That's My Bix!

Guess what?

Starbucks Guy’s name is Jason.

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I think I’ll still call him Starbucks Guy though. I don’t want him to Google himself or anything.

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So this morning, I took a “flex” morning, which meant that I basically used three hours of the time I normally get screwed out of since I’m salaried (but normal folks would call it overtime or comp time) so I could finish packing up the gosh darned kitchen cupboards.

I spent the morning washing the dishes that Esteban has been avoiding like the plague. I swear, if I divorce him, it will be over the dirty dishes. And then I’d have to save up my money to marry Chauffi to be my house husband and make my non-existant children Hello Kitty sandwiches in their tastefully prepared lunches.

Then I toodled over to Starbucks for my morning jing. I was pretty motored already, having been up for several hours, so I opted for a Chai Latte instead of normal rocket fuel Caffe Mocha.

I recognized Surly Girl’s voice over the loudspeaker. Damn. Oh well. The day had started out fairly lousy so there was no reason for it to improve at that point.

I had my awesome Milwaukee burn CD playing though, and the sun was shining. I got up to the window and my suspicions were confirmed… it was indeed Surly Girl at the helm. No cute Starbucks guy to be seen. In fact, I could only see female baristas! What the fuck? Why would I come to Starbucks to see female baristas? That’s absurd! How do they expect to get any business at all?

Oh yeah. The coffee and stuff.

Anyway, I get up to the window and hand her my cash and she says “I see you’ve got your music playing. Jason always appreciates that.”

I did a double take. First off, Surly Girl was making conversation with me, which was a complete first. Secondly… whozzat? Whatzat?

“I beg your pardon?” I said. She might have been talking about the other Starbucks boy… the one who looks like Viggo Mortensen. The one my mom thought I had a crush on until I pointed out Starbucks Guy, the linebacker guy wearing the cute Dockers and the goofy smile. She then chastised me for always going for untraditional looks. This coming from a woman who looks like Cher and whose last date looked like an elderly troll.

“You know… the big tall guy? He always appreciates the music you play.”

I smiled a polite smile, giving the impression that I was merely humoring her, but inside I was doing little married lady leaps of joy. This was flirt confirmation, baby! Not only did I witness him telling Viggo about how I’m his “car thumping girl”, but he’s mentioned it to Surly Girl as well.

When you’ve been with someone for 12 years, a little thing like knowing that the Starbucks guy calls you his “car thumping girl” makes life worth living.

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I must be giving off pheromones again.

Last night, Esteban came to bed late. I was in my normal comfy jammies and Green Bay Packers oversized t-shirt. He got into bed and gave me a hug. He talked to me a bit, my side of the conversation consisting of “Hmm?… Hmmm…. Umhmmm… Hhhhhuh….Yah… Mmmkay…” Then he gave up talking to me and I rolled back into my sleep position, which is on my stomach, one arm under my body, another under my pillow. Very chalk outline, actually.

And then I apparently sighed.

Man… the hands… the big hunk of Esteban next to me… ay carumba. I made my “I’m irritated and I want to sleep so please stop touching me now, ok?” sign which is “Hmmmmmmmmmrrrrrrrrmmmm!”

And then he accused me of being a big tease. Because he said I moaned. And I was like a luscious ripe strawberry.

Oh my god. He doesn’t get poetic like that very often, but apparently Vincent Van Gogh and Gaugin were correct in that lust drives artistic ability.

I’ve never been called a luscious ripe strawberry before.

That’s like one of the best compliments anyone’s ever given me.

I don’t have a very long list of great compliments from people I know personally. You know, ones that just make you stop and go “Wow”. Mary Kaye once told me that she believed that I would be the best at anything I ever decided to try. That was a wow. Someone else, a boy someone, once told me that my eyes were the most incredible things he’d ever looked into. I still remember that, even though it was over ten years ago. It makes me want to giggle and go “Aw.. shucks!” This is kind of dorky, but my college roommate Kassandra once told me that I had great eyebrows. I always remembered that because I hate my eyebrows.

And now I’m Esteban’s ripe strawberry.

Man.

Unless maybe he was just saying that my legs needed to be exfoliated.

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Two of you were interested in a notify list, so there’s a button down at the bottom of the page now to add yourself to it. No one’s on it yet. If no one adds themself after 24 hours, I’m dumping it.

Yeah. I’m harsh that way.

So very tired. So much debauchery takes all my pizzazz, I tell you.

Actually, there was very little debauchery this weekend. It was very surreal, if anything.

We had a bit of a conundrum at Chez Weetabix on Friday night. Mom had begun painting the kitchen on Friday with what was supposed to have been White Orchid but somehow we ended up with Plantation White, which is apparently a fancy word for Urine.

I hate yellow. Thus, another trip to The $100 Store (aka Home Depot, but so named because it is a law that every trip will cost me at least $100, even if I only go in for light bulbs), where we walked out with three gallons of Ultra Pure White and another gallon of Ralph Lauren River Rock, which, due to its special designer foo-foo paint properties, is specially designed so you use four times more paint than normal to achieve the desired look.

I took Mom through Starbucks on the way back. I have an illness, I realize this now. A nice steaming cup of $4 coffee was the only way I could assuage my irritation over my home improvement woes.

Then, I took off for Milwaukee, making the 120 mile trip in 93 minutes, because I had to pee. Damn that bladder, anyway. Then I went to my new favorite mall, which was teeming with yuppies and their children. I ended up parking in what might have possibly been Illinois, conveniently the farthest possible point from the Eddie Bauer store, and hoofing it through swarms of women wearing DKNY and kicky eyeglasses. I, however, was already attired in my Rock Star clothing (well, not the pleather pants, because I just couldn’t see driving down wearing pleather while sitting on actual leather seats’ it just didn’t make sense to me) and felt very conspicuous, like a hooker at a nun convention.

I don’t think nuns actually have conventions, but work with me here.

I made it over to the Eddie Bauer store and picked out my lovely retro gigantic clock. I loved it even more than when it had been beckoning to me from afar. I stood in line to check out, grumpy that I would have to walk through the crowded yuppie infested mall back to Illinois where I had parked the Monte. I was grumpy that there was a woman with Meg Ryan hair and a Spiegal wardrobe arguing with a Eddie Bauer clone employee that the sage green bathmat DID NOT exactly match the Eddie Bauer sage green bed sheets. I wanted to scream ‘What the fuck do you care, bitch? Do you sleep in your fucking bathroom? When is anyone going to hold up the sheets to the bathmat and say ‘My goodness, these are just a hair off when viewed in natural daylight!’ because I was imbued with a whole hard core personality to go with my Urban Flava clothing. I had this strange urge to get my head bobbing from side to side and possibly hold up my finger and say ‘Mmmmm hmmmm’ in a manner that implies that I had numerous homies who would be very happy to pop a cap in their white asses, aiight?

After watching the sage green debate for several minutes, I grew disgusted and hot, unused to wearing so much unnatural fibers. I also began to have doubts about my gigantic clock. What if I bought the clock and then saw a better clock at Pottery Barn? Or my new very favorite store Restoration Hardware? I plunked the clock down and decided that I’d check out the other stores and if I didn’t find something I liked, I’d pull my car around to the Eddie Bauer store, parking illegally outside the door in the pickup area, and if anyone had a problem with it, I’d give them some hard core bling bling attitude.

Aiight?

You know, actually, I’m not entirely certain what bling bling even means. I’m so beige.

I ended up doing just that and now have a very large clock in my possession. And it was good. And there was much rejoicing in the streets.

Then, I drove down the street to a nearby superstore type thing to pick out a digital camera. The ones I was interested in were out of stock. They directed me to another of their chain, on a completely different side of Milwaukee. I managed to get myself there without too much difficulty and picked out a Kodak digital camera as well as the various digital camera accoutrements. Then I pouted and had Jamie, the Car Stereo guy relieving the Camera guy for his lunch, put it all together for me, or I threatened that I would call him from my cell phone in the parking lot and make him walk me through putting it together. The hardest part of the entire procedure turned out to be opening the blister pack that the extra memory came in. But Jamie handled it like a trooper. And I took his picture. Jamie rocked.

As I was leaving the parking lot, Mary Kaye called my cell and let me know that she had left her apartment key under her doormat for me and asked what I wanted to do that night, aside from Rocky Horror at midnight. I was pretty open, so she suggested that we go to the party of her coworker at a ‘really cool bar’. Ok, whatever, I’m pretty easy going.

I met her at her apartment and she took one look at me and said, ‘I don’t see any pleather!’ She then became a Fashion Nazi and demanded that I swathe myself in unnatural fibers from head to toe. She also assessed that my Doc shoes were not glam enough but since I had brought no other shoes and my feet are larger than hers, they would have to do. I whined about how hot the pleather was but she took a hard line and demanded compliance, stating ‘It’s not easy to be stylish!’. I sighed and gave in to her Rock Star clothing demands. Never argue with a fashionista, especially not one wearing calf-high glitter go-go boots.

We met up with her girlfriend Angel, and then set out upon what turned out to be a forty-five minute trek out of the fricking county to Germantown, in search of this party. After being amazed by the weirdly themed town (things are all in German! It’s so’ themey!), we finally found the bar in question. We walked in, looking stylish and hip and urban, and found that we were in what was essentially a really lame sports bar. Frat boys were playing Pac Man and Gallaga. There was an overhead television, showing’I kid you not’ figure skating. We walked in and found that Mary Kaye knew only the birthday boy and some folks who were leaving. The food that was so ballyhooed was cheese, sausage, and some cut veggies with dip. Mary Kaye and I each had two Blind Russians in quick succession and were immediately tipsy. We were so bored, Angel and I actually contemplated whether the icicles outside were real or just decoration (they were real). Eventually, we fled and spent another half hour driving back to downtown Milwaukee, listening to angry lesbian music the entire way.

They decided that a certain bar they knew would be fun, so we went there. Mary Kaye again played the little game where she didn’t want to tell me that it was a gay bar. Actually, it was a lesbian bar, to be specific. We went in and were met with the strangest sight. It was country music night at the lesbian bar, you see. Women were line dancing with other women. Men were two stepping with other men. (I couldn’t really take a picture of it because I didn’t want to get my ass kicked, but here’s an artistic interpretation of my reaction)

It was surreal. Country music is just so straight-laced, so missionary position. I have a stereotype. I realize that stereotypes, whether positive or negative, are not really an open-minded thing and sexual orientation is simply a characteristic, such as eye color or liking Brussels sprouts. If I noticed that many people with blue eyes had a contagious laugh, there would be no scientific basis behind that. I wouldn’t expect all people with blue eyes to have a delightful laugh. Some of them may bray like donkeys. I accept that. My brain understands that. And I have another stereotype that is this: gay people are inherently cool. Not cool because they are gay or in spite of the fact, but rather, they just seem to be a lot cooler than most folk. I’m not entirely certain why, but they tend to be so. Or at least the gay people in my life, anyway. They dress nicer. They’re hip, baby. They’re with it. They are the opposite of square. And they generally listen to cool music. They usually don’t don humongous Yosemite Sam ten gallon hats and two step to ‘Boot Scootin’ Boogie.’ And while I’m not saying that country music is not cool (which, by the way, IT ISN’T!!!) it’s just terribly’. I don’t know’ missionary position and voting Republican.

I’m so going to get my ass kicked by the Gay Pride Garth Brooks Fans for Pat Robertson contingent.

Anyway, we fled Country Night at the lesbian bar. Back in the car, Angel and Mary Kaye name another bar and we went there. Another lesbian bar, this one packed to the brim. I’m beginning to doubt the existence of any actual straight bars in the Milwaukee area. We stood in the middle of the room and were jostled to and fro by various lipsticks, butches, and gym teachers. Mary Kaye and I maintained our tipsy level but it was rather hard in the completely busy bar, where it took ten minutes to get a drink. I was sweating my ass off in my pleather pants and finally I declared that I needed pizza. Because I had naught to eat all day and if I was going to have another drink, I would have been knocked flat on my pleathered Hootchie Mama ass.

We went to a pizza restaurant near the Rocky Horror theatre and chowed on some fabulous sausage and mushroom pizza. Then we drove two blocks to the theatre (it was awesome having Angel drive us as it was very cold and she would just drop us off at the door and go and park the car). There we waited for an hour for it to start (because the midnight showing doesn’t actually start until almost one o’clock for some reason). Angel and Mary Kaye made out during the entire show. The cast member who played Dr. Everett Scott kept coming over and talking with me, at one point even caressing my face. It was a strange dynamic, being the obvious third wheel. I think he was totally turned on seeing two girls making out and figured I must be a party girl too if I was hanging out with them. Anyway, the Rocky Horror experience was awesome and honestly, more men should wear corsets and garters. It’s very hot. (Come on, did you really think I’d take a picture of them making out? Pervs.)

I didn’t get any pictures from Rocky Horror though, because my batteries, which had been in the camera for an entire three hours, had died and I didn’t think I’d need replacements THAT FUCKING NIGHT.

So after much driving and car shuffling, Mary Kaye and I went back to her apartment. I took the sofa this time, having driven her to it two weeks ago with my intense water buffalo snoring sounds. Her evil cat nestled below my ass as I slept and I was afraid to move lest she bite a very tender portion of my anatomy. Ever since the ass splinter incident, I’ve become very nervous about my fine round tush. Once pierced, twice shy and stuff like that.

We slept for what was approximately fifteen minutes when Mary Kaye’s alarm went off. She had to go sing in Lesbian Choir. She graciously let me sleep while she took off. I woke up, took a shower, packed up my crap, and watched what has turned out to be a traditional ‘Behind the Music’. It was the Cher episode.

Mary Kaye came home from church and we went to score some lunch at a microbrew pub downtown. It was a very strange place. Mary Kaye ordered a chef salad and was served this strange plate with ham, pita bread, pesto, mustard, cheese and a forty-two bean pasta salad. It was the ugliest lunch I’d ever seen.

We then went in search of cheaper glam clothes in the ghetto. When we found the place, I actually thought that the store was closed, judging by the actual pile of garbage in the doorway and the many bars on the windows, but apparently both features are permanent. There was actually garbage INSIDE the store too. It was unreal. ‘You dropped your plate.’ Mary Kaye joked with me, stepping over a paper plate about three feet into the store, complete with residue of some tasty meal long past.

We found that the ghetto version of the Rock Star store did not have the plethora of cheap glam duds that the Downtown version had. If anything, things were more picked over. Mary Kaye tried to think of a word and then waved it off, going into a dressing room to try on a studded pair of lowrider jeans. Suddenly, she yells from the dressing room ‘Desensitized! That’s the word I was thinking of!’ And I then received accusatory looks from every soul sister in the joint (which was everyone else but Mary Kaye and myself).

I ended up not making any purchases. MK bought a pair of track pants for $3. We then hopped back into the car and went to Krispy Kreme, where I scored several dozen doughnuts for the crew back in Green Bay. We then had a discussion about the ‘Bootilicious’ song. She was laughing at a coworker who thought the line was ‘I don’t think you’re ready’ I’m just chillin&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9-. I explained that I had originally thought the line was ‘I don’t think you’re ready for six thirty’ but then I figured that they were saying, ‘I don’t think you’re ready for Dest-on-y’. She said that it was really ‘I don’t think you’re ready for this jelly’ which apparently is a sexual euphemism that I never would have imagined in a million years. I wonder if people in the forties had these conversations about Frank Sinatra lyrics. After all the glam music and angry lesbian music, I’m going to be on a steady aural diet of Squirrel Nut Zippers and Diana Krall. I do have to admit that she did turn me onto this new song that uses the Price Is Right theme song. I’m all over that thing.

All in all, it was a very fun weekend spent with one of my favorite people. She reminded me that we’ve been friends for fourteen years, which is half of her life. Incredible, when you think of it. Because I’m older than her, she won’t be able to make that “half-life” claim on me for another two years.

Then it was time to depart. Before I left the city, I stopped in one of my favorite cemetaries and snapped a bunch of pictures. Then I made my way north once more. When I returned home, Esteban was helping our friend Phil demolish his century old kitchen which apparently was wired with electrified wire coat hangers and was about a breath away from going poof like a box of tinder. He’s going to help him again tonight. He’s such a handy man. Meanwhile, our own household dysfunction continues to rage on, but the bathroom is a lovely shade of light taupe, which has nary a tinge of yellow to be found. The kitchen is still being seen through Urine colored glasses, but that will be fixed as soon as I can empty all of the cupboards so they can spray Ultra White upon every surface imaginable. I envision a kitchen that will still be bright when I turn off the lights.

All the better by which to see my gigantic big ass clock.

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Some other pictures:

Mary Kaye’s tastefully decorated apartment, with one of the three cats (Frantic)

Razzie… the cat who wants me dead

Here Razzie is trying to kill me as I watch a music video… I took a picture for proof

A picture I took of Mary Kaye when she was 18 as part of a photography art project

Ok, when I have unlimited photo ability, I tend to go a bit overboard and think everything is photo worthy.

Even Mary Kaye’s Disco Toilet Paper dispenser.

The cemetary stop (I still like to be arsty with a camera):

This bench was the only one in the entire cemetary which had oxidized… the rest had rusted. The thing that attracts me to cemetaries is the fact that they almost seem as though the world is black and white, so this really jumped out.

I really thought it was cool obviously.

Gigantic monument

This cemetary has incredible statues

Another one

This one actually had a reasonably fresh bouquet of flowers.

My absolute favorite Angel statue

My sister Mo left a message in the guestbook stating that she has a water-filled bra and it does not freeze when she goes outside. She then immediately sent me an email (we were at work) telling me to read my guestbook.

I replied “Did I really want to know that?”, meaning that my little sister feels the need to have porn star boobs or some such.

She wrote back that I had asked and also that if she puts the water bra into the dryer, it will explode.

Bwahahahaha!

Now that is funny. Exploding lingerie. Bringing new meaning to the phrase “Boy, she’s got a hot pair on her, don’t she?”

Argh. I’m talking about Mo’s boobs. Eek.

She then asked “Oh, great, this is going to be in your diary, isn’t it?”

I replied, “Yes. Yes it is.” Because how can I not write about a bra which explodes in the washing process?

Wait a second… I think I’m channeling Martha Stewart…

You should never put your underwire bras into the dryer. Line dry them on bleached birch drying hooks, available through Martha By Mail, and you and your bras will continue to have a wonderful supporting relationship for years to come. Now my mother, Martha Koystra, will show us the proper way to withhold her love from me…er…take an angel food cake from the pan.

(gasp!)

Sorry. That doesn’t happen often.

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I’m going to Milwaukee this weekend, for another night of debauchery with Mary Kaye. We’re going to the midnight showing of Rocky Horror Picture show, featuring our waitress from Ed Debevics last weekend. And I am going to buy a giant clock at Eddie Bauer which I fell in love with last trip but was too cheap to purchase. Now the clock has haunted me, ticking at me madly during quiet moments, like some Tell-Tale Heart, only cute and with Eddie Bauer written across it in sophisticated script, ticking ticking incessantly ticking wanting to live on my dining room wall until I yell “Stop! Stop I say! Stop! Why won’t you go away!” and then fall sobbing into a fetal heap.

Or something.

So… I’m buying the clock.

And possibly a digital camera. Because I’d like to post pictures of various freaky happenings. Like, had I had a digital camera last time, you would have gotten looks at the strippers, and the people with the scary piercings and possibly a picture of me lapping up my Laffy Taffy martini like a kitten.

Possibly we should all be relieved I didn’t have a digital camera last weekend.

So my day today:

Blew ass.

Started off kind of ok. Called in and took a vacation day, as I have 8 copy paper boxes to fill with things from our kitchen cupboards. Then I proceeded to sleep, perchance to dream, until almost 11:00 a.m.

I got up and checked my email, chatted a bit, and then got into the shower, because any day that starts out with a little Rosemary Mint shampoo and a rousing version of “Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend” is always a good day.

Yes. I sing in the shower. It keeps my mind off of slicing my wrists open with my Mach 3 due to large car repair bills.

While I was in the shower, I heard noises in the house at large. It was my mom. And her work partner Roger. And I was showering with the door open, now basically trapped in my bathroom naked. Because the kitchen is between the bathroom and my bedroom.

Groovy.

So I scrounge a pair of boxers and an old fugly tshirt from the hamper and throw that on so I could walk through the kitchen and maintain my dignity. I got dressed and then my mom wanted me to go and pick out the colors of paints for the various rooms which now are in need of color. The three of us piled into Roger’s truck and I picked out some Ralph Lauren River Rock in Granite for my mudroom (because we can no longer call it a breezeway, since it doesn’t have windows at both ends anymore), White Orchid (which is fancy talk for Almost But Not Quite White) for the kitchen, and Light Taupe and Worn Glove (which is just darker than Light Taupe) for the bathroom, which will have an antiqued look.

At that point, it was two in the afternoon. I had not had anything to gnosh on. I had not even one drop of caffeine. We passed the Starbucks drivethrough, home of Starbucks Guy, and I’m certain that had I asked, they would have gladly made a Caffe run, but there was just something so sophomoric about driving through with my mom and grizly old Roger, three of us squashed across a huge truck’s front seat. I envisioned myself pathetically waving to the Starbucks Guy and decided that I could wait and drink a Diet Coke when I got home.

Which I did. And ate some leftover pizza. And surfed the goddamned Internet for three hours until it was time for me to pick up Esteban and go retrieve the Monte from the car hospital.

It’s snowing and Esteban had left me the truck.

I really hate the truck. I used to like the truck but that was when I hated my 1986 Pontiac 6000 college car with an intense passion normally reserved for Nazi War Criminals and the Olsen Twins. Back then, pre-Monte, I would connive to drive the truck, with it’s working air conditioning, working cruise control, and power windows, not to mention its cancer-free paint job. It’s all relative, people. Now I have one of the smoothest rides around, black leather seats that hug my ample bottom exquisitely, tunes that can be changed by the slightest flick of my thumb on the steering wheel. It is a ride to die for. It makes me a little hot just thinking about it, actually.

I really love my car.

And really hate the truck.

To make matters worse, we’re having our first real snow today and the truck handles like a lead sled in slippery conditions. You must begin turning the steering wheel half a block before you actually intend on turning, or your life may be in jeopardy. That truck doesn’t actually want to move. It would rather stand in our driveway, looking stately and masculine, flaunting its large tailgate at the little S10s that buzz around our bedroom community like gnats.

Maybe it just dislikes being driven by a woman. “Where’s the love?!” I whined to it, but the truck remained taciturn, spinning its wheels in two centimeters of slush, absent of ballast.

I called Esteban when I was a block from the lab and he met me out front, where I promptly scooted out of the driver’s seat and into the passenger seat.

I hate that thing.

But, I have the Monte back. The Monte adores me. The Monte knows how much fun we have together. The Monte can’t wait to drive through Starbucks tomorrow. The Monte is excited that we’re going to Milwaukee this weekend and get to drive fast for long periods of time and try out the new fat tires and sweet suspension.

Number of kitchen cabinets emptied: Zero

Number of corn dogs eaten: three

Number of Diet Cokes consumed: three

Number of inches of snow that have fallen today: Four

Feet of sidewalk someone must shovel tonight or the city will bust our asses: 132

Feet of sidewalk I intend on shoveling tonight: Zero.

Number of vacation days wasted: 1

Last night, I noticed a show in the cable guide called ‘Burger Meister’. No shit. It’s a cooking show about making burgers. That night, the guy was making salmon burgers.

Just so you know, if you bump into that show, that is not Esteban. He will not own up to the Burgermeister title, and certainly wouldn’t be on a cooking show of that name, unless The Naked Chef, whom I think he has a boy crush on, hosted it. Naturally, any show with the title ‘Naked’ got Esteban’s attention, but now he’s hooked. It’s his goofy little lisp. I really can’t blame Esteban. I think he’s cute in an Eaton kind of way.

Speaking of crushes, have I mentioned my infatuation with my new boyfriend, the Starbucks guy?

He’s so dreamy. He reminds me of one of the Bare Naked Ladies. I love a linebacker type guy with khaki Dockers. (sigh)

I went through the Starbucks drive through again this morning and got my Caffe Mocha with a shot of vanilla (which, by the way, improves the initial acky coffee taste immensely) and he took my order over the speaker. ‘Skim or whole milk?’ He purred seductively. My little heart went aflutter, although it might have been from the close proximity to rocket propulsive caffeinated nectar. I actually quickly put on some lipstick before I got to the window and prepped up a good song on the CD player, so he would instantly be madly interested in my quirky taste in music, which would indicate that I am a very deep and tortured soul. Then I fluffed up my hair, put on my kicky glasses, and tried to look lascivious in my rearview mirror.

I got up to the window and saw him making my Caffe Mocha. It was so sensual the way he turned the little nob on the whatzit and steamed the milk. Then it all foamed over with passion and I swear on my drunken mama’s vodka gimlets that he groaned my name as it spilled over the top of the cup.

Although ‘Shit’ and ‘Weetabix’ do sound remarkably alike.

Then he played hard to get. He handed my drink to the Girl Baristas and turned away. She gave me my cup of love (without a cardboard cup condom thing, I might add) and said, ‘Thank you very much.’ with the ire of someone whose heart is breaking over the unrequited love of a cute Starbucks Guy.

She’s so totally jealous.

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Today I’m doing the spa thing. I chickened out on the massage though. I tried to explain it to PoorYorick and he said I had nothing to worry about. So then I asked him if he had ever had a massage at the spa, and he said no, because he didn’t want to be naked. So, I asked him, how come it’s ok for ME to be naked and not him to be naked?

‘Because you’re cute and curvy.’ He replied.

Ok.

Like I can argue with that?

I still chickened out though, but I’m telling myself that I’m reserving the right to massage at a later date. I’m getting the manicure, pedicure, and high-octane facial today. It’s enough splurging for one day. I’m really interested in the hot stone massage. Maybe next week.

In preparation for my pedicure, I decided that perhaps my feet needed to be shaved. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have hobbit feet or anything. I’m not freaky hairy, but there are a few blond hairs, which would look very inappropriate with cute girly toes. And I didn’t want my pedicurist to think I had scary man feet, as she would be close enough to perhaps see the blond feet hairs and pass judgment over my feet. And I didn’t want that. So I shaved them in the shower this morning.

I can’t believe I’m telling y’all this.

Anyway, because I’m not accustomed to the intricacies of feet shaving, I cut my toe. And I’m not having cramps, so I can’t even blame it on that. I cut my ‘This little piggie stayed home’ toe and it hurts like bejeezus now. Dang.

So that will look really nice. I’ll have to pick out a polish that doesn’t clash with my toe scab.

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I came home from work last night and found every door on every cupboard in my kitchen gone.

And I made an important realization. We have entirely too much alcohol.

Seriously. If I had a digital camera, I’d take a picture of it. It’s disturbing. And betwixt all the Absolut, Blavod, Kahlua, and Malibu bottles, a single can of lighter fluid. I swear, it’s like a Malotov Cocktail factory or something, which I shouldn’t know how to make, but Steal this Book was required reading by the hippy activists my mom used to hang out with when I was young and impressionable. Abby Hoffman would be proud.

The reason for the wealth of vice in our cupboards is the fact that we really don’t drink, so it just accumulates. If alcohol went bad, we wouldn’t have this problem. I actually purchased that bottle of Kahlua when I was 19 years old in Nogales, Mexico for $5 and brought it back home, on my carryon, sweating over the possibility that I would be carded. It was the first bottle of alcohol I ever owned. There’s about two inches left. I should probably ditch that one, but now I’m nostalgic about it. I cling to it like a teddy bear from my childhood, which is appropriate, actually, and the alcoholics in my family would likely be proud.

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Dear Mentos,

My god.

Please stop breeding your freakishly large European people who smile foolishly at any situation. Their teeth are very big and my cats are frightened. The blonde woman in your newest commercial looks as though she eats small children for breakfast.

And the beast shall reveal himself and his name will be Freshmaker.

I fear that my time in Purgatory will be spent with “do do do doo do do, doo-wahhh” stuck in my head.

Make it stop,
Weetabix

P.S. Seriously. Do you go specifically looking for actors with Marfan’s or something?