I’m a little upset with you.
Not one of you even bothered to tell me that Chris Sarandon was on the dredge that is “Judging Amy Crossing Jordon Alias and Order” or whatever it is and now I guess he’s been written off. Chris Sarandon is just yummy and even more so now that he’s got a white goatee going. Not quite the rawness he had in Fright Night, in which he took a mere pout, slapped a leash on it and called it his own. If you watch only five minutes of that movie (which, has recently been on AMC, making me feel exceptionally old), watch the seduction scene and be caught in the thrall of that man’s stare. I’m still in awe of the fact that Amanda Bearse, the recipient of that look, is a lesbian. Perhaps all other men paled in comparison. Growwwll.
I lurve me some older men. It’s so dang Freudian that it hurts. Poor Esteban and his paltry 10 months that he has on me. Although he’s getting some nice alabaster hairs in his goatee. He frets over them and doesn’t believe me when I tell him that it makes him sexier. Hoooo boy.
I’m thinking I’m going to be one of the most popular women in the retirement village. Or maybe the most distracted.
I took a vacation day yesterday because I needed some unmitigated slacking. I took full advantage of sleeping in, clocking a nice round 12 hours between the sheets. Go laziness! Then I got up and cursed under my breath that I missed Martha Stewart’s show. Damn her and her early time slot. One more reason I need a TiVo. I wandered around the house a bit in my dang cute pink boxer shorts and periwinkle t-shirt until Esteban called me and said “I thought it would be nice if I came home and ate lunch with you.” which in Estebanese means “I thought it would be nice if you made lunch for me.” So I did because that’s the kind of girl I am. No backbone and all that. He came home and we ate sirloin burgers with feta cheese and hash browns and watch a show on dolphins. We’re very cutting edge. At least amongst the krill eaters and echolocation set.
After he left, it was nearly 1 o’clock, so I took a shower and did my body butter regime. Let me tell you, thanks to the Body Shop’s Coconut Body Butter, I now have the supple lovely soft skin of a six-year-old child. It’s amazing really. We even had a weird post-modern commercial moment the other day when Esteban caressed my thigh and then said “Wow, honey, your skin is soft and smooth.” But then he had to wreck it by adding “ooh… a little stubble there.”
But the Body Butter. It ought to be a controlled substance. I tend to overdose on it. I got into the car and nearly slid off the seat. That might have been a catastrophe. I’m certain that my breasts would have caught upon the steering wheel and there I would be, a living breathing sidebar in the Weekly World News. “Greased Fat Woman Trapped In Monte Carlo!”
I just know that I’m going to die in a potentially embarrassing manner. Perhaps an aneurysm the moment I accidentally click a link that brings me to a website containing child pornography. Or I’ll get into a car accident while scratching my lip and it will drive my finger up into my nose and then through my skull, making it look like I was killed by a rather tenacious booger. The humanity!
But I digress.
After greasing myself up and getting dressed, it was nearly three o’clock. What a waste of a vacation day. Basically spent in sleeping, grooming, and eating. Good lord, it was exactly my cats spend their day! Nah, I didn’t puke on the down comforter or urinate on the carpet.
I loaded up with several cans of Diet Coke and then headed out to my very favorite snooty greenhouse, run by a Greek man and using non-traditional plants and techniques. They specialize in presentation and have numerous topiaries in various shapes as well as containers made out of strange items, such as old boots, antique toys and the like. They pipe Mozart into the greenhouse. It’s very hippy and artsy and it assuages my hummus-eating mentalities.
However, I could not bring myself to actually purchase something. Oh, I told myself it was due to the fact that it was so late in the day and if I didn’t get those plants in the ground the day I bought them, I would forget and never do it and they would languish and die in the garage, a testament to how much of a loser I am. And Esteban would be grumpy about how I buy plants every year with the complete intention of planting them and I never do it. It’s sad when you can preplan your relational dysfunction.
Instead, I planned to go to the driving range and whiff my three wood a bit. I hate my three wood. I think it is also jealous because I have a grand love affair with my three iron, the likes of which are rivaled only by possibly Heathcliff and Catherine. And perhaps the three wood is Edgar Linton… I should love it so, all reasons argue for it, but I cannot. In my soul and in my heart, I am convinced I am a poor golfer and can only be redeemed by my three iron. It has become scruffy and stained with green, grains of turf wedged into the grooves and my golf bag, who in this delusion plays the role of Hindley, scorns my three iron for its appearance. Even still, I remain steadfast, longing to grip it loosely and swing, oh yes, swing away.
Hoooookay. Chalk that up to an unused English degree and let’s just move on.
Anyway, I fully intended to go to my very favorite driving range, where everything is lovely and manicured and not even a little muddy, but then I started thinking about a story I wrote and started making some character motivation changes and all sorts of writerly stuff, so I just kept driving up and down Packerland Drive, writing in my head. And then it was entirely too late, so I just went home to start dinner. And didn’t write any of that down. But at least it makes sense to me now.
Oh my goodness. We interrupt this entry of Dumber Than A Box Of Rocks to tell you that we will no longer be going to Starbucks in the morning because of this. Good lord, for that many calories and fat, you’d think it would be something you could CHEW.
Of course, if Starbucks Guy came back, I’d be there with bells on. Good Lord, people, I’m not a robot!
Oh man. No wonder I have a bulbous ass.
