Yesterday, I dropped a gallon of skim milk in our driveway. I had rested it upon the roof of my car and it slid off.
It did not spill. It exploded. It was like a lactose bomb. There were these little round depressions in the side which are apparently milk escape portals, as they blew out, sending milk spraying over my rear tire and my foot.
It’s really hard to maintain a good attitude when that happens. I picked up my destroyed empty plastic milk jug and left it on the porch, as it was dripping. I figured that I didn’t want to bring it through the house dripping all over the place, so I’d wait until it froze.
Esteban came home. ‘Why is there milk on the porch?’
‘It’s modern art.’
‘No’ seriously.’
‘It blew up.’
‘Oh. Ok.’
My tongue is now too big for my mouth. Either my mouth is shrinking or my tongue is gaining weight.
Actually, I have this little canker sore thing on the side of my mouth and I keep biting it by accident. Now my tongue is the size of a size 12 Hush Puppy loafer.
I know that’s a weird metaphor, but it works for me, ok?
I’m also enamoured of Nine Inch Nail’s ‘Closer’. I keep playing it and bebopping in the car to its tribal beat. I find myself biting my canker sore in time with the music. The pain seems to go well with the song. It’s thematic.
I haven’t seen Starbucks guy in a week. This morning, I got psyched out when I heard a deep flirty voice through the speaker, but it turned out to be the Viggo Mortensen look-alike. Why do they taunt me this way?
I’m beginning to think about not going through Starbucks. Chauffi brought up a very good point via email that I could afford be my own sugar daddy if I simply invested that $5 per day in a money market account at a good interest rate. My friend at work, who has the exact same job as I do and owns two vacation properties, just bought a new truck and paid cash. CASH!
I don’t carry a purse, I carry a money sieve.
In other news, I bought a $30 lipstick at lunch. It will go nicely with my $17 hand cream.
I go through strange ebbs and tides of extravagance and tight-waddery. I stayed up last night until 11:00 to make certain that I won an auction for a menu of a restaurant where my great great grandmother and her son, my great grandfather, used to work. We’re going to put it in our retro kitchen, but now I must go bid on other Green Bay merchandise to make a collage of some sort. But I’m all torn up about paying $22 for a freaking menu. It’s my frugal Midwestern conscience bugging me. My great grandmother used to have a set of towels that she never used because she kept them for good. They were dishtowels people! Who gives a shit about dishtowels? We’re plagued by this legacy. Esteban keeps saving plastic peanut butter jars. When I cleaned out the plastics cupboard, I threw out no fewer than ten red covers for mystery jars. I just wasn’t in the mood to try to discern which covers belonged to which jars. The incongruity is that I believe I must have packed no fewer than 15 coverless jars. I, on the other hand, physically cannot stand to throw away a whole empty packet of Kool-Aid. They have these little point things on them and you can redeem those points for free merchandise. Or mostly free. I’m not even sure why I’m saving the points. I may find out that you can redeem them for rectal thermometers in the shape of the Kool-Aid Pitcher Man. When we moved from our apartment to our house five years ago, June threw out hundreds of little ripped squares containing the precious points. She put me back YEARS in points collecting. I’m still pissed.
I’m blaming this all on the Olympics. I should be all excited about the Olympics, but I’m just not. And I’m channeling that frustration into peanut butter jar lids and slightly stained ripped Kool-Aid points. Or something.
This is a prime example of winter sickness. It’s time for spring.
Anytime now.
