I overslept yesterday. I don’t know what’s up with my circadian rhythms (ok, confession, I don’t even know what that means, but it’s in an REM song and why yes, I do have an L on my forehead and yes, I do answer to ‘loser’ as well as ‘Weetabix’ or ‘Princess’ or ‘Weet’ (another parenthetical inside a parenthetical’ good thing this isn’t a math problem otherwise I’d totally get lost’ (oh remind me to tell you about math problems) but one of the things that makes me happy upon happy is when I’m posting on some message board or other and say some of my normal brand of blathering and someone posts back and says ‘Actually, Weet, I think that John really is the Salem Serial Killer and not Tony, because the DiMeras are all too busy with their cloning and brainwashing and secret ISA double agenting.’ or ‘Man, Weet, you’ve managed to plunder your ass with your own head’ because I’m signed up as ‘Weetabix’ and how do they know to shorten it to ‘Weet’? Does that mean that they read this page? Or are they psychic? I ask this of you. If you can manage to find your way out of this parenthetical to answer. You maybe should have left a trail of breadcrumbs or something. I’m just saying) or ‘bix’ (Oh, cool, I just looked it ‘circadian rhythms and I used it correctly. Go me.) or whatever. ) but I’m totally not succumbing to my normal winter comas after 8 pm. In fact, even on work nights, I’ve been awake until well in the midnight range. I like it not at all and what is more, I’m somewhat frightened. Maybe it means that I’m getting old and going to become one of those people that gets up voluntarily at four in the morning and is eating dinner at 3:30 pm?
Interestingly enough, yesterday was the very day when my hair chose to thrust its chest out and go from ‘Needing a Cut’ to ‘Way Too Fucking Long’. I keep blinking because my bangs are brushing against my eyelids. If I eat protein for dinner, I will certainly be blinded by tomorrow. However, my lovely stylist Stacy has broken her foot and must remain in bed for at least two weeks, therefore I am, in a word, screwed. I feel like shrubbery.
When I was a junior in high school, I had eight inch Robert Smith bangs, swung over my left eye. They hid the L on my forehead. Oh, and a PERM (in my defense, it was 1987, after all, and the hair looked VERY good under a black fedora, a look made popular by the teens in Shermer, Illinois). Whenever I had to see either of my grandmothers, I would swing up one side of my hair and clip it there with a big sideways bow. In the summer, I would streak parts of my hair hot pink (because I was too much of a weiner to commit to permanent color, I used colored zinc oxide instead), until one day I realized that my right eye’ ow, man, ow. And then someone pointed out that my right eye was doing all the work for both eyes because of my bangs.
Brilliant solution? I flipped the bangs to cover the sore right eye. This of course worked until my left eye started hurting. Slave to fashion, baby.
And now, I don’t know how I could stand it. I mean, I felt so shaggy, as though I’m looking at the world through a country/western singer’s costume fringe. And because I overslept, I couldn’t sufficiently spackle enough hair product (insert Esteban’s voice repeating ‘Product’ in a Kyan voice here) on it to keep it out of my eyes. Also, I wore my former Hottie jeans circa fall 2002, which are ridiculously large on me now. I mean, they sort of got too big in a good way, a sort of trendy baggy thing was happening, so I kept wearing them because they are comfortable and soft and still looked cute. But now, they are threatening to fall off my hips. I only wear them with gigantic tops, so that if they do choose an inopportune moment to drop, my ass is covered.
It’s hard to believe sometimes that I am an actual adult. I’m certain that there are other people who don’t have contingency plans for when they find themselves Without Pants. Maybe a Clinton.
Hey look everyone, a joke from 1995! Oh the nostalgia!
I curled my hair today, arranging it into a Meg Ryan or Sarah McLaughlin look. It prompted my Norwegian coworker to exclaim ‘Ooh, Weetabix fixed her hairs today!’ Because normally I simply jump out of bed and drag myself to work with pillow creases on my face and possibly an errant strand of drool on my chin. Although I do admit that my normal brand of Artful Dishevelment is confusing to the overall populace of Wisconsin. But still.
In other news, I ate the entire Norske Nook Dutch Apple pie. It took three days, but I did it. All by myself. Esteban has started calling me ‘Pie Killer’. I now have a theme song by the Talking Heads.
I however, refuse to have guilt. It’s really the only thing I’ve eaten since lunch on Saturday, with the exception of a celebratory pint of Ben & Jerry’s Vanilla that I bought to accompany said pie (and also for important calcium! Because it’s made from milk! It’s true! Look it up!). And also, the pie was ephemeral. It was so juicy that it was starting to deteriorate, the bottom crust turning into a weird white paste by the middle of the second day, thus I had to eat it as quickly as possible to maintain the fragile fruit/crumb topping/flaky crust integrity. I clearly had no choice.
What is more, when I would wander into the kitchen and wonder what I should use to quell the rumbly in my tumbly, I would think ‘Pie? Or not Pie?’ And the question itself became obsurd! Why would you have NotPie when there is PIE? It’s like asking if you would like to go to Disneyworld or get a colonoscopy. Go to heaven? Or be Howard Dean’s campaign manager? The choice is simple. The Pie does not need a prop.
Although a little Ben & Jerry’s vanilla makes for some nice mood lighting.
Dear ‘She Bangs’ guy on American Idol,
You. Fucking. Rock.
She bangs, indeed.
Sincerely,
Weetabix
PS. Were Simon Cowell’s nipples as strangely erotic in person as they seem on TV? Just me then? Hmm?
Dear Guy With Green Bay Packer Vanity License Plate On His Truck,
I realize that ‘PACKER’ was probably already taken when you went to the DMV and maybe you panicked, standing there at the counter with the million mouth breathers waiting in line behind you, but did you realize that by putting ‘PCKER’ on your license plate, everyone is calling you Pecker?
Think next time.
Weetabix
Dear ‘Hey Ya’,
It’s been fun. We’ve had some good times. But it’s just not working for me any more. Maybe some day, we can throw down the shit again, but for now’ I need my space. I’d rather remember you just like this’ a little worn around the edges, but still young and cool (ice cold). So let’s just be friends. The kind of friends you don’t see for a few years and then remember and say ‘Oh man, I wonder what happened to them?’.
Ciao
Weetabix
