I’ve totally got ‘Cool Rider’ stuck in my head from Grease 2 because MoPie used it in the title of her one of her latest entries. Poor poor Michelle Pfeiffer. I doubt that she fully understands that like a zillion women in their late twenties/early thirties spent their adolescence secretly wishing for a Pink Ladies jacket and black Capri pants. Possibly if she had a firmer grasp upon this, she wouldn’t feel as though she had to appear in movies where she is a frazzled mom who trips over things so that we won’t hate her because she’s beautiful. She realizes that women can’t think she’s a skinny bitch if she’s clumsy.
But she needn’t dump a goldfish bowl filled with water down her shirt just to prevent me from hating her because George Clooney wants to sleep with her. I like Michelle anyway (and besides, I have absolutely no interest in sleeping with George Clooney). I almost ruined my braces chewing bubble gum in that snotty J.D. way. I couldn’t understand why she was with Adrian Zmed in the first place. His hair looked like the shag carpeting in the back window of my neighbor’s Camaro. I don’t know why he felt the need to put black shag carpeting back there. It always smelled somewhat of hot dusty wet dog and that is what I have assumed Adrian Zmed’s hair would also smell like. I mean, why would she want Adrian when she could have had Louis DiMucci? At thirteen, let me tell you, I was ready to do it for MY country too. Dayum. And he had a voice. Yum.
Yeah. I’ve always had a thing for slightly geeky looking guys. I can’t help it. I think it’s part of the reason that I adore Weezer, They Might Be Giants, and the Violent Femmes too.
Have I mentioned my new illness that precludes my ability to return a DVD to the store within the allotted 5-day period? Chauffi actually sent me a thing on NetFlix after I complained that I recently almost needed to take a loan out to pay my late fees. I should probably just purchase them. It would be so much easier and cheaper, in some instances. For instance, I would now OWN Amelie instead of paying the video store $24 in late fees.
Chauffi has totally taken up the cause as my personal assistant. I never knew that I needed one but apparently I do. Actually, I’ve been complaining that I need a wife to do wifely things for me, the way I do them for Esteban, but a cute furry and occasionally snarky P.A. will do quite nicely, thank you. Aside from assisting me in making valuable life decisions and fashion choices (he told me what to wear for my interview for my new position, wisely nixing my snakeskin shirt idea right in the bud), he saved me when I grew frustrated at the fact that I couldn’t get some downloaded fonts to work.
Then I complained that I didn’t know how to store numbers in my cellphone. He asked for the model number and then not only found the manual online but also summarized what I needed to do to store the number. What more could a girl ask for? To thank him, I stored his cell number in my phone and then called him twice on my drive home, once to test it and then a second time to blather to him. It went something like this. ‘Three things: first of all, the internal organs in my pelvic region are reenacting the final battle scene from Braveheart. My left ovary has its little ovary face painted blue and keeps yelling ‘Freedom! Honor!’ They just mooned my liver. It’s crazy. Second: (ok, I think the second thing was too embarassing and I’ve repressed it because I simply don’t remember what it was). Third: people who sit by the side of the road and sell corn have an IQ of like, 45.’
He wrote me an email last night: ‘There are people selling porn on the side of the road there? How tacky!’
Corn, people. It was corn.
This is not the first time that I’ve had some horrible moment where either my Wisconsin accent gets in the way or I sound like Bob Dylan’s retarded cousin. Another time, I left him a message in which I told him that he was a spoon.
A spoon!
I don’t know what the hell I was talking about either. I think I said something else but I can’t for the life of me figure out what I said. Maybe I was channeling The Tick. I’m completely boggled. You know, Baby Jesus probably made me unable to work my phone so that I wouldn’t compare people to kitchen utensils. Because honestly, that is just wrong.
Sheesh. DVD rental scumbag. Too dumb to install a font even though I work in technical support. Don’t know how to work the phone I’ve had for a year. Sometimes I simply cannot believe what a complete tool I am.
Last night, I was Ms. Cranky Pants. Esteban asked very nicely when I expected the Hell Bitch mode to kick in, as he was having a hard time gauging it. I figured that I was either right on the cusp of Full Blown Hell Dervish or on my way down from that. He congratulated me for keeping it nicely in check because he hadn’t noticed. I thanked him and told him that he was a wonderful husband for putting up with me so well and I probably didn’t tell him that enough. He responded that I normally am quite complimentary during the Hell Bitch stage but then I swing the other way with alarming speed and call him an asshole or something like that. Then I must feel bad about it and tell him how wonderful he is.
‘What the hell do you mean by that?’ I asked’ but I was smiling. I am fully aware that girls are dumb sometimes. I like to think it’s all part of our charm, that ephemeral sweetheart quality that lingers beneath the surface of a Sheestack. (That’s a girl Sleestack, so just save your emails, ‘k?)
I also discovered that it is very possible to eat chocolate while Operation: Hottie is employed, provided that’s all you eat. Dinner last night was two brownies. Well, not really. Esteban came into the room chomping on what I thought was possibly the last brownie.
‘Are you eating the last brownie!?!’ I snapped, already envisioning ripping it from his selfish fingers and then bitchslapping him across the living room.
‘No,’ he answered. ‘There’s one more.’
I shook my head, trying to quell the murderous thoughts from my brain. In the midst of my irrationality, I sometimes have a moment of clarity where even I am amazed at how psycho I sound sometimes.
But then I went into the kitchen and saw the brownie pan.
You see, my initial calculations were accurate. There HAD been only one brownie left. Esteban cleverly cut that brownie in half, knowing that he would be crucified if he ate the remaining luscious truffle-like Ghirradelli brownie.
‘You bastard! You ate the last brownie!’
‘I did not! I did not! I left you one!’
‘You left me one HALF!’
‘Yes, but it was the bigger half because I knew you’d go ballistic. Besides, in case you hadn’t noticed, you ate most of that pan of brownies. ‘
‘Yeah, well, in case you hadn’t noticed, I made all of that fucking pan of brownies!’
Thankfully for all concerned, I had begun to eat my brownie niblet and the luscious curative chocolate molecules were absorbing directly into my core of insanity, thus lulling me into temporary satisfaction. I doubt that you gain any weight from food that is eaten for medicinal purposes.
Luckily, the uterine crisis seems to have passed overnight. I put on my jeans that were too tight last week and they fit again. Without interrupting my lung capacity or making me taste my spleen. So it’s all good. I think I burn a lot of calories shouting and waving my arms around or running for Advil.
