Last night, I painted my nails while watching Buffy. They are now a retro silver color. I then dressed accordingly this morning to compliment my nails with my wardrobe (grey v-neck sweater, black blazer and slacks, best socks in the world, and the grey ass splinter pearls.) This is how people without children pass their time.
I have such issues with the maintenance of my fingernails. Certain colors are only acceptable at certain times of the year. I tend to do a French manicure or candy apple reds or obnoxious blue during the heady hot days of summer, but during winter, I enjoy deep blackish reds and subdued dark colors that contrast nicely with my pale winter skin.
I tried to change my mode last week, painting them a Barbie Doll hot pink and everyone thought I had fake nails. They were just too bright to be believable. Then I went back to the Mia Wallace Pulp Fiction Cerise Noire and now, the silver. I don’t understand where the silver falls into that logic, but it only seems right during the deepest darkest hollows of winter.
There’s just no understanding girls sometimes. We’re just weird. And apparently, overly concerned with how we look.
You know, that’s just winter talking, right there. The only time I’m a clothes diva is during the first five months of the year. After the Summer Slacker mode kicks in, I just do a double check to make sure that nothing unkind is exposed and then go about my merry way. When organizing my closet awhile back, I precisely folded and stored all of my plain solid color t-shirts. I had 37 and I suspect that some were stashed in other places or in the purgatory that is my dirty laundry hamper. 37 t-shirts. Think about that. 37. Three score and seven t-shirts ago, this Weetabix brought forth a clean closet. Ok, I know a ‘score’ is twenty years and I don’t have 67 t-shirts, but you know, I just might. It’s within the realm of possibility. It’s insanity. But it makes getting dressed really really easy, non? Summer slacker mode. But we won’t think about that right now. We’ll just ponder the philosophical ramifications of the color my next fingernail polish.
When I was shopping over the weekend, I saw this incredible black leather DKNY tote bag, on uber clearance for $68, marked down from, like, two million dollars. I caressed the leather and wanted to smooth my face over it, but didn’t because that would just be weird. And it had a shiny little silver plate on it with the lovely letters DKNY on it, looking like glyphs from ancient peoples who loved consumerism (different than materialism’ because it sounds not as shallow) and spoke in clicking and shuffling noises that sounded like the cash spitting out of the ATM (dude, I love that sound.) So I was blathering to Jake who said ‘You bought the bag, right? Because don’t tell me that you didn’t buy the bag.’ No. I didn’t buy the bag. So last night, I actually DREAMED about the bag. It’s haunting me. I dreamed about the supple black leather and about how it makes every single outfit I own come alive. I dreamed about how it magically changed appearances and transformed into a back pack. I dreamed about how it was the Holy Grail of Accessories. I dreamed about how I found inner peace within its depths.
Yes. My unconscious mind is a tad overdramatic.
So today, I went back at lunch, with a hopeful heart and a pocket full of softly folded bills.
It’s gone.
In its place was a tote with shorter straps and no lovely silver DKNY plate, looking like it had been kicked around on the floor a few times. It was hanging there pleading with me to spend the $72 (marked down from 80 septillion dollars) like the ugly stepsister it was.
I bought a pair of sunglasses instead. To hide my tears, tears of what could have been.
Ok, so maybe the drama isn’t just limited to my subconscious.
Esteban: I have had the worst farts today.
Weetabix:: Thank you for sharing.
Esteban: I mean, they have this intensity’ like’. (strains) ‘ ahhh
Weetabix: Oh
Esteban: Oh dear’ you might’. Um’
Weetabix: GAHG! (hides mouth in shirt)
Esteban: See? It’s foul.
Weetabix: Stob thad.
Esteban: Stop what?
Weetabix: Thad.
Esteban: Farting?
Weetabix: YETH!
Esteban: It’s gone now.
Weetabix: No it isn’t! GAHG!
Esteban: Ok, maybe it isn’t. That one really had a lot of green house gases in it. I think it’s all the juice I’ve been drinking. It’s fermenting in my bowels and’ and’bubbling up or something.
Weetabix: Your bowels do not make champagne. Jesus, I can TASTE it though.
Esteban: Yes. They are really impressive. I should probably be worried. There. It’s gone now.
Weetabix: And with it, any chance you had to mambo with me.
Esteban: Growlll.
Weetabix: Did the juice make you randy too?
Esteban: I’m always randy. Like father, like son.
Weetabix: Yeah, your dad is rather virile, isn’t he? That one time, under the water, when I saw sumptin’ sumptin’ I very much should not have seen? I think it gave me a spot on my eye. I’m surprised that you’re an only child.
Esteban: I’m not. My mother spending 36 hours pushing my enormous head made sure of that.
Weetabix: It’s a good thing, though. I don’t think I could marry a man with a small head.
Esteban: Why not?
Weetabix: I don’t know. It would be like little Pez Head on a regular body. Eessh.
Esteban: What about your next husband’. Henry Rollins’ does he have a small head?
Weetabix: No, I think it’s about the same size as yours.
Esteban: Yeah, but I’ll bet he’s got hair on his back.
Weetabix: Um’ as do you.
Esteban: Just in patches. The kidney warmers.
Weetabix: Yeah.
Esteban: (gets all macho) Just like the MALES with the SILVER!
Weetabix: What?
Esteban: (repeats with same gusto) Just like the MALES with the SILVER!
Weetabix: (looks at him like he’s insane)
Esteban: (breaks his bravado and looks concerned) You know’ like gorillas.
Weetabix: (falls forward, tears streaming out of her eyes) Bwahahahaha!
Esteban: (pouting a bit) The silverbacks are the leaders.
Weetabix: (gasping for breath) Stop it’ stop it’ please’ oh my god’ I can’t’ breathe’.!
Esteban: (farting) Ahhhh.
Weetabix: Oh god, I can’t breathe and now I’ can’t’ breathe!
Esteban: Marking my territory, baby.
Dear Marti Noxon,
Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear in my last letter. Evil Dead Giles = Weetabix Kicks Your Ass.
Oh, and give the new Slayerette a cheeseburger or something. And a bra. Because her little mosquito bites were skeeving me out.
Seriously,
Weetabix
