There’s just something about fall that makes me want to organize. I’ve been scouring Ebay for the Franklin Planner mahogany purse thing that I’ve lusted over for 3 years. The cost: a mere $340.
Why, oh why, can I not find a sugar daddy that will shower me with presents in return for my platonic acquaintance?? Hmmm? Any takers?
Actually, I could probably just suck it up and buy the dang thing, but I have this weird karmic thing going on right now, and I’m pretty sure that if I go and buy something frivolous, Esteban or I will get laid off. There is so much scary stuff going on in the economy right now and Esteban is a writer for a computer magazine, which is sort of a combination of the two industries most heavily rifting right now. Plus, I’m really a fatalist who figures that my lot in life is to be as poor as the Joad family and eat dirt soup for Thanksgiving.
Besides, once I purchase the natty planner purse thing, I’ll just find another frivolity to occupy my Id. Like a horse or maybe a lifetime supply of savory Ritz crackers.
The other night, Esteban and I had a giggle night.
Now, to be straightforward, I hate giggle nights. I cannot stand giggle nights. I’m a big stick in the mud about giggle nights. Here’s what happens: Esteban comes to be when I am still awake and then we talk for a while. Inevitably, Esteban makes me laugh or I make Esteban laugh and then we laugh and laugh and cannot stop until veritably any silly little thing will make us pee our pants.
But this makes me grumpy because I want to sleep and Esteban keeps giggling like an insane elf. Yes, I’m a big soggy pants downer girl when I want to sleep. There is a time for frivolity and a time for sleep and it’s always fun until someone loses an eye or a limb.
So it was a giggle night. I lobbied for sleep and Esteban lobbied for high laughter and wackiness. Then he scratched his toe.
I should possibly interject here that I find feet the most disgusting parts of a human body. I barely tolerate my own feet, simply because they are on my body. I believe that they have been put as far as possible from one’s face for a reason. And that reason is that they are scary.
There. I said it. Feet are scary. Foot juice is possibly the most scary substance known to man. This all boils down to some scary foot experiences that I’ve had in my life, however. Once, I bent down to pick up some of Esteban’s dirty socks (which could be used to thwart the Taliban, let me tell you, rain some of those footbombs down on Osama and he’d be wishing he had Anthrax). In the same motion, without thinking, I scratched my nose with the hand that was holding the socks, and sniffed. It was days before I could tell you my own name. I thought I was Aunt Bea from ‘The Andy Griffith Show’. I kept making corn bread and wearing lace-collared dresses and big pearl earrings.
So that giggle night, Esteban scratched his toe and for some reason, it gave me flutter tummy and since I was grouchy anyway, I told him ‘Don’t scratch your toe, it will make me puke.’
That was it. Esteban was in hysterics. ‘I can’t believe you played the Vomit Card!!!’ He was rolling with laughter. I just sat there and steamed. None of this was getting me closer to going to sleep. ‘You’ve got to write about this in your diary, so everyone knows what a freak you are.’ He gasped, tears streaming down his face.
So there. I am a freak. But you all knew that.
And just so you don’t think I was unfounded in my grumpiness, we didn’t get to sleep that night until 2 o’clock in the morning. I had to wake up three hours later. I am truly too old for this giggling.
Feet are still gross.
