I’ve been vaguely weepy for the past several days. I don’t know why. It doesn’t make sense. I should be fine, and yet, I’m not. My eyes welled up watching someone else on television cry. I got vaguely upset reading a story about donated clothing from Goodwill getting sent to Africa and sold to people who can scarcely afford it. I cried for Sarah and her really really bad day, and then again when I was telling Esteban about it and we were both saying how completely horrible it would be and how frightening and scary and miserable and wow. I even got a little verklempt when Ward called me at work to tell me that he wouldn’t be able to come over and put up baseboards because their shower drain started leaking, but he’ll be over tomorrow, because I have a truly wonderful father-in-law.
There might be several reasons for the ennui. One is that Esteban is showing signs that he is becoming anemic again. We don’t know why. I’m terribly worried about him. Also, he’s just been informed that he’ll be going on tour of the west coast next week, going to Denver, LA, San Diego and San Francisco for certain. So he’s going to be vaguely ill and also away from home where I can’t look at him sternly and say ‘Did you take your pills? Hmmm?’
Also, I’m really frustrated by my knee. It’s been over four months and it’s still swollen and still achy and disagreeable and I am well and truly sick of it. I don’t know if it’s because I am most certainly going to lose my job and I don’t know if I’m going to get into any graduate programs whatsoever this fall. And if I do get in, I probably won’t get any fellowships or scholarships and won’t be able to go anyway. And as if to solidify this very fact, yesterday and the day before, I received two ‘I’m sorry but no’ letters. Indiana had over 300 folks vying for 12 spots. Madison, who addressed me as ‘Applicant’ gave me empty compliments that my application was strong, but they only have 6 spots. Yup, 6 spots for fiction every two years. Man. Sucks to be me.
Thus, even though I will likely be out of work in the near future, to cheer myself up, I took advantage of the sale at Demeteronline.com today. I covet their weird fragrances (Earl Grey Tea? I’m so on that.) but I never really succumb to make the plunge. However, today (only!) they have 10% off. I signed up for an account and then didn’t make a purchase right away’ half an hour later, I got an email from them with a $10 off coupon code. Man, nothing to lift the spirits like girly stuff had on the cheap.
Speaking of that, if you are thinking about buying The Soap but don’t know if you’ll want to commit to a $37 bar of Soap that you might not even like, might I suggest their trial size bars, which are still ridiculously expensive, but at least you’ll know if you’re a Soap convert or not.
Last night, I help Penny clean out her closet. Or rather, closets. She had three closets, two dressers, and three under-bed storage bins.
If you’ve ever wondered what ever happened to the costumes from Family Ties, they all relocated to Penny’s closet. She never realized that she was allowed to throw clothing away. That, to me, is astounding, mostly because I go through my closet at least twice a year when I flip from summer to winter and back again. I always have a bag or box behind the loveseat in my bedroom destined for Goodwill. The rate at which I purchase new stuff demands that I be ruthless with the whole ‘out with the old’ thing. However, Penny had ample closet space and doesn’t get out shopping much. Except apparently to Christopher & Banks, which was the label on almost all of her more current pieces.
Most importantly, Penny was game for ‘What Not To Wear’. It helped that I chastised her on Monday for wearing a really awful Huxtable sweater and then on Tuesday, caught her wearing a pastel checkerboard number that received the kiss of death when the not-overly-stylish 55-year-old coworker mentioned that it was ‘dated’. Which was much nicer than my adjective ‘fugly’.
We started slow, with the offending sweaters. She made a conciliatory sacrifice of four acrylic nubby sweaters right off the bat, knowing that I feel very strongly about fake clothing and have been known to shout a Joan Crawford-esque ‘No Artificial Fibers! EVAH!’ We had a minor confrontation about a strange black Christmas sweater with gold beading and sequins, but then it was smooth sailing from that point forward.
After wading through a veritable sea of pastel plaid shirts and waxing fondly on doing it with Jake Ryan, we made it through with many giggles. Apparently nothing brings out my inner Carson like bad fashion flashbacks and raging hormones. Maybe that’s Carson’s secret as well. Actually, for the most part, I didn’t say anything, only lifting eyebrows or looking aghast at the blouse with a print depicting an inside-out peacock. Also, she was nervous about whipping out her legwarmers, but I snatched them right back up. Because damn, girl, they’re back in style. So now I have some legwarmers. Penny doesn’t trust my motives, thinking that I’m merely hoarding them for some nefarious plot. Nope. She gives me too much credit.
But that doesn’t mean that I won’t stoop to posting pictures of her wearing a neon shirt on this here page.
Heh.
There is something about the pictures on this page that make me urpy. Specifically, this one.
It’s probably because, in a rash of kistchy nostalgia, I purchased a can of EZ Cheese for our road trip to Minnesota, figuring that it would be a handy vehicle for cheese to mouth consumption. Except that it tastes like salty cheese caulk to me and also, the delivery of cheese to a Wheat Thin should never sound exactly like the swickle swickle swick of a constipated turd being painfully extruded.
And speaking of constipated turds, I was watching abbreviated versions of the two most recent American Idol episodes (I record them on Ricky Fitts, which allows me to fast forward through commercials and Ryan Seacrest humping the leg of everyone in the viewing audience, thus I can watch the whole ordeal in under 45 minutes) and it occurred to me: does the Pen Salesman from American Idol look like a hobbit to anyone else? He even kind of sings like a hobbit. And then I thought, now that shit would be funny. Middle Earth Idol. A ranger singing Garth Brooks, a shield maiden of Rohan kicking some Aretha. An orc warbling Whitney Houston (seriously, not one but TWO Whitney songs this time? And C’est Celine? Gah.). Now that’s some mofo entertainment, right there.
This right here is why I haven’t been invited to write for Saturday Night Live. Or anyplace else, for that matter.
