Just to clarify something from the previous entry, I actually don’t like Bath & Body Works. I think they are the Thomas Kinkade of health and beauty lines. However I do like the candles they sell under the White Barn Candle Company line. Quite honestly, their personal care line does not impress me. Their lotion seems to actually take away the moisture from my hands rather than helping them. Also, I find the whole ‘pearberry’ thing suspect. Like, what the hell is that? However, I do have their antibacterial cucumber melon soap in my bathroom and if you press on the Godzirra soap dispenser in our kitchen, he glurgs out the lemon variety. I am not made of stone, people. But I don’t want to mislead you. I’d pick Aveda or The Body Shop lotions or even plain drugstore variety Curel over Bath And Body Works in a heartbeat.
And since I’m making recommendations, if you’re not already, start saving at least 5% of your income until you have enough to put into a money market account. You’ll thank me later.
Thus endeth the public service announcement.
You’ve just got to know that Thomas Kinkade, painter of light, has got a collection of paintings deep in the back of his closet of sun dappled brothels near streams, with hookers giving blowjobs in front of the burbling waters.
I finally finished the car salesman story late on Monday night. Esteban berated me about being lazy just because I had a parachute of the baby story in case I couldn’t finish. Finally he laid his patented Wisconsin accent on me and said ‘Getcher ass in there’nd do it!’ Which is apparently just what I needed, so I loaded up the WinAmp with a bunch of songs which were conducive to writing. I had the beginning and the ending mostly written, just had to put the meat in the sandwich, as it were, and I finally hit my stride around 9:30 at night (Which, in the Jeopardy game that is my life would fall under ‘Times When Weetabix Is Normally Getting Ready For Bed’) when I put the Virgin Suicides soundtrack in and had the Hollies ‘The Air That I Breathe’ on repeat. It seemed appropriate.
I still wasn’t sure I was going to bring it to class on Tuesday morning, but since my favorite test subject is exempt from reading the story until he finishes a project of his own, I had my friend Kathi read it to get a feel for how it was perceived. And I posted it to this page for about three hours. And then it was time to print out the stories, so I ended up handing it in with a bunch of typos and the fact that I loved a line about Monday Night Football so much that I conveniently forgot that it was Friday in the story. So yeah, if you notice it hanging out there on the bottom of the page in the ‘past entries’ thing, it’s all hidden because I realized that it’s all screwed up and have to fix it.
Anyway, I didn’t cheat by handing in the nicely polished baby story (although I’m not saying that it won’t be part of my 40 page portfolio final). And also, my professor handed back two of my assignments and said that my writing was ‘dazzling, truly dazzling’. Heeeee! I might have a crush now.
Like much of what you’ll find on M.Giant’s site, This is very funny. Actually, I had a sweater exactly like that. It was black velour with white angora snowflakes across the bust. It was beautiful, that sweater. I loved it, I really did. And then it started to disintegrate, making black puffs of sweater death every time I washed it. And then it got thin in weird places. Like directly over the nipples, so if I wore a white turtleneck under it, it had this white nipple headlight thing going on. But even still, I couldn’t throw it away. It hung in my closet like some limp dishrag for years. In fact, it might even still be hanging there, although I was pretty ruthless during my last closet overhaul. It’s all Esteban’s fault though. He refuses to relinquish his remaining 1/8th of our miniscule closet. Like he needs shirts or something. Bah.
And now for a knee update (skip if you’re knee squeamish):
I also paid Dr. Perky a visit yesterday, because my knee continues to resemble a boysenberry souffl’ rather than anything remotely human. I am glad that it is not shorts weather because I would feel compelled murmur ‘I am not an animal!’ as I hobbled around, my knee preceding me into rooms by minutes. Dr. Perky was very impressed by the fact that most of my leg is now a humble shade of waning summer tan, rather than the majority of a box of 64 crayons that she witnessed two weeks ago. She also remarked that the hematoma issue has resolved itself quite nicely and labeled me a ‘well-coiffed speedy healer’ (she’s loving my subtle autumnal highlights, apparently. She’s such a cheerleader for my various fashion experiments’ is it any wonder that I adore her so?) but is concerned by the fact that there is still a water balloon floating on top of my knee cap. And I mean that literally. Even with my leg bent in a sitting position, I can push into my kneecap at least an inch. It’s exactly like a gel wrist rest. Except, you know, gross and somewhat painful.
Thus, she referred me to an orthopedic specialist whom I swear was named Dr. Lorax. Like the Dr. Seuss character. Apparently, he speaks for the knees. He speaks for knees for knees he likes to squeeze. And squeeze he did, until I almost decked him. And then he gave me the option of sticking a needle in there and sucking out all of whatever was in there. Right then! That very instant! With no quick shots of vodka to steel my nerves or anything! Insanity!
The choice was a needle or no needle. I picked no needle, with the option to needle sometime in the future. Because I do not like needles, no ma’am, I do not like them Sam I Am.
On the plus side, M.Giant thanked me for taking one for the team at Journalcon, so apparently, it was for the good of online diaries everywhere. I had no idea that my drunken stumble would make me a martyr.
Man, nothing like winter to put a dent in my pocket book. At lunch on Monday, I went to Bed Bath & Beyond and bought a king sized feather bed and a replacement down pillow (yay for sales on Pacific Coast down!), and even with a gift card and a 20% off postcard thing, it was still $180. Today at lunch, I went to the mall and actually Squeee’d at the new OPI colors (I got me a Thoroughly Modern Millie and something else I can’t remember) and also the holiday gift packs of the frou-frou hair products (every time I write that word now, I hear Esteban repeat ‘Product’ in his geek voice, as has been his habit of late) which left me hauling out the aforementioned two new OPIs, a Redken hair starch, and two Tigi styling things for $40. A quick stop into the Lanc’me counter scored another $20 lipstick, shade Sexy. And as I was limping out with my beautiful haul, I kept thinking’ wow, I have a 60 minute lunch and I just spent 60 dollars. And on Monday, it was triple that. It’s a good thing that I work, because if I had the time to actually shop, I would be a weapon of goddamned mass destruction.
When I came back, one of my coworkers was aghast that someone had just spent $12 for a tube of Mary Kay lipstick. I could only look at them and shake my head.
Amateurs. If they only knew about the $40 perfect pair of lips that required two tubes of Prescriptives (standard lipstick in the shade of Popular with Swoon lipgloss over it made your lips look like you’ve just been eating fresh strawberries. In France. Fed to you by a rogue peasant boy wearing breeches. Sultry breeches).
Note to parents: This is how people without children spend their time. Thinking too much about lipstick and nail polish. You’re jealous. Admit it.
