This morning, as I was driving to work, I decided to listen to the tragically horrible Green Bay radio instead of my normal foursome of mix CDs. And the morning radio crew of the Top 40 station (see, I told you it was tragic. The best selection is a radio station featuring the turds shat from the ass crack of Casey Kasem. Also, my Mafia Grandmother uses ‘shat’ but I suspect that ‘shit’ doesn’t really have a past tense, since it’s a swear word, but ‘shitted’ sounds weird. I’m sure the comments will have opinions about such things) were doing a remote at a grocery store that I was actually about to drive past as I got on the freeway. So the morning guy is free-babbling that they are about to be asked to move their van because an official store guy was walking over to them, but then, probably because he was now live on the radio, he said that they were fine where they were. Then, the radio guy said ‘What do you have in store for us there in the ‘store?’
Not everyone can adlib, and yet, the store employee came back with
‘We got ham, man. We got lots of ham.’
I burst out laughing. They got ham, man. The way he said it was like an embattled sergeant reporting sadly of seventy-two lost platoons. He was so personally astonished and accepting of things that were beyond his control, and at the same time, a wee bit Spicoli-esque. It was beautiful. If that guy hosted morning radio, I might actually listen. However, then they launched into reading the specials (Kitchen Kleen potatoes, five pounds for 77 cents!), so I switched the channel, ended up listening to far too much John Cougar Mellencamp (the tragedy! I told you!) and then changed the channel again to ANOTHER of Seymour, Indiana’s finest, and then poked at my CD button in disgust, relieved to hear whining indie boys talking about finding my hair on their pillow and wishing that I would come around. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
Speaking of desperation, last night I dreamt that I saw three completely naked celebrities at different points in the same day. And the thing that Dream Weetabix was impressed with was the likelihood of that. Dream Weetabix could have understood the serendipity of, say, two unrelated naked celebrities, but three? That was truly something else.
I don’t remember who the first two celebrities were (I remember one was a woman, perhaps Anna Nicole Smith) but the third was Kevin Smith. (Wait! The first one was Will Smith! I now see the cosmic link! Thank god it wasn’t Dame Maggie, as I totally don’t ever need to see Professor McGonagall’s naked chariots all swinging low and sweet!) And Kevin Smith looked pretty much how you would expect a naked fat guy to look, except that he had teased out his pubic hair into a sprayed bouffant that bloomed out and covered most of his nakedness. And Dream Weetabix actually made a comb-over joke about his crotchfro that made Kevin Smith laugh and laugh, his Silent Bob peeking up and down out of the thicket, until he started coughing because he’s a smoker.
So not only am I a fucking riot in my dreams, but I also throw in a (pubic) public service announcement. How fun is that!
Today is all sorts of weird. My head is in a weird place because I’ve got big thoughts weighing on my mind, about the meaning of life and also just how badly I want a Kate Spade purse. In a strange twist of events, my skin is absolutely perfect. Clear, somewhat peaches and cream, all one lovely tone with no trace of an off-colored speed bump to ruin the effect. In fact, it’s so good that this morning, I took one look at my Prescriptives Virtual Skin in Real Vanilla and decided that to put foundation on it would actually detract from my natural loveliness. Thus, the powder brush kissed my nose and chin and that, my friends, was that. It was very liberating. It is truly days that I could honestly play myself in the movie about my life. Further supporting the heroine look, my hair is all floofy, like Sarah McLachlan, and I’m wearing very pastel blue v-neck (which does lovely things to my eyes) and baggy jeans with white canvas sneakers, and it’s impossible to have any kind of attitude in this ensemble. I can’t pull off the punk girl sneer nor the cool snobby eyebrow raise. In this outfit, I got nothing but sweetness and light.
I’m having one of those weird ‘not hungry’ days. I don’t even know why. It started last night when Esteban arranged for us to go to dinner with Ward and June at the Olive Garden. I’m sure that my tummy was already awash with trepidation. And even though I avoided red sauces, pasta, and salad (which, if the lettuce is tinged with chemicals, is enough to throw an iffy tummy into complete and utter mutiny), I still ended up having some kind of reaction and had massive yuckiness for the rest of the evening, except one moment of delight when I said ‘Esteban, roll over, you’re snoring, baby’ and he responded ‘I will not be insulted by being associated with those commie red bastards!’. Because apparently, in Esteban’s dreams, it’s 1954 and he’s just gotten an invitation to a dinner party at Julius and Ethel Rosenberg’s. Where I’m certain they won’t be serving ham. Even though we got ham, man. We got lotsa ham.
That is still the best thing I’ve heard all day.
