I realized yesterday while watching my TiVo’d reruns of Soap (funniest line ever: “There are lot of famous gay people…. Plato.” “Mickey Mouse’s dog was gay?” Ok, it’s so much funnier if you see it on the show. It doesn’t translate well, but I actually got a stitch in my side from laughing at that. But then, I almost stroked out yesterday over “Suspicious Smells”), that Jessica Tate is the embodiment of my Great Grandmother. Sort of ditzy and helpless but also the agent that brought everyone together and always maintained an even keel. Also, I wondered if I might be sort of a pedophile because I haven’t quite gotten over the crush I had on Jimmy Baio when I was twelve.
But I’ll bet he’s a hottie now.
Jimmy, er, um… James, if you’re reading, um… how YOU doing?
You’ll notice that when speaking of my Tivo, I did not address him by Ricky Fitts. That is because I’m upset with The Appliance and I don’t want to show any affection. I’m a harsh mistress. He’s been ignoring the Two Fat Ladies. I have it set as a season pass, and there are ample (ample…. heeee!) episodes forthcoming, but when Esteban checked the To Do list, there was nothing. He deleted it and readded it and there they were, which then spawned a period of Esteban acting all technologically superior. Damn Ricky Fitts. This behavior is not going unnoticed. I’m very wary now. I don’t trust it anymore. I’ll always wonder if he’s really recording Buffy or if it just looks like he is. It’s not the same. The magic is gone.
I had an Operation Hottie Crisis today. I went to a nearby convenience store on what has laughingly become my lunch hour (it was at 2:30 in the afternoon, yes it is funny. Ha ha funny and also just funny.) and purchased a Hostess Cherry Pie.
The ones that are made of lard and contain something like Four Bajillion Calories. The label says 470 or something, but I suspect that they use Hostess Cherry Pies to smuggle lard into the country. Perhaps it’s Cuban lard.
I talked myself down from the Hostess Cherry Pie ledge though. It’s still sitting on the front seat of my car, larding up the place. I hope to present it to Esteban, under the guise of a thoughtful and loving wife, when in reality I’m just exchanging my fat ass for his own.
In what might possibly be tangible proof of my split personality disorder, I also purchased two liters of Dasani, a pack of Tic Tacs (the 1 and a half calorie breath mint. I wouldn’t want to be the miserable mofo who had to explain to Mr. Tac that they couldn’t shave off the extra half calorie so they could be a nice round one calorie, like a whole can of Diet Coke used to be, before the one calorie mysteriously vanished and Diet Coke went to zero calories. I’ll bet someone lost their job over that half calorie. Try explaining that shiznit to the unemployment office, huh?) and a pack of Mentos. Apparently, there was freshmaking to be done and I was the girl to do it.
I’m quite happy with the Tic Tacs. They are lime and this incredible chartreuse green color. I love it. It’s very retro. Very sunshine day. I may set up a little display of those and the orange Tic Tacs because that color combination is both pleasing to the eyes and the palate. Hey, they’d match the acid green ensemble! I’ve heard of people decorating their homes with designer water bottles… Volvic in the living room, Perrier in the study, little baskets of Evian in the nursery. Perhaps one should choose their oral accessories based upon wardrobe. It makes about as much sense, I suppose. I’m specifically eating them in odd numbers so that maybe my body will get psyched by the half calorie and not know what to do with it, thus shoot it out through my digestive track and possibly burn up even more calories in the resulting confusion.
Trying to confuse the fat cells… that’s logic right there. They have but one job. Supply and demand. That’s it. It’s like trying to confuse a postal worker. It just doesn’t happen. They know what to do and they do it and then bark at you because you put your return address in the wrong place and wrote on colored envelopes with white ink and the pretty wax seals don’t go through the machine so who do I think I am anyway, some kind of postal anarchist or something?
Normally I end these things with some little definitive statement, but that free floating postal rant just wigged me out, so… um…. carry on.
