Esteban heard back from his doctor, who agrees with ‘Dr. Asshole’ (as Esteban now refers to the hospital doctor guy) in that the culprit is most likely the teeny tiny little ulcers around his hiatal hernia. She said that with men in their late twenties/early thirties, this condition is almost always gastrointestinal. We’ll know in three weeks, when he takes another blood test. If her theory holds true, he should have gained a point after the Nexxium lets his little ulcers heal. So hopefully, in the Case Of The Missing Blood Cells, the butler did it. As long as he doesn’t cut himself shaving or anything. Thank you to everyone who left their good thoughts on the comments section and email.
I love you guys. I really really do.
Random entry today because so much so much so much since the last entry.
I had to fess up to Stacy, my hair stylist, about the hair trauma I faced in San Francisco in June. It had faded to a sort of orangey blonde, and also June took my advice and now goes to Stacy as well, and apparently they spend the entire appointment talking about yours truly. June ratted me out on my cheating ways. I brought Stacy a cookie, sort of a prophylactic to the schooling that I was certain would come. Instead, Stacy laughed. And then laughed some more. And then laughed at me again and again. And I did the whole guilty girlfriend thing and promised never to stray as long as I lived and she can’t die until after I die because she must style my hair forever and ever. Anyway, the Sharon Osbourne look is back. With a Vengeance. I love it. Gone is the tomato soup stain that was my hair, back is shiny fluffy deep eggplant with ruby red streaks. Life is good once more. She had to cut a lot off’ or so she said. I’ve been growing my hair out for the last eight months and it is as short as it was last summer. Ah well. It’s just hair.
One interesting thing’ apparently one of the things that Stacy and June talked about was the fact that I have very high self esteem. Not in a snobby way, she assured, but in this strong sense of self kind of way. She commented on one time when she and I went out to a meat market type bar, some asshats made an unflattering comment and while she got very upset, I was just like ‘so what, they’re assholes’. While I was contemplating that, she remarked that she and June had come to the decision that I either had exceptional self-esteem or was really good at faking it. I assured her that it was not the case and that I tremble with fatness whenever I set foot on the West Coast and look over my shoulder for fear of the Fat Police, mostly due to that which forever will be known as The Dim Sum Incident. But I certainly won’t live in fear of schoolyard taunts. Why would I let a stranger decide how I should feel about myself? Why does their opinion count more than mine? Good God, life is way too short. Besides, I’m fabulous.
My body is a goddamned wonderland. And don’t you forget it.
Harrumph.
DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD!
Which reminds me. My drinking buddy Eric is back from Australia. Oh, and I think Joel and Cheri are as well. Hmmm. The game is afoot. I suddenly have a craving for Pixy Stix.
Damn you, Dat Phan. DAMN YOU!!!
Yesterday, I was dressed entirely cute. Jeans that fit (for once not too baggy) paired with a perfectly pressed creamy white pinstriped button down shirt. Four people commented that I must have lost weight recently or said ‘You’re getting so skinny’ which always makes me laugh, because skinny, she is not me. I am in no danger of the skinny. However, in further proof that the universe does not want me to look cute, after I applied my post-lunch lipstick, I was getting into the car and my breasts were so perky that as I ducked my head, my lips touched my chest. On one breast of my white shirt, a perfect upside-down lip print in Prescriptives Pillow lip gloss. I swear, on some days, it’s a wonder that I don’t just crap my pants.
You know how my sister Mo now works twenty feet away from my desk?
She has stolen all of the Shout Wipes from my desk drawer.
Also, she just came over here to show me her leg and just put her foot on my knee no fewer than four times. And she was wearing flip flops. With bare feet. So not only do I subsidize her needs for free dollar bills, spare change, gum, and ‘hey, can you find something on the internet for meeeeeeeeeee?’, no’ now she’s taking my damned Shout Wipes. And the worst part is when she was ten and pulled that crap, I just threatened to beat her up, but now? I’d be featured on When CoWorkers Attack or something. Mofo Mo.
One cool thing: I got neato mail the other day. Not a bill, not a coupon for a lawn service, not another credit card application, not a disk for a gazillion hours of free AOL. Actual real mail.
The first thing that was cool was a letter from my friend Laurie, she of the Shit In Her Face. She had lots to tell me about working with disadvantaged kids in Portland, showing them how to have writer’s workshops and also be politically active and yet have time to sparkle too. We were a strange friendship, Laurie and I. She was tiny. She could have passed for a ten-year-old, and she was punkadelic and vegan and too cool for Green Bay, whereas I drove a Pontiac 6000 and had a decent apartment and was an administrator for a local homeless shelter and wore blazers to all of my classes. Wool blazers. With leather shoes. But we somehow became excellent friends and made each other laugh and ate lunch together every day and scowled over the poseurs and laughed at the one who signed all of his poems first initial last name. So we’d just call him R because it was so ridiculous. Only we’d say it like a pirate, because even then, pirates were cool. And we both felt fully vindicated when the teacher in a workshop was talking about things we do to mentally prepare ourselves to write and he said in all sincerity that he puts on his copper helmet to prevent the radio frequencies from messing up his creative process.
And in the middle of this letter, she said ‘Hey, do you remember that time that we were leaving class and we saw Johnny Cash!? Wasn’t that cool?’ And it was. The funny thing is that I was just telling Patsy Cline about that when I was in San Francisco. Laurie and I were leaving a late night class, walking out to the parking lot behind the performing arts center. I suspect that I was giving her a ride home, because otherwise she took the bus. There was a fog blowing up off the Bay and the backstage light was a puddle of yellow between the humming shadow of a luxury tour bus. And our friend Bob was walking with us and one of us had just said ‘Who is playing at the Weidner tonight?’ And then we saw this tall proud figure walk from the back door through the improvised spotlight and ladies and gentlemen, it was Mister Johnny Cash. And I wanted to run up to him and say ‘Hi Mister Cash. I just wanted to tell you how cool I think you are.’ But Bob said ‘No, he’s probably tired. We should leave him alone.’ So instead we just watched him walk to his tour bus that sighed as he climbed aboard. Then we marveled at how surreal that had just been. And even now it feels a bit like something I dreamed, because it was just so random. So utter glee that she mentioned it, because it is one of my favorite memories from school.
Second coolness’ AKKelly, the lovely mommy that she is, sent a lovely pair of silver aquamariney earrings that are cousins of Tiffany earrings I drooled over while in San Francisco. She has basically ensured that I will be visiting the land of too many lakes very soon.
Apparently I put out for gifts. Who knew? Ok, well, everyone. Shut up.
Oh yeah, my email is having a problem right now, so if you’re accustomed to using the Nandgate address (and if you’ve sent one recently, I didn’t get it) you can use Weetabix Funky At Sign Diaryland Dot Com for the next few days and I’ll let you know when my lovely woohoo email is back. Perfect. Mwah.
