Crap.
Usually when I do laundry I throw in clothes, soap and fabric softener. Sometimes Clorox 2. When R does laundry, he opts for just clothes and soap. He doesn't cotton to fancy softeners and bleaches when something as simple as an ENORMOUS PTERODACTYL WASP will do the trick.
You can't even imagine how hard it was for me to leeeeaaan over the washing machine to get that picture. Even now I've got a chair wedged under the laundry room doorknob in case it dries up and climbs out of there. I can totally see it standing on top of the machine, all out of breath, wringing out its wings, hungry for bone marrow.
On a different note, I haven't washed my hair since Tuesday. Not because I'm lazy (that's just circumstantial) but because I continue to maintain that it doesn't need it. As the week wears on I'm maintaining this more and more loudly and more and more publicly, and I think it's safe to say that I'm no more than a day and a half away from a full-blown intervention.
I bet the pterodactyl thought his hair was looking good, too.
I should really go get a hotel room or something. I don't need that kind of wrath.
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Whoo hoo! My Man's Makin' Me A Frozen Pizza, BITCH!
Yeah, that's right. He's in there right now trying to find his reading glasses so he can set the oven temperature. He just asked, "Soft crust or crispy crust?" and I yelled, "Crisp-
IER crust, motherfucker!" And then I kicked him in the back.
LIST!
1) Right off the dive platform, I want to make it clear that I don't need a lot of shit about my complete and total internet neglect. I have a terrible job that's hours away from anything not railroad-y, prison camp-y or burned the fuck down, my house is a constant disaster, my right rear tire is flat every single night and THAT takes some time to fix, plus in the evenings I've taken to driving around with The Jake in my convertible cool car because I bought him a leopard-print carseat cover and when I wrap his leash around the steering column I'm almost like 97% sure he's not going to air-lick himself over the passenger side door. I hate attention.
I actually take him to the dog park in the hopes that his hour-long puppy running social orgasm thing will curb his apparently overwhelming desire to eat clothing, cameras and DVD's. But I'm really mostly in it for the car thing.
2)
Scott, to answer your very sensitive, very DUDE comment question, YES. R's stomach flu was the kind you get after a party that you had to be forcibly driven home from. Wearing half your clothes. And that was Sunday. This is Wednesday. If we were talking about the INSIDE of the toilet it wouldn't be as big of a deal. But we're talking about the OUTSIDE of the toilet. And the floor. And a lot of the wall.
3) Happy Secretary's Day! Or, if you work with me, "Happy Assistant Support Professional's Day"! Which apparently includes every single hourly employee in the building. And if you're somewhat surprised about that, and maybe (oh, ashamedly) a tiny bit insulted, COOL YOUR JETS. Because you get breakfast, a barbecue, an orchid in a weird jar, a BUNCH of candy (Lik-M-Sticks! Yay! I'm 7!) and a whole other green plant to kill! Whoopee! The Office Manager gives you coupons and the CFO scoops chocolate ice cream out of a ten gallon tub for you with his $275 tie tucked into his shirt! Nothing bad there! (Plus, you're a terrible employee who spends three hours checking local area traffic online and five hours plotting how to steal everyone's lik-m-sticks. Also, you realistically deserve NOTHING. Bonus!)
4) Oh
K, I completely agree with you on the tattoo post. In addition to the delay problems that #1 has caused, it has also been a source of contemplative contention that I can't figure a way to get a picture of the tattoo in MS Paint question without either A) missing the forest for the trees, or B) convincing you once and for all that I am, in fact, an albino Yeti. I'll figure it out. In the meantime, if you want to post your own Paint picture and commentary, please feel free to do so. CC me and I will copy-paste it here. WHEN I FUCKING GET AROUND TO IT.
On the subject of tattoos, my grandparents are in town. Meaning that, during dinner visits when I've chosen to wear something that doesn't tuck in, my mother is obligated to hover five inches from my back at all times. Because really. God forbid. According to the cousins' track-record, rehab, detox and illegitimate great-grandchildren living in Louisiana are second in the ugly sin world only to giant tattoos. The devil loves tattoos. He thinks I should get one on my forehead. He's thinking "owl" or "ferret". I'm mulling.
5) On the subject of sticky guys: goddamn. I'm sick to my stomach that you didn't get them, and I'm even sicker at the thought that they might turn up in the "return mail" at my office, all officially "not metered" and highly suspicious and controversial. I have an order for more sticky action in place AS WE SPEAK, so I will be conducting a secondary mass mailing. Minus my very cool, very personalized notes written on torn scraps of paper in second grade cursive.
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God, I
know! My life is a whirlwind of stomach flu and grandparents and laundry in the yard. The grandparents are mine, the flu is R's and the laundry now belongs to The Jake, thanks to "The Five Second Grassy Saliva Rule".
I'll be back when my shaming attempts to force R into cleaning the toilet are victorious.
So, like, tomorrow.
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Chris called me out on Dress C. CALLED ME OUT. ON DRESS NUMBER
C.
It's sort of hard to see, since I couldn't really concentrate on details like focus and zoom in all of my called out fury. You can see that it's black. And sequiny. Sequinny. Sequinnie. See Quinney. Skin tight, floor length with enough flair in the hem to allow for storming quickly through crowds of helpless non-stormers. Oooh, and two layers.
I attacked the mall early last Saturday morning--early in that I was quite literally among the first ten people to burst inside those hallowed, climate-controlled walls-- and after my emergency Old Navy stop to buy (and wear) flip-flops that didn't cause my feet to bleed (I'm a flip-flop baby, and thanks to The Jake lovingly nibbling my beloved flops to a gory, thongless end, I was left with only the flops that I took to DC once, the self-same ones I whipped off in painful frustration, opting instead to leave a horrifyingly barefoot trail of blood and trailer trash DNA through the Air and Space Museum), I stumbled upon Racks Of Final Sale Dresses. And because I found The Perfect Third Choice Dress so early and for such a bargain, I then lost my fucking mind and went to Nordstrom where I sold my soul for a carload of jewelry so sparkly that I, being essentially a helpless raccoon whose head snaps hard in the direction of a shiny penny, was struck dumb. And poor. And hairy.
My original intention was to post a picture of ME
in the dress, and in preparation I wrestle-shoved my camera into my tiny purse and everything... but then it never happened. R was too busy concentrating on being The Worst Blackjack Dealer In The History Of Charitable Gambling to worry much about photographic opportunity, and frankly I didn't push it, seeing as how my hair looked like crap. And I did something to my eye makeup that made me think "AGGGHHDEADFACE!" whenever I looked in a mirror. No good. I'm not sure what happened there.
Anyhoo. I got out of dealing blackjack by pretending to be outstandingly busy with walking around (thank you, storming-able hemline! For lending me credibility in my time of neglectful need!)... R went ahead and volunteer-rookie-pulled up to a blackjack table immediately and was instantly so ambushed by cheaters and whiners that he had to whip out his reading glasses and loosen his cumberbun. I took a storming break to spill a quick drink on his table. I helped, I think. If only in terms of icy distraction.
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I'm a trifle concerned that only four people have told me that they received their stickies. (Including
Asad who sent me proof of his sticky love.)
If only four fine friends received envelopes from me, that means that approximately 70 envelopes full of panting, dehydrated and generally cramped sticky men are potentially en boomerang route to my office where the Office Manager's secretary will find them and open them and then I'll have to have a long conversation about why I shouldn't be fired and I don't really think I can swing that because "I mail personal things from here for free" isn't a reason to keep me on and that's pretty much all I have on my "pro" list right now.
Those of you who emailed me substantially after the fact wouldn't have gotten anything yet because those sticky guys are in my glove box. Having a good time and not at all really seriously hot. (
Chip,
Scott and
Michelle and
Stace: I haven't mailed yours either.) But most of you should have gotten them by now. By a long shot. So let me know. And then I'll post about how Dress C fell in love with a Scottish Terrier (who was being ferried around and generally made sloppy love to by a Hooter's girl with no shoes on and a nametag ON HER ASS) but then had the good sense to fall out of love when said terrier was auctioned off for $3,500 American dollars. Dress C
did bid on the Hooter's girl, but lost out to a rented tuxedo that reeked of ashes, cheap scotch and rental car seats. C'est la vie. (Dress C pretends to speak French.)
And then maybe I'll finally get around to posting the tattoo pictures.
Shut up.
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A King And A Two And A Five And A Six And Another Two And A King... BLACKJACK! Or Something. Whatever. Here, Have Some Money For Charity.
It's a good thing I don't have all of your phone numbers, because we would've been on the horn today for like five hours. We would've conferenced it because a lot of you work (and know how to do cool things like "conference"), and there would have been a lot of pounding on the tables and a lot of whining and assorted noises that are commonly associated with whining and then you would have gotten really bored and distracted and you would have just quietly hung up and turned the radio back on.
R told me this morning that I was "VOLUNTEERED" to work a position for the event this weekend.
I'm a blackjack dealer.
AGAIN.
Apparently, someone's forgotten that the
other time I was "volunteered" to miraculously fucking multitask money and colored chips and cabernet and math and gorgeous women and COLORS and
MATHEMATICS WITH THE NUMBERS AND FAST, LIGHTENING FAST ADDING I lost about forty thousand dollars. Thank god some guy stole a twenty gallon bucket full of chips from that other table or I might have come in last on the profit list. That one wobbly girl who kept slamming her drunk fist down on my tabletop and KNOCKING IT COMPLETELY OFF THE LEGS AND ONTO THE FLOOR really helped my case, I think. I pinned a lot of blatant incompetence on her, much in the same way that my boss pins her blatant incompetence on
me when
I'm drunk and pounding on her desk. See? Karma.
Anyway. I can't wear either dress now. I can't be The Most Princess One
and The One Who Begrudgingly Hits Nineteen If You Spit On Her. I can't make that work. It hurts my soul. And my pride. It hurts my soul's pride. And Dress A was pissed when she heard... she got all starchy and those front panels started flaring. No, Dress A was not born a helper.
And Dress B? One of the fundamental conditions of Dress B is the Constant Motion Prerequisite. You can't just
stand around in it... there's entirely too much mesh for lingering. Dress B + Lingering = Coy. Dress B + Lingering At The Bar = Easy. Dress B + Lingering Behind a Blackjack Table Slapping Cards Down, FORGETTING TO DEAL HERSELF INTO THE HAND, AND THEN
DOING THE MATH WRONG insinuates in no uncertain terms that Dress B will pay you handsomely to take her out to the parking lot for eight minutes. When I told Dress B about the change in plans she got all excited and feverishly started trying to generate more mesh.
So now I get to go and buy ANOTHER DRESS. Or four. Something(s) that says "I might be sort of trying to deal cards right now and hence vulnerable to your advances/conversations/presence, but you and I both know that six plus nine plus five equals twenty-one, brotha, HIGH FIVE!"
Damnit. That's not it.
If I try I bet I can spend a grand on this gig. Well, not
spend, really; I'm just charging it all. What does this mean, this "charge"?
Ha! Ha! I know what "charge" means! It was in the packet I got when I declared bankruptcy that time.
Just as an aside: You know what I wore the last time I dealt cards? (Or, you know, just flung them around while fake-shuffling and then giving everybody money?)
PANTS.
I wore BLACK PANTS, motherfucker.
I'm all business when I'm fucking shit up.
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Gentlemen, you'll want to hit the "back" button on your browser now.
Big event coming up. It's
this thing. Again. And since I've exhausted Sassy's seemingly (but apparently not) endless supply of homecoming dresses,
that means that I get to go to Gigi's: The Very, Very Most Secret Upscale Resale Hawker In All Of North, North, Extra-North Paradise Valley.
I can't decide what I love best about Gigi's; the racks that moan and tremble under so many resold sequins... or the dressing "area" that's pretty much just a part of the
room, except that there's not a fluorescent light directly overhead and most of the time the other grubby-handed, shifty-eyed Paradise Valley import cash buyers will look away when you stumble out of your clothes and trip into some dress with nine zippers and a corset lining... or Gigi herself.
This afternoon she was standing outside with a Misty menthol 120. Not
smoking it, per se, but it was lit. And stuck helplessly in her gargantuan eyelashes like a desperate cylindrical burning spider. She attempted to blink through the smoke, smiled the Collagen Smile of the damned, and immediately started grabbing heavy dresses off the rack (which groaned with audible relief) and tossing them at my torso. She then tossed my resale laden torso into the... corner.
"Just yell if you need any help, Sugah!"
She was standing at the counter two feet away, watching me with her arms crossed. Her right eye independently waved it's clumpy tentacles. Apparently that was all the curtain I was going to get.
So. Long story short. I traded any semblance of modesty for two dresses. Dress A:
...and Dress B:
First, if Dress B seems a tad "
Silence of the Lambs when Hannibal does that thing with that guard", I apologize. I was forced to tape the hanger straps of the dress to the entertainment center because otherwise it would have been a picture of a long black tube with pink spots all sucked in on itself like a straw. So try not to see the carnage. The dress was not later gutted and/or skinned. Also, the spots are from my camera lens. I may or may not have licked it at some point. Moving on.
Several factors come into play here at SuperficialDecisions.org. First, I am the youngest woman partner of any man in the event-sponsoring club. As such, I've made it a point in the past to not be the youngest
and the One Who Looks The Most Likely To Give The Busboy A Blowjob. In an effort to preempt the inevitable shit talk.
Yeah. That didn't work.
And with small exception, I don't mind telling you that I can't stand any of these people... I've been conspicuously left off of every email listserv, left out of every cute pink annual phone directory (four years in a row), and generally belittled and ignored.
I say all of this in support of Dress B, who is not only Super Clingy but also... that bitch is 100% mesh underneath the sequins. 100% MESH, BABY. That's like, a
lot of my action just breathing the cool, night air. And while I wouldn't have dreamed of wearing anything this tight and/or revealing a couple of years ago, and, frankly, would swear right now that anything made out of mesh is best suited for skimming a hot tub, now I'm surfing the Whore Wave. Because when I tried that sucker on in front of like six other people, and Gigi clenched my hand, spun me in front of the mirror, grabbed my chest and whispered, "Oooh... you could tape your
boobs together!" while her eyelashes zipped me up... well, the devil high-fived himself right then. BECAUSE I AM TOTALLY AT THAT POINT WHERE I WOULD TAPE MY BOOBS TOGETHER IN A MESH DRESS.
So would I look like a whore? Oh, almost certainly. I can already hear the busboy untucking his wrinkled white shirt. But! I'd ALSO LOOK AWESOME (says the satan), and I know for a fact that there are going to be four other women there who will look SIGNIFICANTLY more whorish than me.
Five if that one bitch can get some kind of temporary release from rehab.
But! Dress A! The Princess Dress! See, not only is it all BEJEWELED and shit, but it has these pleats in front that fly out when you're storming out of your sitting room to see what all the fuss is about.
See? Back when this had tags on it, some chick probably bought a tiara to go with it. And not a plastic one, either.
Could I pretend to be a queen for the evening? Dude.
The only problem, really, is the strapless part. You'll see that I've stuffed the bust full of plastic hanging bag, and those straps you see are only good for hanging. It's not that I can't fill it up, because I almost can, and anyway that's Victoria's Secret's problem. The
main issue is that I'm really very fish colored. I would add "right now" except that it's not "right now", it's pretty much all the time. I'm bluish. I'm blue hued. Blue tinged. Splotchy with blue. And for some reason, even though the coverage is much the same, my lack of blood and melanin seems to stand out dangerously when there aren't any straps.
Plus, okay, my shoulders? A little pointy. A trifle pointish. I have very pointy joints. I remember once when I was in elementary school, I made a comment to my mom about this girl on my softball team having pointy elbows and my mom almost threw up from laughing. Apparently it was like the Ginsu calling the scissors black. So I make it a conscious point to not slouch because if I do-- even slightly-- I look like a pointy letter "C". It's no good. I've never made the strapless plunge for fear of emulating several unseemly letters of the alphabet.
Plus? MOLES. It's like I was sprayed with bluish paint and then rolled in moles. EXCEPT FOR THAT ONE PLACE WHERE THE MOLE WAS AND NOW THERE'S AN ENORMOUS SCAR, I'm pretty much a big mole. Now I've
seen some girls with a lot of moles who still manage to have really beautiful backs... smooth, even... I'M NOT ONE OF THOSE GIRLS. I'm like your dad. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is.
So. It's up to you. You have to pick. Am I a mesh whore? Or Queen of The Frozen Mole Tundra? Quick, because we have to do jewelry next.
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Some Steps To Help You Celebrate April Fool's Day Poorly:
-- Stealthily wait until all of your coworkers leave the night before and then gigglingly unplug all of their computer mice and smuggle them home in a big canvas bag.
-- Joyously pour boiling hot Jell-O water over each one of them in separate Tupperware containers. Refrigerate. Make an enormous, almost disaster quality "Fuck it, let's just move" sticky mess on the floor.
-- Lie awake all night because YOU'RE SO INCREDIBLY, UNBELIEVABLY HILARIOUS.
-- Scream at the dog to quit obsessively licking his lime flavored leg.
-- In the morning, jump up like a big dumb 29 year old kid who thinks that Santa came in April bearing Tupperware bowls full of jiggly computer accessories only to see with crushing disappointment that the Jell-O never gelled.
-- Realize that all you really accomplished was steeping 14 IBM mice-- three of them infrared-- in green boiling gelatin lava OVERNIGHT.
-- Realize that this way isn't as funny as the other way.
-- Console yourself that it is, of course, still a
little funny.
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