The weekend is a blur, like the butt of Hayakutake and equally as gone. I doubt it will come back again for ten thousand years.
Do you remember that thing? The comet Hayakutake? It was incredible. Esteban and I drove out to this park way out in the country, near my favorite golf course, and sat on the tailgate of his pick up truck, staring up into an impossibly clear night at this fire and ice soaked cotton ball smearing the sky. Worth waiting two thousand years for.
Um, lessee’ what happened’. Friday night I left work, after an anticlimactic episode of When Diarylanders Attack with the Two Bobs and Chauffi., and fulfilled my Married To A Geek lifetime quota by sitting through Star Trek: Nemesis. Don’t get me wrong’ of all the Star Trek incarnations, I like the Next Generation stuff the most, but that’s really not saying much. The original series gives me a headache. It’s the sound of the beaming. And William Shatner’s horrific acting. I think I’m sustained with The Next Generation by their V-shaped uniforms and Jean Luc Picard who is–shall I just come right out and say it?’grooowwwwwwl! That accent’ those eyes’. that aquiline nose and bald head that I just want to rub between my’. Errm, getting hot in here, non? Just me then? Not all bald men do it for me, but Patrick Stewart makes me want to pout and say ‘Daddy, buy me a lolly?’ And the guy they got to play the villain’ he was yummy too, even with the nasty lip scar.
Even still, at one point I contemplated leaving and watching the end of The Hot Chick which was in the theatre next to us because the movie was kind of boring and also I just couldn’t stand THEENORMOUSCLOSEUPSOFTHECAST, who seem to have gone where no man has gone before’ as long as it’s early and they have a senior citizen discount. Seriously’ Data has swelled. He was puffy. I’m pretty sure that androids don’t retain water. Maybe it’s an allergic reaction to the latex in Counselor Troy’s breasts. Or maybe her nightie reverts back to the natural gravity-free state of space travel.
I think I want me some cosmic breasts.
Wait’ I already have some.
On Saturday, I hung out with Stacy while she colored my hair a vibrant ruby with chocolate lowlights. I think I look like a plump Sharon Osbourne now. But in a good way. This is the first time since the wedding that I’ve done an all-over color on my hair and I can’t believe I waited so long. I mean, it is a hassle and my hair doesn’t like the abuse, but honestly, the color does such wonderful things to my complexion. It makes any ruddiness from the rosacea dissolve into this creamy porcelain palate and my blue eyes get about five shades more intense.
New hair color: $120
Tub of Tigi Bed Head: $17
New Lipstick to match new color: $16
Boost to Self Esteem: Priceless.
Oh wait’ $153′ forgot to carry the one. Math was never my strong point.
Afterwards, I went to work and did more thankless relaying of information and decision making (cue the violins of martyrdom) and also spent an hour working on my grad school applications until fleeing out the door and running to the Post Office, to find it closed. Bastard Postal Workers. I don’t know how they can be disgruntled if they only work until noon on Saturdays. Perhaps someone should show them some salon therapy.
On Sunday, Esteban and I went to Starbucks where I got a Venti Mint Nonfat Mocha. I smugly handed him $4.06 but the Christine Baransky Barista came to the window and demanded $3.90. That was puzzling. But then I realized something was awry. The cup was so incredibly hot that I couldn’t even touch it with my fingers (and my Sbux is defunct in that they don’t give you cup condoms if you go through the drive thru’ which seems like faulty logic to me, but there it is.). The Christine Baransky Barista made my drink and honestly I don’t trust her. She perpetually puts whipped cream on my drink. What is more, early Friday morning, I had ordered a Venti Mint Nonfat Mocha and when I got to the window, I noticed that only the WHOLE milk jug was out. And it was 6:14 in the morning so I suspect that I was one of the first customers through the window. I suspect she decided she didn’t want to go through the effort of digging out the gallon of skim milk. Because that’s how it is with Baransky Barista (try saying THAT three times fast! It turns into Baranskista.) Sort of snippy, sort of upset that she’s involved in labor, and mildly put out that she can’t get by solely upon the merit of her tiny little waist and overly-tanned leathery face.
So when I got my nuclear cup, I chalked it to another reason to dislike the Baransky Barista and figured that by the time we fetched a nice thick Sunday paper, it would be the perfect temperature. I was absolutely giddy with the prospect of spending my afternoon with my legs tucked under my butt, a steaming cup of caffeine and a big hefty wad of brain dead fluff to wade through, but when I got home and ensconced myself on the sofa and took a sip of my coffee’ it wasn’t coffee. It was something else entirely. No coffee. No mocha. No minty Oreo tasting yummy. Something that was so entirely not coffee that it actually sucked the coffeeness from the world. It was the black hole of coffee. It tasted as though she had taken a cup with about an inch of old-stale-someone-else’s-coffee and then filled it up with hot water. And then she spit in it to make a froth.
Have I mentioned how much I miss Starbucks Guy?
I probably should have told Unsurly Girl about her this morning, but now I’m afraid. I mean, they’re the only Sbux in town that is open when I go to work. And it’s on my way to the freeway. I can’t piss off the Baristas. I don’t want to be labeled a whiner or a troublemaker. The Baristas are this whole strange organization with their own funny name and vernacular. It’s like the coffee mafia. I’m a bit afraid that if I piss them off, I’ll never drink coffee in this town again.
Mofo Baranskista.
Sunday started looking up. I went grocery shopping, since we were down to stale tortillas and we actually ate a package of questionably old frozen hamburger last week. Plus, I was dangerously low on Special K Red Berries. I was down to one and a quarter boxes. There must be a proper ratio maintained of the Red Berries at all times. I must have a buffer of at least one full box, preferably two. I was merely one bowl of cereal away from having only one opened box and, people, that’s just crazy talk, right there.
So I went to the upscale grocer seven blocks away from my house, which is more expensive and poorly lit but I know where everything is and can get through there at a very nice 5.7 BPH (bags of groceries per hour), versus the atrocious 3.8 BPH at the well lit less expensive store nearby or the unthinkable 2.5 BPH at the ginormous store with the scary meat section. There, I gathered many fruits (including not one, not two, but THREE varieties of pears) and vegetables (including zucchini, red and orange tomatoes, red and yellow bell peppers, Portobello mushrooms, shitakes, spinach and some lovely avocados).
And when I went through the seafood section, I realized there was a full scale battle of epic proportions happening in the lobster tank. Back and forth, the two largest crustaceans threatened each other with their banded claws, taking risks at thwapping a cocky antenna in the others face. The little spinneret’s grappling for purchase as they trod upon more docile seafood, whose tails were curled in submission. It was like West Side Story, only with seafood. I started to hum ‘When you’re a crab, you’re a crab all the way from your first tangled net til you’re Friday Buffet’
The fish monger kept looking at me and then finally he said ‘You want Lobster?’ but then I was struck by the notion’ which lobster would be the correct choice? Was this like Gladiator? Should I grab the big one out of the tank and yell ‘Am I not merciful?’ Would the aggressive ones taste bitter? Or fishy? Or did I prefer the pacifist Pacificans? What if I just bought both of them and took them home to put them in a fish tank and watch them battle it out, like Lobster Wrestling? Or name them Bumpy and Grabbers and see if they could work out their differences, like an early 80’s sitcom? But then I realized that I’d come home and find Tilly mewling with two angry shellfish attached to each paw and decided that things like that were why my husband just looks at me and shakes his head in dismay.
