Ok, nary 3 hours ’till the pinnacle of Birthweek festivities (actual BirthDAY), and still not a sign of Unclebob. I think with all the free advertising I’ve given him, the mofo owes me a favorite, don’t you?
Well?
I am
Tee minus two hours fifty-four minutes and counting….
I’m all conflicted about Alice from the Brady Bunch, ever since I wrote about her here. I mean, she lived in that laundry room and the fricking Brady house only had one bathroom. Did poor Alice have to traipse up to the second floor and winkle while worrying about being accosted from either door by the Brady urchins? I don’t know if I could go under those circumstances. I get performance anxiety very easily. If there’s someone in the public restroom at work, I have a hard time making any sound other than gentle tinkling. I feel guilty even making urgent tinkling sounds. My grandmother used to say that when a woman pee’d like that, it meant that she was not a lady, alluding to late nights spent bleary-eyed in a juke joint, dancing with men named Earl to Conway Twitty ballads and permanently smelling of stale smoke and olives stolen on stained bar napkins. So peeing like a racehorse sends me into peals of guilt.
And I won’t even go into the whole idea of AIR ESCAPING.
Nope. Will. Not. Do. It.
Not even a sneaky “thip” would be appropriate.
I am so repressed.
But back to my fixation on Alice. First of all, Mr. Brady, he of gently permed hair and several sweet “I am not gay” convertibles, wasn’t he a freaking architect? Did he DESIGN the Brady home with one bathroom and two bedrooms for six kids? And the man gives himself a nice big study? And then there was the family room off the kitchen. What the hell was that all about? I find it hard to believe that ol’ Mike kept his sweet architect job and could support his non-working wife, six kids and Alice’s wages.
And why did Jan never yell at Mike “You’re not my Dad! I don’t have to listen to you!” Why did Peter never get a big old crush on his “sister” Marcia or Jan? Or at very least, try to see them naked? How could the Brady boys masterbate in their room? Or the Brady girls for that matter? Why was the girl’s room so much bigger than the boy’s room? Why didn’t Mike tell Cousin Oliver’s dad, look, I’ve got six kids, a stay at home wife, a maid, and a mistress down the street. My plate is full. Take your freaky “John Denver” clone kid and bring him to Grandma’s house, ‘k?
Forgive me. I know this is my age talking.
Pass me my liver pills, would ya?
And turn the tv down? My bunions are driving me nuts and I don’t know how to work this new-fangled remote thing here.
