Yea tho it is January, I will schlepp myself to the website and update. Even though I have not even an ounce of originality in my entire gross national product of a body (hi, Slimfast? You taste like loose leaf paper. You’re making me salivate when I hear Ovaltine commercials and my god, one of the quickest ways to gross myself out is to imagine the texture of Ovaltine powder, how it is somehow powdery and also oily and then think about how they used to have BEEF listed as one of the ingredients) I will come here and post when really, the best I can manage is a Ross-from-Friends-like “Hi.” (see above re: originality).
Let’s see, when last we left our intrepid heroine (or “plucky girl detective” which is a phrase used on the back of a chick lit book. It’s funny now, but the sad thing is that they were totally serious. And yes, the front of the book featured shoes and feet. Seriously, Chick Litters! Stop being shoe strumpets! Fricking schlock tease!), she was still trying to come to grips with the fact that she doesn’t have enough time in the day and also the vague ennui associated with being a two Chrysler household. And then, it all changed. Not the time thing (you’d think you’d save time, drinking your meals out of a can, but I’m still waiting to be awarded with a basket filled with hours, and yet, no) but rather the Chrysler thing. Esteban’s own brand of ennui involved his truck, or rather that the great hulking mass of a truck he had owned for several years was on loan to a sans car friend for something like four months, and then, less than a week after its returned, it threw itself upon its transmission. Or something. I don’t know. Mechanical things. He made me take pictures of the truck, that’s how morose he was about it, and despite claiming that he would buy a new truck “in the spring” he has filled his free time with searching for an adequate replacement. I really can’t blame him, though. The thought of driving a Chrysler Concorde doesn’t give anyone a hard on.
So after much hemming, much hawing and then a really annoying incident where he came into my office, slumped in my reading chair and then sighed as though the weight of the world pressed upon his fragile brow and then continued to sigh periodically as I was trying to finish a project that was already, through no fault of my own, really stupendously late, he managed to select a truck, drive it and buy it. It was sort of surreal, because I wasn’t very involved in the process, other than to tell him that if a new truck made him happy then yes, he should go buy a damned truck.
I’m not fond of trucks in general. In theory, I tend to think there’s no real reason we need a truck, because we’re urban professionals and not, say, sheep ranchers or junkyard owners (although sometimes, the resemblance to our garage and the yard on Sanford & Son is really eerie) and we live in a post WWII bungalow with a paved driveway and not, say, the Yukon, but man, the several months sans truck (not to mention the several months when we had to borrow our truck back from the person who was borrowing it) were really a pain in everyone’s collective ass. Apparently he’s right and we do indeed need a truck. But don’t tell him I said that, because right now, he just feels spoiled and I wouldn’t want to ruin it for him.
Everyone needs to feel spoiled once in awhile.
Speaking of which, it’s De-Lurking Week. According to my statistics, about 1% of the people who visit this page actually say something on the comments (less now that I’m trying out Haloscan, for some reason), so I invite you to unpack your adjectives and tell me one or all of the following:
What’s the best movie you watched in 2005? The best book you read? The best album? Which song are you currently addicted to? What should I make for dinner tonight? Should I cut my hair off? These important questions are in your capable hands.
