Over the weekend, a friend was telling someone I had only met that night (who, upon hearing my name, said ‘Oh, so THIS is the infamous Weet!’ which is always a little scary to hear when meeting someone for the first time) about how she now had mad oral skilz and told a story with a plot right out of a Penthouse letter. This impressed him to no end, as any single man might be. I had heard the story before, so I wasn’t paying attention. Finally, she got to the end and said ‘And I owe it all to Weet, who is a master’ my blow job Yoda!’
I, because I had had more Blind Russians than was probably prudent, quipped, ‘Oh finally, the afterthought.’
‘No, no, no, it was like the credits at the end of the movie!’
‘Great, now I’m the head gaffer?’
Which only one other person got, but we both thought it was brilliant. Because head gaffer! And then I had to explain it to everyone else, which sort of killed the brilliance. Sometimes, it is not so great to be a funny girl.
Later, someone asked me what my secret was and I said, ‘I’m good at everything I put my mind to’ except for bowling.’ Which probably sounded egotistical, but the bowling part is totally true. I am quite possibly the worst bowler I have ever met. It’s very disappointing, as I am somewhat fascinated with bowling accessories. The shoes, the bags, the shirts. I would have stolen a pair of bowling shoes in high school, but I didn’t want to walk around advertising that my feet are size 11. That was during my ‘Maybe if I am extraordinarily feminine, I will appear delicate and waiflike’ stage (followed closely by my ‘Grrrr! I am punk and have big long bangs that hang in my face and will totally fuck you up, bitchass!’ and then the ‘I am so over this whole need to belong to a social subgroup, so now I’m thinking about joining a sorority’ stage). But I am indeed very bad at bowling. Witness the one time when I actually got a negative score when I accidentally let the ball fly backwards instead of forwards and broke the scoring machine, which then displayed my score as negative 97. Which was funny, because I didn’t even have 97 points (goals? Touchdowns? What?) in the first place. Anyway, I’m just chalking the comment up to my inappropriate bitchiness when out with friends and hope that they will forgive me. They didn’t find anything wrong with ‘It’s Elvis, you fuckers!’ so hopefully they love me despite my occasional imperious behavior.
I have been in a mysterious funk all week. I was in this weird fugue mental state where I didn’t want to do anything and kind of still don’t, but I now have guilt because my stats tell me that a rather shameful amount of people are checking this page everyday. Let’s see, what has happened since last we chatted? I have done the following: wore a black velvet dress, got a manicure, made a necklace and bracelet out of ridiculously expensive but incredibly gorgeous smokey crystals, cleaned the house, got a new flat monitor for my computer, gained an iPod, made a stop at the Prescriptives counter to be color printed AGAIN, made chocolate chip cookies (by the way, the Nezlay Toolouse recipes blows goats), bought a kitchen island with a granite top that is cracked and now must be returned, bought and ate too much Godiva chocolate, and told the vice president of our company that he was a cold distant ass and while I personally don’t need or want senior management to be my BFF, it’s the reason that he hears hissing when he walks through our offices.
Maybe my job isn’t so safe after all. Heh.
Actually, I probably wouldn’t have unleashed with the hard opinion like that, but he was smoking a big fat cigar and also wearing a Van Heusen tie. From JCPenney. I could have forgiven It’s All Inside, but don’t cop attitude at me when you’re polluting the world with blue smoke.
So the ennui’ honestly I have no idea why. I’m not depressed about my goals in life (usually a huge source of discontent). Actually, I just came off of a huge wave of submissions (and no thank yous) and am beginning the second wave. Also, I am being stalked by my bingo story because I have yet to get it on paper. I have finally gained enough distance to see that my Baby Story (which first made its appearance here and still lives in the private area) is sort of crappy and sad and makes the reader weary, and while I have not yet figured out how to change it to make it not so weary, the concept will marinate on the backburner of my psyche and then at some point, that inner writer voice will tell me what to do. So, anyway, I’m satisfied with that.
I have an exciting trip planned, where I will hang out with fun people and drink too much vodka and also have my Vegas cherry stolen from me. So that’s something to look forward to. Keeping the size of my ass human is always a challenge, and somewhat moreso with a hobbled leg, but my physical therapy is going swimmingly (especially now that I’ve switched from the Impersonal Uncaring Nazi to the Ex-Cheerleader Happy Girl who actually asks me how my knee is feeling and how I think the treatment is going and also since I’ve started being a Type A about how much electro-shocking I can take. When I started, I could stand level 7, but now I’m up to level 15. Go me) and I have received the ok to begin the morning walks which were so critical to the jumpstart of Operation Hottie two years ago. And I do realize that once I manage to get my ass up out of bed early enough to take the walks, I find them very enjoyable. And also, the iPod should also make that pleasant; especially since I’ve loaded it with more Mozart than is probably allowed in the Cool Girl Handbook.
Anyway, the ennui remains a mystery, but it’s turning a corner. The catalyst was a text message from a friend telling me to ‘Cheer up, damn it!’ which was precisely what I needed to hear. Or read. Whatever. So I’m trying to cheer up. Damn it.
