Carissa, Penny and I went out to lunch and now I have Dick Cheney breath. And then, I realized that I probably shouldn’t mention that to anyone else.
It just goes to prove, though, that almost anything sounds bad if you put Dick Cheney’s name in front of it. Which should tell you something right there.
Oh, and I dropped hot alfredo dipping sauce down my cleave. How’s that for smooth? I swear, I am every fat girl stereotype ever invented. Do I have to tell you that I was the president of the drama club in high school? No, I didn’t think I do.
One of my sales weasels called and convinced me to come in and try a different car that he thought I might like. The Oldsmobile Aurora. It was blue, but not in a ‘I’m going to smurf over to McSmurfington’s and smurf me some smurfberry pie’ kind of way. Sort of a sapphire color that I suppose the manufacturer calls ‘midnight’ or something. Had leather seats, a decent engine, a CD player (and cassette, which stymied me for a minute, looking at the slot thinking ‘what the hell is that?’ and then ‘oh’ yeah’ tapes&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9- How quaint.), AND a moonroof. And I sort of liked driving it. It was good. I had a good feeling about it. It was the first car that I actually liked how it looked and also liked the things inside of it. And it had controls on the steering wheel (hi, I’m completely handicapped and suspect that I will crash my vehicle during my attention deficit channel changing). I was happy. I was almost giddy. I even decided that if I purchased it, I would call it the ‘Roar-ah’, because the Ruh Roh ‘Raggy is better than some Disney-fied ‘ooooh’ mystical lights in the sky’ crap.
I drove it home and demanded that Esteban try it out. He got in and his head hit the ceiling. Damn him. Why did I marry a man whose head is the size of a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day balloon. You’d have thought I would have noticed this earlier. It’s damned inconvenient.
I’m about two seconds away from Squeeeing over the fact that Journalcon is exactly a month away from today.
Update from last Friday’s Bad Bar excursion:
Apparently, while Carissa was dancing en solo on the windowsill, some men out on the street motioned for her to flash them her breasts.
So she did.
This made the men very happy. Very happy indeed. Via sign language, they urged her for an encore. Through some complicated hand motions, she said ‘Fair is fair, kind sir, and first you must show me your hot man meat.’ Thus, one of the guys dropped trou right on the street to display his package. Then she looked at his friend expectantly, but his friend was a tad shy. However, the lovely Carissa stood firm and would not expose her bosom twice for only one male protuberance, thus after being coaxed by his friends, he unzipped and then pulled forth his wiener and then did some crazy sidewalk gyration involving choreographed pelvic thrusts. I imagine there was also some floppage.
And yes, I did just giggle writing that last bit. Wiener. Heee!
Thus, Carissa rewarded them for their efforts with another gander at her fine rack.
You know, I say it again and again, but I think the above demonstrates quite nicely that it is indeed a bad bar.
Bad. Bar.
So I’ve started my graduate writing workshop in Oshkosh. What I hadn’t realized was that it is a combined undergraduate/graduate class. Actually, there are only two graduate students in the class, including myself. The rest are all undergrads taking this as an Intro course.
I suppose that it makes me a bit of a snob, but I never would have taken the class had I realized that my stories would be workshopped by Intro students taking the class as part of their GDR. I’m even using a book I used for a class in 1995 (and repurchased, because I didn’t feel like digging through the chaos that is our study) and a Best American Short Stories 2002 (which I repurchased as well, despite already owning a copy that is sitting out in plain sight, because I have a head full of cottage cheese some days, or perhaps another salad accoutrement).
But I’m glad that I did take it. I have definitely gotten some new insights in the first two classes and while it’s nothing that I haven’t learned in previous undergrad courses, I really like the instructor and it’s nice not already having a preset reputation within their English program. That having been said, I’m keeping the class. I really like the instructor. He reads the same stuff that I do and he notices the same stuff that I do. We’re reading ‘The Red Ant House’ at some point, which is one of the best stories I read last year. Seriously. Go check into it. Find a copy of the Best American Short Stories 2002 (it has a red cover, I believe edited by Sue Miller) in the Anthology section of Barnes & Noble and just find a comfy chair by the fireplace (or by the cute boy/girl reading the art book) and take fifteen minutes or so and read that short story. It’s incredible.
In other related news, through sort of a strange coincidence, I recently learned of the whereabouts of my ex-boyfriend Mike. How weird is this’ the very same week that I suddenly have a reason to be driving to Oshkosh every week, I learn that Mike now lives and works at a retail store in Oshkosh.
Because Esteban and I have been dating since practically puberty, I don’t have many ex-boyfriends. Mike is pretty much the only one since high school. And while we were never completely naked in each other’s presence, things were progressing quite nicely until the night he decided that his macaroni & cheese dinner was more important than rescuing me from the side of the road in late November (which, in Northern Wisconsin, is rather frigid). Quite honestly, I’ve often wondered what he looks like now. I remember him as being a hot blond guitar player, rather lanky with a funny nose and a sarcastic sense of humor. I had decided that he most certainly had lost his hair, since he would be in his late thirties now (that’s the secret of staying young’ always date an older man. With a normal-sized head.)
So I checked the website of the retail store. They listed a Mike His Last Name as a contact for employment. Ok’ that was sort of a confirmation, but not a total confirmation. His last name is about as common as Smith.
I clearly needed to get visual confirmation.
Read: I clearly could not resist getting a visual.
Last week, I arrived in Oshkosh early and instead of visiting the bookstore and returning my extraneous copy of Best American Short Stories 2002, I tried to find the store. But could not. Finally, I called them to ask directions.
‘Hi, you’ve reached Stalker Store, this is Mike.’
Yeah. It was him. Even after not speaking with him in fourteen years, I knew his voice immediately.
I could actually see the store then from the highway, so I apologized and said I wanted directions but I could already see the store.
I debated then what I should do. Should I delve into complete and utter stalkerdom? Or should I just leave well enough alone? I looked cute (but then, I almost always look cute), so I decided ‘what the hell’, parked the car and went into the store, inventing some excuse for being there on the fly. It was filled with people, but then from the back of the store, I heard his voice. I swiveled my head quickly just in time to catch his profile as he disappeared into a back office. I then panicked and fled, heart racing.
I am the worst stalker that ever was.
While I didn’t get a close look, he looks surprisingly the same. A little softer around the middle, but he seemed to still be holding onto the same level of receding hairline he had at 26.
Quite honestly, this whole thing is new to me. I’ve never run into an ex-boyfriend. I don’t know what the protocol is. At what point does it go from weird to friendly? Also, I broke up with him’ so does that mean that I should be apologetic? Or what? I am at a complete loss.
Of course, as Jake commented, “Ok, I have one sentence for you…. ‘Weet, I’ll come and get you as soon as I’m finished with my macaroni and cheese’.”
Yeah. I’m probably thinking about this too much.
If you haven’t already done so, today is the last day you can vote for the Diarist Awards. And yay for all of the Diarylanders who’ve been nominated again. Rock on with your bad selves.
