Esteban departed for his tour of the West Coast this morning. Of course, he timed his departure to coincide with the arrival of my Netflixed copy of 13 Ghosts. Now, I know that this is probably a lameassed horror movie and I know that I am in fact 31.89 years old and theorhetically should not in fact be afraid of sleeping in a house with only an obese lazy cat for personal protection (oh yes, and a classic wooden Louisville Slugger beside the bed because Esteban is paranoid and also has a respect for America’s pastime), but the last time I used that reasoning, I watched Jeepers Creepers at 10 am on a Sunday morning and slept with the lights on, the closet doors closed, and took a running leap at my bed as to prevent some sluglike appendage from slithering out from betwixt my winter clothes stored under the bed. And got really creative with my clothing choices because I would not, could not go into the basement lest I see some person standing in the corner and the Blair Witch about to do whatever it was that the Blair Witch did.
The tiniest little things wig me out. Even in a more or less lame jumpy movie like ‘The House on Haunted Hill’ with Chris Fucking Kattan (Rule Number One of Horror Movies: You lose all of the fear as soon as you hire MANGO to star in your movie, ok? Because he’s Mango. Mango wears gold tap pants and a lot of eye liner. He’s only scary from a fashion standpoint, that is all. He’s MANGO!) the ghost doctor would do this wiggy weird shaky thing, this shaky thing that no human could possibly replicate. It ruined me for the whole movie. It just looked so completely INSANE and honestly, it was a brilliant effect. It was scarier than the vats of fake blood and really bad CGI put together. Just seeing that scary ghost jittery shake across the video screen. Brilliant. At odd moments for the rest of the week, I would close my eyes about to fall asleep and get the picture of HOLY FUCK JITTERY DOCTOR and then the adrenaline would start and good bye sweet lovely dreams of being massaged by Russell Crowe while eating hot fudge brownie cake. Because damn. Damn.
I had someplace else entirely to go with this when I started to write this entry, honestly. It’s had a mind of its own since the second sentence.
I also received Spirited Away, but that will wait until Esteban returns as opening act for the second leg of the Crosby Stills and Nash tour. And we also have to wait until he is back to see the Xmen movie. I really liked the first movie and am pretty excited to see it. There’s ample hotness in that movie, I’ve heard. I mean, I’m torn throughout the entire first one between my love of hot older distinguished English men and devastatingly masculine hothead Hugh Jackman. And the Electric Boogaloo has Alan Cumming. So it’s Value Added Drool Factor. But must wait. MUST WAIT!
Still don’t remember what I wanted to tell you about when I started writing this entry. You know, I usually have something specific. Sometimes it’s just a sentence or something that I thought was funny, but right now, it’s a mystery.
Penny, Carissa and I went to the Bad Bar on Friday but we didn’t stay long. We met Eric out there, but it was exceptionally packed and we were stationed against the Magical Wall of Support instead of ensconced on barstools. Stephanie was working, which was cool because I haven’t seen her in awhile. Some Ken Doll looking hardbody guy decided that my breasts were the best thing ever. He told me several times that I had very large, lovely breasts. And he asked me to feel his pectorals. And his ‘ceps. I told him that I wouldn’t reciprocate, but I don’t think that he knew what ‘reciprocate’ meant. At one point, he did a shot and then placed the expended shot glass in my cleavage, which was not appreciated. Then he started getting feely, so we fled to a pancake place and Penny and I wolved down stacks of pancakes while Eric was our charming companion, drolly noting each time I dropped syrup down my, er, stack. (You know, Eric, you really should stop lurking and actually sign the comments). And then we each went to our respective homes after much car shuffling.
In other news, Esteban did the dishes. Finally.
Well, not entirely. He lost it completely at about 10:30, having begun them at the last possible minute before his trip. I was in bed by then and heard him drop something, then yell at the top of his lungs with frustration, then come into the bedroom and say ‘I’m sorry. I have most of them done. Most. I just can’t. I can’t anymore. I can’t.’
Thus, there are eight or ten pans and whatnot left and a pile of clean ones that must be put away. I’m not complaining. Living with the status quo of his method of dishwashing is like an extreme sport. I have a feeling that something is going to happen while he is gone. I’m either going to give up and take over the dishwashing or I’m going to buy a dishwasher and have Ward install it before he returns. The problem with the latter option is that there is no place for me to install a dishwasher into our existing cupboards and I really don’t want one of those that you must drag over to the sink and attach every time you want to run it. Note to self: investigate that.
While Esteban and I were tooling around on Saturday, running errands for his trip (getting him two pairs of non-pleated dress pants, because he doesn’t that pleats do not look good on all men. On some men, pleats create this strange crest-like apparatus in their lap that is just not attractive unless you’re trying for a peacock thing with your Dockers, which in that case, more power to you.) and I forced him to run through McDonald’s for some Diet Coke, as I had a serious caffeine-withdrawal headache. There is some Instant Win promotion going on right now, so when I got home, I peeled back the game stub to see if I had won anything.
I was not prepared for what was there.
‘Sorry. It Wasn’t Your Time.’
Is it just me, or does that sound very strange? I realize that they’ve stopped saying ‘You are not a winner’, because society has gotten so distressed that it might be just the confirmation that some idiot needs to jump off a bridge. (Not to mention ‘Would You Like Supersized Fries with that?’ might be translated to ‘No, really, they have no calories whatsoever and dayam, have you lost some weight because mmmhmm girl, you lookin’ fine!’)
But ‘Sorry, it wasn’t your time?’
Who the hell is writing the game pieces for McDonald’s? It’s just so ominous.
I’m afraid to get another Diet Coke now.
I probably shouldn’t be going there anyway. Although as Chauffi pointed out, McDonald’s posted their first ever quarterly loss during the same period of time that I eschewed their Diet Coke for the Sbux. And need I tell you that Sbux is looking at franchises on Mars? This cannot be a coincidence.
I still can’t remember where I was going with this entry when I wrote the first sentence. Man. That sucks. I hate it when I’m all stupid and stuff.
