I keep fantasizing about really spectacular clumsy pratfalls, tumbles and flips. I get up from my desk to visit the bathroom (well, you know, more than visit, not that I sit down and actually have a chat with the bathroom. No wonder potty training is so traumatic) I picture a flailing stumble forward and then hitting the wall with a glorious thud. It’s not that I want the pain, really, I don’t. I’m sure that this is support for the theory that I have too much to do, these self-destruction fantasies, but also because a really big personal accident is a bit like a get out of jail free card. You are exempt from everything else for at least the rest of the day because man, did you see that fall? An accidentally severed limb has got to be worth at least a week.
This weekend, Esteban and I actually stayed up late on Saturday night, he because he had been carousing with the Clampets, who got married in a civil ceremony last week and were having the reception in their backyard, and I because I was working into the late hours on freelance stuff. We both were drained (or in his case, scotched) and watching the SNL repeat when he commented that the Moms Jeans ad was enjoyable because of all the ‘bootay’.
Ladies and Gentlemen, my husband.
I was somewhat offended, not that he remarked that Rachel Dratch had a nice one, but rather that Rachel Dratch’s obviously stuffed Mom ass was hot. Because his comments that I myself have a hot ass have completely lost their cred. And then I wondered if he specifically likes Mom asses and maybe I have a Mom ass? Except that my ass isn’t even as NICE as Tina Fey’s ass in those jeans that go all the way up to her boob pits. My ass doesn’t even rank as a Mom Jeans ass.
It’s a sad state of affairs when society mocks high-waisted ugly jeans and I find a way to take it personally.
I am going to Las Vegas in two weeks. I am starting to have the prepacking anxiety attack already. I have tried to staunch the panic with a binge of online shopping. I just bought three different black shirts to go with a skirt that I may or may not wear. There has got to be a support group for this. Or drugs. Yes. Drugs. Thank goodness that I am not a size 8, because I could do some serious damage if I had more shopping choices.
Does the brain freeze have any kind of evolutionary purpose? Or does the fact that I perpetually get them because I’m too eager to suck suck suck up the slushies mean that I’m somehow less evolved? Or maybe the sloped foreheads prevented such things. Maybe our simian ancestors actually invented the Big Slurpee. I’ll bet they did, to go with the chili fries.
No, I don’t know what I’m talking about anymore either.
A few weeks ago, a certain someone asked me in the skeptical manner of Those Who Know if I wasn’t maybe standing on the precipice of quitting my diary. And for a second, I thought about it, while driving the little silly Korean car into Marin. For a second, I thought, ‘Huh, quit the diary thing that everyone now calls a blog? Maybe I should. After all, look at how much creative stuff Fu has done since quitting hers. She has actually written things, big important award-winning things. Things that are not about her ass or stroking someone’s penis. Well, maybe they are (not that I would know because she’s so damned private about it), but huh, that’s something to think about.’ I shook my head and maybe said something profound like ‘Nah, just lazy.’ And she nodded and then we continued our woodsy adventure that involved elves and art and pirates and then wine and headbunging and silly cockring adventures.
And now, look who is back.
I missed you, sexy pirate girl.
By the way, I may or may not get into a fistfight with Plain Jane at Journalcon. I’ve got the ballast but I’ve heard she fights dirty.
