That's My Bix!

You know, as much as I sometimes kvetch about being a girl, it’s really fun sometimes.

I was thinking that as I was wandering around my house this morning in my adorably cute pink flowered boxer shorts and white t-shirt. I have a wonderful soft curvy body. I like my hips. I like the way that my shirt falls into my waist and sits in a little puff on my hips. I like my breasts, even though I wish they’d be perkier and stand at attention like the pinup girls on the sides of 1940’s b-52 Bombers. I like shaving my legs, even though I cut myself sometimes. I like having smooth legs. I like Body Shop’s Body Butter. It makes me all soft and sweet, even though I feel like a Butterball turkey when I’m greasing myself up with it. And it smells like mango ass, but that goes away after awhile.

I like the fact that I have really lovely sheets and a lovely white 350 thread-count duvet cover on my wonderful down comforter. I like the fact that my bed is a bit like sleeping in a cloud.

I like matching my underwear to my clothes. I like painting my fingernails and growing them long. I like the fact that I don’t have to if I don’t want to, but I have a choice.

I don’t know if I would be able to do those things if I were a guy. Buying Body Butter would be right out. So would buying $40 worth of candles that smell like the ocean.

I like men. I like men a lot. It’s my mother’s fault, really. She collects men. It’s her hobby. She works in men the way artists work in oils or clay. (I think I stole that line from somewhere, because it sounds too good to be mine, but it fits perfectly.) She’s a Marilyn Monroe type. She never broke up with a man (and believe me, it was always she that did the breaking up) until she was certain she had a replacement, like a tire you know is about to go flat. She never buys herself a drink. Even at 50, she still has men following her around like lost puppies’ they’re just older men, lower down in the barrel. I suspect that at age 75, she’ll have retirees trotting around the bingo hall, offering to buy her a new bingo dabber.

That was for you, bingoguy.

And she is really beautiful. Or was at one point. Now she has this aging movie star quality’ oozing with grace and charm, through a thin veil of slightly crepey skin and gray roots. She still never has to pay for a drink. I think I learned how to act around men from watching her. As the men never really lasted overly long, she was always in the ‘Falling in Love’ stage with them. Or the cold, distant ‘I have someone new’ phase. I was twenty before I understood that men were just people, not mystical, not princes, just people.

But I still love men.

I like how they think. I like to laugh about men things with them. I like football. I love how they don’t worry about what other people will think. I love how they just take control of things and not worry about seeming pushy. I don’t play girl games (unless the Uterus is taking over, that is). They seem to like me back. All of my very best friends are men, with few exceptions (and one of the exceptions is a lesbian, so that says what exactly?). And the few girl friends I have are unusual for girls too. We’re the tomboys. We can’t stand the bitches. They can’t stand us. We don’t feel at ease at a Tupperware party. We cook because we feel like it and not pride ourselves over our tasty Hamburger TaterTot casserole. We like boy music. We like boy books. We don’t read romance novels.

But I think that in some ways, I’m just Marilyn Monroe’s daughter in a different form. I’m in no way a classical beauty. I’m not even cute. But at the same time, one time, a girly girl called me ‘catnip for men’. So perhaps I’m a little skewed. I never really had a moral problem with the fact that I used to date two men at once in college. Perhaps I should have had a problem with that. Maybe that says something about me. Esteban once told me that girly girls don’t like me because I refuse to play their games and men still find my opinions interesting. Honestly, I don’t play their games because I would lose at them’ badly. My mother never had women friends, really, either. My college roommates, Kassandra, looked like a mix between Marilyn Monroe and Madonna. In the middle of her junior year in college (I’ll do the math for you here’ she’d been in school two and a half years) I was her 13th roommate and the only one who lasted longer than 8 weeks. And I still write to her and talk with her all the time. She gives me copywriting assignments for her design firm. We understand each other. Maybe our only difference is that I am the very last person the guys in the bars will look at and she is the very first. This weekend, over lunch with Belle, I remembered Kass’ 21st birthday. She had invited 11 different men out to dinner to celebrate it. All 11 thought that they were her date that night. They all got there and found 10 other men, all vying for her attention. (On a side note: she’s actually married to one of them) I suppose that girly girls don’t like people like her because it pisses them off that she can get away with it.

And maybe it should piss me off too. I probably couldn’t get away with it. I don’t have the body or the cuteness going for me. It’s just personality and attitude. And maybe my hooters, but that really doesn’t seem to count for all that much. Any chick with $2500 can buy herself a way better pair than mine, if she hasn’t already got nice perky ones to start with.

But I still like being a girl. I think that the genetic propensity I have to be the Marilyn Monroe type overrides the fact that I don’t fit the societally predetermined body type. I was just miscast, that’s all. The role called for a bombshell sex goddess and they cast the Funny Fat Girl instead.

But I’m going with that. I’m ok with that, I guess.

Because I’m a girl and sometimes I can make up the rules as I go along.

This is my favorite poem. Of. All. Time.

It should come as no surprise to you.

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Poop
By Gerald Locklin

my daughter, blake, is in kindgergarten. they are teaching her to be a docile citizen and, incidentally to read. concurrently, like many of us, she has become a trifle anal compulsive. complications ensue.

i ask her what she has learned today. she says, “i learned the pledge of allegiance.” “how does it go?” i ask. “it goes,” she says, “i poop allegiance to the poop of the united poops of ameripoop.”

“that’s good,” i say, “that’s very good. what else?” “o say can you poop, by the dawn’s early poop, what so proudly we pooped…”

for christmas, she improvises, “away in a pooper, all covered in poop, the little lord poopus lay pooping his poop.”

she has personalized other traditional favorites as well. someone, perhaps her grandmother, tried to teach her the “our father”. her version goes, “our pooper, who art in poopland, hallowed by thy poop, thy poopdom poop, they poop be pooped, on earth as it is in poopland.”

surely hemingway would feel one-upped. surely the second pooping is at hand.

a fortune teller told us blake would be our greatest sorrow and our greatest joy. already, it is true.

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Weetabix’s Uterus: Grrrrrrr! I hate the world!!!

Weetabix: Stop it or I’ll take another Advil.

Weetabix’s Uterus: By the way, did you see how the real Jack and Jennifer are back on Days of Our Lives? See? I told you that you should quit your job and stay home and watch soap operas and clean the house.

Weetabix: No.

Weetabix’s Uterus: What kind of wife are you anyway? You need to clean the house more.

Weetabix: Shut up. I have a life too.

Weetabix’s Uterus: Grrrr. Real women balance a career, a clean home, exercise, cooking, lots of man loving, AND a scintillating crafty hobby. Do you think that Martha Stewart bandies about on the Internet? No. She’d make a tastefully coordinated basket liner to organize her pale green panties. You need to organize your panties’ and the rest of your house too. When was the last time you scrubbed the top of the water heater in the basement? Huh? Those Q-tips you put in the jar in the bathroom closet are all crooked too. You suck, bitch.

Weetabix: Taking an Advil now.

Weetabix’s Uterus: I’d rather have a chocolate covered pretzel. Or maybe three pints of Chubby Hubby ice cream. Or maybe you could just mix up a couple of pounds of sugar with a shaker of salt and eat that with a big spoon?

Weetabix: How about a Diet Coke?

Weetabix’s Uterus: How about we have a baby? A nice good-smelling baby?

Weetabix: (covering her ears) La la la la la.

Weetabix’s Uterus: Yes. A baby is what we really want. A cute googly-eyed baby that will make cute noises and smell like baby shampoo. Think of how happy you’d make Ward and June? And presents! You’d get presents! Like changing tables and Desitin! And then we could decorate one of the spare bedrooms into a nursery! I love to decorate! Decorating rocks! I’m the queen of decorating! And then we could name it something really cool. Like Jebediah.

Weetabix: That’s really’ uh’ different.

Weetabix’s Uterus: Or Lauren if it’s a girl. I like Lauren.

Weetabix: I like Lauren too. But we’re not having a baby.

Weetabix’s Uterus: Does your husband love you? Maybe you should check to see if your husband loves you. You know, he didn’t seem all that interested in the cute clothes we bought. Maybe he really thinks you’re a troll and is just being polite. I told you that you should have married Donnie Osmond. Remember that time three years ago when Esteban didn’t do the dishes even though he said he would and snapped at you when you asked him when he was going to do it? He still hasn’t apologized for that. You should bring that up to him and see what he says. Make that fucker pay for what he put you through three years ago.

Weetabix: I hate you.

Weetabix’s Uterus: You know, you really should look more like Britney Spears. You need to weigh 90 pounds. And dye your hair blonde. And wear high heels. You wear ‘I get no sex’ shoes. And giggle more. Don’t act so smart. And have a baby. Stop slouching. You need to go tanning too. You’re very pale. Like flour. Pasty white flour legs. No one likes you, you know. They think you’re a Heather.

Weetabix: I’m not a Heather. You are.

Weetabix’s Uterus: Damn right I am and don’t you forget it.

Weetabix: By the way, thanks for the cut this morning. I was shaving my legs in the shower and you cramped up right then and now I have a lovely nick on my ankle.

Weetabix’s Uterus: You don’t take me seriously enough. I wouldn’t have cut you if we had a baby.

Weetabix: Um’ answer’s still no.

Weetabix’s Uterus: Fine, bitch, then expect more bloodshed. And maybe you shouldn’t be sleeping on those expensive 300-thread white sheets, huh? I mean, you just don’t take me seriously enough.

Weetabix: You wouldn’t.

Weetabix’s Uterus: You know I would, cellulite butt. I think you need to do a few more neck exercises, you know. You’ve got a lot of double chin action going on there’ no, wait’ there are three of them. You know, I’m in the mood for some soothing Celine Dion ballads.

Weetabix: Bluck.

Weetabix’s Uterus: (singing) Love’ soft as an easy chair! (stops singing and yells) FUCK EVERYONE!!!!! AAAAHHHH! I HATE EVERYONE!!!! YOU ALL SUCK!!!

Weetabix: How about two Oreo flavored Jell-O pudding cups?

Weetabix’s Uterus: With chocolate chips mixed in for texture? And then use it as dip for potato chips.

Weetabix: Whatever.

Weetabix’s Uterus: Then let’s eat a bucket of fried chicken!

Weetabix: You’re pushing it now.

Weetabix’s Uterus: Don’t toy with me, bitchtard. Me and my posse will take you OUT!!!! I’ll make you cry at work because Hissyfit is not going to have forums anymore! Don’t think I won’t do it! You’re going to write about this on your diary, aren’t you? You know, the day that diarists have a conversation with a body part is the day that they jump the shark. You’ll have no readers anymore. Everyone will think you’re a feminazi. A fat pasty white feminazi who hates babies.

Weetabix: (sigh)

“Look at how ‘It’s a wonderful life’ it is!” Belle commenting upon the largish snowflakes falling on Saturday afternoon, before I left for Milwaukee, which is originally Algonquin for “the good land”.*

*I learned that from watching Wayne’s World. Party on.

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So this weekend.

This is going to be a long entry.

I’m warning you right now. Maybe go put on some sweatpants, get yourself a Diet Coke, and light an aromatherapy candle.

Or, if you have a short attention span, go read SaveCraig who is always very humorous and bite-sized.

Anyway, here goes:

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On Friday, I decided that it is probably time for me to visit my friend Mary Kaye who lives in Milwaukee. Bit of back story on Mary Kaye (Here’s a really weird fuzzy picture of Mary Kaye dancing with Markus at my wedding… freakishly large Esteban cousins are in the background): she’s my oldest best friend and she’s also a lesbian. A “lipstick lesbian” to be precise, which means, for those of you who aren’t in the Rainbow Know, that she’s not all butch or even a tiny bit masculine. If she didn’t have rainbows everywhere or wear shirts that say, “I kiss girls”, one would never know that she is. She’s also a fabulous singer, has occasionally poor judgment in potential mates, and has excellent aesthetic taste. And she’s a lot of fun.

Anywhoo, I called her on Friday and said, “How about I drop down tomorrow?” And her mouth dropped open forcibly because she figured I’d never come down unless my life depended on it. So plans were made. She finished working at 6:00 pm on Saturday, so I planned to do some shopping and then meet her when she finished working.

Cool.

So I prepped. I took the Monte for a bath at lunchtime and cleaned the more obtrusive bits of junk from the interior. Of course, I didn’t really think about the fact that it was 6 degrees out.

You know where this is going.

When I left work five hours later, my doors were frozen shut. No big. Thanks to the design genius’ at Chevrolet, any mild frost settles into the weather stripping around my doors and freezes tighter than the knees of a guilty Catholic schoolgirl before confession. I have a system of jamming my fingernails between the doorframe and the car, breaking the ice crystals, freezing the tips of my fingers in the process. It’s fine. I can deal. I’m a badass tough Wisconsin girl and all that. So I did that and the door opened without much coercion.

But then it wouldn’t close. It was like the door was now too large. After about fifteen minutes of trying to get the door to close with the heat running full blast, I called Esteban and explained why I was going to be late. He offered to come and help me. I relinquished all self-dignity and gave in to my helpless female idiocy and said, ‘Yes, please.’

The worst part was knowing that I shouldn’t have washed the car, that I know better than to wash your car when it’s six degrees above zero outside. But I was just thinking about having a nice clean Monte.

Things like that are the reason men think girls are dumb.

Twenty minutes later, Esteban pulls up in his truck and works on the car door. Basically he slammed the door repeatedly several times, to the same results that I had.

‘Did you get it washed?’ He asked smarmily.

‘Yes’ I said in a Go ahead and make a comment’ I dare you voice.

‘Looks nice.’ He said, nodding. I married a very wise man.

We then drove over to a car parts place and snagged some lock de-icer. After spraying that into the latching mechanism, the car door closed like buttah. We then went to dinner, where we bumped into Scott No Pseudonym, and then some more friends joined us. We went to a really awful sports bar and I played trivia, taking second place against the other patrons. One of the questions was on the lyrics to ‘Xanadu’. There’s just no beating me when it comes to Songs Off LPs I Listened To Religiously When I Was 8. You have to believe we are magic, baby. Nothing can stand in our way.

Saturday morning rolls around and Esteban and I went to breakfast, as I had been dreaming maple syrup-covered dreams about warm seductive slices of French toast and thus who am I to interfere with what may have been an important oracle type dream? We went out and our friend Phil joined us and all in all, it was a lovely breakfast. Then I ran around, packing and what not, conveniently forgetting to put Mary Kaye’s Christmas present in the car (although I remembered to put the unopened Christmas present she had sent me via her mom, figuring we’d both open ours together), my Franklin planner, my refill, etc. I also quickly burned a CD for my listening enjoyment and strangely enough, the songs became kind of a strange soundtrack for my weekend and because it’s a given to include song lyrics in one’s online diary, I will do so as well.

those schoolgirl days

of telling tales and biting nails are gone

— To sir with love (Natalie Merchant with Michael Stipe)–

I loaded way too much upon myself before I was to leave and I always do that. I did manage to stop by Belle’s house and chat with her for a bit, which was very nice, before I embarked upon my journey. I shirked the need to get my oil changed before I left. That’s because I’m just a girl and have no concern for such manly ventures. That’s not entirely true, but it was getting really late and starting to snow and I was nervous about my two-hour drive. I also shirked a couple of other things, but hey, I had a nice shiny car, a big Diet Coke and a shiny newly burned CD. Life was good.

Being good isn’t always easy

No matter how hard I’d try

–Son of a preacher man (Joan Osbourne live)–

I managed to make the 2-hour drive in about eighty minutes’. Must have driven through some time/space continuum thing that those Trekkies are always talking about’ heh heh.

First stop, The Spice House, where I purchased $45 worth of spices. Then I hustled to a distant mall where I visited the state’s only Franklin Covey store, home of luxurious products for anal retentive people. I drooled over a $250 Coach purse/planner combo. Then the sales guy came over with a rag to wipe up the drool and sneered at me.

I ended up buying a $120 planner.

It hurts so bad when you finally know just how low, low, low, low, low, she’ll go. — Baby’s done a bad bad thing-(Chris Issak)–

It was on sale. Stop looking at me like that. It was really only $90. Sheesh.

I walked out of that store feeling deliciously snobby, with a tremendous sense of holier-than-thou. That doesn’t happen often. Thank god.

That mall was like the mall of my dreams. There was not only the Franklin Covey store and a Body Shop, but also a Pottery Barn, a two story Barnes & Noble, an Eddie Bauer Home, a Disney store, and a Reconstructive Hardware store. If it only had an Avenue, a Cute Socks store and a Godiva Chocolates store, it would be perfect. (Actually, Barnes & Noble carries Godiva chocolates, but still’)

At that point, I called Mary Kaye and she gave me directions to meet her at her apartment. She got home and I dragged my stuff into her pad, which is very tastefully decorated and filled with not one, not two, but three cats. Razzle Dazzle, the calico one, was psychotic and tried to beat me up. Tilly looks very normal compared to that cat’s brand of dysfunction. She even tried to beat up Mary Kaye at one point. Only MK could love a six-pound cat that threatens regularly to kick her ass.

Beautiful beautiful

Girl from the north — Candy (Iggy pop with Kate Pierson)–

MK then dressed in an outfit I can only describe as Super Hero Incognito. She wore a purple shirt, unbuttoned to show major cleavage and a black velvet bra, a black mini skirt, shiny silver tights and black thigh high boots. She topped it off with a weird shabby-chic fur coat. I looked relatively low key in my black ensemble with acid green turtleneck (and matching acid green lingerie, don’t forget!). We packed up her magic lasso and got into her invisible airplane and took off for The Velvet Room, which had live jazz and was famous for chocolate martinis.

Let me tell you, The Velvet Room is my new boyfriend. I love the Velvet Room. Any place which has a specific menu for the martinis and a live jazz combo, with a singer whose voice is like aural cream has got to be good, but the food was also divine. They had magenta toilets with black toilet seats. That’s not why I love it, it’s just a fact.

We drank our weight in vodka.

I don’t think little big girls should

Go walking in these spooky old woods alone.

Owoooooooo!

— Little red riding hood- (Sam the Sham)–

I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast and it was 8:00 pm at that point. First up to the plate were Cosmopolitans. Those went down so smoothly. Mary Kaye insisted on ordering whatever I ordered because she knew she’d want mine if she didn’t. We both affected a drunken crush on our waiter Josh, who looked like an escapee from a Real World cast. Next martini was a Laffy Taffy, upon Josh’s recommendation. This mixture of banana liquer and cream tasted like a melty banana shake. MK took a picture of me lapping it out of the glass like a kitten.

I make the rules up as I go — Strong enough (live Sheryl Crow with Dixie Chicks)–

Yeah. We were a little toasted at that point.

Next martini was a chocolate martini. That was good. You wanted to lick out the glass when you were done drinking it. I don’t remember much at that point, but I think our meals came then. I ordered the Filet Mignon, with roasted garlic mashed potatoes, a demi glace, and steamed zucchini. Mary Kaye got the grilled salmon, with a dutch potato cake, grilled mushrooms, pinot noir, herbs, and steamed veggies. Both were divine.

We ordered another round of martinis’ I had another Cosmopolitan; MK deviated and had another Chocolate Martini. She then received a phone call from her would-be girlfriend Angel, who was going to meet us after dinner. She went to the bathroom to talk and I downed my Cosmo and ordered another Laffy Taffy. I actually felt compelled to give Josh a disclaimer, stating that I hardly ever drank but I really love martinis. He soothed me by saying that he WAS a lush and you only lived once. I’m certain that he said this because he wanted me to be comfortable and not due to the fact that his tip was skyrocketing with every graceful glass of vodka. The bill for Mary Kaye and my meal and drinks came to over $140.

Mary Kaye then sighted some friends from work and they congregated around us. I became vivacious and giggly with these cute boys. One called me a ‘kicky broad’ and I countered that I had never been called a ‘broad’ in my life and I preferred the term ‘Princess’ or ‘Goddess’ but for him, he would be allowed to call me a ‘chick’. We continued to banter and soon I was surrounded by cute boys, discussing breast size, football, and how many martinis I had downed thus far. One boy remarked that I was the perfect woman. Damn right, I said back.

I’ll be captivated I’ll hang from your lips — I’ll be (Edwin Mccain)–

Finally, MK’s suitor Angel showed up with a friend of Mary Kaye’s from Lesbian Choir (yes, there is such a thing). So then Mary Kaye was surrounded by lesbians and I was surrounded by cute boys. We were very happy. We hung out there until the jazz combo finished their set and the girls decided that our next stop would be the ‘219’ or something like that. Mary Kaye told me this with a gleam in her eye. I knew instinctively that this was a gay bar, which I don’t mind, but there was something else that she wasn’t telling me. I knew her too well.

‘So it’s a dance bar?’ I questioned.

‘Yes.’ She said, refusing to say any more.

‘Anything I should know about it?’

‘No. Why do you ask?’ She said, trying to look innocent.

‘Because you’re acting strangely.’

We went to the bar and Angel paid the cover charge for all of us (she’s very chivalrous, that Angel’ held the doors open for us too. She’s a police officer, incidentally).

When we entered the bar, every head in the place swiveled and stared at us.

They were all men. There was not a single female in the place.

Are we having fun yet? — How you remind me (Nickleback)–

We went up and secured spots at the bar by the dance floor. The place was dead. A drag queen came in. Then it got busier. I chatted with the bartender. Mary Kaye’s friend from choir left and the bartender asked me what was wrong with my girlfriend. I told him that she caught me looking at a guy. He nodded knowingly. I giggled insanely.

I’ve been in gay bars before. Mary Kaye used to frequent many fine alternative establishments when she lived in Green Bay. They’re cheery and have great music and lots of fun. I’m always treated like that Funny Fat Girl Sidekick that every Sidekick-less Gay Man is searching for so I have a blast.

But this Milwaukee bar was totally different. The clientele was a bit scarier and far less friendly. This was a Village People Motorcycle Leather Guy kind of bar. There was one guy who looked like Keith Richards after being drug behind a moving train for miles. Another man was pierced through the neck and also had a huge ring in his nose through which he drank his beer.

take me out every night

take me out show me every thing — Baby wants a diamond ring (Squirrel Nut Zippers)–

Then the show started. You see, we didn’t realize this but there was to be a show.

A strip show.

These players come to get me ’cause they’d like my behind

— Hash pipe (Weezer)–

I watched with wide eyes as a male stripper took it all off, down to a hot pink g-string. A HUGE hot pink g-string. His would-be member bobbed up and down, pointing at the drooling patrons around the bar. Every time that thing would jump, I’d crack up. Mary Kaye was embarrassed, but Angel thought it was funny that I was laughing. There was much bending over and showing of the buttocks region. Oh, too be so flexible! Three strippers in all, one was very hot (I believe his stripper name was Dalton) and one looked disturbingly like Kurt Cobain (his stripper name was Tigger). Eventually, men would go up and put currency in their g-strings, each time taking a grope of their enormous packages. Sometimes, they’d sort of throttle the area, as if judging it for weight or buoyancy. They’d reach underneath for a surreptitious ass grab as well. Dalton had a cold and kept coughing and sipping on a bottle of water between thrusts and gyrations and ass grabs. Then he’d kiss skanky Keith Richards guys and cough more.

In a strange twist, they communicated to each other in sign language. I think Tigger might have been deaf but they all used it. Dalton acted pretty macho and I was wondering if perhaps he wasn’t gay but then when I saw him use ASL with Tigger, there was no doubt in my mind. Apparently, it is possible to lisp in sign language.

The bar started to get really crowded and scary. Mary Kaye wanted to know if I wanted to go elsewhere. Yes. Without a question.

Krispy Kreme.

Wisconsin’s first Krispy Kreme opened near MK’s apartment and I wanted to try it. They laughed at me, that I wanted doughnuts instead of partying and booze, but hey, let’s get our priorities straight people. Warm doughnuts on the hoof are not to be taken lightly.

I am smitten

I’m the real thing (I’m the real thing)

— Crush with eyeliner(REM) —

Angel perfectly navigated us to the restaurant (hey, she’s a cop, it’s a doughnut place!) and I bought a dozen hot steaming doughnuts and icy cold milk for me and water for MK and Angel. Angel refused to eat anything because she’s super fit and has a perfect body. I didn’t care; I chowed down three warm melt-in-your-mouth doughnuts in five minutes. Damn, that was good. It was like sin in your hand.

We then retired to Mary Kaye’s apartment and Angel went home, only to call Mary Kaye immediately. We both fell asleep in MK’s bed, (I’ll bet that every one of my male readers just said ‘oooh’ Weetabix and a lesbian’..sweet!’ to themselves when they read that) but then apparently, the fact that I snore like a congested water buffalo prevented Mary Kaye from sleeping, so she moved the couch. Then another girlfriend wannabe called at 2:15 and drunkenly proclaimed her love to Mary Kaye. She’s a very popular girl.

Morning light fills the room. I rise.

— Bittersweet (Big Head Todd & the Monsters)–

I slept very lightly due to the horrible parking lot light shining in through the entire apartment and the fact that the three cats like to frolic throughout the night. Also, Razzie came in and tried to rumble with me at one point and then hissed at me. I really dislike that cat. I threatened to throw her up against the wall. Mary Kaye woke up shortly thereafter and I watched a Depeche Mode ‘Behind the Music’ while I waited for her to get up and get ready. I ate two more Krispy Kremes while I waited. Mary Kaye confessed to having eaten three in the middle of the night as well.

Then we went to a Rainbow-Centric coffee shoppe for some caffeine. We were going to eat something healthy there, but decided that what we really wanted was a little Ed Debevics diner chow to get us going right. We tooled over to Ed’s, where our waitress was extremely tired, after playing Janet in their local production of the midnight Rocky Horror Picture Show. We tried to connive her to perform a bit, singing the Brad role ‘Dammit, Janet! I love you!’ but apparently it was a bit much for her on a Sunday morning. Later, however, we were treated to the entire staff doing the Twist on the countertops. It was a righteous breakfast, despite the fact that I ordered a Vanilla Phosphate and felt three of my teeth develop cavities upon the first taste. Our waitress would not feed us until we agreed to come to one of their shows. She really didn’t have to twist our arms. Any occaision to dress up in fishnet stockings is a good time, in my book.

We then went shopping for clothing. Green Bay has really no hip clothing in plus sizes, unless you consider fuschia sweatshirts with ‘I love to Bingo!’ embroidered on them hip. The first store we went to was lame and gross, but Mary Kaye found a $9 jacket which looked like it was made from road kill. She was happy. I didn’t have the heart to point out the tire marks.

We then saw another store that Mary Kaye swore had cool plus size clothing. We walked in and were immediately greeted with racks upon racks of colorful African tribal muu-muu things. Um’ probably wouldn’t really fly back home on a chubby white chick. I browsed to humor Mary Kaye.

Then Mary Kaye held up a red crocodile pleather jacket and said ‘Ooooh.’

‘For you?’ I asked.

Ooh, and all I taught her was everything

Ooh, I know she gave me all that

— Black (Pearl Jam- acoustic) —

‘No’ for you.’

So I tried it on. And it was good. Damned good.

I giggled. It was so’. ROCK STAR!

Then I saw an electric blue ‘eyelash’ sweater. And then MK held up a pair of black pleather pants. Or maybe I did. It’s all a blur of fashion binging. And then MK held up a glittery velvet shirt and pointed me in the direction of the dressing rooms.

I emerged first wearing the eyelash sweater and pleather black pants. Mary Kaye squealed. I clapped my hands. I looked so damn hot! Actually, probably because I WAS damned hot. Pleather pants are an instant heat thing. My knees were sweating. I tried to whine about that to Mary Kaye, who has a special affinity for pleather, but she dismissed my complaints with ‘That’s the price you pay for fashion, darling.’ So I rest assured knowing that when I eventually wear them, I will look extremely cute before I spontaneously combust.

Next, I tried on the velvet sparkly thingy. The cute black girl store clerk (because this store was really not targeted toward your repressed Midwestern white girl) looked at me, did a little head jiggy thing and said ‘Mmmm mmmm girl, you be looking FAHN’. While teetering upon being Trailer Trash, it’s got these cute little vamp sleeves and keyhole neckline that I truly love. And it’s not hot like the pleather.

I also found a leather collar thing with a silver plate on it that says ‘Princess’. I may wear that collar until the day I die.

And the best thing about the fashion extravanganza is that the entire thing (crocodile red jacket with matching crocodile pants which I’ll never wear, black pleather pants, blue fluffy eyelash sweater, velvet keyhole top, and ‘Princess’ collar) cost me a paltry $38. And now I get to dress like Salt N’ Pepa or something.

I love me the Chubby Rock Star store!

Afterwards, we went to a suburb mall in search of an Avenue and Lane Bryant, but then we were ruined by the Rock Star Clothes at Rock Bottom Prices. I did end up buying a black satin corset thingy to wear to Rocky Horror when I eventually go. The price for the corset was the same as the entire fashion binge downtown.

Then it was time to leave, only a short 24 hours after I arrived in Milwaukee. I drove home tired but sated, sipping on copious amounts of Diet Coke and listening to my mixed CD (rather than the radio where it would drive me insane to listen to the Packers lose the god damn chance at another Superbowl’. Let’s just not talk about that, shall we?). I went home, crawled into bed and slept for 12 hours.

It was a lovely weekend. I’m still tired.

Have a super Martin Luther King day!

tell” I had to give an overview of our software package at a client today. I got along well with the girl I was training, but instinctively I felt bad for her. Her desk was festooned with Disney paraphernalia. Dopey dispensed her tape. Grumpy gave out staples. A billion dollar mouse stared out from her mouse pad. Her pen had mouse ears.

It’s very strange to me to see a viable businesswoman, very professional and articulate, covering her workstation with such swag. Swag she paid for. It makes me wonder what would attract someone to display this part of their personality to the world, to their office coworkers. Is this overbearing cuteness somehow a substitute for personality for people.

This coming from the woman who has a chubby Tinkerbelle on her online diary page and plastic dinosaurs marauding across the top of her cubicle.

Is it just a millennial equivalent of a totem? Does it invoke some sort of spirit of jovial rodents and cranky ducks with adorable lisps or does it speak to a different need’ a need to belong, a need to be sorted and slotted into categories’ Disney versus Non-Disney’ Childlike versus non-childlike.

I still have writer’s block. I don’t currently have the wherewithal to wrap this up in a tidy little package, so instead I’ll direct you to stare at my Chubby Tink and see how cute she is.

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Yesterday, I took the day off of work because for whatever reason, I go ballistic in January and become overwhelmed with everything. I was stressed. I’m not entirely de-stressed now, but I’m far less stressed than I was in the beginning of the week. Hence the writer’s block. Hence the stress zit on my lip.

I get these little weird fever blister things on my lips when I’m stressed. I had them every school year during high school. I had them for entire months in my last position. I had them every finals week in college. Not cold sores. Not herpes. Just weird little lip pimples. And I’ve got one now. Mostly, it has to do with the fact that I’ve been running on 11 for the entire month of December and now there’s nothing but months and months of darkness and sobering frigid weather to look forward to. Also, my kitchen is currently a war zone, covered in fine white drywall dust and looking like a fugitive of a calamine lotion fight at sleep away camp.

But I haven’t chewed on my nails.

Yet.

They want me to chew them. They’re screaming for oral pleasure.

The only thing that is keeping me from biting is the fact that I have them polished a lovely Cerise Noire’.. which is ‘Black Cherry’ for us hicks. Since I’ve been polishing them, I’ve had less of an urge to bite them because they look so purty. I have a bet with June’s friend Nancy, who officially owns the title of Sweetest Woman On The Planet, that my nails will look nicer and longer than hers by Valentines Day. At that point, she will buy me some Strawberries & Champagne lotion from Victoria’s Secret. Because that’s the only thing in that store that I could wear on my curvy round body.

Anyway, it’s not the lotion I care about. I’m not overly fond of it. I like my Snow scented stuff from The Body Shop better. It has sparkles in it, but not big offensive Christina Aguilera sparkles’ little effervescent magical sparkles.

Twice before in my life, I was able to stop chewing my nails. The first time was when I was in college and dating two boys at once. Mike had a fingernail fetish. Mike had actually many fetishes’ one of which was long painted fingernails. Another was sheer stockings. He especially liked painted toenails INSIDE nylons. His favorite thing was to have me put my nylon covered legs in his lap and then wiggle my painted toenails. Another was apparently him wearing nylons, but I didn’t find that out until after I had dumped him.

Another cessation of nail biting was five years ago. I decided that it was time’ I was a quarter of a century old and I needed to abandon my childhood vices. I grew a beautiful set of nails and the watched my grandmother die in the hospital. At the funeral, someone told me that I must have had fake nails because no one could grow such perfect nails. I hated that. I hated having pretty nails when I felt so horrible and cold. I bit them off the next day.

Thus, here we go again. It’s probably why I have a stress zit. I’m not allowing for a natural stress reliever of chewing on my digits. It’s a gross habit though. I was shopping a few months back and saw a well-dressed girl gnawing on her finger; pulling skin off and spitting it out and I wanted to shout, ‘Stop that! You look disgusting!’ but I didn’t because I don’t want to be a mean girl. Besides, I’ve probably unconsciously looked exactly the same way.

Anyway, I really like my Black Cherry nail polish. It is my very favorite. It is exactly the same kind of polish that Mia Wallace wore when she danced the twist at Jack Rabbit Slims with Vincent Vega and then snorted a bunch of heroin and had an overdose.

I’m not saying I want to be her or anything. I’m just saying she had nice fashion sense.

Plus, I think every girl would go for a $5 shake?