I keep breaking my notify list thingy. It’s ticking me off. Dang it all anyway. HTML is like the great equalizer of the Internet. It’s not about how cool you are. It’s not about what kind of car you drive. It’s about getting your mickey fickey links to work and knowing how to change your damn font size when you need to. Argh.
Just needed to share that.
And if you want to be on the notify list (and you really should, by the way, because I often spill little tidbits that aren’t in the diary. And sometimes I don’t because I’m sobbing because I just wrote the sentence ‘I’m just a girl who lost her cat’ and I’m crying too hard to think up anything and really just pleased that I managed to go to the notify list admin site and type in the link without anyone in the surrounding cubicles knowing that I had a big messed up red face, tears spilling down onto my cleavage, and a big old snot string just waiting to happen because I ran out of Kleenex two weeks ago and can’t seem to break out of summer slacker mode long enough to bring a new box with me to work. )So, I’ll fix it eventually, but then I’ll probably break it again. Instead of using that snazzy little box at the bottom of the page, you can just enter your email address in here. I haven’t managed to break THAT little window.
Yet.
Yesterday, after sleeping next to Esteban and his smashing impression of bovine opera, we woke up early to go to the Renaissance Faire along with Scotty Boom Boom, Joel, Cheri.
Well, ok. I woke up early. My snorting cohabitant decided that he didn’t have to wake up because his beloved codependent wife would take care of everything and he could basically sleep until three minutes before we had to leave, and then he would groggily rise, take a shower, and then flop heartily into the driver’s seat of the Monte, still drippy and smooshy and somehow still have drool on his face after the shower. But I can only imagine that this is what he was thinking. It seemed to be so, since even after the fourth time, even after I walked in, stood upon the bed over his sleeping form where he was heartily dousing my lovely down pillow and the 450 thread count white pillowcase with not only his man grease but also morning mouth drool, and yelled ‘YOU MUST GET UP AS THEY WILL BE HERE IN EXACTLY NINETEEN MINUTES AND I WILL NOT FETCH YOUR CLOTHES FOR YOU BECAUSE YOU ARE LATE AGAIN! I WON’T DO IT! I JUST WON’T! I’M NOT EVEN KIDDING SO DON’T TEST ME ON THIS MATTER!’ Even after that, he refused to budge.
Finally, he extricated himself from the bed with a resounding SCHWAACK as he unstuck his cheek from my lovely pillow. I sighed and whipped off the pillowcase, replacing it with a shoddy 250-thread count pillowcase, as I wanted to bring my pillow along.
He then proceeded to aggravate me to no end by wandering around in a clueless daze. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked, in that tone of helplessness that implies ‘I need you to find me underwear and shorts and socks and a shirt and shoes. Without you, I will go naked and be scratched by the thorny underbrush we will undoubtedly be forced to walk through.’ I ignored him and because of this, he paired jean shorts and white socks with black tennis shoes. I should have probably found his white ones but my new Gloria Steinem book was glaring at me from the bathroom counter. I’m sorry, but how can one be a feminist when they are forced to wander next to the fashionably clueless? I want to fight the patriarchy, I really do, but the reality is that people are programmed to think that I dressed him that way! He wandered around in public like that all day. Score one for New Grrl Order, minus one hundred and eleven for my pledge to be a Curvy Round Fashionista.
Because of this as well as the snorting and the general clueless whininess, I was incredibly irritated as we left. Unreasonably irritated, I must admit. I found the label ‘Stupid’ come out of my mouth, thrown in Esteban’s direction. It was so wrong. I’m ashamed. I apologized to him later. It makes me want to cry that I can be so mean to someone who is so wonderful, but I suppose everyone is unreasonable at one time or another. I still feel really bad. I have no patience. It’s probably a good thing that my uterus has never been called to duty because I think I’d be running people down with my souped up mini van or spiking my children’s juice boxes with benadryl so they’d crash out and let me have my necessary several hours of Internet time.
Scotty rode with us and we had a hilarious conversation about how much money it would take for a guy to let another man have anal sex with him. I would reproduce the conversation but I was high from laughing and nearly passed out during most of it. I phoned Joel, who was in the car ahead of us, and asked him the question and he nearly crashed his car laughing. Then I think we ticked Cheri off, being so juvenile. I was negotiating like a mofo, though. Man, I should probably get out of technical support and go into corporate deal making. I would so kick ass. I can look into someone’s true heart and know exactly what it will take to make them bend over and spread their cheeks.
That was a nice image. Sorry.
And the funny thing about that is that I’ll bet right now you’re mentally calculating. Or shifting in your seat uncomfortably.
The Renaissance Faire was nice. I kept getting lost and then refinding everyone. We watched someone juggle bowling balls. We watched another act where one man twisted another man’s nipples to make him sing like a crystal glass being rimmed.
Best quote of the day: these two four- or five-year-old boys were having a mock sword fight with little wooden swords and one boy made a rather spectacular jab and the other exclaimed in a brilliant whine ‘NO! You’re not allowed to hit me in my wiener!’
That made me giggle just typing it. Unfortunately for Scott, as I was relaying the scene to him, he missed a rather buxom lady wearing a chain mail bikini. With nothing underneath. Those randy Rennies and their fashion. And I was worried about Esteban’s footwear.
The drive home was uneventful. Esteban and Scott talked about a bunch of boy things that made me write stories in my head out of boredom. I actually had a flash of inspiration where I realized I could combine two story ideas that I had and they would work great. Now I must apply them to paper or at very least, the fake sheets of paper that you see in Word. I’d actually started writing one of the elements of the story awhile back when inspiration struck, but I’ve been only mentally writing it recently. The other one has been scribbled in various emails and mailed to myself, but nothing substantial or real. Sometimes, I feel as though I’m just a secretary taking dictation and it’s not very much fun. But then, maybe if I had a lovely addiction to something other than Diet Coke or Body Butter, ala Ernest Hemmingway or F. Scott Fitzgerald or Dylan Thomas or any other of the scores of drugged out writers today’ then maybe someday I might be a real writer. Or maybe I’d just end up dancing on the windowsill at The Bad Bar, getting groped by men wearing questionable fashion.
At one point during the drive home, I interrupted Scott to turn up the radio by saying ‘Wait, I’m sorry, this is my favorite Weezer song’. It was ‘Loser’ or that song that goes ‘I’m a loser babah, so why don’t you kill me.’ Scotty sneered and retorted ‘That is not Weezer!’ and I said ‘Yes it is!’ because I was picturing my illegally downloaded song and the description which read ‘Weezer-Loser So Why Don’t You Kill Me’.
‘I will bet you five dollars that isn’t Weezer’.
This is when the Greek Chorus that is supposed to warn me before I do stupid things would have piped up with ‘No, Weetabix, don’t do it! That is not Weezer! Listen to the song! They are diverse as artists but they are not THAT diverse! The lyrics are far too brilliant to be Weezer. Just close your mouth now and say no more, fair child!’
But I don’t have a Greek Chorus, so I pretty much said ‘I will bet you TEN BUCKS that it is!’ And then we shook on it. Then Scott said ‘That is SO Beck, from Odelay I believe.’ And then a gong rang inside my gut, it was the gong of truth. Then I remembered that it WAS Beck and the idiot who uploaded that song to AudioGalaxy misnamed it like the music-stealing tool they are. So I gave him his ten bucks, without even waiting to check it when we got home. I took slight satisfaction in that the bill I gave him was saturated with my sweat, having been in my sock all day, but he didn’t seem to care.
Damn illegally downloaded music. Crime doesn’t pay, people. That’s all I’m saying. I’m a stupid criminal and this is one of those ways that it bites you in the ass. And yes, I’m fully aware of the succinct title that was in debate. I am a loser. Baby. So why don’t you make a bet with me?
So, now I’m pretty certain that I will be writing UncleBob’s page for him because Bill will end up being the Mole and not Heather. This was a sign. A sign that I am loser and my luck is at low ebb. At least my mouth writes checks my ass can cash.
Even if Bill is the Mole, Heather is SO the Mole.
Damn Weezer.
I am a complete tool.
