I went to the dermatologist yesterday to have my Red Fucking Face Disease checked out. All is well. He said that the three little seemingly-permanent white spots on my face were little milli-something and that he could take care of them. He then proceeded to attack my face with what I suspect was a sewing needle and a paper clip.
He did compliment me on tolerance for pain. I believe the words he used was ‘rock steady, completely hard core.’ He left pressure marks on my cheek for the one I had tried unsuccessfully to pop two months ago but I can’t even tell where the other two were.
He then gave me a free pen. I’m uncertain if it’s just a reward for being tough or if it was an apology for making my face bleed. It’s a nice pen, even though it’s from a drug company, advertising Glyquin. I don’t know what Glyquin is. According to the pen, it’s a cream of some sort. I’m a bit worried that it’s really a treatment for secondary syphilitic lesions or something. I’ve got it sitting on my desk at work and it’s a good thing that I only work with marketing folks. You can distract them easily with shiny objects and colored markers, which they like to sniff dry. Seriously, just you try to find a working marker around my office. I have one black Dry Erase marker that I carry with me from meeting to meeting, because I suspect my coworkers are huddling in conference rooms, huffing madly until the speaker starts to sound like Charlie Brown’s teacher and the Powerpoint presentations melt off the walls into a puddle of color on the floor.
Aside from the little red spot on my cheek, I look incredibly cute today. I bought a new black fine gauge cardigan twin set last week and have paired it with black trousers and black loafers and a single strand of white pearls. I took a shower last night before I went to bed and slept too late to take another one this morning, so I fought the unrulyness of my slept-upon-wet hair with the only weapon I have’ a curling iron. It doesn’t really give me curls because my hair is still rather short and the iron rather fat. It simply gives it a bit of lift and threatens the cowlicks into submission. When I stopped by Penny this afternoon, she informed me that I looked quite smart with my black-framed glasses and my hair all floofy. When she and I were waiting for Carissa to go to lunch, I had removed my glasses so I asked if if I still had the smart thing going on. She replied that with my rock star jacket I now looked like some kind of wild librarian. Yeah. Hoooh boy. That Dewey Decimal system had better WATCH OUT.
I’m very excited that next week we have our annual work anniversary awards shindig, where there are ice sculptures and hors d’oeuvre buffets and open bars and we will be dining on some ambiguous thing called ‘New York Striploin’. It’s a bit strange, though because this is the first time I will be receiving an anniversary thingy. It’s hard to believe that I’ve been working for the same company for over five years, although honestly, I’m only going to suck up the free Blind Russians and look fabulous. I’m wearing The Boots. And then we’re going to The Bad Bar. And I will be in a skirt and The Boots. I’m a bit afraid, actually, because the power of The Boots combined with the evil of the Bad Bar’ and you know how in meteorology when two divergent weather systems get together and it causes like a tornado or a hurricane or something? Well, I’m a bit afraid something might explode. But if I survive, hopefully, I’ll get someone to take a picture of The Boots for you. Yes, you. Because I adore you. In fact, I like you best of all. Shhhh. Don’t tell the other readers. They just wouldn’t understand.
Scene: Dinner at Casa Bix. Leftover mashed potatoes (real), herbed sweet corn, and London broil.
Esteban: (watching a show in which a pseudo-Bobby Flay helped a woman replicate her mother-in-law’s apricot dumpling recipe) Now, that would never happen with us. Because you’re a better cook than my mother.
Weetabix: (completely taken aback) Wow, that’s like the nicest thin’
Esteban: (continuing to chew upon his rather spectacular dinner) Or at least AS GOOD a cook. Or pretty close.
Weetabix: (Apparently, it is possible to be taken aback in two different directions) Gee’ thanks honey. For the record, way to earn points and then fall solidly to the ground with a giant crash.
Esteban: (rolling his eyes) Who is this guy, anyway?
Weetabix: (smirking) I don’t know’ but he’s hot!
Esteban: He’s good in the kitchen.
Weetabix: And he’s HOT!
Esteban: He reminds me of’of’. You know’ (mimicking Jamie Oliver’s English tangy lisp) You rub it, see, and then you plop it on the grill, right?
Weetabix: Yeah, except’ heterosexual.
Esteban: Uh’. He’s gay?
Weetabix: (ignoring him, commenting on the finished apricot dumpling) Oooh, that looks good. I would try that.
Esteban: No’ back up’um’ gay?
Weetabix: (bursts into laughter)
Esteban: No, seriously, Weet’ he’s gay?
Weetabix: No, he’s not gay, that I know of. I’m sorry. I’m just making fun of you.
Esteban: How do you entertain yourself when I’m not around? Seriously?
Weetabix: DVDs, mostly.
Esteban: But’. He’s not gay.
Weetabix: No, your boy crush is not gay.
Esteban: I do not have A. Boy. Crush. Damn, and now I’m hungry for apricot dumplings.
Weetabix: Maybe you should ask Jamie Oliver to whip some up for you. Or maybe your MOM.
Esteban: Is he really gay? Because’ you know’ clueless here.
Weetabix: Offer to suck his dick and see what he says!
Esteban: Do not have a boy crush. You are going to write about that on your diary, aren’t you.
Weetabix: Oh, I did a long time ago.
Esteban: You’d better write about how you farted in Applebee’s and then laughed so hard that you drooled. Otherwise you will have no writer credibility whatsoever. Or maybe I’ll write another guest entry and list all of the things you don’t write about. Like the farting. Or how you snore.
Weetabix: I’ve written about the snoring. I believe the term I used was ‘congested water buffalo’, actually. (a commercial with Jamie Oliver comes on. Esteban’s eyes glaze over. The smirk from Weetabix is practically audible)
Esteban: (noticing her smirk) NOT A BOY CRUSH!
Weetabix: HEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!
I shouldn’t toy with him so much. It’s just that he makes it so hard to resist sometimes.
