That's My Bix!

You are making dinner. Your husband will be home soon and you are making a sirloin roast. Your husband has mentioned that he feels that roasts are hit or miss, so you want to really sway him to the Pro-Roast camp. You decide to use a red wine & garlic sauce recipe but you have neither red wine nor garlic so you go to the grocery store. It’s about that time anyway, since you’ve been out of skim milk for days, having been pissed at yourself for accidentally dropping a new gallon of skim milk on the driveway and watching it explode, draining away and freezing into a kind of white Rorschach splatter print.

You drive to the upscale grocery store that is near your house. There are plenty of other grocery stores near enough to your house, but you prefer this one, as you know where things are and you know that you have one of those invasive little savings card things which are undoubtedly plotting all of your grocery purchases and slotting you neatly into a perfect demographic. You wonder how you fall, hoping that it is into a good category, Upwardly Mobile Double Incomes Without Children, perhaps, but you suspect that they might even be more pronounced categories. Maybe you are a Professional Who Is Not Utilizing Their College Degree And Is Slightly Depressed And Doesn’t Balance Their Checkbook Nearly Enough. Maybe you shouldn’t use that Big Brother card, but then it just pisses you off to know that you’re not even getting the sale price on their overly inflated trendy stuff. You always smirk at their slogan ‘Low Prices are the Law!’ because certainly gross crimes are being committed. But you like this store. You don’t feel threatened in the parking lot. You don’t worry as much about your car getting dinged. People don’t scurry out in front of moving vehicles. It’s as though people who have more disposable income are smarter. You hate having that thought because you are a bleeding heart liberal, but it does seem true.

You close your car door and lock it with your little remote door lock. You could have easily hit the power door lock before you close the door, but the remote door lock is one of those things that makes you happy, much like going to the European bakery to buy a loaf of bread for $5. Your grandmother would die to know that you were that extravagant and call you ‘Donald Trump’ but it is one of those small luxuries that you enjoy.

You hear screaming. Harsh barking screaming, the sound of someone incredibly angry at someone else. You are not certain if the voice even belongs to a male or a female because it is so angry, so full of fury. You look to see a small woman, very small, identifiable as female only by her long peroxided hair, screaming at an even smaller little girl. You hear the phrase ‘Put that back, it is a schoolbook!’ and you determine that the child had been trying to bring a library book into the store, perhaps to read it as her mother shopped. You do not see the child’s face; her head is bent, blonde hair falling forward to shield her.

The woman storms into the store, fifteen paces ahead of you and you see her up close. Her face is worn, drawn. Up close, she looks almost like a small man, her nose more beak-like than anything. She has long drawn furrows in her cheeks and her lips are surrounded by an aura of wrinkles from undoubtedly twenty plus years of heavy cigarette smoking. She reminds you very much of Granny on the Beverly Hillbillies, small, used, and oxidized, skin like leather. Her eyes are bright, like a cornered animal and even though you are easily a foot taller than her, she frightens you. Her voice is ten times larger than her body.

You take your time getting a cart. You want her to get ahead of you in the store, but when you walk in, she’s there waiting with another child. This one is the same height as the woman. She is probably eleven years old and is very plump, unlike her mother. She has just asked what they were waiting for and the woman replied, in a voice which makes your spine tingle, ‘We gots to wait for that little psycho’ Christ.’ The oldest daughter smiles a tight smile and you can tell that she is eager to take her mother’s side, eager to have any chance to not be in the blame.

You walk quickly to the produce department, selecting some fresh guacamole and blue corn chips (to munch on while dinner is cooking because you are starving for fresh tasting stuff), some baby red potatoes, which are expensive but well worth it. You will steam them and toss with butter, garlic and parsley and it will go well with the roast. You also select three garlic bulbs and fresh parsley then move to the bakery department where you pick up an angel food cake for dessert. You decide that you will serve strawberry shortcake for dessert, as it is one of the few desserts you both enjoy which is also not especially unhealthy. You also pick up some ready made mashed potatoes, as you are not certain if the steamer is accessible with the kitchen being torn apart the way it is. You continue shopping. You select a lovely bottle of merlot, or at least what you think is a lovely bottle. You have no idea. You’re not a wine drinker but you’re judging by price. On a whim, however, you also pick up a bottle of Asti, as you do enjoy sparkling wine. You feel very grown up, with your bottles of expensive wine. You see the woman once more in the meat aisle, and she has gained a rather large, stupid looking man wearing a stained t-shirt with small holes across the stomach, worn away from undoubtedly bellying up to many a cheap roadside bar. Even though he is twice the size and weight of the small woman, she is barking orders to him, sniping angry responses to his questions, and he cows to her demands.

You finally get in line to check out, quickly, ignoring most of the store, as you just want to get home and get the garlic sauce thing started. It has to reduce and you haven’t a clue how long that will take. Your husband will be home soon and you would like to get everything started before he arrives.

The woman and her family get in line behind you. Their cart contains a 24 pack of Busch beer, several loaves of the store’s cheapest bread, a family-size pack of low-grade hamburger, a large jar of generic grape jelly, and a pack of pork rinds. You quickly place all of your items onto the conveyor belt and try not to listen to them. She is still upset with the youngest daughter, picking on her for being stupid. The oldest daughter is smugly looking at the youngest, although you now are certain that the oldest daughter has an eating disorder due to the emotional abuse she undoubtedly withstands on a daily basis. The husband looks blankly ahead, ignoring the vitriol spewing from the woman’s mouth. The youngest daughter slouches, her eyes dull with self-loathing.

You look at the magazine rack and take down a magazine promising to help you lose 25 pounds by Memorial Day and organize your home in twelve easy steps as well as provide solutions for fatigue. You have fatigue and your home is a mess. You don’t believe the bit about the 25 pounds by Memorial Day, though. There is a Young Miss magazine on the same magazine rack flanking the checkout aisle and you have a fantasy about buying the magazine and presenting it to the youngest daughter, in hopes that it will make her feel better. You think about how parents can just drop such horrible comments the way a dying tree drops leaves upon the ground. They bury their children in them, until they can no longer move. You know this because your mother had rather spectacular bad taste in men. You know this because when they would drink, such things were commonplace. You know the immobility that comes with knowing that you are inferior, that you are not worthwhile. You feel like china that has been broken and then glued back together, showing tiny veins of damage to anyone who took a close look.

‘Excuse me, Ma’am?’ A voice barks from behind you. You start and look up. The woman has fixed you in her gaze, her eyes staring at you accusatorily.

‘Yes?’ You whisper, trying to exude refinement and middle class ethics that you know intimidates people from the working class. You know this because you grew up poor and were intimidated by people who lived in the suburbs. You know that if you can maintain your aura of superiority to the woman and her family, you won’t be sucked into their world.

‘Are them any good?’ She points to the frozen mashed potatoes on the belt.

Your mind grows blank.

‘I-I- I don’t know. I’ve not tried them.’ You lie. You have tried them, but you want to use as few words possible. You don’t want to converse with her. You don’t want be nice. You don’t want to think about her children eating cheap bread with grape jelly for dinner because their mother is passed out drunk. You don’t want to think about that big stupid man touching one of those two daughters in ways that are improper. You don’t want to get trapped by her. You just want to run.

‘Oh, I was jest wonderin’ because I’m always lookin’ for a shortcut, ya know?’

You nod instead, tight-lipped and then turn your head back to the blissfully ignorant cashier, who gives you your total.

‘$72.84’ She says and you see the woman look at your two grocery bags and then watch as you pull a credit card from your purse. You become aware of how it must look to her, how it must look as though you don’t care about the total for so few groceries. You cultivate this carefully, signing the receipt with boredom. Out of the corner of your eye, you see her narrow her eyes and look down once more at her own cart. You hope that this wall between you and her is enough. Enough to keep her from you, from feeling that she is on your level.

You thank the girl who bags your groceries. As you leave the store, you hear the woman snap at her youngest daughter once more. You turn back and see the oldest one mocking the youngest’s tears. You think about that Young Miss magazine and wonder what, if anything, it would have accomplished. It was probably a little too old for her anyway. Perhaps the woman would have taken it from her, perhaps given it to the oldest. Maybe she would have been embarrassed and taken it out upon them.

You think about regret. You think about times in your life when you could have made a difference. You think about that compulsion, that strong hint that you should have acted, given something to the girl, a smile perhaps, told her she was a very pretty girl. Anything. Something so that she would have known that there are happy people in the world.

Something to give her hope.

Instead, you put your groceries into your car quickly and drive back to the safety of your home.

Russell Crowe: Hey there Weetabix. I heard that your bloke Esteban is leaving you all alone on Valentine’s Day to work on his project. How about I take you out, Gladiator-style?

Weetabix: Oh my! Russell Crowe! Wow. This is really something.

Russell Crowe: Isn’t it though? Aren’t I sexy?

Weetabix: Um, well, I can’t really deny that.

Penn Jillette: Don’t listen to him! (to Russell) Don’t you like waifish little blonde things?

Russell Crowe: (doesn’t know what to say, so he fixes Penn with his steely magnetic stare)

Penn: Want me to make him disappear for you, Weet? Then you and I can make some magic.

Weetabix: (giggles) Oh my! Penn!

Henry Rollins: #$@!@! How are you doing, baby?

Weetabix: Um, Penn, meet Henry Rollins. And that’s Russell Crowe.

Henry Rollins: Nice to %&#(@# meet you, Russ’ Penn. What kind of #!&$ name is Penn anyway? These guys aren’t asking you out, are they Weet? Because I was thinking you and I could maybe thrash a little tonight. I heard you were quite the punk rock girl once upon a time.

Weetabix: Well, I had something quieter in mind tonight. I kind of partied myself out last weekend.

Penn: (sticks tongue out at Hank)

Sting: Yeah, so you chaps could hit the road. I’ve written Weetabix a melodic jazz tune with which to woo her.

Weetabix: Wow! Really!?

Henry Rollins: I got a new tattoo of a chubby tinkerbell! And you’re delusional if you don’t think I took a lot of heat from the other guys in the band over THAT.

Starbucks Guy: But what you really want is a piping hot Mocha Latte. Right, my little car thumping girl?

Weetabix: Teehee! What are you doing here?

Starbucks Guy: I heard you’d be all alone on Valentine’s Day, so I figured we could drive around and thump.. I mean, listen to music, and stuff. (grins adorably) I brought you this bouquet of free Starbucks coupons.

Weetabix: Thank you! You rock!

Hawkeye from Last of the Mohicans: Weetabix’. I will find you. No matter how far you go, no matter how long it takes. I will find you. No matter what occurs. I will find you.

Sting (singing) Every breath Weetabix takes’ Every splinter she intakes, every kitchen she paints, I’ll be watching her’.

Russell: Excuse me, but I’m on her list you know.

Sting: (still singing) I dream of rain a-lay a-lay a-lay I dream of gardens in the desert sand, I dream of Weetabix a-lay a-lay a-lay and the hopes of replacing Esteban!

Penn: I almost made the list, but for my cursed red fingernail! I’ll cut my finger off for you Weetabix!

Weetabix: No, really, that’s not necessary.

Jimmy Stewart: What do you want, Weet? Do you want the moon? If you want it, I’ll throw a lasso around it and pull it down for you. Hey! That’s a pretty good idea! I’ll give you the moon, Weetabix.

Henry Rollins: Holy $&#^! Dude! Aren’t you dead?

Jimmy Stewart: Yeah, and you’re going to be wishing you were in a minute because I’ll give you what for!

Henry Rollins: Dude, back off. I’m not going to get into a fight with a dead guy. They don’t have anything to lose.

Sean Connery, in James Bond mode: Weetabix, my little curvy round sex goddess. Forget all of these children and come for a ride with me in my Martin’ Astin Martin.

Russell Crowe: You don’t want that old guy when you could have my rakish charm, do you?

Ralph Fiennes as Heathcliff: Don’t you mean Raif? It’s pronounced Raif, you know.

Russell Crowe: I said RAKISH you limey bastard. Why don’t you go wander the moors a bit?

Ralph Fiennes as Heathcliff: Sheep$*#&!*.

Russell Crowe: At least I’m a gorgeous sheep$*#&!*.

Esteban: What is going on here?

Weetabix: You’re home!!!!

Henry Rollins: Aw $*#&!*.

Esteban: Well, yeah, do you think I’d leave you alone on Valentine’s Day’ but I see you’re not alone! What’s the dude from Highlander doing in our living room?

Sean Connery, in James Bond mode: Charmed.

Weetabix: Um, they heard I was all alone and then they just showed up. (to the other men) I guess I won’t be needing you boys after all.

Sting (singing) I’m so happy I might start crying’ Esteban showed up on V-Day and took my Weetabix away’.

Hawkeye from Last of the Mohicans: I will wait for you, Weetabix. No matter how long. I will wait. Stay alive. I will wait and stare poignantly into the setting sun. I feel it more deeply than any stirring in my heart could imagine.

Ralph Fiennes as Heathcliff: You’re really annoying, you know that?

Russell Crowe: I may be dumb, but at least I’m pretty.

Penn: Well, this sucks. You guys want to go get a beer or something?

Starbucks Guy: How about a Latte?

Esteban: Your diary is really jumping the shark, you know that?

Weetabix: Yeah, I know.

So for the last week, Starbucks Guy was missing in action.

Every morning, I’d go through to get my Venti Caffe Mocha with a shot of Vanilla syrup and would be met by Surly Girl or Viggo. No cute perky Starbucks Guy.

(sniff)

Bereft and confused, I cried on Chauffi’s shoulder via email. He suggested ‘Perhaps he was in a car accident, and was trapped in his car, with only the thought of you and your tunes keeping him alive.’ Oh, if only I could be so lucky.

I gave him one more chance, because maybe he was working the night shift? I drove through last night, with Pearl Jam’s unplugged ‘Black’ thundering out of my speakers.

‘Hey there, how can I help you?’ A deep flirty voice over the loudspeaker.

I wasn’t about to be fooled. Viggo had fooled me once before.

‘Hi, I’d like a Venti Chai Latte please.’

Suddenly, a linebackeresque Docker’s-clad figure raced out the door and said, ‘Well you can’t have it!’ and jumped in front of my car.

Starbucks Guy!!!!

I laughed uproariously and he chuckled and said ‘Oh, it’s Chai now is it?’ I could see him making a mental note that when it’s dark out, I prefer Chai. ‘Pull on up!’ And then he ran back inside.

Never before in my life have I been more glad to be wearing lipstick.

I pulled up and watched as he took the Chai from the underling who made it and then personally handed it to me. Then he said, ‘This is for putting up with me all the time.’ And then he handed me a coupon for a free Venti drink.

(Weetabix sings a little song and does a curvy married lady dance)

Starbucks Guy lurves me. Starbucks Guy thinks I’m purty. Starbucks Guy gives me free COFFFFFFEEEE!!!!

Ahem.

Anywhoo, I’m glad that he wasn’t lying trapped in a car somewhere. He just had to work the afternoon shift. Which might have been just as bad. You never know.

And of course I know that I’m married. And I’d never forsake my sugar daddy Esteban for the cute, most likely 23-year-old, Starbucks Guy. It’s just nice to have a cute guy all flirty and such.

I’m going to be like one of those 40-year-old mom’s who show up at their kid’s football games in low cut blouses and insist on kissing all the football players on the lips. With tongue. I just know it.

So the Quiz has been a hit so far. I’ve been brainstorming some awesome prizes. Apparently, though, the questions were a little hard. My own sister, Mo, who is kind of dumb and didn’t use her pseudonym like a good MoFo, even got one wrong (the name of my cats), and she’s known me all of her life. The funniest part of having that quiz is the fact that my page received numerous hits from people who were obviously scouring for the answers.

Bwahahaha! That made me laugh out loud.

I would say ‘lol’ but that’s just too dorky for words.

I have to work late tonight, which isn’t really a problem because for the past 10 days I’ve essentially been a work widow. Esteban’s working hot and heavy on a nude hooker, and by ‘nude hooker’ I mean a big project at work. It’s surreal because he comes to bed after I’m already asleep and then I leave for work while he’s still sleeping. It’s like living with a ghost who gropes me in my sleep and leaves a lot of dirty laundry.

I was sort of bummed about working late because I had really wanted to see the new movie Rollerball tonight, but then I remembered that I wasn’t dead and in purgatory, so it’s all good.

Yesterday, I dropped a gallon of skim milk in our driveway. I had rested it upon the roof of my car and it slid off.

It did not spill. It exploded. It was like a lactose bomb. There were these little round depressions in the side which are apparently milk escape portals, as they blew out, sending milk spraying over my rear tire and my foot.

It’s really hard to maintain a good attitude when that happens. I picked up my destroyed empty plastic milk jug and left it on the porch, as it was dripping. I figured that I didn’t want to bring it through the house dripping all over the place, so I’d wait until it froze.

Esteban came home. ‘Why is there milk on the porch?’

‘It’s modern art.’

‘No’ seriously.’

‘It blew up.’

‘Oh. Ok.’

My tongue is now too big for my mouth. Either my mouth is shrinking or my tongue is gaining weight.

Actually, I have this little canker sore thing on the side of my mouth and I keep biting it by accident. Now my tongue is the size of a size 12 Hush Puppy loafer.

I know that’s a weird metaphor, but it works for me, ok?

I’m also enamoured of Nine Inch Nail’s ‘Closer’. I keep playing it and bebopping in the car to its tribal beat. I find myself biting my canker sore in time with the music. The pain seems to go well with the song. It’s thematic.

I haven’t seen Starbucks guy in a week. This morning, I got psyched out when I heard a deep flirty voice through the speaker, but it turned out to be the Viggo Mortensen look-alike. Why do they taunt me this way?

I’m beginning to think about not going through Starbucks. Chauffi brought up a very good point via email that I could afford be my own sugar daddy if I simply invested that $5 per day in a money market account at a good interest rate. My friend at work, who has the exact same job as I do and owns two vacation properties, just bought a new truck and paid cash. CASH!

I don’t carry a purse, I carry a money sieve.

In other news, I bought a $30 lipstick at lunch. It will go nicely with my $17 hand cream.

I go through strange ebbs and tides of extravagance and tight-waddery. I stayed up last night until 11:00 to make certain that I won an auction for a menu of a restaurant where my great great grandmother and her son, my great grandfather, used to work. We’re going to put it in our retro kitchen, but now I must go bid on other Green Bay merchandise to make a collage of some sort. But I’m all torn up about paying $22 for a freaking menu. It’s my frugal Midwestern conscience bugging me. My great grandmother used to have a set of towels that she never used because she kept them for good. They were dishtowels people! Who gives a shit about dishtowels? We’re plagued by this legacy. Esteban keeps saving plastic peanut butter jars. When I cleaned out the plastics cupboard, I threw out no fewer than ten red covers for mystery jars. I just wasn’t in the mood to try to discern which covers belonged to which jars. The incongruity is that I believe I must have packed no fewer than 15 coverless jars. I, on the other hand, physically cannot stand to throw away a whole empty packet of Kool-Aid. They have these little point things on them and you can redeem those points for free merchandise. Or mostly free. I’m not even sure why I’m saving the points. I may find out that you can redeem them for rectal thermometers in the shape of the Kool-Aid Pitcher Man. When we moved from our apartment to our house five years ago, June threw out hundreds of little ripped squares containing the precious points. She put me back YEARS in points collecting. I’m still pissed.

I’m blaming this all on the Olympics. I should be all excited about the Olympics, but I’m just not. And I’m channeling that frustration into peanut butter jar lids and slightly stained ripped Kool-Aid points. Or something.

This is a prime example of winter sickness. It’s time for spring.

Anytime now.

This morning, I was driving behind a white delivery type van. It had a big insignia of ‘Louie’s’ on it, and the L was wearing a crown. Beneath the royal crest of the house of Louie, was the slogan ‘Custom Made Puddings’.

What?

‘Custom Made Puddings’

And then a list: Bread Pudding, Rice Pudding, Tapioca Pudding, Baked Custard.

Goodness. I had no idea that the Pudding King lived in the vicinity. And people were custom ordering their tapioca pudding. I may never be able to enjoy a plebian Jell-O Fat Free pudding cup as long as I shall live.

I have obviously led a sheltered, pudding-for-the-masses kind of life.

So, I think my uterus is pissed that I made fun of it. Two weeks after it had me in its clutches, I am once again at mercy of its whims.

I can’t figure it out. I think I screwed up my pills or something. Or it’s really fucking with me. Because that would be just like my uterus.

Weetabix’s Uterus: Sure, bitchtard, make fun of me?! I’ll show you! How about we go to a bi-weekly schedule instead, huh? Bwahahahahaha!

Dave, the husband of Kelley, one of my readers, suggested that I share the dialogues of other of my body parts, such as my boobs and my other girl parts. I tossed that possibility over in my head but now I’m afraid to. What if they rebel as well?

The strange thing about my diary is that I have surprisingly large proportion of male readers. That boggles my mind. I think I’m like a slide of Crazy Girl and this diary is the microscope and my male readers are standing above it in white lab coats saying ‘Zis iz vedddy interesting’!’ while stroking their goatees. Because all my male readers have strange German accents and goatees. Or maybe just Outfoxed.

Last night, I watched ER which I’ve started to watch again after reading the hilarious recaps on Television Without Pity (formerly Mighty Big TV) and let me tell you’. Luka is still yum. I am seriously regretting removing him off my List. He is the male equivalent of a hot fudge sundae, only with a little stubble and sloping de-evolved caveman brow.

(Spoiler alert: if you haven’t seen last night’s ER and you give a shit, don’t read any further! Although I’m not really spoiling anything that wasn’t foreshadowed with a giant spotlight for the last four episodes.)

You know, this is going to piss off my internal Gloria Steinem brain voice, but let me just say this. There is nothing sexier than brute angry strength. Man. I don’t know a girl who doesn’t go all gushy at the thought of a guy fighting another guy FOR HER HONOR. We might act all disgusted at the senseless violence, begging him not to get into a fight, but inside, we’re just yelling, ‘Hit that fucker harder!’ Of course, Abby will likely only give a pained wooden expression and be pissed off about it, because she’s actually a robot. And then Luka will brood silently. However, if some guy hit me, it would thrill me to no end if my ex-boyfriend felt the need to go and beat him up. If Jason the Starbucks Guy did that, I’d fall at his feet in a heartbeat.

At the same time, I’m shocked and dismayed at that last paragraph. Shocked! There is too much hate and violence in the world, people! Violence is wrong! It doesn’t solve anything. Hug more! (Weetabix breaks into ‘I’d like to buy the world a Coke’) Plus, I should be able to do my own ass kicking.

But man, Luka was HOT!!! Growllllll!

That’s just got to be the Uterus talking right there. That’s the only thing that explains it.

I could really go for some chicken fried steak right now’ with some mashed potatoes.

See’. Right now, the male readers are taking notes: ‘Subject displays a sense of conflict between traditional female roles and high level feminism. Very illogical.’

Atlanta update: I will be in Atlanta from March 8-12. If anyone in the Atlanta area (or who will be IN the Atlanta area) wants to get together for drinks or lunch or something, send me an email. We are definitely driving down in the Monte, thanks to your feedback about getting around in Atlanta. And I’ll probably bring the laptop as well, so should be able to update the diary too.

It is sad the way I plan my life around my Internet addiction. Pity me.