Since I seem to be the only person to know which day is garbage day (It is Wednesday, in case you have the urge to stop by my house and be handy), I had officially gotten sick of making several trips up and down the driveway carrying bags of garbage before I scurry off to work. I had to stop at Tarzhay for my standard $100 weekend drop and spied a giant trashcan on wheels. Hmmm, I thought’ I could pile all of the bags in here and then make one easy trip down to the curb! And then we won’t have random garbage bags lying around the garage! And then I’ll have a place to dump my Sbux cups and junk mail when I get home at night, so I don’t have to drag it all back into the house!
Genius! And it only took me seven and a half years of home ownership to figure out that little gem!
I immediately purchased giant trashcan liners and threw all of the miscellaneous garbage bags from the garage into the can and then propped the lid on it. Then ,on Wednesday morning, I rather smugly opened the garage door and flipped open the lid. The inside of which was covered with maggots in various stages of development.
I’ve felt imaginary maggots crawling on me for the last 24 hours. I actually repressed the image yesterday but then when I went out for lunch, had a vague uneasy feeling when I drove past the cans of garbage lining the street and then it all came flashing back like Post-Traumatic Maggot Disorder. All Maggots All The Time at Chez Bix!
And now I’m changing the subject.
I have this crazy urge to call everyone Bitch lately.
In fact, I was talking to my boss about changing my schedule to take my class with Dr. Let’s Be Frank this fall and she mentioned that she is working to open a new position that I might want to go for and hence get off my oppressively obnoxious account. My arms shot up in the air, as though I had just been prompted by a Southern Baptist preacher to say ‘Hallelujah Lawd’ and I said, perhaps a bit too loudly, ‘Well, get working, bit’woman!’
Note to self: Probably not a good idea to refer to boss as ‘bitch’, as she probably won’t appreciate that you mean it in the quasi-homeboy playah manner.
Note to self (addendum): Also do not call her ‘woman’.
In other news, the last entry made me send an email to Nate’s mom and she sent me his email address. He’s living in St. Paul. That was all she said (which is fine, because she’s never met me and needn’t be chatty). I’m very excited to email him and find out what exactly he’s doing in St. Paul and maybe visit him when I make my intended journey there this fall. I hope he’s not all legitimate and stuff now. I have this mind picture of him with his crazy hair held back, making bagels or something and writing in a floured leather journal while waiting for the dough to rise. I’d freak if he has a mortgage, an ulcer, and a wife named Tiffany.
Man, now I want to get a poetry group going again.
I’ve heard rumors that Bob is still making pizzas here in town, but also is married with a baby. I have a hard time fathoming that but at the same time, he would be a cool dad as long as his wife has her feet firmly planted on terra firma. In fact, I’m not sure what happened to Larry, but I think Bob and I are the only ones left in town. Interesting.
I did some shopping this weekend. And by ‘some’ I really mean ‘gargantuan heaps of clothing’. I can’t help it. The weather has been unbelievably cool here and it feels like August and as though I should be pressing my school uniform and sharpening pencils. Also, the dry cleaner ruined one of my shirts, so its spot had to be filled with 5 more shirts something.
I’m liking this season’s pastel pink. I’m a big fan of the pink. I secretly hope that somewhere, there is a Ducky-esque boy pining to take me to the big dance. Also, Stacy colored my hair with a very dark ‘I’m A Recovering Goth’ brown with ruby streaks, and the pale pink works so well with the look, making my rosacea fade into a creamy pale and my eyes look like I’m wearing mega blue contacts. She also gave me Betty Page bangs, however, which I retained the day I wore my pale pink twinset and polished black loafers ensemble, but have tried to brush out every other day since. It’s just too posery and it’s bugging the shit out of me. It’s all “Look at me! With my kooky hair! It will cut you, man! Watch out!” with crazy eyes. Also, in a weird bit of karma, if I just look very quickly in the mirror, I think I’m my Mafia Grandmother. Because I’ve apparently replicated her hairstyle and color. Nice move, bitch.
