I have this incredible urge today to respond to everything anyone says to me with “This is what I’m saying!” But I’m resisting this urge because I know that once I succumb to that temptation, soon I will be Bob Doling and referring to myself in third person. And Weetabix doesn’t like that.
(sigh)
I made the rather grave mistake of driving through McDonald’s this morning at 10:30 a.m. This is when they are supposed to make the transition from breakfast to lunch. I know this now. So I politely asked if they were serving the lunch menu yet. “No!” Came the response from the box. Then I asked when lunch would be served, looking at the clock on my car stereo, which read 10:32 a.m. “In about 4 minutes.” Came the response. “Well, can I just order and then wait for four minutes?” “No!” Came the response. “Hoookay.” I replied, and then drove away. Bastards. Did somebody say… cranky??? I apparently deserve a break today… but when they damn well feel like it.
I wish I wasn’t McDonald’s bitch. You just know I’ll be back there. I have an illness, I think. They own me, with their delectable Diet Coke and crack cocaine coated french fries. And they’re toying with me with those new chicken strips. I’ve ceased eating chicken products from McDonald’s since the Chicken Head incident, but now perhaps these chicken strips are better? I just know that I’m going to get sucked into trying them.
The first step is admitting that there is a problem. They should do an After School special on this. Seriously. I would not be surprised if behind Ronald McDonald’s makeup, there hides the red burnt face of Satan himself. Or possibly Ross Perot.
Esteban and I had another stinking giggle night last night. The kind of night when I actually had to get up out of bed and leave the bedroom because he was laughing so hard, cackling like a clown, and it was making me laugh too and I knew that if I didn’t break the cycle of insanity, we’d be laughing until the break of dawn. But one of the things we discussed was that I had a convo with Ward about the flooring options for the kitchen and hallway. You see, we can’t really decide what to do. We were thinking of Pergo but we were worried about installation. And we’ve got a bedroom which used to contain Esteban’s computer room but now contains the World’s Ugliest Recliner as well as 42 miles of coaxial cable and a utility table which is bolted to the floor to be stable enough to hold Garganto Monitor. And my lunchbox collection. I’m not entirely blameless there either. You can read about the whole sordid history of that room here. Essentially, it is supposed to be my little writing room and place to be messy, but it has no floor (we ripped out the blue shag carpeting and then sealed the subfloor) 1965 paneling and stained yellow ceiling tiles, whereas I would like some crisp white walls and real ceilings. And possibly a view of the Thames. But I’m not picky. Thus, I had discussed with Ward the possibility of ripping out the paneling and the ceiling tiles and replacing with dry wall BEFORE we put in a good floor of some kind. The theory here is that we could attempt the laminate floor in a relatively square and normal room before trying to install it in the kitchen, with its addition, strange angles and then wrapping it up through the hallway.
Esteban’s family has something skewed in their wiring. The way I envision: I think aloud, trying out concepts, formulating a plan of attack, talking about various ideas and their consequences. Usually, at this point, I haven’t even made a decision upon whether or not to make a decision at this point. It’s slow and turtlelike, I know. Usually, at the end of the envisioning period, I’ve made a decision that whatever it is decision-worthy. Then I usually expect some time for marinating, time for additional information gathering as well as troubleshooting. Then there is generally some metaphorical pistol shot off to mark the actual decision to act. That’s how I work. It’s a good way to be, I think. I’m a marinater.
Esteban’s family, on the other hand, begins to attack plans in the same way. Only they have a faux marination time. They SEEM like they’re marinating, but they are not really marinating. Not only have they decided to make a decision, at one point, they all decide that the plan has been made and set into concrete. I’m a bit mystified by this, actually. I think it’s like that phenomenon you see with flocks of birds, how they all decide to take off at one time. There must be some cue that I’m missing. Perhaps its chemical based, a pheromone that prevents one from being passive aggressive.
I’ve noticed this before, for instance when planning our wedding. For instance, I was discussing the possibility of flower girls at the wedding, and June had asked who I would have as a flower girl, and I said “Oh, there are quite a few little girls I could ask” and named, as an example, one of Esteban’s second cousins, as well as my cousin, Malnourished. Later, far into the wedding planning, June asked me when I was going to ask the little girl to be in the wedding. Because, to her, it was a done deal. It’s a dangerous thing, this miswiring.
Anyway, now Ward has told Esteban of “our” plans to do the massive overhaul on this bedroom and Esteban was a little shocked. As was I. But I’m going with it. Eventually, everything in our house will be unfinished and then my little impulse to live amidst dysfunction will finally be sated.
And perhaps I’m the one who is misfiring here. I fully acknowledge that I’m passive aggressive as all get out. It takes me two months to decide to make a large purchase. It has to haunt me for a bit. I second judge everything. Mostly because I hate regret. I hate to think I’ve done something stupid. I’m not one to dive right in. I may outwardly seem impulsive, but it is all carefully planned spontaneity.
I like to think that it’s all part of my charm.
Esteban has declared that I am not to go shopping tomorrow. He then thrust an accusation upon me that I have spent the last several Saturdays in a row in spontaneous shopping excursions. Like last Saturday. About to take that accusation meekly, I suddenly remembered that I had spent last Saturday scrubbing the black rot out of our tub, as well as kicking ass on various other areas of calamity in our humble home. Not that you could tell. I have to give him that. But there are now lovely nests of precision-folded socks in our drawers and we have a wealth of clean underwear. These things do not happen by magic! There is no lovely laundry fairy who trollops through our home, gracing our drawers with fragrant bundles which smell distinctly like the green Downy stuff. Well, maybe there is… and she’s curvy and round and generally sings songs from Evita while she goes about her merry little way.
But I’m kind of flummoxed by this “No Shopping” decree. You see, I’ve kind of had the hankering to go on another search for items for my retro kitchen (you know, the one without a floor) and now this Stop Action is bugging me. And I’m running out of Body Butter again. I’m becoming a serious Body Butter heathen. I love the coconut stuff, even though I smell like a stripper.
True story: when I used to work for a bank as a teller, the strippers would come in with wads upon wads of one dollar bills, all crumpled up by what I imagined were sweaty old man hands. The bills smelled like smoke, which was not so out of the ordinary, because I dealt with a lot of tavern owners as well, but they also were greasy and smelled like coconut oil (the dollar bills, not the tavern owners) Apparently, suntan oil gives better glisten than boring old baby oil. Thus, I always attribute that smell to strippers.
So now I just have this urge to do a pole dance or shake my bootay.
This is what I’m saying.
