I talked to Esteban today, using VoIP technology, which was cool because about six months ago, I learned all about VoIP on one of my freelance projects and there we were, his voice going into the computer, through the internet and into my ear. Which is just amazing when you think about it, but then again, not really, since when I reread that last sentence, that’s more or less what I’m doing right now with you. Hi you.
Esteban is in a European funk (and also refuses to smuggle any illicit substances into the country because obviously HE DOES NOT LOVE ME AT ALL) mostly because he hates to travel but also because every time he goes to Europe, it’s in dank and dreary March and he is certain that the entire continent should have been washed away by now. Or maybe it’s because he went out drinking in Germany last night in an English pub (huh?) and embraced the joy that is 50 proof beer. Personally, I don’t like to have to chew beer, but that’s just me. He called exactly 24 hours before he is to land in GB, so I reminded him to cheer up and it was only a little while longer, and he managed a joke ‘No, 30 something hours, because Amsterdam is ahead of you’ Uh’ no. But I must confess that I actually had to think for a minute, wondering where the International Date Line came into play.
In my week of post-Con Estebanless solitude, I have discovered that I make the most boring single person on the planet. I have done the motherlode of (fucking) laundry and it is all folded and neatly put away. I finally hung the kitchen pictures which were waiting for the base moldings to be finished (and which should have been done last month) and also picked out the new floors for my unfinished office, the dining room, and the bathroom. I joined the strange group of people who go grocery shopping at 8 am on a Sunday morning, because it seems silly to wake up that early and then lounge in an empty bed by myself. I’m sort of amazed by how much time you spend on being in a relationship. There’s so much dilly dallying, waiting for the other person to wake up, to discuss which bagel shop to go to, wait for them to take a shower, etc. No wonder Martha Stewart can get so much done in a day. All that time normally spent giving blowjobs is spent instead organizing her ribbon boxes.
(No, I have no idea where that came from and yes, mental picture, hullo!)
Tilly now feels as though I should cater to her every whim and has taken to walking out of the room and then meowing mournfully, wondering why I haven’t followed her into the kitchen. Fucking cat. Even she realizes that I’m well on my way to becoming one of those crazy old cat spinsters. She’ll not think it’s so funny when I crochet her a poodle skirt.
I talked myself out of driving down to Chicago to shop and check out the Nordstrom makeup event, mostly because I didn’t want to drive all that way by myself. It would feel empty and I would get depressed. Normally after a Chicago shopping excursion, I spend the drive back in a weird Pink Floyd trance or in a coma, crashed out with the seatback down and the warmer turned way up. ‘No, really, Mr. State Patrol Officer, I was just resting my eyes.’
My fruit/water thing has been going swimmingly, by the way, thanks for asking. However, I am starting to regain my meat squick, which is a vaguely disturbing turn of events. I had planned to get some hot baked ham at the grocery store but when I saw the slicer, with its strange pink ham effluvia, and the scent of death wafted up from the deli counter, I knew that my interests would be best served investigating some Quorn and maybe a nice cheese pizza. It’s interesting how the meat squick rears its ugly head, as the order of squickiness is predictable as the tide. First ground meat becomes verboten, then pork, then beef, then poultry and finally fish. And I can return to them in exactly the same order, with a few exceptions. But right now, I’m sort of concentrating on fruits and water and also an occasional turkey and Monterey jack sandwich on 12 grain bread. And yet, the size of my ass remains a constant. What must I do? What? Like, exercise or something? Man.
In other news, I must have signed up for something on the internet and given the first name ‘Smecky’ a long time ago and that list must have just been sold to spammers, because all of the sudden, a high percentage of my spam is addressed to Smecky or pleads with Smecky to give a damn about giving women extreme pleasure. Ok, I’m probably the only one who finds that funny even a little bit. It’s a good thing that Esteban refuses to bring back any interesting souvenirs from Amsterdam. It is probably best for the world that Smecky remains clean and sober. But he’s coming back tomorrow and I won’t have to find out just how long it will take before I start buying Diamonique, just so that I can talk to the hostess on QVC. Because fake diamonds make Baby Donatella cry.
