I don’t want to write this entry. I know already that it’s going to be all HTMLy and annoying and it will likely give me a headache.
Instead, so far, I’ve finished most of my holiday cards’ I’ve got all of the addresses written and most of them stuffed. I have a butt load of holiday cards, y’all. I’m feeling a little guilty about how much I just contributed to the landfill problem. Recycle them so I don’t go to hell, ok?
Gah. Mofo pictures. Need I tell you that I had to actually go purchase some batteries for my digital camera, as it ran out on Friday night, and then my computer monitor blew up. Yes. It is dead. I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised. It was a $1000 monitor’ in 1990. Esteban gave me his, which is even LARGER than mine. It’s rivaling our computer television. When I walk out of the office, I have accidentally bumped the thing several times because it’s just so huge. It also broke the little foot thing on my ergonomic keyboard, so I feel like I’m typing on a’ oh, guess what? I put the foot thing in backwards. It’s stable again.
I’ll bet you were worried.
So then, once I got a monitor going, Esteban discovered that I had some kind of virus or something that was rebooting my system. So he fixed that. No more missing entries.
And THEN I had to download all my pictures, resize them, crop them, and upload them to Diaryland’ yadda yadda yadda. And need I tell you how frustrated I am that I can’t get past this level in Buffy where there are some saw blade pendulum things. Like what kind of sane person puts up saw blade pendulums in their dream world? Hmmm? The demons, I can understand the logic there. The floating bits of brick that you must jump to? I can see the aesthetic value with that. It balances the mystical see-through staircase. But saw blades? That’s just fugly. Quelle 1992!
(sigh)
So Friday.
There is so much to write about, it makes me weary. Sometimes Weetabix gets weary. Wearing that same old dress.
What? What? Stop looking at me like that. I am actually a 60-year-old black man trapped in the body of a 31-year-old fat white girl with big hoots.
Where was I? Oh’ Friday’
We had a big work thing in the morning, which involved a lot of sitting in a room with 350 people and listening to a presentation by my boss and his boss’s boss. And at one point, my project had its own PowerPoint slide. Then we had lunch, wherein we ate like ravenous wolves, because PowerPoint presentations take a lot out of a person.
Carissa, Penny and I then piled into Penny’s car and busted to the coffee place (note: Not Sbux, because they don’t have one on that side of town and let me tell you, I have become a Sbux snob. And she didn’t know what I meant by Venti! I had to say ‘Grande’ like some common peasant! The whole thing was an ordeal.) to gather caffeinated goodness and then off to Appleton, where we took the Lane Bryant by storm. The three of us walked into the lingerie section like a scene out of the Matrix. We were there to purchase a proper bra for Carissa. We were on a mission’ like the calvary, only we were the Mammary. I explained to the salesgirl (whom Carissa was immediately calling by name, because Carissa’s SuperHero power is to make fast friends with anyone in six seconds flat) that Cari needed the powerful uplifting machines that were the Dayam!Bra. Immediately, the salesgirl thrust out her chest to pitch in that she too was in awe of the sheer magnitude of their bras. Then I was thrusting my chest, smoothing my shirt to show that I too was packing heat that day. And we were all giggling. And it was a moment.
Carissa put on the first bra and her eyes almost popped out of her head. It was a beautiful thing. Hello Sailors! Then we had discussion about the proper fit. She had that extra cleavage ass thing going on, so we played around with sizing until we found the perfect fit. And all rejoiced. She got two bras (buy one get one half off! Scurry and get one today!) and was giddy with her newfound oomph.
And then all four of us made out with each other, each wearing a colorful lingerie ensemble. Because that’s what girls do. And it was hot. Oh yeah baby. HOT!!
Um’ anyway.
I then tried to show them the magic that is the Body Butter at the Body Shop, but they weren’t having it. They weren’t interested in having the skin of a six-year-old. I had a giddy moment when the punk rock sales girl looked at me and said ‘Oooh, it’s Cute Purse Girl!’. I purchased some Honey Body Butter’ which I keep in the bedroom.
Not for the reasons you’re thinking.
You see, I like the coconut stripper-scented stuff, but my husband does not. If I put it on after a shower, that’s fine, but if I’m lying in bed watching television and feel like doing some moisturizing, he does not mind the smell of the Honey scented stuff, which smells sort of like clean babies. Thus’ two WeetaButters.
We went to a big shoe store and browsed for forty-five minutes but didn’t find anything spectacular (ok, I found some cute stationery, but it wasn’t Cranes and it wasn’t THAT cute), so Carissa and I went to another plus-sized clothing store and Penny went to TJMaxx (since she was feeling left out of the clothing extravaganza, being a minus-sized girl). I forced Carissa to try on several pairs of the Hottie Jeans and was stricken to find that while they act somewhat magical on my body, smoothing inches, hiding hips and whatnot, they were Angry Jeans on Carissa, saying mean things about her when her back was turned. I was completely flummoxed, forcing her to try different sizes, different colors, different cuts, but it just kept getting worse and worse. We finally decided that they were very particular about whom they blessed with The Hottness and left empty-handed. We sat in the car, waiting for Penny. I plucked my eyebrows, then Carissa plucked her eyebrows, marveling at my Tweezerman Spa Tweezers (the less-expensive variety that I carry in my purse). I explained to her that they were bulky and troublesome compared to the $17 Tweezerman but I don’t think she believed me.
Finally Penny came out of the store’ with black leather pants. Yes’ she found some black leather pants. The Hootchie Mama pleather skirt only opened her to a world of possibilities. And they were good pants.
We scurried back home, Carissa to spend time with her husband and children, Penny to take a nap and get ready, and I to get ready and then go out to dinner with my chicas Mary, Diane and Christine. Penny and Carissa were explaining to me that my current outfit of Doc Martins, black boot cut low-riders, Torrid Tinkerbell baseball shirt and black hoodie were just not up to my normal standard of Diva, but I dismissed them. However, after a quick chat with my PA, he countered with his keen fashion sense and demanded (yes, DEMANDED!) that I wear nicer black pants and possibly a button-down shirt. ‘But it’s the Bad Bar!’ I whined. ‘I’m always casual at the Bad Bar!’ He insisted that I should keep them guessing, so I offered up a v-neck stretchy black t-shirt (the kind with lycra in it so it sort of clings), the black pants, and my Docs, with rhinestones in my hair, and the Rock Star jacket. He found it acceptable. I then had a panic trying to find the components, which involved a multi-room search but was successful on all fronts. I had a moment of indecision.. Should I wear the leather choker with the nameplate that says ‘Princess’? Or should I wear the rhinestone cat collar that matched the rhinestones in my hair. I threw on the leather choker and stuffed the cat collar in my pocket.
We had dinner at one of our acquaintance’s Pan-Asian restaurant, which was completely delish. By the time dinner was done, I was quite tipsy on a cosmopolitan and two infinitesimal Blind Russians.
Then off we went to the Bad Bar. We got there fairly early to secure proper seating (which we did, securing the entire area by the Magical Wall of Support). Carissa, Penny and her lovely sister Shelly were already there, looking excellent with the hotness. They complimented me on my change of outfit and agreeing that the rhinestone Cat Collar made the outfit and went with the Diva outfit. They did, however, agree with my PA that I should have had better shoes.
The rest is all a blur. I had three twenty ounce Blind Russians (with ice, so put those eyebrows right back down, mistah!). Joel and Eric showed up. Eric accused me of checking out the girl bartender’s ass’but I was really admiring her leather pants which were just like Buffy’s Red Pants of Ass Kicking. The bald bartender owner dude wasn’t working, so I didn’t get my drinks for free, but Penny and Eric both bought me drinks, so I think I only bought one.
I had to keep my money in my bra because I had no pockets. At some point, someone shoved a dollar between my breasts, but as God as my witness, I don’t know who it was. I just know that it wasn’t me. I suspect it was Scotty Boom Boom. I promised him that he could look down my shirt if he came out, so when he walked in the door, I immediately greeted him by pulling down my shirt for some cleave action. Maybe that’s when I got the dollar. I don’t know.
We owned the bar. Carissa wrote out a song list of the songs we wanted to hear and he consulted that throughout the night. His name was Jason. We know this because Carissa makes friends with everyone. It was all good though, because it meant that we got to hear Tricky and Sweet Caroline and all of our favorite dancing songs. Actually, Sweet Caroline isn’t a dancing song, it’s a Hug Your Neighbor and Sing Loudly At Them, Pumping Your Fist In The Air Yelling ‘Bup Bup Bah!’ song. But you know what I meant.
I was shooting sugar straight up with blue Pixy Stix. At one point, Joel was involved with dumping blue sugar on my breasts. Joel was quite drunk as well. He and Eric were drinking Red Bull and Vodka, which tastes in my opinion like battery acid mixed with Sweettarts. Perhaps a fistful of Pixy Stix would have helped the taste. My goal of having a blue tongue for the entire night was one easily met.
Never underestimate the power of Pixy Stix.
Mo, Jasmine, and some other friends showed up a little later. Then Carissa’s husband and his group of friends showed up. We don’t know why. It was very strange. They were dancing though, and appeared to have a good time.
Have you ever heard of Boone’s Farm wine? I haven’t. But we were all drinking from it like winos around a campfire. The red stuff is pretty. Pretty pretty pretty. It tastes like Kool Aid, but I then had to do three lines of Pixy Stix to make my tongue blue again. Staying focused is the key to goal setting. Seriously. I learned that from my Franklin Planner.
The Buttocks man was there again. I think I found out his name somehow but I’ve since repressed it. He frightens me, with his dancing buttocks that are multiplying and loosing control from the power I’m supplying, which is electrifying.
There was much dancing. There was a lot of drinking. At one point, I believe I demonstrated how much I can relax my throat with a straw, which of course made me gag like White House Intern at Orientation. Because sometimes, I am just so cool it hurts.
I have this notion that when you die, your guardian angel goes over your life with you. You know, for closure. And perhaps there is a highlight’s reel, like after the Superbowl. Well, at one point, I realized I was too drunk when I attempted to ascend the Windowsill to dance with Joel (who was also too drunk).
I’m am pretty certain that that moment will be on my post-mortem highlights reel. I just know my guardian angel has a sense of humor. I’ll bet he or she probably almost wet themselves watching THAT little display of grace and sobriety. That should be the DWI test’ don’t make them touch their nose or walk a straight line, make them try to get up on a three-foot high windowsill. Scotty Boom Boom then came and played spotter, stretching his arms out as we danced. I hope I didn’t hurt his feelings when I looked down at him and said ‘Yeah, as if&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9- because if I feel, I would squash him like a little accordion man and he would bop up and down for the rest of the night making ‘Hooo haaaa hooo haaa’ noises, just like on Bugs Bunny.
And then came the inevitable point where I had my forehead resting on a leopard print bar stool and my ass up against the Magical Wall Of Support and wanted the world to stop spinning. Coincidentally, that’s about when Mo called Esteban to come and pick us up, which was a good thing. Because I was pretty much tapped out by that point and it was only midnight.
I’m getting too old for that shit.
Esteban dropped me off first before taking Mo home. I waited around for him to come home but got bored and called Jake, waking him from a very sound sleep. I’m a rude mofo when I’ve been drinking. I then blathered incoherently at him and I have no idea what I said. I’m a bit worried. Esteban came home an hour later, having sat in Mo’s driveway and talked, assuming that I had either puked or passed out. I was a little put out. I mean, I could have Jimi Hendrixed and where would my beloved husband have been? Talking about office politics with my sister seven blocks away? Nice.
Apparently I then fell into a very deep sleep, to wake eight hours later with a hunger for country fried steak’ a slight deviation from my normal post-bender Big Mac craving. I can’t tell if that means I’ve gotten more refined or less. It’s a mystery.
It was a very good time, though, but I think I made an ass of myself at one point to someone. Which someone? I don’t know. I just have this nagging feeling of free floating embarrassment. (Edited to add that I just remember that at one point I handed my Slutty Ho lipstick to Shelly and made her put it on me like some makeup retard. Because I didn’t have a mirror and the bar was too crowded to make unneccessary trips to the bathroom. And I tried putting lipstick on Penny, but poked her in the corner of her mouth so it looked like she had been in a bar fight, so Shelly had to fix that too. I hope that’s the worst of it, but I suspect that it wasn’t.)
Maybe it’s called growing up. Or maybe it’s an overdose of Advil LiquiGels.
Ah well, that’s as philosophical as I’m feeling right now. Off to post this and find out if it looks like ass or not. Mickey fickey HTML.
