Fern has confirmed that Casper V’s dad Casper V Senior does indeed drive an overcompensating snazzy red Camaro convertible. And that she sees him occaisionally at her job and tries to think of ways to ask him to whip out a picture so that she can see what Casper V the Younger now looks like.
Sometimes, I swear we are still in high school.
There was a strange number on the caller id of my cell phone, and a happy shiny little voicemail cartoon on the call display. I listened. It turns out that the thirteen raffle tickets I had purchased at the art fair two weeks ago had been a lucky 13, because I won one of the lovely indie prints I had had my little heart set upon. It needs a better frame, but I am happy for this 3/550 print which will look all smug at my retro Italian advertisements in my kitchen and make them feel like the cliches that they are.
So yay. Art for $13. Love that.
I had a half day on Friday because I had already worked the entirety of my work week by lunch on Wednesday. In fact, if you think about it, I think I finished the entirety of my work YEAR around mid-August. So whoa is me and blah blah fishcakes. I fought back against the system by encouraging Mo, Penny and Carissa to play hooky from work and come swimming with me at Chez Parents. Then I went to the grocery store and stocked up a bunch of snacks (there is something about the combination of tortilla chips, Oreos and Diet Coke with Malibu that makes swimming just magic), and then called June to inform her that I was inviting people to swim in her pool while she and Ward were both at work. (My in-laws are simply awesome… no question about it.) Then I opened up their house, opened the pool, changed into one of my four suits that I keep at their house (which is tres convenient, let me tell you) and proceeded to entertain my guests with Ward and June’s liquor. Penny and Carissa were the first to arrive so we taught Carissa the Noodle Surfing game (way harder than it looks). Carissa actually doesn’t like water or being wet but soon she had forgotten her initial trepidation and had succombed to the pleasure of being 12-years-old. I was just about to display the bouyant principles of breasts underwater by flashing Carissa and Penny when Mo walked in. I then balked but Mo went back into the house to get a band-aid and I proceeded to completely pull down my suit underwater and let Penny and Carissa be awed by the powers of anti-gravity. Then Penny and Carissa tried it out as well and Mo called us all a bunch of perverts. But also pouted that hers are so small that they don’t look any different underwater. Because she’s tried it.
We continued to frolic in the water and declare that playing in the 90 degree water in the sunshine was much better than slaving away in some cubicle like a mushroom. June came home from work and joined us in the pool. Mo, showing her true colors as a innate tattletale, immediately narced that we had been showing our boobies under the water. Hi, I’m 32 and my little sister is still ratting me out. However, Penny had my back and later made the point of asking Mo “You’re the older sister, right?” Which made me laugh and laugh and laugh.
June brought out these enormous kickballs. New pool toys are always a big hit, but these may be the end all, be all of pool entertainment. The balls are two feet across, minimum, and impossible to sink, therefore you can float with your ass two feet out of the water, on this rather tenuous balancing act, only to be toppled with the slightest ripple on the water. What is more, for some reason, propelling yourself while perched upon these things is downright impossible. It is highly entertaining for the audience, because the position on the ball is unflattering, to say the least. The Ball Rider takes on the appearance of an overly-eager bull frog. All motation happens in the ass, as the hands are busying hanging onto the ball for dear life. I can normally make it across the pool in about six seconds sans ball, but trying to kick across the pool on the ball takes about a minute at Olympic sprint power, focusing all of your energy to just get across the 26 foot pool. Screw pilates, the damn balls kick your ass.
The girls went to their various grown-up responsibilities, and Esteban joined the parents and me for lazy dinner of delivered pizza. They were ready to watch a movie or do something fun, but by 7:20 pm, I found myself struggling to keep my eyes open on the sofa, so I drove myself home and by the time Esteban came home at 9, I was completely unconscious. From age 12 to age 82 in 90 minutes. I blame the Ball. The Ball is a harsh mistress.
I woke up fairly early on Saturday. Esteban wanted to snooze in bed, but I was completely awake and not willing to waste away the morning, thus I jumped into the car and went to the Farmer’s Market, which should be renamed The Angry Hornet Market. I ducked through the yellow jackets (Note to self: go at 7 am before the bees wake up, which has the added benefit of getting to hear all of the downtown church bells go off for about ten minutes straight) and scored a quart of blueberries, some white peaches, some tomatos, some tiny red potatoes, and a bunch of fresh green beans. Love the Farmer’s Market.
Esteban and I discussed whether we would spend the day shopping for kitchen floors or cars. For some reason, I just wasn’t in the mood for cars, and I want to get the kitchen floor put in before it starts getting too cold (since I have some deluded half-assed theory that we can get the kitchen floor put in, all of the custom moldings made, painted, and put in, and then rip out the paneling and ceiling tiles from Computer Room #2 and redo the entire thing before the snow flies). We went to a few floor stores and came away very discouraged. Esteban’s big caveat is that he doesn’t want the black and white checkerboard that I absolutely love. His feeling is that black and white show the most dirt and is vehemently against it. I do not like most flooring, hate the vinyl “trying to look like italian tile” stuff, and dislike blues and beiges. Finally, Esteban was anemic-tired and I was strangely also tired and we decided to go home and slack out for the rest of the afternoon and Esteban finally said “You know what? You can just pick what you want… I don’t care, as long as it’s not black and white checkerboard.” Which pretty much sums up our relationship. I make all of the decisions and he has power of veto. Or in this case, preemptive veto. We did manage to make one productive checkmark on our To Do list by picking up the dry cleaning. Go us.
Joel and Cheri had a gigantic housewarming party for the mansion they built two years ago (but had never gotten around to having a house warming bash). It was a catered affair, including a roast suckling pig, our friend Phil’s live blues band on their deck, and more yellow jackets than have any right to roam the earth. Unfortunately, my weird feeling from earlier in the day had transformed into an Advil-defying headache that continued to get worse as the evening went on. Also, the giant bronze pig carcass wasn’t doing my flutter tummy any favors. I spent the evening hanging out on a folding chair, marveling at the fashion tragedies in evidence (for instance, the ying and yang of pants wearing by one couple. She had pants pulled up to her bra strap and he had pants that would have definitely displayed three inches of ass crack had he not been wearing a shirt. And they were in their early to mid thirties… there is absolutely no excuse for that level of cluelessness.) Esteban made a grievous miscalculation and drank two beers over the course of three hours, which wiped him out completely. He keeps forgetting that he DOESN’T have any blood. Well, very little, which gives him the alcohol tolerance of a sixteen-year-old cheerleader on prom night. He felt guilty for bailing so early at what was essentially the social event of the summerslashfall, but my head contained its own drum circle, thus I was completely fine with leaving early. We went home and watched Six Feet Under while I went through both of our reusable ice packs staving off the impending migraine. All considered, it was a lovely quiet way to spend our Saturday night.
On Sunday, Mo offered to cut the lawn for Esteban (since he is a fragile little flower. I had been paying my little brother to do it, but with school starting, he has lost interest in all forms of manual labor.). To thank her, we brought her out for breakfast with us to the rural truckstop that makes lovely banana pancakes. We all got the same breakfast. Then we went home and Mo cut the lawn, Esteban cleaned the kitchen, and I cleaned the rest of the house. Apparently, to keep our house clean, it takes a villiage. Or at very least, three people. I, however, spent most of the time, wandering around trying to find the Swiffer refills. It was quite the mystery, as I had just used them last week. What is more, both Esteban and I swore that we had JUST seen them. Somewhere. I kept retracing my steps until it became an obsession. Finally, I cursed and started making a shopping list for the Hundred Dollar Store (aka Home Depot) as well as Targzhay. Mo finished the lawn, admonished me for my OPI nail fetish and then proceeded to do her toenails with “I’m Not Really a Waitress” and her fingernails with “Abbey Rose” (My own current display, for those playing along at home, is “Rock And Roll Red” on my toes and “Bogota Blackberry” on my fingers) while we watched the Packers stink up Lambeau Field across town.
I then went shopping and spent way too much money on stupid stupid things (vinyl gloves, light bulbs, Swiffer stuff, paper towels, a recycle bin, and are you still reading this list? Hi!) and then went home, exhausted, caught up on some long overdue correspondence and then watched The Hours. Which was confusing, because I like Julianne Moore quite a bit, but I dislike Meryl Streep immensely and normally I have a hard time liking Nicole Kidman because she has an unkind face, but strangely enough, the artificial nose enabled me to be indifferent to her. Interesting how that works. And Ed Harris… wonderful, just wonderful, and can I just say that I always end up falling a little bit in love with John C. Reilly by the end of every movie.
So now I’m torn, because I had planned to read the book next, as I have just finished with some lighthearted fare and I like to alternate between that and the heady stuff. And I watned to read it before seeing the movie, but the DVD snuck up my Netflix queue and ambushed me from my mailbox. So now I’m not really interested in thrusting my head back into the storyline so quickly and am wandering about, unable to make any sorts of decisions as to which book I should devote my brain. So I’m flummoxxed. And for this, I blame the Streep. Because I can. Damn Streep. Damn her all to hell.
Oh, and I found the Swiffer materials. They were in our bedroom, from my recent closet reorganization of last week (wherein I reduced my shoe cache to just 11 pairs total. Leaving room for new shoes!). The misplaced Swiffer stuff is also the fault of Meryl Streep. Somehow.
All roads lead to Streep.
I got the best email the other day, one from someone who claims that they never write fan mail (if that is true, they were pretty accomplished at their first shot). And I told them that I wouldn’t tell anyone that they were writing fan mail, so I’m not, but they compared the ending of an entry to John Irving. John. Irving. If that’s not the thing to make me absolutely giddy, I don’t know what is.
John Irving. I’m blushing even now.
And then!
This diary has been nominated for Best Writing in the current round of the Diarist Awards. I am incredibly honored. It’s one thing to be called a funny girl, but another entirely to be honored for writing quality. So thank you.
Seriously, y’all, you make it really hard to have that writerly “I suck” mentality. Note to self: hide laurels that make such inviting places to sit on my ass.
