I got home from work the other night and greeted Esteban, who simply smiled and pointed at the entertainment center. Sitting there was a shiny new Lamborghini of the cable world. He continued to grin and then hold up the Mother of All Remotes. It was huge, silver and had no fewer than 4357 buttons on it. I felt like one of the apes gaping at the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey. I swear that I heard the theme song faintly in the background. The remote is huge. The remote could block out the sun. The remote, say it with me, does not need a prop.
Apparently, in order to fix the problem of the Misbehaving Remote Battery Door, he brought the entire cable box and remote control, sans door, back to the cable company. And got us a big’un. It apparently is like a TiVo. I haven’t discussed this with Ricky Fitts yet. I don’t want to hurt his feelings. Particularly since the enormous new unit (hehehe’ enormous unit. Hi, I’m thirteen years old.) has some insane amount of hard drive space (Ricky can record 7 hours at medium quality) and can record TWO shows at once, while Ricky only records one at a time, thank you very much. Also, there is the little fact that the new unit costs $5 extra a month, whereas maintenance for Ricky runs $13 a month. If you do the math, I could easily kick Ricky to the curb and get a second unit for the bedroom and still be paying less than I am for solo Ricky.
In a surprising move, however, Esteban was quick to jump to Ricky’s aid. For instance, the new unit isn’t smart enough to know whether you’ve seen an episode of a show or not. It just blindly records. Also, apparently, the season passes don’t work the same. And, he added, the cable company’s version doesn’t learn your behavior. So, in other words, the new unit doesn’t care about you. The new unit isn’t like happy little friendly Ricky Fitts, chirping in the corner, making the responsive and reassuring BooBOOP! when you select a recorded show. No. The new unit is incapable of emotion. The new unit has marginal regard for us and would likely kill us in our sleep if it had half a chance.
The remote is the size of a toddler. I suspect that I am incapable of memorizing where all of the buttons are and will have to watch television with a light on for the rest of my life, like my grandmother. I now know exactly how she feels when looking at her VCR and realizing that the speed of technology has just left her in the dust.
Apparently when Esteban brought in the unit and the backless remote, he apologized that the remote was missing the back. The girl said “Is it ok other than that? It still works?” And he nodded. Without even blinking, she reached beneath her counter and pulled out an identical remote back and slapped it into the device and then threw it into a box. He then added, “Yeah… I went from feeling really clever to wah wah waaaaaaaah!” Poor boy. He tries. He really does.
On Monday, I considered going for a massage because work continues to reach into my ribcage and steal my soul. But then I was too busy. And I had things to do. And I had only haphazardly shaved my legs and no doubt missed spots behind my knees and could not bear to have the masseuse see my unmentionable Back Of Calf Stubble. So I didn’t. And because of this, my body decided to teach me a lesson and tugged hard and fast on that nasty little muscle in my neck that pings like a harp string every three months or so.
I took a muscle relaxant and proceeded to sleep the sleep of the dead, lovely addictive barbiturate sleep. And then woke up doing the robot, so called into work, took another magic happy pill and went back to sleep, to get woken by a frantic Esteban exclaiming ‘Weetabix! Wake up! It’s 8:30!’ Which is nice of him to be concerned, especially since I am normally out the door by 7:00 am. I slurred that I had called in (or rather, emailed in) and took a sick day and then continued to drool into oblivion for the next several hours. I finally roused from the drugged state at 11:30 am, and had one of my favorite breakfasts (that doesn’t involve pancakes or cooking, that is) of one bowl of Golden Grahams, followed by a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. This breakfast is inordinately pleasing for some reason’ both of the cereals are square, which makes me happy because they match, and yet the Grahams are more of a hearty dinner type of cereal, whereas the Toast Crunch is lighter, crispier and offers a sweet dessert-like ending to the meal. And then it was noon, which was time for lunch, so I had another bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and decided that if I didn’t have Esteban around, I would undoubtedly subside on cereal, toast and peanut butter and undoubtedly die of malnutrition weighing 550 pounds.
The next morning, I was able to stiffly walk into work and could stand the pain as long as I did not swivel my head or make any sudden movements involving my left arm. After squinting through the morning, I gave in and made an appointment with my very favorite masseuse Sarah (whom I think of as the Baby Bear masseuse’ the first one, Pain Thumbs, had been too hard, the second one had been too soft, but Sarah? Just right.) for an 80 minute massage. I thought of Sundry when I was stripping out of my clothes literally as she was closing the door to the massage room. She then proceeded to manipulate and prod at the various muscles in my neck and upper back, declaring that it felt like a million little hard rubber bands stretched taut. Which, you know, isn’t how you want your muscles, apparently. I don’t know. Then she explained some new age thing about toxins in the muscles and that the skin over the pulled area was turning red and blotchy as she was working the toxins out of the tissue. I don’t know. I do know that my neck and back stopped hurting. And that, my friends, is worth sitting there fat, naked, and greased up with Bergamot massage oil and having your bosom go wild when you turn over, threatening to perhaps give yourself or the masseuse a concussion. Totally worth that. And the $80 plus tip at the end.
So anyway, my neck is much better, which makes Esteban very happy as he realized that certain marital acts were completely out of the question with my frozen neck.
I’m speaking, of course, of ballroom dancing.
Ahem.
Couple of more updates on past entries:
First of all, kudos to whomever told the comments section that the best thing for lips is petroleum jelly. It’s now the only thing that is making my extremely irritated lips feel any better. So rock on, Vaseline lady, rock on.
Second, someone asked about my Aunt Brunhilda’s little venture into fraud. Yes. Fraud. That’s apparently what it’s called. Who knew. Next on the Weety Springer Show, we’ll learn about polygamy.
So, anyway, according to the case search engine that another someone mentioned recently on the comments section (seriously, there are the best damn things mentioned on the comments section. Sometimes the comments are better than the entries) charges have been pressed for two counts of fraud exceeding $2500. Two counts. Exceeding $2500 each. So I still don’t know specifics, but it doesn’t sound like she just took off with a bunch of Aveda Sap Moss or something, now does it? According to family lore, this is completely nonexistent. No one discusses it. Oh, and her husband is divorcing her and now has custody of the two kids, the former Skinny and Malnourished have each put on at least 20 pounds and look healthy. Skinny probably missed her chance at reaching anywhere near her height potential and will probably be stuck at 5’3′ (by typical genetic traits, she should have been in the 5’9′-5’11’ range), but her younger sister has sprouted at least three inches since November when the separation went down and they were allowed to eat when they were with their dad. So, anyway, that’s the scoop. And I’ll probably get in trouble someday for discussing this over the Internet.
And apparently? My breasts will be a passenger pigeon at some point in the near future.
I have nothing to comment upon that. But I suspect that it is already getting worked into the plot of some Online Diary Slash Fiction somewhere.
Two of the funniest comments made in the last week that I guarantee will not translate well on the diary:
The first thing:
The Scene: Esteban and Weetabix are watching Alton Brown expound upon the magic of cooking pancakes on a large electric griddle.
Weetabix : I wish we had one of those.
Esteban : You’d never use it.
Weetabix : Oh yes I would. I’d use it every’ damn’ day.
The second thing:
The Scene: Discussing the inevitable replacement for my Monte
Esteban : I don’t like Hondas’. I think it’s because the H offends me.
Seriously. We almost stroked out twice. I know. I know. You’re just shaking your head. But trust me. It was right up there with Suspicious Smells.
So yeah. The H offends him. I’m laughing again even as I type that. Every. Damn. Day.
