perky pair of hooters on the Weet This evening Esteban and I finished our wrapping’ I say ‘our wrapping’ but what it really was the presents for our combined families that Esteban wrapped. If I hadn’t had to coordinate and make decisions on all of the presents and keep track of who we had yet to purchase gifts for and who we were expected to exchange gifts with, it would almost be like I had a wife. I certainly could go to bed tonight and demand sex and probably get it. So it wouldn’t be like I had a wife, because I wouldn’t get a shrug and a whiny ‘eeerrrrrrUUUUUUUUUmmph!’
I’ve had four martinis this evening. Can you tell? Hrrrm?
I’m very proud of Esteban and his wrapping skills. Or skilz, as he would like to call it, because he thinks that makes him sound that much more cool. He thought himself so cool getting many Christmas cards from his PR flacks but then he saw the wealth of Holiday loving coming my way. ‘Well, they are addressed ‘Weetabix & Esteban’, so they are specifically including me!’ He attempted. ‘No, that’s how I wrote our address in our correspondence!’ I corrected. I shouldn’t be such a shrew, particularly when he wrapped so many presents. I only had to explain once to him that we weren’t so poor that he needed to piece together scraps of wrapping paper, as I had no fewer than five rolls of paper yet to be used. He only got through the red paper with white snowflakes, which puts off my whole planned present presentation. Sadly, I plan this out. My wrapping coup was one year when we were dirt poor and I wrapped everything in brown craft paper tied with raffia, dried flowers and cedar boughs from the woods. Total cost: $8. I wrapped my mom’s perfume in some birch bark. It was something to behold, although it did shed prickly statice detritus all over everything. The next year, it was all red/green plaid, green/red plaid, and plain red. I’m also rather proud of that.
Joel got in trouble. As Esteban and I were walking through the parking lot to where they were waiting for us, we saw Cheri wack him. Hard. When we got into the bar and ensconced ourselves on some leather sofas, Cheri confided in me that Joel said ‘Oh, I see Weetabix is wearing her perky bra!’ and when she sneered at him, he said ‘Well, look!’ and then she hit him.
He was right. I was wearing one of the Dayam!Bras. There’s just no denying it. And to be sighted from fifty yards away’ that’s dayam impressive.
I had two slippery banana martinis, a cosmo and an appletini, per instructions from my PA. We had intended to go to the Bad Bar, but were much maligned to find that it was closed. Because it’s Monday. Mickey Fickey Monday. That should be the name of the Mamas and the Papas song. And boy, was there ever a more fucked up band than the Mamas and the Papas? Don’t be handing me Fleetwood Mac. They knew nothing of the dysfunction that was the Mamas and the Papas. None of their children ever went on to be MTV VJ’s and then married to a Baldwin. Also, Mackenzie Phillips anyone? You know, from One Day at a Time? That’s some wacked out shit right there.
We decided that the martini bar was the Anti-Bad Bar. We kept pointing things out that were different. For instance, there were lovely low hanging lights above the Anti-Bad Bar. Those lights would have been swinging back and forth, batted like cat toys by drunks. And the cups… they were just normal cups. They weren’t glowing or anything! It was an outrage. I mean, what good are cups if they aren’t all glowing? How do you even find them in the dark? Joel and Don started playing chess. At the Bad Bar… we play Rock Em Sock Em Robots. Not this chess crap! That’s your metaphor right there. And there was the music. It was like the Jazz 2 setting of the auto rhythm feature on a bad Casio keyboard. It was like it was all music that had no copyright. Stuff that Yanni thinks is cutting edge and ‘feisty’.
The most fun Eric and I had was trying to figure out how other songs started in defiance of the Soul Sucking Jazz that was playing at the overhead. We were stumped by ‘Play That Funky Music’ but after five minutes, I managed to come up with the beginning of ‘Come On Eileen’ and was rather proud of myself. It was survival really. Like what POW’s do in camps, aside from sticking heirloom watches up their anuses.
Anii? Anus’? Annexes?
The beginning of ‘Play That Funk Music’ starts ‘Once I was a boogie singer playing in a rock and roll band’, if you don’t count the Whooos and the HEYYs that preceed that. And then they were singing and dancing and moving to the groovin’, which I might add no one seems to do any longer. At least not to the soundtrack of a Casio keyboard. But maybe you’d be playing that Casio music until you died. Until you died.
Strange drunken reflection that I remember: ‘You know that dehyrdrated chicken stuff they have in Cup O Noodles? What the fuck is up with that? Have you ever SEEN that stuff? It’s like it’s spongiform chicken! It’s the Salvador Dali of food products.’
Yeah. I don’t know what I was talking about there either.
And then we talked about pubic hair. Survival, I’m telling you. It was purely survival. And then we tried to incite a riot because the owner of the Anti-Bad Bar had snack implements out but no snacks anywhere. And we knew that there were snacks to be had, because my appletini came with a gummy worm in it. At the Bad Bar? They’d be passing out the gummies. So I shouted ‘Free the worms, man! Power to the people!’ but the owner paid me no heed, and probably wished that I would take my curvy round punk girl outfitted self out of there so he could continue to serve imported brews to the young yuppies in training.
I think maybe I’m a lush.
Have a merry Christmas. Or if you don’t celebrate Christmas, have a merry Tuesday and Wednesday.
