So Sunday, Esteban performed yet another feat of extraordinary magic with scrambled eggs (and God has apparently granted me with super human powers to resist the urge to write “eggstrordinary magic”, which is probably best for all involved). I don’t even know what it is, but his scrambled eggs are perfect. PERFECT. What is more, I had my favorite toast, which is bread that was made by nuns. I am not making that up. Nuns make my bread and seriously, it is the best bread ever. I think it’s the little bit of smug they put into every loaf. That combined with my excellent chopped cherry jam and a big glass of orange juice and I was a very happy girl indeed, even though it was the stuff shit is made of outside. Nasty rainy dark crap. So when my sister Mo called and wanted me to go house shopping, I balked. Then she unleashed the whine.
“WeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeet! Come aaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAhhhhhhn. I don’t want to go aloooooooooooooOOOOOOOOooooone.”
My sister, ladies and gentleman. She works in whines the way a diva opens her mouth and lets forth an aria.
For the record, I loathe looking at houses. I don’t want to walk through the decrepit little hovels that people think are worth a bazillion dollars. I don’t want to be assaulted with garish wall paper boarders and Franklin Mint plate collections. It takes me weeks to realign my aesthetics after seeing a particularly garish floral print. I tend to retreat into simple colors immediately after. During the years 1987 through 1991, my mother hung a particularly putrescent set of curtains in the living room. I wore only black or white from 1988 until mid 1992. Coincidence? I think not.
Likewise, the general prospect of buying a house is unsettling, even though I’m not the one doing the buying. Mo is all starry eyed over the process right now and needs me to be her wet blanket. I don’t want to be a wet blanket. Also, I hate basements and touring houses involves many, many basements. When Esteban and I bought our house in 1996, we walked through no fewer than 70 homes and I kept having reoccurring nightmares about basements. And this was pre-Blair Witch Project. I’d simply turn around in the dream and the basement would have closed in around me and I couldn’t find the staircase. Or suddenly the staircase would be unclimbable, perhaps MC Escher’s personal home improvement project. Horrible. You have no idea.
Also, I wanted to go shopping. So I was grumpy. But I did my sisterly duty and went with her to eight houses. She fell in love with the very first one, although there are still some issues with it. Like, it’s across the street from a prison. I simply keep reminding her that she will find the perfect house and that aesthetics do not matter and that patience wins the game. Yadda yadda yadda. But the entire process was disturbing. There was one tiny house that had two microscopic bedrooms (connected by the only bathroom in the house, so you had to walk through a bedroom to get to the bathroom) and then off one of them was a ridiculously steep staircase to what had to have been the attic. Only it was turned into another ‘bedroom’. And there were four more double beds up there, all obviously used. I asked the realtor how many people lived in the house, but he refused to answer. The house was so small that all of the clothing was stored in the basement on large retail racks. It was very scary. And they offered a big screen television if you bought it. Bizarre.
And we get to do it again next week. Forgive me if I don’t squeeee with delight, Mo. Next week, you’d better swing me through Starbucks first.
I have massive cramps right now. I can barely see straight. Also, my chin looks like a topographical map of the Andes, complete with a cannibalistic soccer team near my dimple. I should have known this was about to happen because the tiny messes around the house were starting to make me insane. Insane!!! Every time I look at the little clutter and gunk and things not done, I want to bite someone hard. An Esteban-flavored someone.
Last month, I had a tiny epiphany. I asked Esteban “When I’m all periody and rant at you, do you just ignore it and chalk it up to the fact that I’m crazy? ” Esteban nodded and said “Pretty much.”
That, right there, probably should have made me angry, but then, when I’m all estrogeny, even straw wrappers make me angry. But instead, it was like I was so completely in awe of my ability to understand his thought process that I was able to transcend the fury and simply look back at 14 years x 13 months of crazy insane menstrual rantings and realize that it was all a big misunderstanding.
“Have you ever heard the saying, ‘A drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts?'” I began, almost as though I were talking about a hypothetical situation.
Esteban nodded again.
“Well… those things bother me all month long. I just usually don’t make an issue. It’s still pissing me off.”
“Ohhhhhhhh.”
“Yeah.”
“Ohhhhh. Oh man.” He said, realizing how fucked up that shit really was.
“Yeah.”
“So, uh…noted.” He replied.
“Thanks.”
“No… thank you.”
“Uh huh.”
Fucking Mars and Venus bullshit. Also, Dr. Phil can blow a goat.
Congratulations to the Diaryland peeps like Trance and Dusty and my beermate Disco for representing in the current round of Diarist Awards.
Also, thank you to everyone who voted for Dumber Than A Box of Rocks in the Diarist Awards. I am humbled by your generosity. Thank you.
You know, it’s weird, this writing a diary on the web thing. I’ve been thinking about those awards. I mean, they’re a big honor and it’s a great way for other diarists to say ‘Hey, I like what you’re doing over there.’ Sometimes I read other diarists say something like ‘Oh, this person was robbed.’ Or ‘It’s insane that this person made it to the finalists when this person didn’t. They are much better!’ And then I understand why people turn down the nominations. There is no Casey Kasem Top Diary list out there that measures our value by radio play. It just is what it is.
I think I object to the word ‘Best’ in front of the awards. I don’t think I’m the best at anything. Not one thing in my life have I ever been the ‘best’ at. My grandmother taught me that no matter what you do, there’s always going to be someone better than you at it, so just be as good as you can and don’t worry about what other people are doing. This journal isn’t the Best this quarter or any quarter at all. I would be hard pressed to find One Diary To Rule Them All.
Someone I respect greatly once said ‘Who is to say that my diary is better than some other kid who just hasn’t figured out how to get people to read his stuff yet?’ Or something like that. I should probably go and look it up. But it was right on the money. Just like any other award, it’s all subjective. I mean, seriously, did Julia Roberts really deserve an Oscar for the movie with her cleavage? I’m just saying.
Someone somewhere last year asked a question about whether we should consider what we’re doing ‘writing’ and it caused a big hullabaloo on the Diary forums out there. At first I thought ‘Well, yes, I’m a writer.’ And didn’t think about it any more than that. Are there diarists out there who write well-crafted entries day in and day out and make you think and all of that important stuff you’re supposed to do when you’re writing? Absolutely. I can name at least ten off the top of my head. I mean, they are good. I’m guessing that they probably write something and then go back and edit it too. Maybe they make an outline. I’m guessing, because when I do the stuff I consider writing, most of the time, I stop and reread and tweak a few times before I think the thing is ready for the world. But I might be wrong. Maybe words flow out of them all shiny and perfect and the thoughts are fully formed and they don’t confuse the times they should use semi-colons over the times they should use colons. (and if that’s true, then I think I also hate them a very little bit) I don’t know. That’s not me. And for the most part, I’m not writing that way, even though I should. I’m lazy. I’m a lazy creature who doesn’t like to edit and usually posts whatever dictation from my brain voice even if it requires many two-mile-long parentheticals and I lose my train of thought half way through the thing. Which I just did. Damn.
Anyway, is online diary writing real ‘writing’? Absolutely. Is what I do here ‘real writing’? Sometimes. Most often, no. Most of the time, it’s just you indulging my petty bullshit rambling about whatever is crossing through my fluffy little brain at the moment my fingers are on the keyboard.
And that, gentle reader, is the reason why I am completely ashamed that I don’t try harder.
I guess I still don’t know what to think about the awards.
What I said in the second paragraph of this topic still stands. I am incredibly honored that you nominated and voted for this diary. Thank you. You might have noticed that I don’t ever actually display the graphics that they make. It’s just not my style. It makes me feel a little weird. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t have them saved on my desk top and look at them from time to time and smile a little. They’re pretty. And then I look at my pseudonym on the list of winners. And then I look at the number of people coming to this page every day, even on weekends, even when I haven’t updated in three days. And I have another little smile. And wonder what I did to deserve you.
