This morning, I was standing in the shower…. wait, I just lost half of you, didn’t I? Fantasizing about the hot curvy Weetabix bodkin all luscious and wet and slippery with Dove Extra Sensitive Non-Hivey Body Wash. Well, just stop it. Seriously. Walk it off. In reality, I get into the shower approximately 1.4 minutes after my alarm goes off and usually there are some pillow wrinkles in my face and I still have drool on my chin. In fact, I might even be still somewhat asleep. Combine that with my Maresy Doats And Goatsy Doats and Weetabix is Hivey look and the Eye Pouches of Uglification, I’m truly the epitome of “She’s got a good personality”.
But back to the story: This morning, I was standing in the shower, staring at the wall and saw some random hair clinging to the shower enclosure. What is more… the hair was in the form of the letters “F” “U” and what could have possibly been the letter “C”.
Are the shower gnomes sending me a message? It doesn’t seem to be a good one. I have this strange feeling that by next Monday I’m going to see a finished message, something like “Fucking Clean the shower, bitch!”
Right after that, apropos of nothing, I wondered whatever happened to Holly Hobby. And then I got this vision of her in stiletto heels and a gingham mini dress, turning tricks out on the prairie.
Half-awake shower thoughts make Baby Jesus cry.
And speaking of disgusting body detritus… Subway’s new low fat Honey Mustard sauce looks disturbingly like semen.
I dropped some on my rack yesterday, because, you know, the big one I was working hard and fast on was so large I could barely get my mouth around it, yeah baby! But seriously… it looked just like spooge. Tasty spooge, but spooge nonetheless. And then that realization made me have a horrible lascivious mind picture of smiling Jared with those freaky weaky lips of his. (shudder) He smiles at me from my nightmares.
So, um, anyway… I’m having Subway again for lunch today. Because, you know, that’s just the kind of girl I am.
See what you all started thinking that dirty stuff about me in the shower? It’s all your fault.
I’m gearing up for an Uber Shopping trip to my favorite mall in the world. There’s a Torrid store opening on July 31st. I’ve had that date written on my calendar since April. I know. It’s all very sad, but I want me some cute chubby punk girl clothes, ok? And I think that Prescriptives needs more of my money, as does Restoration Hardware, Pottery Barn, and possibly J.Jill. God, I’m getting absolutely giddy with the prospects. Esteban is going down for GenCon in early August and staying in the Hilton with his gaggle of geeks. He claims that there will be no room for me to crash overnight, but I may just get my own room elsewhere, possibly near Mayfair. I’m all empowered now that I’ve registered for JournalCon which will be my first solo vacation since I went to New York when I was 18 to visit Mike Flaherty and the crew at Sassy.
A trip to Milwaukee means something else too: a trip to the Hootchie Mama store for cheapass rock and roll clothes. My rock star jacket continues to get rave reviews. It sneers at my cashmere sweater, though, and threatens to trash my bedroom and flush the sheets down the toilet. I think it knocked up my tailored navy shirt dress too. It’s sobbing in the back corner of the closet and all of my shoes are whispering. The Scully Suit is valiantly defending its honor and also given the rock star jacket surly looks.
Oh, this is cool… Roadie and fam are going to visit Green Bay and if their itinerary isn’t too packed, I may have another episode of “Touched By A Diarylander”. I’m stoked. I’ve made the rather dubious recommendation that he try the restaurant where my drunken mama occasionally works. It’s dubious because it’s a very excellent restaurant, however, I’m always on pins and needles whenever she meets anyone I know. Like, what if she made a pass at Roadie? Or Codeman? Oh god. At first I had the thought that we’d meet them for dinner there, but now I’m sweating, because if Esteban and I were with them, she’d be all smiley and telling them stories and weirdness, although Roadie and my mom are both consummate gardeners and canners so they would have that to talk about. Then maybe she wouldn’t mention the time she went out with the offense from the Chicago Bears or something.
I’m 31 years old and I still want my mom to drop me off two blocks away from school. Gah.
