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All-temperature Cheer

I had great expectations for this weekend. Great in that I had high hopes for my ability to Get Things Done. And on Saturday, I did indeed Get Things Done, wherein the Things involved mostly a buttload of (fucking) laundry.

Esteban observed me trudge up and down the stairs with heaped laundry hamper after heaped laundry hamper, the only difference being the absence of cartoon wavy stink lines from the ones coming up, and said a funny thing.

‘How could you have so much laundry to do? Didn’t you just, like, DO a bunch of laundry?’

Oh the man, he is so very funny. Also, he was at that moment, wearing two shirts at once. Of course, failing to see the obvious.

I pointed out again that the (fucking) laundry never ends. The (fucking) laundry is a constant, like the weather, like stupidity, like sand in unfortunate places after you’ve been to the beach. There is a sadistic Mr. Myagi somewhere who is trying to teach me something by burdening me with a never ending river of (fucking) laundry, except that I don’t know what it is, other than the fact that I should accept being a human pack mule who must carry forty-five pound hampers (oh you better believe I weighed it) up and down thirteen steps.

It’s a good thing that I was born when I was, because could you imagine the bitching if I was all Little House on the Prairie, pounding Pa’s shirts on a rock? You can pretty much bet that he wouldn’t get to wear two at once, I’ll tell you that much.

We also went to Target (I suspect that Target has become like a house of worship now, in which I must visit once a week for about an hour, have awe, and then contribute ten percent of my income to cheerful ushers in red vestments) for a new hamper. Color me spoiled.

I know that I’ve talked about this before, but I’m always impressed by just how well Target has my demographic down pat. You just sort of have to admire that kind of efficiency. They own my ass. I think this is how cults get you, too. I doubt that I could keep myself from saying ‘Oooooooh!’ during a Target excursion. If the clearance section doesn’t get me, the gift bag aisle would deliver the killing blow.

Right now, they’ve got this weird world ‘faux Pier One’ type of thing going on. It’s all British colonial and Buddha statues and many, many opportunities to say ‘Ooooooh!’ Esteban had to intervene when I almost bought a ginormous clock. You see, I have a weakness for giant clocks. I have two really big clocks, and the giant clock at Target makes my giant clocks look like tinker toys. Target’s giant clock has got to be at least three feet diameter.

I may have to go buy the giant clock anyway. If Esteban objects, I’ll ask him what he’s going to do about it’ put on four shirts?


On Saturday night, we had to go to Esteban’s paternal side of the family Christmas function. It was actually really nice, at one of those century-old establishments with the high ceilings and antiques and toile wallpaper. What is more, we were tucked away in our own private upstairs room and had two waitresses to ourselves, so the evening was well-planned and well-executed. Sort of impressive, considering that his Uncle Rod and Rod’s trailer trash mistress Tequila were involved with planning it. I had the great misfortune to sit across the table from her, but thankfully was able to ignore her for most of the evening. She’s so brash and tacky that every time I’m around her, I’m sort of amazed that she’s actually here. Uncle Rod’s actual wife, Aunt Letitia, sat on his other side, was unusually quiet and looked either pissed off or doped. I’d like to think that she’s starting to object to the fact that Rod has not only shacked up with an aged barfly while still avoiding a divorce and alimony payments, he has also (semi) successfully integrated his harlot into his family in the process. Ward’s family is pretty reserved, setting Tequila’s brand of crass bravado in stark contrast. It is interesting to watch how each person in the family no longer attempts to gently nudge Tequila to propriety, and now just sits back quietly, watching the trainwreck as Rod chuckles along, the one applauding member of the audience. The sad thing is that Tequila just doesn’t get it. She didn’t order me to smile this time, which is probably a good thing, as I haven’t yet figured out an appropriate comeback that would be snide and yet understood by the target.

I came close to being a rude little bitch, though. We were talking about places we had gone in the year and then, during a quiet spot in the conversation, she made a sad puppy dog face and whined ‘I wanna go to Montaaaaaanaaaaaa’ and then smiled as though she was the cutest thing in all the world. I suppose she was feeling awkward, since her only method of income was sitting next to her so the only way she’d get to go to Montana was if she could needle Rod into taking her. And I suspect that she was hoping then that she could join in on the travel talk, as she was expecting someone to say ‘Oh, what praytell is in Montana.’ And then she’d expound upon the world’s largest ball of twine or something she saw on Maury. Except that everyone just regarded her with cool distance and then continued to talk about London and Cancun and Las Vegas.

She then used that to make an aside to Rod using a very loathsome pun which involved a racial slur. I gasped loudly and then glared at her with my mouth open. In fact, it was so bad that I wasn’t even sure that it meant what I thought it meant, but I was pretty sure that I knew what it meant (also, I have since looked it up and yes, my initial assessment was correct). No one save Esteban had caught the comment, and she was obliviously prattling on to Rod, so I just turned to Esteban with wide eyes and he gave me a sympathetic look and shrugged, because what can you do at that point? Stand up, point a self-righteous finger at her and shout ‘Get thee behind me, White Trash Racist’? However, once we got in the car, the first words out of Esteban’s mouth were ‘My god, I hate Tequila so much!’ Which is funny, because normally I’m the one with the vehement character dissection and he’s normally the one telling me to lighten up and give people another chance. Then we both went off on how wrong she was and how annoying and how Rod just chuckles and is pleased because he loves it when a plan comes together. It felt really good to be both fully engaged in a common enemy, though. And to know that when we go to Hell, we’ll have each other to talk to.

On Sunday, I did nothing. Nothing. Or rather, very little. I caught up on my Netflix. I read some magazines. I ventured out into the subzero temperatures to buy a Sunday paper and then another paper to drop off at my mom’s so that she wouldn’t have to go out in the unbelievable arctic weather as well. I thought about going out shopping a few times, but couldn’t really get myself excited about anything, so instead I sat on the couch, put on warm socks, and mended my wool coat. Definitely a good plan for the wallet, but not so much for the ennui.

To complicate matters, I visited my dermatologist last week. This visit coincided with probably the worst breakout I’ve had in six months (not one but two blemishes! Something was definitely amiss, because that is almost unheard of in the post-Soap era). He changed my rosacaea medicine and gave me a prescription for new vitamins. After I left, I felt empowered and proceeded to use every single thing he gave me. Right now, my face feels irradiated. I keep walking into the bathroom and applying a new layer of oil-free moisturizer every hour or so. Despite my sixteen-year-old paper boy chin acne last week, I probably shouldn’t use the industrial strength week-before-prom treatments because my fragile countenance just can’t handle it. I’ve been walking around without makeup on all weekend, feeling as lovely as a troll, but also sort of like I have a warm, glowing sun of a face.

Thank goodness for Clinique Moisture Surge and also the very cold weather which discourages all but the entirely unavoidable social interactions. Life in grey thermal socks and lounge pants is very nice, as long as no one demands that I perform spirit fingers.


Dear SNL,

Thanks to your opening sketch with Darrell Hammond portraying Bill Clinton, I’m all homesick for the 90’s, back when we had a president who could both stand at a podium and speak coherently without the use of ventriloquism. Would you consider allowing Darrell Hammond to run for president, doing a Bill Clinton impression? He’d totally win.

Think about it,
Weetabix


Dear curvy girls everywhere,

When you’re walking by the Lane Bryant in your mall, if you see the bubble gum pink pants and think to yourself “Ooooh, cute!”, I would ask that you take a deep breath, walk down to the Gloria Jean’s, buy a frappuchino, and sit down until you come to your senses.

Got your back,
Weet


Dear whomever searched Google for “weetabix diaryland bra”,

Did you have a question? Because that was pretty specific, non? And is sort of creeping me out.

Thanks,
Weetabix

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