I really hate January. I’m severely glad that it’s almost over.
I think I have seasonal affective disorder or whatever new age weirdness is the psychological vogue right now. I think I have some radical disorder caused by inhaling and eating white drywall dust.
Or something.
I didn’t leave the house yesterday. I sat around in my pajamas and watched Moulin Rouge and sang along with all the songs like a loser. I ate scrambled eggs and toasted crumpets for dinner and actually felt proud that I ‘cooked’ for myself. Esteban accosted me while I was moping in the shower, under the warm water. I told him that I was meditating. He furrowed his brow and did the ‘concerned puppy dog’ face at me. He knows me too well, I think.
I’ve decided that what I really need is a massage. A lovely wonderful massage by a blind eunuch. Because I’m a little afraid of being naked at the massage place. I mean, I’m remarkably comfortable with my body at the moment, which is probably unusual for women with bulbous asses, but at the same time, there is, to quote Seinfeld, good naked and bad naked. Good naked is being bathed in candlelight, lying on gold spun silk, and anointed with Body Butter by hot men who find me adorable. Bad naked is lying in fluorescent lighting with a two-sizes too small towel draped over my bulbous ass and my itty bitty thigh pimple things all red and saying ‘Look who doesn’t exfoliate as much as she should!’
I’m just saying.
But I’m working myself up to it. Esteban has released me of the guilt associated with spending a wad of money on such hedonistic ventures. Which is one of the reasons I love him so. Not that he indulges me but that he understands that I need to have a little push sometimes. Indulging myself feels wrong somehow and he makes it ok.
So the search for spa has begun. I want a manicure, to celebrate my newly grown, non-macerated, nails. I also would like a pedicure because feet are gross and it helps me deal with my feet if they look cute. I would adore a facial because that is just yummy. And the massage would be nice as well, if I can get past the bad naked thing, anyway.
Maybe I just need some more caffeine. Maybe I need some more of that Mocha Whatever It Was from Starbucks. Anyone running out at lunch and want to swing by Green Bay with a nice steaming cup of energy for me? Anyone? Bueller?
You know what I think the true problem is? I haven’t watched Bring It On in at least a month, maybe more. There’s something wrong with that. Note to self: fix that. And buy more Body Shop Body Butter. In a scent other than Mango Ass, preferably.
On a side note, a Weetabix fashion report: Grey v-neck sweater, grey “Ass Splinter” pearls, black trousers, Doc Martens. I wanted my cutest socks in the world as well, but I couldn’t find them in the clean laundry hamper. Also I have strange romantic Victorian hair today. I’m not entirely certain how that came about, but I’m going with it. It’s sort of Sarah McLaughlin hair spun up with a little Meg Ryan ‘Cute but Messy’. I have an urge to smile an enormous gummy smile at people and do wiggy little things with my mouth and make Russell Crowe fall in love with me.
Who am I kidding? He’d be wrapped around my cute little finger. He’d be my Body Butter Boy.
Um’ sorry’ got caught up in that mental picture for a minute.
Wait. No. I’m not sorry. I think I shall end this diary entry and think about that for several hours.
