Titles Are For People Who Pass Their Language Exams, Not For Posers Like Me.
or
Excuse Me. "Posseures".
1) I took Jake to Petco again today. Not only was it the highlight of
his day, it was the highlight of
mine. That's no good. Anyway. We got a Frisbee. A small, pink training Frisbee. He was really excited about it and ran it down like a champ but then totally gave up when it was hard to pick back up. I went over and picked it up in my mouth to show him how, but he kept trying not to laugh and asking me to show him one more time. I must have picked that Frisbee up twenty times. My teeth hurt now. And he still won't do it. So. You know. Time wasted.
2) The worst Melanie Griffith movie ever is on right now and I'm too lazy to get up and change it. Which movie, you ask? It's the one where she opens her giant, frighteningly unsymmetrical maw and sound comes out. Right now she and some other blond are fighting over a gun, complete with "C-movie forced grunt and gasp" overlay. I feel bad for hoping so fiercely that she gets shot in the face, but then she grunts again and I cross my fingers.
3) I felt pretty irresponsible about failing that French test until I remembered gleefully that I have a 1995 Conair hot roller set in my bathroom with ALL the rollers and ALL the clips. Irresponsible? Me? Please. I should be the keeper of the Shakespeare folios. Cardboard box those puppies... mark em' with a "FOLIOS-- DINING ROOM".
4) SOMEBODY GET ME SOME FREAKING HOT WINGS.
P.S.
Yap away Jay made me a button! I've never had a button before.
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I've been thumbing through my Chandler Public Library copy of "Web Design For Dummies"; so far I've gleaned exactly
dick.
(I just wrote four paragraphs condemning the "For Dummies" line of books for the reason that they make complete ineptitude socially acceptable, but then I went to publish and spellcheck pointed out that I had misspelled "ingenious". So I erased it. Checkmate. I know when I'm beat. Allow me to go order "Self-Righteous and Completely Unfounded Opinions For Dummies".)
The dogs ganged up on me and stole all the napkins earlier. It was a stomping, head-thrashing, paper-licking fiesta that I can only compare to the men's room of Studio 54 on any Friday in 1977. Now they're passed out in a giant pile of napkin rippings covered in napkin drool. I wonder if they'll wake up tomorrow with napkin headaches, clutching churning napkin stomachs. Maybe they'll stumble into the bathroom and throw up napkin until they can get someone to take them to Denny's.
WHERE THEY'LL EAT SOME NAPKINS.
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Let's Play Throw The Blame! Quick! Catch It! It's Bouncy!
After driving R's car twenty-three miles to my dentist appointment I ran out of gas WITH THE GAS STATION
IN SIGHT. Which is always the fucking way. In the left-hand turn lane simultaneously
begging the car not to quit as it sputtered and choked and gagged on NOTHING and swearing at the woman in front of me who was content to just
sit at that red light with her blinker causally blinking, not even
looking for an opportunity to dart across three lanes of traffic against the light. Unbelievable. So the car does it's little vaudeville death routine, and by now the light has changed so Miss "Uptight Observing International Traffic Signals" has meandered and sauntered her way left. I'm now the head car in a line of fifteen cars and I can't find the hazard lights.
This whole scene is OBVIOUSLY R's fault. He -- assuming that since I've been operating motor vehicles for nigh twelve years now I would have some inclination as to when they require fuel, particularly when they boast lots of beeps and flashy things to remind me -- let me drive halfway across town without so much as a HINT that his car might be less than half a tank full and therefore might require my attention if I was planning to drive it to, say, outer New Mexico and back. He also didn't tell me not to shove raisins in the cd player or not to rip the antenna off the hood. I'm sure he would have told me these and other crucial automotive "dos and do nots" if he had known that I was going to drive his car in the first place. Which he did not.
Luckily before too many people could get up in arms about my holding up traffic there was a terrific accident behind me in which a giant SUV crashed into another giant SUV which appeared to be stopped in the middle of the road for no good reason.
End of story.
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I don't really have much to report. It's fucking hot here. I can't believe it's already that time of year when I can't leave makeup, electronics or sleeping infants in my parked car for more than a couple of hours.
A friend of mine has a new
blog; go over and give her your love.
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Hey, is it too late to be a fifteen-year-old competitive surfer girl in Maui? With the surfer hair and the skin and the ass and the coconut oil and the perfect teeth? Or do I need to change my major for that? Could someone pick me up the paperwork?
1) Today, when the chihuahua (which we've all started calling the "CHI-wah-wah", sometimes the "CHI-wah-wah-wah-wah" for reasons that are phonetically self-explanatory) bolted out of the garage door and galloped like the tiniest, ear-flappingest little deer-nymph through the morning dew, I'm not ashamed to tell you that I looked wearily down at Jake, sighed, and said, "Dude, would you
please go get him?" Jake would have, I'm sure, except that he ISN'T HUMAN. And hence he couldn't grasp THAT I WAS SERIOUS AND NOT KIDDING AROUND.
2) I got so much fabulous mail while I was gone I can hardly contain my attention-sucking "look at all my stuff" ego. Let's do a list.
a)
Sara sent me Slajov Zizek's "
The Puppet and the Dwarf" which I'm really looking forward to reading once I get my doctorate degree in "Hard Books". (It's actually quite incredible so far. And if you doubt me you should go and read that first review that I linked to. Holy shit. It's lucky that shit is anonymous; I want to tape a "KICK ME--I'M A PRETENTIOUS NARC " sign on that guy's back so badly I'm breaking out in hives.) Thank you, Sara! I'll email you when I'm done.
b)
Styro must have some sort of "Mafioso Fear" thing going on with her flinchy postman because the SECOND she said she was sending me a package it was sitting in my mailbox. Either that or her command over space and time precepts is suspiciously "CIA". So I open this box... and it's like LOVE IN A BOX! Little raffia resting nest, tiny little sprinkly candies... I wanted to curl up in there. She sent me this
lipgloss that is so sparkly and yet so creamy that I keep having to stop myself from eating it. And the "bling! bling!" bracelet she made me is too cool to just describe; I have to find my camera and then we'll talk about it so you can properly appreciate the majesty. Last but not least, a plastic Easter chicken that SHITS GUMBALLS. How very "Happy Jesus Day", as her card pointed out. Something else I noticed about said chicken; in order to get the gumballs in, you have to twist off the chicken's HEAD. You DECAPITATE the chicken
first so you can watch him crap gum
later. So in that way it's sort of like a real chicken.
c) I didn't realize that I was expecting anything from
Dayment until I read her site about the Rice Krispies treats. I bolted out of the house toward the mailbox, arms outstretched. I ate it too fast and cut my mouth all up on pointy Krispies. Maybe I should have waited until I was back inside. These cds are the bomb, Stace. At some point I'm going to have to commission you to teach me about music that is great and music that I'm not allowed to listen to anymore or tell anyone I ever listened to or otherwise acknowledge in any way. Maybe shock therapy.
A couple of days ago,
Choppa Choppa Crime Stoppa flattered me immensely by "blogging forward" to me. Sort of. She actually blogged it forward to
him, but apparently he thinks blogging forward is ginchy. Or unlucky. Or something. Anyway. I'm like the "Blog It Forward Understudy", and I'm in charge. I'm blogging it forward to the chick who called asking me to "distract her", and who then told me fantastic and sordid things from her past for two and a half hours while I laughed so hard I choked and mopped my floor. She's the only person I know who'll let me, "hey, let me call you right back" her like fifty times, and when I call her back she picks up the phone actually
finishing her original sentence. She's not fucking around. She knows EVERYBODY and EVERYBODY loves her and if I ever needed a place to go I know that I could catch a bus up north and her man would make us tacos and then we could bake cupcakes and lay astroturf carpet in her scary as shit crawlspace and then take pictures of ourselves in the green grassy crawlspace eating cupcakes and tacos and then post the pictures on her
website! I love you, Dayment! You've been blogged forward!
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Sometimes You Think Two Bedrooms/Two Bathrooms Is Plenty, But Then You Realize That What You Meant To Think Was Get The Fuck Out Of My Condo.
I'm home. I'm wearing the same drawstring pants that I've had on for three days. Sometimes they were rolled up, sometimes they were furiously unfurled. Right now they're both. Because I've got two legs and I'm lazy and uncaring. I'm drinking a
Dos Equis that I dragged glass-bottle kicking and screaming across the border. It's twelve thirty. I went barefoot the whole week which always seems like an okay thing to do at the time but then later-- when you keep scratching that one toe and all your heel skin is coming off-- you think a little harder about that one sticky elevator.
Jake had a magnificent time. He's quite the Into The Sea Pouncer, plus he discovered that he's good at crapping in the ocean. The chihuahua had a slightly less magnificent time, partly because he's a priss and gets all bent out of shape about sand in his eyes or between his toes, partly because he kept insisting on drinking sea water even though his tiny large intestine sent multiple Paper Towel and Lysol Memos that he SHOULD NOT DO THAT ANYMORE, and partly because he found the whole, "Oh, he's a native! He's got family down here! You should buy him a gold medallion and a doo rag and a tiny little hydraulic Mitsubishi with a six-disk DVD changer and chinchilla seat-covers!" more than a little tiring and a bit offensive, frankly. I mean, his cousin in Hermasillo drives a Mitsu; what of it?
Sassy was determined to get a henna tattoo; she always splurges and spends the five dollars or whatever to get a tiny little flower chain done on her sixteen-year-old lower back. I've never gotten one (I seem to keep getting drunk and waking up with the ink kind) but she seemed to think it was important to have someone do it with her and since the friend she brought wasn't willing to sign up for that kind of commitment (isn't that precious?) I opted in. With the understanding that I would only get the biggest, bulkiest tattoo they had and I was getting it from shoulder to shoulder, so help me god. And that's what I did. A ten dollar henna tattoo that lasts a month and stretches from blade to shining blade. I sat on the sea wall with my sweaty Solo cup and my filthy bare feet and my pants rolled up breezing through the Great Tattoo Binder while Sassy got painted up, and the temptation to get a naked mermaid painted on my neck was strong, my friends. But there's something about being with a sixteen-year-old who you've known since she was twelve that keeps you from acting on naked mermaid impulse. I did at one point hand her a dollar and my cup: "Be a good girl and go buy your pseudo-stepmother a beer." But that was as far as I could suck her into my late-twenties web of evil.
When R and I go to Mexico it's looking at investment property and picking up beach glass and taking the kids clamming. It's hiring a carpenter to fix the drywall and sanding down the railing and bras and clothes and 45 sunscreen. When I used to go down a million years ago (or five or six) it was sleeping on the floor in borrowed bikinis, around the clock full makeup, more four dollar silver rings than fingers, dance clubs until three, fights until four, sitting miles out at low tide in that pitch black noise with a plastic bag cooler and a crying friend with no mother until as long as it took. Breakfast was Tecate or Corona and Marlboro after Marlboro out on the patio, and I can absolutely see that blinding-white wet patio table; eighteen empty label-less bottles, corresponding mashed-flat beer bottle labels, three full ashtrays, two empty cigarette packs that you have to pick up and shake just to make sure. Any number of smooth shells that someone picked up to remember THIS NIGHT! but by morning are already disappointedly anonymous shells again. Except that one that stealthily crawled away. That was Paul "Nine And A Half Legs" Wasinski.
I apparently need a corrupted force to chaperone. I need to go to the beach for Spring Break and NOT WEAR ROLLED UP PANTS. If you can keep me from doing that, via shame or otherwise, you're hired.
More later.
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I'm leaving for Mexico tomorrow with R and Sassy. What does this mean for me? Another five days wherein my fantasies of jogging along the majestic and temperate coastline will die a grisly fantasy death to my fantasies of carne asada tacos for breakfast. We're taking the dogs; seeing as how it's literally
all I can do in the morning to get Jake to waddle eight feet out the door before he starts to urinate like a fucking urinating
sieve, a third floor condo should prove interesting. Not to mention pee-scented. I'll be back Monday afternoon at the latest; there very well may be an internet cafe down there now. I should be so
lucky. Have a great weekend!
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P.S. My picture's up at
Choppa's, and she's right; my hair does in fact eat chumps for breakfast. All chumps, all meals, all the time. Sorry I'm not smiling. Later I'll draw a smile on my arm or something with that same goddamn permanent marker I used on my foot and we'll call it even.
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I'm having a hard time figuring this out, I guess. Because this is
better and
worse at the same time.
I'll post something of substance later. Right now I have to go watch ER.
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My foot could only look more "peace corps" if it had dreads, carried a batik backpack and smelled like patchouli.
It keeps trying to hitchhike to San Diego. It won't eat anything if it's not prepared with organic ingredients and served in an earthenware bowl.
Also, my jeans are too long. By approximately six miles.
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It's The Sea Creature Showdown!I am now officially scared out of my mind. Mainly of assorted hats. I put these up in order of their arrival in my email box. Because... that was the order that I had access to them.
Kimberly wanted to be sure that I recognized the seahorse's beret. She really didn't need to clarify; I knew it was either a beret or an acorn, and I'm down with either one. I think the stripes add a really nice effect; I'm going to pretend that he was in a badass French gang knife fight and that the stripes are scars. He's one badass French mothafuckin' seahorse. I'm also pretending like he's on his badass way to buy some smokes.
Oh my god,
Amy drew the British Sticky Blind Creature Cavalry! Or else the octopus flies for Delta. I can't really tell. He's obviously a salty rogue; way to go on getting all eight legs in there. A+ for accuracy. The suction cups on his lovin' arm? SLAYING ME. Octavia's princess cone makes me jealous for fourth grade dress-up. Their kids are going to really hurt a lot of people in some interesting and excrutiating ways. Also, Amy should get a college degree in Microsoft paint. I mean, LOOK AT THAT WATER FERN.
Snowy sent me the Leafy Sea Dragon, which is scaring the shit out of me. I think it's mostly the word "dragon" that's doing it, but still.
.
Out of fearful curiosity I went to the
Site Of The Leafy Sea Dragon, and found that the amazing studio responsible also does these:
Yeah. Enough said. Game, set, sea creature match.
Sometimes the best sea creatures are the ones with no discernible realistic identity.
Scott sent me this thing.
He claimed to be disappointed with the red blotches; I think that's crazy talk. Because now this thing not
only has that menacing "one eye much bigger than the other unbalance" thing going on, but he looks like he's probably really
sick, too. Like measles or something. Which would explain the grimace. I think we can all agree that the only thing scarier than a sea creature is a sea creature with an infectious disease. Leg count = gold star. Leg length consistency = off a little = two gold stars.
Ms. Kamikaze threw in as well. As a chick I'm happy to declare that she beats her husband's ass in a variety of areas, contagious illness or no contagious illness. I think we established with Kimberly's Badass Mothafuckin' Seahorse that all things French are naturally scary. In a "Baudelaire + Harsh Language" kind of way. (Once again, if Michelle hadn't been up front about the beret I would have gone straight to "acorn head". Naturally.) Plus, it looks like some of those legs might have been added posthumously; I sense a little "too angular + hasty erase" action. That's awesome. And the 'stashe? For a second I thought this was a picture of my dad.
Um,
Erika? Waves? Plus airbrush? Plus crazy-ass eyes plus SPARSE OCTOPUS
HAIR?!?!? I look at Mr. Pinkie Spare Hair and my heart is full of joy. Oh my god. And the fangs? Jesus. I can't take it. Mr. Pinkie Spare Hair is scary the same way that a retarded guy on the bus is scary; he breaks your heart so you smile at him, and before you know it he has one fist wrapped up in your hair and you're smiling all over his Reebok laces. P.S. Hmmm. Looks a little short in the leg department. But maybe some sea bullies took them or something. That would be fitting.
Mister Crunchy sent me this slimy tangler.
I opened it and shrieked immediately. Because we all know who this is, right? It's that same motherfucker from the
growing caterpillar game. Bastard keeps eating those apples and getting longer and longer and longer until he finally runs into his own body and dies rendering the past two and a half hours you've spent jamming arrow keys around almost moot. You combine
that kind of tenacity with nefarious under-sea activity and I really can't think of anything worse. Plus it looks like his bite matches up perfectly; he gets you in those teeth and it's apple pulp city.
In case some of you don't know,
B² is my internet husband; or, as I keep reminding him, "internet husband who HASN'T GIVEN ME A RING YET". It was late, it was AIM... you know how these things go. I only tell you this so that you'll understand how it is that B's creature encapsulates exactly what I think is terrifying. I think we need a list.
1) Tate Donovan. I don't have anything against Tate, per se (although, frankly, I wish I did; he looks fun to hate), but in this picture he just happens to look EXACTLY like my first boyfriend, David. Down to the golden tan and tousled curls and being retarded enough to take his towel into the ocean. B², you're good.
2) Uh, who's that bitch with my man??? Ah, wait; luckily I realize that this is a ploy by B to tap into my jealous, jealous core and I'll digress now. Very formidable, B². Very formidable indeed.
3) When I first opened this picture I thought that the monster was of the Vague Water Blob variety. Which was plenty frightening. But closer examination proved that this is no Water Blob; this is A MOTHERFUCKING
RAPTOR. If you know me at all, you know that my obsession with
raptors is second only to my obsession with Undersea Raptors. I look at this picture and I'm genuinely scared. Run, David, run! Throw that wet towel on your little whore and run!
4) HAT.
HAT HAT HAT. Very few people understand the terror that is HAT. B² does. I love you, B. Send me my ring already. Damn.
Kim sent me the only creature of discernible gender. Oh, she's a woman. Look at those eyelashes, people. What I find so frightening about "her" is that she has so many modes of trappedness. She combines multiple elements of femininity to envelope you in her perfumed softness and then she slowly strangles you and sucks out your brains. Pill-box hat says, "I'm Grace Kelly. I'm Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy. My tentacles are tiny and beautiful and soft. Do not fear my wispy, lacy tentacles" Cigarette says, "I have magic powers that enable me to light fires under the surface of the sea. Would you like to see a card trick?" Full beer stein says, "Hooker." See? There's no escaping this multi-veined attack. Extra points for eight-leggedness. Extra,
extra points for having a head that might or might not be an eggplant.
Hannah sent me this widdle guy; her email read that "the seas were angry that day... the sea creature was not." I concur that at first glance Greenie looks relatively tame. I'd like to play devil's advocate for a minute, just in the name of safety. First, he's the first monster we've seen who might lick you to death. One or two licks, fine. But what if he just kept licking until all your skin came off? You have to think about these things.
Second, check out how thick his skin is. I can guarantee you're not stabbing through
that with your snorkel.
Third, are those
birds hovering around his head? Does Greenie have a
posse? Check your side mirrors, swimmers; we've got sharp dive beaks at three o'clock.
Just some additional points: did he start out as an island and grow into a monster? Can that happen? Shit. And those waves? PRECIOUS. I want to hold them .
Last and potentially scariest we have
Bob's contribution. She named him Melvin. I think that's nice. At first glance here I'm reminded of the notorious creature from "Finding Nemo"; I think-- and I believe that you'll agree-- that Melvin is significantly lethal-er. For starters, I seriously think that Bob GOT HIS TEETH RIGHT. Like REALLY right. Like a creature dentist would go, "damn. Nice job," right. Now when
I drew
my sea creature's teeth I made sure that they matched anatomical specimens perfectly. But I never dreamed that someone else would be so painstaking. Needless to say, any creature with correct teeth is a maniacal, regimented, on-schedule, watch-checking killer. There's no mercy here. Also, the light. Am I mistaken or is that a Secret Attack Tongue? That's what I thought. Skin Licking Off. See above.
People, you've made my day. I love Microsoft paint and I love you. I'm going to get up from the computer now and try to bend my legs.
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Just Some Shit, All Of Which Makes Me Look Like A Ridiculous Slacker Because I'm Too Lazy To Try And Keep Up False "Nonslacker" Appearances.or
I Just Had To Dictionary "Ridiculous". Fuck. This Shit's Worse Than I Thought.1) I fell in the bathroom last night. I was getting out of the shower and the towel was across the room so I tried to slish my drippy way over there and BAM! One of those weak, embarrassing falls, too. Like, when you picture it? You picture all of your limbs flailing like rubber and your legs actually swinging up so that your body is midair horizontal. And then when you land you immediately go all ninja-still, making sure that you didn't break anything that's crucial to living. When the ninja-still wears off you look around and laugh self-consciously and explain to the dog, "Oh no, no, thanks. I'm fine. I don't know what happened there. Must have... must have slipped." And the dog laughs with you to seem light-hearted but really he's thinking, "Fuck me, that was the lamest fall I've EVER SEEN. Dumbass bad faller." Anyway. My toe hurts today. And all my bones and organs and cartilage. And blood. And stuff.
2) Jake's trainer was here today. I had a little tete-a-tete with The Jake beforehand; we talked about lies, and how sometimes they're good, and how sometimes a dog should reward his owner by acting like he's been on a leash for two weeks and he should "WAIT" when told and "GO KENNEL" when told and he shouldn't knock his owner over repeatedly and frantically eat her hair. The thing about Jake, apparently, is that he has a deepseated value system that doesn't cotton to lying. My dog totally threw me under the bus.
We worked on "HEEL" today. I was in the middle of the street walking my dog in squares while the trainer yelled, "HE'S HERDING YOU! HE'S AHEAD OF YOU! HE'S LAGGING!" Dude. If his goddamned top incisors aren't embedded in my kneecap it's PROGRESS, okay? Jesus. "Well," the trainer conceded, "At least we know why he's shitting hair."
3) I have to get this French text approved by my thesis committee chair for the required Graduate Language Exam. The deadline for approval is Friday. I've been putting it off; it seemed better to wait to contact my chair until I had some WORK DONE on my thesis. Aha. Funny. So I emailed her today and ran through some strange and somewhat incoherent litany about why I should drop the book off in her box in the middle of the night. And why I should pick it up the same way. I don't know what all was said; I may have mentioned "fatal insensitivity to sunlight". I'm waiting for a response. But I'm dropping it off tonight regardless. You know why? BECAUSE I'M
JUST THAT DEDICATED TO MY EDUCATION.
4) Who thinks that I should maybe vamp the site up a little? I hate to give up the sea creature, but I'd like some columns and things. Speaking of the sea creature, does anyone want to send me pictures of sea creatures? If someone Microsoft paints me a sea creature, I'll totally put it up and link you. I mean, there could be different
kinds of sea creatures. Some that wear different kinds of hats, even.
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I'm roasting this giant pork roast on the grill courtesy of this ancient family recipe (childhood eating nostalgia got the best of me and now I'm going through the unbelievably complicated motions) and I'm trying to turn this monster, picking the small and ferociously fiery bits of flesh off the grill. One of these bits falls on the ground and the dog is on it like a fucking pork beacon, nevermind that it's LITERALLY BOILING. I watch him, wide-eyed, grimacing. Scarf, scarf. Thirty seconds later he's thrown up four times. Dude. Stay away from liquid hot pork fat.
The good news is that he re-ate it. Once it cooled off. He's just that concerned about hurting my chef feelings.
Hey, could I post more today?
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Phonespell. Hours gone. From now on I'm telling people to reach me at "old urea".
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Three new
Jack Fortunes. I couldn't stand to part with the old fortunes, so now we have six. Also, you'll notice that I've wrecked that page the same way that I've wrecked this blog: with terrible HTML, weird colors and Microsoft paint. Interesting, my natural tendencies. Go buy a shirt so that I can run into you on a street or in a restaurant somewhere and give you a big weird hug.
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"Proven: You can eat ANYTHING with a fork. If you disagree, its just cause you're a pansy. Who obviously doesn't eat FAST enough." --
Unsustained Focus.
I'm going to start stalking her in earnest once I get my binoculars back from my parole officer.
And
this just made me laugh so hard that I got struck by lightning and the devil gave me smirky dubs. Link courtesy of my
crunchiest friend.
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R and I took Jake on a road trip yesterday. Eight hours of driving through crisping desert, rain, hail, light snow, pounding snow and then back again. I proudly wore my Denial Flip-Flops. We cruised through towns like Strawberry and Taylor and Snowflake and Starlight. Giant green plaster dinosaurs abound in Holbrook, which is also where you can buy all the petrified wood you'll ever, ever need. My lifelong quest for The Elusive Clean And Freshly Painted Dairy Queen remains unfulfilled, although my craving for a dirty triple-dipped chocolate cone is temporarily sated. Jake did really well in the car. He just threw up all over himself THAT ONE TIME. After that he settled in like a puke-covered champ. I was a trifle concerned for his safety as R kept chuckling in low tones about throwing him into a snowdrift. After the third or fourth mumbled threat I looked at him suspiciously and, caught, he quickly asserted that the "throw" would really be more of a "toss"; a "love toss", if you will, into a high and deep pile of frozen water. We compromised; Jake sniffed some snow at a picky distance and R filled my hood up with snowballs. Everyone wins.
(Jake just raced inside dripping wet and muddy. He has an enormous sticky branch AND two globs of horse crap in his mouth. That's quite a take. You little shithead.)
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I'd like to preface this by saying that everyone I promised an iron-on shirt to IS GETTING AN IRON-ON SHIRT. (Which, luckily, is like four people.) But I ran out of vowels. It's easy to underestimate the number of vowels needed in... words. So I spent all night doing
this. I'm so tickled with myself I could throw up. If you're not impressed with the selection you should check back next Monday when it all changes. So you can once again be unimpressed with the selection. In which case I will happily refer you to... a website where the author isn't hopelessly addicted to Microsoft Paint.
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"From Seven To Seven He's Got Me Open Like Seven Eleven".or
Isn't That Maybe Too Much Open? I Don't Know. Seems Uncomfortable.1) I got home from the gym last night and found that the entire university track team was parked in front of my house. A case of girl scout cookies, three racks of ribs, cauldrons of cole slaw and twelve whole chickens can mean only one thing: track team barbecue. Fuck yes. Who eats more than track people?
NOBODY, scream the four and a half pies on the counter. After the feast (nobody could figure out how to work the spit so the neighbor's horse was spared) we all piled (literally-- nothing makes a girl feel daintier than sitting next to a six foot two chick weighing in at 295) in the living room to watch the Oscars. Jake turned on the charm and had sex with everybody. It was sweet.
2) R loaded the dishwasher to exploding capacity with filthy BBQ dishes and ran it. When it was finished I saw that everything was still rancid because R hadn't unwrapped the
Electrasol tab. It was just lying there in the soap cup, all dry and comfy and haughty in its cellophane. When cornered R claimed that he thought they didn't
need to be unwrapped; he thought you just put the whole thing in there and it all just
dissolved and shit. He was thinking of a commercial he saw for
these.
Ah. Well.
"That's understandable," I allowed, carrying trash into the garage.
"WAIT!" I yelled. "I just five minutes ago saw an ad for a Lexus; what the hell's this Nissan doing here?"
I carried the trash back inside and shoved it in a cabinet. I saw a commercial for a trash compacter a couple of weeks ago, so I'm sure it'll all just work itself out.
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