I’ve decided to free The Precious on the comments section. I had been holding out, waiting for specific residents of Texas to register for JournalCon, but then I decided that I was being very evil and also using psychological torture in certain cases.
Oh. And Mare’s going to JournalCon. And Eeky too. And a bunch of the Beermates. Sundry and my arch nemesis are even guest speakers! And have you LOOKED at the attendees list recently? It reads like the Whos Who of Online Journaling.
Seriously, though, why haven’t you signed up? It just doesn’t make sense.
I have a new joy in life. It is Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. I cannot even tell you the absolute wonder I hold for the show. It’s a symphony of snark and yet joyously going forth, cleaning up the world, one train wreck of a man at a time.
I think it’s Esteban’s favorite show too, but he doesn’t want to admit it.
After swimming all Saturday afternoon, Esteban and I introduced the show to Ward and June. I think at one point June may have peed her pants. Just a little.
Queer Eye. Bridging sexual orientations, bridging generations. There is no end to the joy.
Esteban needs new glasses. The ones he currently wears are wire rimmed and almost disappear on his face. I like them but as he points out, the lenses are exceptionally tiny. We were discussing his next frame purchase when suddenly he snarked, ‘Well, I think I’ll get dark square frames so you’ll love me as much as you love the television people.’
Ouch.
Poor disillusioned darling. The television people are GAY. Even Verizon Guy, so I’ve been told. Gayer than gaydonia. Queeries from Homosexylvannia. Even my boyfriend Ted. And yes, he’s progressed to being my boyfried. I’ve had to preempt the Verizon Guy, who seems to be a different Verizon Guy now. Either that or he’s lost his innocence, which in that case, I don’t want him anyway. Ted is now my Can Do boyfriend.
I can’t even believe that it is already Thursday and I haven’t updated in eight million days and even still, I cannot think of what has happened since then. I have had life in stasis.
That is all.
It is ridiculously hot outside and with Esteban’s anemia, the heat wears him out almost immediately, so we’ve been laying low. We make a ridiculous couple, driving around in the Monte, him cranking up the air conditioner and I’m rolling the window down because I’m freezing my cute bottom off. I’m frightened that we will form a spontaneous car cloud one of these days. Because how do you explain that? ‘Well, officer, we were driving, and my husband was telling me that he was sick of listening to Dave Matthews for the eight hundredth time and then suddenly, there was this cumulonimbus cloud, so we freaked right the fuck out.’ Because right then? So getting a ticket.
Of course we can’t decide what to watch and Esteban revels in cultivating a high level of disinterest in my Netflix stuff, so we end up watching I Love The 70’s, which always manages to piss me off. Because MY 70’s? I was walking around wearing plaid pants or ones that had seams on the outside. Yes, the ‘seams on the outside of clothes’ fad happened right when I was learning to dress myself. I think I was ten before I stopped wearing things inside out. Also, they did a bit on Big Wheels, which made me immediately bitter. I wanted a Big Wheel with every breath of my being, but I didn’t get one. Why? Because I was a girl. Seriously, that was the reasoning. So instead, I’d be this five year old, chummying up to the neighborhood boys for a ride on their Big Wheels. And they’d never share, because why would they? They had a damn BIG WHEEL. They were five, they had three wheels and little plastic hand brake, what else did they need? Certainly not some confused five-year-old girl who always beat them at hide and seek and who always had her clothes on inside out. No. I wanted a Big Wheel and instead I got a Sit N Spin. If that’s not a metaphor for my 70’s then I don’t know what is.
In other nostalgic news, I am now completely enamored of IHOP’s Country Griddle cakes, because they are the closest thing I’ve ever found to my mom’s hippy buckwheat pancakes. You see, they weren’t like normal wheat pancakes, they were light and airy because she worked in restaurants and made crepes and knew all the tricks and stuff. She’d swirl out these gigantic buckwheat frisbees and flip them in the air and then slide them onto your plate where you’d eat until you wanted to explode forth a glurt of mapley fluff.
I’ve ordered buckwheat pancakes before, but they are always leaden and solid as roofing shingles. No little light fluffy wheaty disks that were sort of crispy and yet soft and pillowy. But the Country Griddle cakes, which are their normal buttermilk pancakes with Cream of Wheat added to them? Pretty damn good. If they had real maple syrup and butter there instead of the slew of sweetened chemicals, it might be the Franklin Mint replica.
So I went there for lunch earlier this week by myself, because I had worked through lunchtime and then realized that I had to leave work or I would start to break things out of pure spite. Then when I was leaving the restaurant, completely satisfied and happy with my sweety wheaty lunch, I realized with horror that my hand grazed the rough edge of my zipper. I was wearing boot cut low rider hottie jeans with a light blue v-neck t-shirt, which meant that the panties of choice that day were hip hugger baby blue bikinis. And thus, for unknown minutes, I had been walking around with full on zipper down around my girly parts. In fact, think about the entire picture, fat woman sitting by herself with a stack of pancakes, reading a book, zipper down around her knees’
Seriously, you could not be this cool if you tried.
So yesterday evening, it was about eight million degrees. Esteban had plans to watch anime in Joel’s enormous home theatre, so I ran over to Ward and June’s for some pool time. Swimming in the pool when it is hot out is the best, because they keep the pool hovering around 90, thus if the air temperature is less than that, it feels cold outside, but when it’s very hot, you can get out of the pool and walk around without your teeth chattering or whiny declarations of ‘I’m cooooOOOOOoooold’, of which I am wont to do.
So, we’re swimming and I’m trying to avoid looking at the not-so-covert groping and foreplay happening between my Extremely Happily Married In-laws, when June suddenly orders Ward:
‘Show Weetabix!’
My hands instinctively readied themselves to hide my eyes. They enjoy squicking me out with Elder Parent Sex (and honestly, Ward and June are very much like my adopted parents and I’d rather think of them as Barbie and Ken, with little alien nubs of plastic betwixt their legs, thank you very much).
Ward obediently stood up in the shallow end and looked at me expectantly.
That’s when I saw it. His normally fluffy salt and pepper chest hair had been trimmed.
He had been Manscaped.
June Manscaped Ward.
Seriously, how great is that? My almost sixty-year-old father-in-law who works in a paper mill getting Manscaped after being told it was a good idea by five gay men?
I swear’ the Gay Boys’ they’. They complete me.
