I’m only at work for a partial day today, but it feels like the last day of school. I don’t want to actually do anything. I want to drive to Appleton and buy HobNobs at the Irish store there, and also some very lovely expensive panties, which are not at the Irish store, but rather at the mall, at Lane Bryant, whom I despise for fashion sense but adore for undergarments. I think I no longer fit their demographic’which seems to be The Better Dressed Plus Size Skank. But their panties are divine.
How girlie is that’ going on a shopping excursion for lingerie and cookies. This is what my life has come to. Sometimes this feminine thing really sneaks up on me and makes me want to urp.
I bumped into Penny in the hall, one of my partners in Girl Golf, and she actually quoted a line of this page back to me, about ‘slutty ho lipstick’. Things like that give me performance anxiety. I shouldn’t let that bother me. It’s sort of like how I feel about camping, having to poo or even tinkle in the pit toilets, which are cleverly disguised as public restrooms, with stalls and industrial-style toilet tissue, but when you open the lid, you realize that you are actually suspended over a very deep pool of unmentionables, with a sign in front of you, warning not to put sanitary products into the pit or they will get stuck to raccoons and the National Forest rangers don’t want to see their raccoons running around with Always Supers stuck to them, wings fluttering.
Anyway, something about hovering my very pale and tender butt over that scary pit of poo’. (shudder) it makes it nearly impossible to do anything. I’m too frightened. Which of course prolongs the event. Which is even scarier. Because then I start looking around, noticing the spider webs, thinking about what foul thing possibly is crawling upwards toward my luminous behind, with full intent upon sinking its jaws into my nether flesh. So then I must visualize the best restroom experience I ever had in my life and pretend I am there. It was in London and I was shopping in a lovely little bookstore in Notting Hill with my very good but now very missed writer friend Nate, who looks and sounds like Gilbert Godfried. And I had to go. Bad. I could not wait until we returned back to the flat we shared in Little Venice. But there was no public restroom to be had within the bookstore so they directed me to the very lovely expensive hotel across the street. There I found the women’s toilets to be room full of very solid cherry doors, each one opening to an actual room (not a stall) containing a lovely toilet, sparkling clean and somehow almost a piece of art. Also, each little room contained its own miniature brass sink perfect for cleansing the hands of proper ladies, which are never so dirty that they need a large sink. The soap was lavender scented Crabtree & Evelyn. Mozart was piped into the room through unseen speakers, to camouflage any unladylike noises. What is more, each of the little bathrooms were decorated in a different Victorian style’ the one I chose had gold leafed celestial stuff, moons with faces, stars, and clouds, painted over the walls and ceiling. A peak into some of the others revealed different fairy tales, a mermaid scene, and an English garden. Thus, to combat performance anxiety, I conjure up that bathroom experience in my mind, and somehow by the grace of God I am able to tinkle into the pit.
I didn’t mean to equate writing in this diary with defecation. I hope you understand. Sometimes my analogies don’t pan out the way I had originally hoped.
Every now and then I read something that is just so superbly written that it makes me ashamed to be writing the fluff I do here, ashamed to be wasting your time with talk of boobs, butts, and orange puke sawdust. Jelias has such an entry here.
Plus, I think I may have a wee crush on him, not because he has my dream job or lives in one of my dream cities, and not even because he’s a fine writer and funny as well, but because he thinks about channeling Robert Mitchum. And that’s just so hot I can barely stand it.
Men today could do very well to take a page from Mr. Robert Mitchum.
Apparently, no one was interested in the possibility of winning my ass splinter. I’m trying not to be offended. Which is why I need HobNobs now… to soothe away the hurt with their Nobbly goodness.sniff
