My lips are back to normal. But for awhile? They were frighteningly large. Now, they only look as though they need serious exfoliating, but I suspect that were I to attempt a little sugar scrub, I would most certainly cry. I’m not pushing it. I’m just enjoying the fact that I can now eat such novelties as Things With Salt. Because for awhile there, Things With Salt were not my friends. In fact, Things With Salt wanted to kick my ass.
Someone this weekend remarked that ‘ass’ is my favorite word. I agreed that while it is not probably my favorite word, it is heavy in my vocab rotation. ‘Ass’ is the little black dress of the conversation, if you think about it. It is appropriate almost anywhere. Jesus did in fact ride into Jerusaleum on an ass, therefore it’s not swearing if it’s in the bible. Also, I find that references to one’s butt is tres chic as of late. The venerable ‘jackass’, for instance. It was, for a while, only popular with old men with pants up to their armpits, but now, it is back in vogue thanks in no small part to Johnny Knoxville and sticking Matchbox cars into ones rectum. I find that even the plebian soccer mom can work it into conversation and leave the listener enthralled. Talk about getting screwed by someone? Make it an ‘ass plunder’. Is that someone a jerk? Or an ASS? An asshat? Is there a bad smell in the room? Perhaps it smells like ass. Need an adjective? Unpack your ‘assy’. I find that ‘assy’ has a piquant bouquet, suitable for fish or chicken and leaves just a hint of ‘sassy’ on the palate. Express yourself. That’s all I’m saying. Give assitude. Reclaim the ass and all of the wonders it holds.
Did anyone else just get a really weird mental picture there? Yeah.
I took the day off on Friday, sort of unexpectedly. I have been accidentally creating a sleep deficit for the last two weeks, through no fault of my own, and each morning has been more and more mournful of the sleep I did not have the night before. Thus, on Friday, which was slated to be a Bad Bar night, I decided that I must cash in on the good will of my coworkers and do a Hit And Run Vacation Voice Mail, replete with the bribery of a ‘penalty treat’ for Monday. After making the necessary calls, out of office mail message (thank you GOD for the ability to access my office mail via the internet) and feeding the cat, I was back into my mirage of white sheets and fluffy duvet for some quality summer slumber. Esteban stirred as I entwined myself back into the valleys of down.
‘I just had a dream that you were in a play.’
Esteban does not remember his dreams, for the most part, and it’s a novelty when he is aware of having them. ‘Oh really? What play was it?’
‘I don’t know. But you were playing a gangster. Named Boobs McCallahan.’
After the hysterical laughter which ensued (because Boobs McCallahan is the most perfect name EVER. In fact, I think that if I am reincarnated and get to choose my own name, it shall be Boobs McCallahan.) sleep was impossible. Instead I watched stuff on Ricky Fitts (because Jack? Killing the family pet? So not funny. And then the pretense that it was all a dream and Bobby Ewing just got out of the shower and Newhart just woke up next to Susan Plechette? Fuck you Osbournes. Fuck you very much.)
I suspect that I had something to do and somewhere to go on Friday, but instead, life was on slow mo. I did find myself at some point in the mall, where I tromped into our very new Lane Bryant (yes, Green Bay, home of some of the largest women in possibly the world, had only Fashion Bug, which carries poorly made clothing that will be out of style three minutes from now, and the Catherine’s Stout Shop, which prides itself on the collection of perfectly good white button down cotton shirts inflicted with various appliqu’s as favored by teachers and grandmothers across the nation. As really, what other career choices would fat women aspire to than that of teacher or grandmother?) in the new wing of our local mall, which now looks like a mall in a real city. If you squint and maybe unfocus your eyes a little.
I was completely ready to shop for some business wear and some funky going out wear and some back to school stuff (because hey, I’m taking a class! At a school! Therefore, new clothes required! Whatever gets you through the night, baby.). Also, I had a 15% off postcard! And my clothing credit card is paid off (thanks to the fact that I purchased nothing for the wardrobe while in San Francisco), therefore, I was ready to shop. Ready. To. Shop. I started grabbing stuff left and right’ a cool mottled olive/tan v-neck, a pair of stone flared cargo pants, black pinstriped straight leg trousers, two pairs of jeans, a jean skirt (my PA keeps telling me to try skirts’ I am afraid, very afraid of the jean skirt’ but open to change.), a fitted white button down shirt, and probably something that I’ve forgotten. In fact, the sales lady had to start a dressing room for me as I could no longer see over the growing pile of components in my arms. I was grooving. I was on a mission. I swept through the store and finally went to the dressing room, where there were not enough hangers and inadequate lighting.
I tried on the pinstriped trousers first because these, these were my pants, and I, I was their people. I had actually spotted them during a Meet and Greet the day the store opened and decided that they would be mine. But then dismay. Didn’t fit. Legs yucky, ass yucky, stripes doing weird things. Ok, that’s ok. Things will be good, because the cool camo but not camo shirt is damn fine. Tried it on. Too long, but otherwise good. Tried on the flared cargo pants. Matched the shirt really well, but the stone color looked at my thighs and said ‘You. Me. Spotlight Dance.’ I groaned and restripped. A baby in the next dressing room began crying and its brother started throwing around hangers while his undoubtedly half-naked mother kept saying ‘Mitchell, don’t’ don’t Mitchell’ Mitchell’. Mitchell stop it’ I’m warning you’ Mitchell’ don’t’ put it’ put it’Mitchell! Don’t! Stop! Mitchell! Mitchell!’
And now for a Weetabix Public Service Announcement: People’ when you pick the name for your unborn child, please do one final test. Go stand on your back door and yell the name at the top of your lungs no fewer than twelve times. If everyone did that, I’m betting that we’d have a heap fewer Rhiannons and Michaelas in the world. I’m just saying.
Footnote: If you did name your child Mitchell and take umbrage at the above statement, Of course I don’t mean YOUR Mitchell. I am certain that little man Mitchell is a little angel and not a hanger throwing monster and that you only need to say his name once. And I’m guessing that you never watched Mystery Science Theatre 3000.
The jean skirt was ok, but I was disgruntled because I picked my current size, hoping for the little leap of joy when I’d have to say ‘Oh gee, too big’ and have to skip out to the rack and get a smaller size. However, the jean skirt just fit. JUST fit. And I couldn’t decide if it was really hot or the fugliest thing on the planet. Sometimes that happens with clothes. There’s a fine line. Case in point: almost anything worn by Sarah Jessica Parker on ‘Sex And The City’.
Then I realized that I had just lost all of my consumeristic joy. It was gone, stolen without my realization, much like my childhood innocence. I’m not blaming the pants or my bulbous ass or the abnormal percussive onslaught of hangers hitting my dressing room wall. It just was what it was. I shrugged at my remaining pile of clothes and put my clothes back on. Another day, mi amours, another day.
I did manage then to feed myself for the first time, caving for some pretzel sticks and a lemonade at the mall’s food court. I had been planning to go to the warehouse club to decide whether or not to buy the DVD cabinet I’ve had my eye on, but then decided that my shopping ennui was without limits and I had no interest in aisles or carts or people or the lovely sound of a cash register spitting out a receipt, so I endeavored homeward and took a shower, painted my nails (‘I’m Not Really A Waitress’, courtesy of Groupie94, which is quickly surpassing Bogata Blackberry as my favorite OPI dark nail color) and watched Final Destination, which is proof that if you wait long enough, a whim will traverse the entirety of a Netflix queue as though by magic.
And then it was off to Penny’s house to prep for the Bad Bar. Which is another entry, because this has gotten too damn long. So stay tuned, same Bat Place, same Bat Channel.
