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The Holiday Card does not need a prop

So this diary.

What a strange thing it is. Apparently I ruffled many feathers with my rant on Wal-mart yesterday, which is odd because I’ve ranted about Wal-mart before. Maybe it was the “smelling like popcorn, dirty diapers and retardation” comment. Carissa, a former Friend of Walton, felt that was a little snarky, although she doesn’t read the site and probably doesn’t realize that it’s no more snarky than I normally am. I don’t know. It was apparently the Velvet Elvis that broke the axel on the trailer home. Ah well, just like my rant on women with big hoots who don’t wear bras under their tank tops at county fairs, if you’re banging people in the ass with your cart full of Ruffles, chewing tobacco and shotgun shells at Wal-mart then yes, I AM suggesting that perhaps you should look a little more closely at your own behavior. But then, I find it hard to believe that particular brand of mouth breather is sitting out there reading this diary. Because you, gentle readers, wouldn’t be so rude. I simply refuse to believe it.

I’d like to continue something I did last year, which involved sending out Holiday cards to anyone who wanted to exchange cards with me, but I’d like to take that a step further and replicate something that Hissyfit did last year, back when they still had forums, and coordinate a Holiday card exchange. It’s nice to get a mailbox full of brightly colored envelopes and I’d like to share the wealth. (I actually still have a card sent by Bfee on my refrigerator from last year. It says “I put out for gifts”. Which I do…ahem…maybe.) And I tend to think of the people that read this page as a large circle of acquaintances. We have conversations on the comments section, many of us read each others diaries. If you are interested in either receiving a Holiday card from me (although I can’t guarantee the handmade bits of wonder that I came up with last year) or would like to be involved in the larger card exchange, send me your address. If you are interested in participating in the Card Exchange with others, I’ll put the vital information in a document and distribute it amongst you. Either way, send me an email with your address and indicate whether you want to only have me see your address (and thus you’d only be getting a card from me) or be put on the big list and get a veritable wealth of seasonal cards. (If Christmas Cards were Totinos pizza, you’d eat for questionable convenience food for months and months) It will be fun. I promise. And two (TWO!) lucky card exchange participants will receive an Extra Special Holiday WeetaMix CD. Names drawn out of a hat by an impartial party (probably Esteban). Get your address to me by November 26th, as I usually begin to make my cards out over Thanksgiving weekend and others probably do as well. Woot! Excitement. To quote Flounder from Animal House “This is going to be GREAT!”

In other diary meta news, I got the coolest damn thing this weekend. Awhile back, I mentioned that I have a pathetic little collection of metal lunch boxes from the late 70’s/early 80’s. It’s just one of those things that makes me inherently happy. So Groupie94 sent me a lunch box that she found in some dusty forgotten someplace. Not just any metal lunch box. A pristine Muppet Show Pigs In Space lunchbox. I don’t believe that it’s ever been used. The inside doesn’t even smell remotely of bananas or peanut butter (it’s amazing how lunch boxes can retain that smell after even 20 years). It’s all shiny and sparkly and still has a little square of stickiness where the price tag used to be.

Remember price tags? Isn’t that just the most precious thing? Like, back when people actually typed in the prices of things from the little sticker right on the product? So quaint.

She also sent me a pair of earrings made from Diet Coke bottle caps, just to make me giggle. And giggle I did. Esteban suggested that I wear them to Abby’s holiday pageant (excuse me, PATRIOTIC PAGEANT) but I declined. I love me some kitsch, but I wear nothing but diamonds or pearls in my ears. I plan on posting pictures of the Groupie Booty at some point in the future, but you know how that goes. You’re still anxiously awaiting pictures of the mouse/mole/shrew, aren’t you? Sorry. Weetabix=Slacker Tool.

Speaking of the Patriotic Pageant, (I didn’t get to talk about it yesterday because I was still frothing over Wal-mart) it was adorable. Things like that pinch my uterus and make me want to have a cherubic child with rosy cheeks who can sing God Bless America at the drop of a hat and talk about our nation, inbibisbible. Ward and June came to watch Abby, even though they are not technically related to her. She is their faux grandchild. She calls them Grandpa Ward and Grandma June and then I usually get a pointed look from June while she sends me mental encouragement to procreate. Since I’m all meta in this entry, I have to give a shout out to Heidi’s sister and step-mom, who were apparently playing Spot The Weetabix… seriously, I’m surprised you couldn’t figure it out. Maybe I shouldn’t be. The Wild Weetabix adapts many guises and was wearing a Norwegian sweater and had 40-year-old Travel Agent hair.

My hair is being wack. It’s not punk rock grrl anymore. The blonde is gone. The red is gone. The chocolate sprinkling has faded. It’s just boring. Stacy is off having a baby, of all things, and my hair is now in desperate need of attention. I had to curl it on Saturday. That involved USING A CURLING IRON. What is more, it stayed cute for roughly 30 minutes and then fell into this pathetic Julie Your Cruise Director bob. I’ve left Stacy a plaintive “I don’t care if you have to squeeze me in between the episiotomies and the afterbirth, I need a trim and a brow waxing!” voice message and am waiting to hear back. For some strange reason, I suspect that I am not her number one priority.

Further Weetabix The Diary weirdness… Carissa sent me an email this morning to finalize our lunch plans and then sent one to Penny saying “Want to go to lunch with me and Weet?” Not my real name. “Weet”. Very strange behavior. We then went out for a very entertaining lunch, where we talked about bras and having another Bad Bar night and the infamous Porn Tapes (which Penny wants me to burn onto a CD and bring in, because she’s never heard it. And then I thought… hrrrm…. that would make a good contest… win a CD of the famous Porn Store tape… in which Weetabix is drunk and talks like Daffy Duck and Carissa very solemnly declares “No stucking… no stucking.” Oh, the possibilities….). It was delightful. We laughed. We cried. Sometimes you just have to love a group of friends like that. It’s a very rare thing. I think the next time I get drunk, I’ll tell them that I love them again. I’ll pencil that into my drunken agenda, between flirting like I’m the sexiest thing in the bar and leaning against the wall, shouting “BAD BAR THIS HERE IS A BAD BAR! I LOVE THIS BAD BAR!”

This morning, I had to pry open my car door. It was frozen shut, you see. It was raining last night and everything froze. What is more, because of the icy streets and the longer traveling time, I was unable to go through Sbux and get my new obsession, a Venti Creme De Menthe Mocha, which as Jake aptly described, tastes like a liquid mint Oreo. Tasty and you don’t even have to chew it. Just gotta love it when you can combine two deadly sins all in one. Proof right there that the Devil has a controlling interest in Starbucks. (I wonder if that makes MoPie a minion of Satan? Hrrrm.

Speaking of MoPie, the Diarist Awards are taking votes right now. If you’re an online diarist, go cast a vote in recognition of some quality writing.

In more Online Journaling news, there’s a new entry of Quoted up.

This is like the entry where I talk about nothing in particular, so I’ll leave you with this… yesterday, I was driving into work through town rather than on the freeway and there was a train alongside of my car. My car was nose and nose with the engine and I was catching every green light and “Where are you going” by Dave Matthews was playing on the CD player and the early morning sun was bright and gold and turned all of the frost into magic and the train was blowing its horn, clearing our path. And I remember thinking “Me and this train… we could drive into forever like this.” Some mornings, it’s just a great day to be alive.

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