will make you feel more like a heathen and a sloth than you've ever felt in your whole long life: Seven thousand pounds. No wait,
degrees.
What I would rather do for lunch today: Eat my weight in baba ganoush. Alone. So that I can hog all the little pickles. STAY AWAY FROM MY LITTLE PICKLES.
Amount of school work I accomplished yesterday between the speculum ride and, well, nightfall: That's gonna be a big fat zero degrees of work.
My aerobics instructor thinks I'm an epileptic: I can pretty much guarantee this one.
Number of people who are going to be happy with their magnets when they get them in the mail: None. Unless everyone really,
really likes mayonnaise.
Come on, Fatten Me Up.
1) I have to get my annual checkup today. If you're a female no doubt you just groaned on the inside. If you're a dude you think I'm talking about my car. If you're a pervert then you're jealous. If you're a puppy you're thinking with resentment that it's better than the alternative, and that you would
love the opportunity to have an annual, but now it's a bit
late, isn't it, you stupid bitch? (Puppies are so vindictive.)
I don't mind going, really; the doctor is a nice fat Italian guy with thirty kids and a poster of Tom Selleck on the ceiling. For me it's like getting the emissions tested on my car-- about every third time they find some minor problem that they
say isn't anything but panics me anyway because I know nothing about anything in that arena, and then I end up having to come back four more times before I can get my car registered. Or... have children. Analogy seepage, sorry. The last problem time they found precancerous cells on my cervix. This was like six or seven years ago, and I remember my mom finding out first (she had the doctor on redial like she was trying to get Aerosmith tickets) and calling me while I was in the middle of microeconomics. She sobbed and drooled and carried on, and said that if it came down to it that
she would have my children for me. I hung up on her and walked shakily out of class, prompting a snide and snippy "Well, thanks for coming!" from the bitch professor who was still so high on her PhD that she all but wore the goddamned mortar board to class. I turned but didn't say anything, then left. And never went back. And got a D. If I could relive any moment in my life, I would throw my shit down on Microeconomics Whore. I'd cry and scream and knock her over that ridiculous podium. I'd probably still get a D (I suck at economics, plainly), but at least I could have struck a blow for girls in bullshit classes with precancerous cells and hypochondriac mothers with way too much free time on their hands everywhere.
The cells weren't a big deal. My reproductive organs (much like my teeth) rock the house. I fully expect to hear Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar On Me" blasting from inside my uterus at each appointment, but alas; my cervix wears headphones.
(I just realized I put a "1)" before all that.
Shortest List Ever! SHA-KAH!)
Jammin' To The Saturday Action!
(I don't know what that means, really.)
So we have season tickets for ASU football. They've been "in the family" for like thirty years, so assume that they're embedded in the "old guys who wear gigantic radio headphones and will inform you of any Arizona score of any game going on anywhere on the planet complete with intesive team commentary" section. There's a guy behind us who screams things like, "GodDAMNIT, Johnson, you're a
Senior, for Christ's sakes! What the hell are you thinking???" It's pretty hardcore. The opposing team last night happens to be the team that a good friend of ours played on for four years; we all wore our opposing team shirts and the kids all got to go down and stand on the sidelines... ASU is ranked sixteenth and the other team is literally last. Like one-twenty-eight or something just ridiculously bad. (I should note here that I don't really follow football because I don't understand anything about it. I keep having it explained to me in conscientiously retarded detail, but I still don't get it. I nod like I
do get it, and I go, "Ohhhhh!" and slap my forehead and roll my eyes and say, "NOW I get it!" but I totally don't. Just so you know.) Well, long story short, the ref made a few calls that were-- according to the bottle-throwing, foul-mouthed stadium at large-- completely unacceptable. ASU still won, of course, but it wasn't the bloody, mangling, sniveling humiliation crying fest that everyone had been anticipating. I suggested that to make up for it maybe they could toss some small children onto the field and tell them they can never see their moms again... most people agreed that it was a good idea, but that it was too late to organize it. They were probably right. My only point here is that now we're the rebels of our seating group. I don't know if I'll ever be able to get an old guy to tell me the Diamondback score again. Between this and bringing in our own contraband snacks, we're pretty lucky that the stadium doesn't have an HOA.
I ate two hotdogs and a large order of nachos. There's no story behind it, I just thought I should get that out there.
My laptop makes a really terrible rattling sound when I pick it up and shake it.
Drinking Games That Aren't Good For Anybody:
1) The "Why Are There Paper Bags Wrapped Around The Wine Bottles?" game. When you overhear someone ask how "this whole 'blind taste' thing" works, you drink. Drink again if you see someone obliviously rip the bag off the bottle to see the label. Drink twice if you see someone eat his little pencil.
2) The "If I Trip Over This Rosebush Again I'm Going To Bleed Out" game. Take a drink for each time you catch your silk pants on a thorny branch. Two drinks if you draw blood. Another drink for each time the host says, "I should really move this table out of the garden," and doesn't.
3) The "There's No Meat In My Meat" game. For each piece of meat you find in the mysteriously saucy "Beef Dish", take a drink. You'll find that this one is a little slow. To pick up the pace I suggest changing it to the "No, Nevermind, That's Just A Mushroom" game. Have a bottle of something ready at the table.
4) The "Obviously Overstay Your Welcome" game. Take a drink every time the person you're talking to yawns and looks at his watch. More drinks if the hostess is furiously doing dishes. If the host is asleep on the couch, carry as much liquor as possible out to your car.
Let the fun unfurl, People.
And have you all voted for
Nigel? Nigel is tasting his win. Nigel needs SIX VOTES. Please,
vote for Nigel. Scroll all the way down and do your thing. Nigel would vote for
you.
I slept in those goddamn teeth bleaching trays last night. This was
after I managed to spray the bathroom with six days worth of precious bleaching goo. My frustration at not being able to operate the tiny, goo-filled syringes led me into a snorting, drooling frenzy that was only enhanced by the pound and a half of rubber in my mouth. “You look like the Hulk,” R noted over his magazine. “The Hulk, only with rabies.”
"No," I gargled. "The Hulk has
yellow teeth. I'm more like... a better bred, slightly less crazed Cujo. "
"Stop spitting on me," he begged, sheilding himself with the now damp and pulpy magazine.
This morning it took me ten minutes to scrape the drool off my face. And my teeth are so sensitive that they've asked for fashion glasses and track lighting. "Beaches" is on cable and three of my molars are crying right now.
Hyperbole Wednesday! The best day EVER!
I went to the dentist this morning to pick up my custom teeth-bleaching trays-- because a student loan that pays for a bullshit masters degree can damn well choke up for the important shit, too-- and the office was absolutely
arctic. I walked in and my nose hairs froze. I couldn't see the receptionist through the frost on the window glass, and when I finally kicked through the accumulated ice balls to scrape a view hole, I found her huddled on the floor next to a warmish phone jack that was apparently poorly wired and
this close to setting the entire building on fire. She begged me not to call the fire department. "No problem," I chattered as a penguin peed on my foot, thawing my ice-clawed shoe from the floor and enabling me to move my legs.
"I'd offer to schedule your next appointment, but the CPU was full of icy wires. I poured rock salt in there. I don't know
what's wrong with it now," she mumbled, curled around the plastic outlet cover. When I left she was simultaneously trying to thaw her eyelashes with the phone jack and start a fire by rapidly clicking a mechanical pencil.
(Do my good friend
Nigel a favor and throw a vote his way
here. I've never met that guy he's up against, but I'm positive he's no Nigel. Maybe because he's Mike. That might be it.)
Some Reasons Why Everyone Should Go To The Grand Canyon With R:
1) When you get designated to drive the four hours so that R can read the paper, and you're doing ninety-five on the highway but
still get passed by a Pontiac, R will yell "OWNED!" without even looking up. And it will make you a faster, more venomous driver.
2) When R is reading the paper in the passenger seat, he will shield you from all printed words because he knows that you're really, really, really serious about the carsick thing. He will, however, relay to you the interesting things that he finds in there. Which will make you feel a little like a blind person. Except you're driving. So...
illiterate person, maybe.
3) R is a good person to hike with. If you decide to hike the nine miles down INTO the canyon and back again IN ONE DAY, he will go. And he'll remember Chapstick. He'll take lots of breaks, and in that sixth hour when you're so tired that your feet are just wooden clumpy blocks kicking rocks and mule poo, he will insist that the only reason you're not sprinting up the mountain is because you wrecked yourself playing air hockey the night before. If it hadn't been for that goddamned air hockey...
4) All those times the next day when he could just push you over because your calves are banana peels and your quads might as well be OFF of your body, he won't. Not even when you push him over like sixty times.
4.5) When you make that crack to him about your quads, R will help you think of places they could be. You'll agree that "Tremors" comes to mind when you think about off-the-body quadriceps.
4.75) R will suggest that Kevin Bacon has your quadriceps. Or that they're roaming a Nevada desert somewhere, looking for another victim. Or some ice cream.
5) R will drive home. Well, he'll have to. Your driving abilities will be limited to 130 mph or a complete breaking standstill. The sticky, desert-roaming, cowboy hat-wearing, ice-cream loving, mouthless, eyeless, armless quadriceps know no middle driving ground.
A squirrell almost took my hand off when I gave him a Craizin. Don't feed squirrells Craizins. They're cute and fuzzy, but they're bloodthirsty when it comes to cranberry goodness.
Here’s Some Stuff From Yesterday That Made Me Look Like the Icon Of Coolness That I Am. And Some Stuff That Didn’t.1) I finally got to go to the dentist (thank you, no dental coverage! Thank you, student loan!) and as I’m reclining in the chair with my feet approximately ten inches above my head, the hygienist keeps accidentally misting me in the face with that water-spray-gun thing. After thirty sweet but time-consuming paper towel dabs and mumbled, gentle apologies I was finally forced to say, “No, really, it’s okay. It’s a teeth cleaning, not a dinner party.” Which tickled her so badly that she sprayed me dead on in the hair.
2) Still no cavities. I love the dentist because it’s one of the only places I can go and still be lavishly praised like a ten year old. My teeth rock the house. If my teeth were people, they’d all be Snoop Dogg. Well,
one of them would be Snoop and the others would have to be those pimp guys. But they’re pretty fucking cool, too.
2.5) I just did this whole number three about how my teeth would drive Denalis on twenty-four inch spinners, and how they’d wear Rolex watches with platinum dental floss bezels, but then I erased it. Because at the end of the day these are still just
teeth, people.
3) My hair is disgusting right now. Seriously, the degree of my hair hotness is negative eleven. I treated myself to a facial yesterday (it was “do shit lying on your back day”…yeah, I’m way ahead of you) and between the giddy hygienist and the aesthetician rubbing essential oil into my hairline, my head feels like I’m wearing a bacon hat.
4) Last night during CSI the detective made a joke referring to Mr. Ed. R grinned and patted my knee consolingly and said, “That was a little before your time.” Which forced me to sing the ENTIRE Mr. Ed theme song at full volume and directly into his face. EVERY WORD, front to back. It was the best thing I’ve done in
ages and I got almost
no credit for it. In fact, I think I’m going to call his ass right now and remind him of how cool I am.
5) I dreamt last night that some woman passed me on the street and said, "You've put on a couple pounds, looks like," and kept walking. I gushed "Oh, THANK YOU!" before I realized what she'd said, so I pretty much spent the rest of my night hunting that bitch down. I think it’s safe to say that I need a nap and a shower.
Google Haikus! Google Searches Incorporated Into Compact Poetic Goodness!
"Far Be It From Me To Preach About Karma"
Juvie hall beach trip
hermit crabs and gasoline--
next year's trip: state penn.
"Somebody Else Call 911!"
I talk to my pen;
my
cell phone fell in water
and it's all I have.
"Given"
(or "Cheater")
Angelina Jo-
lie is the hottest woman
on the planet. Duh.
"Attack of the Fifteen Year-Old Chevy Freak"
When Jesus makes cars
then
cars can float on water.
Stop fucking asking.
"Sure! With a Unicorn Horn or a Leprechaun!"
Bill Gates will call soon
and he'll personally help
unsend your hotmail.
Mini-Lists! Yay!Things I had for breakfast that aren't meant to be breakfast foods: Veal.
Number of times R curled himself up into a weird fetal ball and made a "blarrrrgh" noise, trying to be a poor little baby cow crammed in a cage because he's anti-veal: Two.
Things I'm going to eat while R is at work: His leftover penne.
Number of days it's been since I washed my hair: Three.
Degree of awesomeness my hair has attained by this, the third day: ... I don't really know from "degrees." Five hundred degrees of awesomeness? A thousand degrees? I don't know. My hair looks fucking good. It's getting washed today, though, because my head itches. Shame.
Things I've wanted to say to S but haven't when she moans incessantly about how she needs to break up with her eleven year-old boyfriend: "Shit or get off the pot."
Things I've said instead: Nothing. I'm in the "avoiding phone calls" stage of her breakup.
Most ridiculous thing Other E did last night at dinner: Tasted --after ten minutes of coaxing-- a caper... then spit it out onto her plate. A caper. ONE caper.
Personal satisfaction level with this new "mini-list" format: Ten thousand and forty degrees.
Hey. Just so everyone knows; the comments are jacked right now, and apparently when you leave one you aren't able to see it after it's posted. But I can. It's weird, but all of the comments are visible to me as long as I'm signed into my commenting system. If I'm not, then I can't see them either and then I know what you're talking about. Eight thousand people who subscribe to Enetation are bitching about it now, so hopefully they'll have it fixed soon. In the meantime, leave your comments. I can see them. They're like super secret comments, and I have the super secret decoder ring. Or... something.
Hey! Let's do a list of things that make me really uncomfortable again!1) "Independent Study" makes me uncomfortable... I think it's because so far I've independently studied the mall. And the bar. Thank God there isn't a bar at the mall. Holy shit.
2) The cracked dash in my car makes me uncomfortable, both emotionally and viscerally. I love that stupid car, and I can't believe that after eleven years the dash split open like a giant gray flat plastic bratwurst. I complained to my dad about it, and he goes, "Well, you never kept it covered!" "Bull
shit I never kept it covered! I kept it covered for TEN YEARS! It's Arizona! Sometimes shit just splits open!" And then I felt better about the whole thing. But I still hate getting in and smelling that musty, fiberglass, "someone stepped on a bag of rice cakes and now the rice dust is pouring out of your dashboard crack" smell. Hey, at least the volume controls on the stereo are broken. So I've got that going for me.
3) The magnets should be
in the mail by Friday. The delay makes me uncomfortable and guilty.
4) Waiting for my
Cafepress order is making me anxious and uncomfortable. Because if someone else checks the mail, then they're going to want to see what I ordered. And they're not going to understand why
this isn't ridiculous.
5) The MLA writing style makes me uncomfortable (as the APA writing style has previously) by virtue of its inherent lack of wit or zeal. I had thought that the MLA writing style and I had a tentative cooperative, but I was wrong. It does, in fact, make me uncomfortable.
