I got a good look at my butt in the mirror last night. I had worn a hoodie sweatshirt all day but because I was at home and Esteban has the heat cranked to Old People Temperature, as he has been feeling under the weather, I removed said hoodie and walked around in my stretch knit v-neck ‘ sleeve shirt. That, combined with the low rider jeans, is a recipe for Oh My God Its Blocking Out The Sun. Strangely enough, my crunch regime and abstinence from all things sugar (with the notable exception of my thrice weekly morning mocha) has my gut behaving itself. But my ass. It’s strangely heart shaped, but an enlarged triple-bypass candidate. Lawdy chiles yes. Fear that which calls itself my ass.
I think my ass took a look at whatever was happening with my breasts and decided that it wanted in on that action. My ass wants to take over the world. My ass got all the damn beads at Mardi Gras and wouldn’t share with anybody. My ass keeps a navy blue Gap dress in the bottom of its closet that it refuses to wash. I hear there’s a skit on Saturday Night Live next week with Jimmy Fallon doing an impression of my ass.
Fear my ass. Love it’ but fear it, oh yes.
On the plus side, my skin looks fabulous. I’m not sure if it’s because I live in a sweat lodge or if it’s just the obvious rosy glow of the obviously well fed. I’ve got this whole Juliette Binoche thing going on, as though I should be caring for a tragic burn victim. I’m working that, if only to distract from the freak show happening below my neck.
Maybe this is some strange element of getting older. Have I mentioned my wiggy hands? Seriously. I never had this weird skin thing on my hands before but in the last three years, complete and utter deterioration of my hands. I used to have these strange ageless hands that looked like the belonged on a girl scout. Now’ now the skin does this strange pleaty thing that makes me want to cry. I want to start investigating plastic surgery for my hands, but I’m pretty sure that puts me quite firmly in the Too Shallow To Exist category.
Speaking of that, is it just me or does Brittany Murphy look like someone put a size 6 girl on a size 0 body? I’d almost want to bet that she’s got some bunch of skin pulled tight and clothespinned into a bundle on her back. Like she lives in fear of a vigorous hug because it may all come undone in a big elastic sproing.
She frightens me.
But not as much as the extra creepiness happening on my hands. Skin’ skin for the poor.
Weetabix: Would you like it if I make you some chocolate mint brownies tomorrow for your Dorkathalon thing?
Esteban: No, don’t make them tomorrow. Make them on Monday.
Weetabix: What’s the difference?
Esteban: If you make them tomorrow, I’ll have to share.. and I’ll thank you to not call my game a Dorkathalon.
Weetabix: D&D? Dorks and the Denied. Seriously’ you’d have to share? You want me to put off making the brownies because you don’t want to share them?
Esteban: Yes. If you make them on Monday, then I can eat the entire pan by myself all week long. If you make them tomorrow, my friends will eat them. I was an only child, remember. Don’t like to share.
Weetabix: I’m fully aware of that.
Esteban: What’s that supposed to mean?
Weetabix: For example, last Easter, when I bought you a Seroogy’s fudge egg, with your name on it, (and you bought me not a thing, but that’s beside the point) you ate the entire thing and I never got even a tiny bit of fudge.
Esteban: You didn’t ask.
Weetabix: You didn’t offer.
Esteban: Well, I’m glad that you’ve harbored this fudge bitterness in your breast for’what’ six months now?
Weetabix: The bitterness is what makes my breasts so perky.
Esteban: Bitterness is buoyant?
Weetabix: No, that’s sorrow. Sorrow floats.
Esteban: What?
Weetabix: Never mind.
Esteban: Are you still going to make the mint brownies?
Weetabix: I haven’t decided. I don’t know if I should reward your selfishness.
Esteban: You don’t have to decide until Monday.
Weetabix: I should make them tomorrow, just to teach you a valuable ABC Afterschool special lesson on sharing.
Esteban: I’ll ‘forget’ (making little quotie motions with his hands) them in my truck.
Weetabix: You know, when you make those quote jestures, it just makes me want you in the worst way.
Esteban: Yeah baby!
Weetabix: I was joking.
Esteban: Denied!
Weetabix: See? That’s what I’m saying.*
*I shouldn’t try to remember those conversations at 7:30 a.m. the following morning. It was funnier than that. Really.
