That's My Bix!

I worry sometimes that I watch Bring it On far too often. I worry that it makes me a geek. I worry that I may someday call my boss a ‘cheertator’. I worry that when someone inevitably walks into the meat locker that they call our cubicle farm and says ‘Brrr it’s cold in here’ that I may jump up and do an elaborate clapping routine, shouting ‘There must be some Torros in the atmosphere’. Oh Ee Oh Ee Oh’ Ice Ice Ice’ Bring it down!’ and then everyone will look, mouths agape, arms akimbo.

Ok, not really, but I’ve always wanted to work in the ‘akimbo’ word somewhere. I remember that word from many books read in grade school. People were always standing ‘arms akimbo’. They really wanted to drill that word into our vocabulary. I don’t think that whole plot worked, though. I never really hear anyone use that word. Apparently The People’s Akimbo Partnership (PAP) have failed again.

Speaking of weird things in grade school, I’m eating a Slim Fast bar for breakfast because I was too lazy to make some Cream of Rice and kinda sorta want to look like Ann Jillian, or maybe be a ghost named ‘Jennifer’ living in the bedroom of teenage boy. Actually, I’m not sure if anyone is a Slim Fast spokesperson anymore. When they fall off the program, they are abandoned like plump little used Kleenex along with Cindy Williams and Bob Uecker.

So, this Slim Fast bar tastes like that orange sawdust stuff that they used to sprinkle over the urp of little kids in grade school’ but mixed with cocoa.

Perhaps I should just cut out the middleman and score me some of that orange sawdust. My, think of how much ass I would lose THAT way.

I’m just saying.

You may not want to read this next part. It’s a little gross. You might just want to skip down to past the next little segment line thingy.

Are you sure? I’m warning you.

You are a glutton for punishment, aren’t you.

Very well then.

I wonder if I were to walk into a grade school and throw up onto the floor, after a tasty breakfast of orange sawdust stuff’. Would they need to sprinkle it with the orange sawdust?

See. I warned you.

Is it too egotistical of me to desire my very own ‘Behind the Music’? Maybe it could be a ‘Behind the Diary’. But it would have to have that very serious announcer guy and those smarmy musical segues and flashy graphics. You know, that 80’s sounding synthesizer stuff, which can only be expressed in words as ‘Shoo Shuu Shoomp Swhump!&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9- that really didn’t do it justice but work with me here.

And maybe they’d have guests on’ famous guests to comment upon the diary. For instance, Gwyneth Paltrow could talk about how she was really ‘pro-fat people’ and was upset when I took a hard stance on the whole Shallow Hal thing (which, by the way, I haven’t seen, but apparently neither has the rest of the nation). J.Lo and Faith Hill could simper and be upset that I thought they were talentless hacks with fine round butts. Maybe a shot of Carson Daly crying, ‘I don’t understand why she thought I was a tool’. I always liked her.’ Or maybe just have Jimmy Fallon pretending to be Carson Daly. That would be fine. Maybe even better.

And then maybe they’d interview other diarists, like Roadie, Chauffi (who lurks in the bushes outside my window as a hobby), and maybe UncleBob. Perhaps Eloi could share some deep dark secrets and then I would be confronted with them and be forced to react. Maybe they’d interview my sister Mo, who would clarify that she no longer tailgates like a mofo. And then Esteban would call me a freak. And then the very serious announcer guy would sigh and wish he were narrating the very exciting and yet somewhat bitter Journey episode, which was the Best. One. Ever. Because it had Steve Perry on it, talking about his hip replacement.

Damn my perfectly functioning curvy hips. Damn them all to hell.

And now for some random gossip: Buffy is going to cut her hair. You heard it here first. Or maybe you didn’t. Maybe you were trying to mentally remove yourself from your family gathering on Christmas day and were watching E! Entertainment and saw the news scroll beneath Jules Asner (who is possibly the love child of Ed Asner and Rhoda’ not certain) that Buffy would be pulling a Felicity and chopping off her slayer locks, as though this were very important news and needed to be scrolled below the bottom of the screen and E! were somehow like CNN with an exclamation point and leg lights and John Tesh were somehow respectable.

I’m thinking about having a contest’ but I have no good prizes to give out. Maybe I could offer up my ass splinter. I still have it. It sits in a urine collection cup (an unused sterile one, sheesh!) in the backseat of the Monte, where it rolls to and fro along with my Moulin Rouge CD, but I’m not sure that anyone would want this piece of Weetabix lore. But if they owned it, I’m almost certain that they’d be contacted by the people at VH-1 when it came time to make my ‘Behind the Diary’ (you know… since it was actually IN the Diarist’s BEHIND!!). So there’s a benefit. Or maybe you could present it to your significant other or maybe just a stranger and say ‘Look at this ass splinter’ and they will give you lovely dove gray pearls. Perhaps it is a magical ass splinter. You just never know.

This is your Weetabix’. After reading too much Margaret Atwood mixed with Douglas Coupland.

Fa Ra Ra Ra Ra Ra Ra Ra RAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!

That’s all I have to say today.

It’s going to snow this weekend!!!!!

While I know that this will likely upset my friend RoadiePig, as he is involved in the removal of said white stuff, I’m totally stoked.

WOOOOOO!!!!

(Weetabix does a little ‘Chubby Snow Bunny’ dance)

Two days ago, as I was walking out of Barnes & Noble with a venti hot Blackberry & Ice tea in my hand, wrapped snuggly in suede and faux fur, it started snowing a little. Weak but stubborn little flakes flurrying with the wind. It only lasted for about five minutes but it was a wonderful thing, standing there with gifts of books and DVDs for my family in my right hand, a big hot tea keeping my other hand warm, my breath swirling white and little tiny flakes hitting my skin with delicious little cold bursts.

Mmmmm&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9- love snow!

I’m thinking of getting a snowboard. Now, likely this will not happen as I enjoy my neck as unbroken as it is, but I like toying with the idea of being hot shit on the slopes. In reality, I’d fall on my ass and then probably cry until Esteban came and picked me up. Or, even more likely, Esteban would refuse to go out with me, as he is a grumpy Burgermeister and doesn’t enjoy any sports even though he does enjoy watching his wife make a fool of herself, and then I would cry and lay there, unable to get up. Either way, not a pretty picture.

I just want me some snow. And some hot Tom & Jerrys. And maybe a fireplace. I don’t have a fireplace, but I need some new living room furniture and new carpeting anyway, so I’m thinking about grilling me up my entertainment center instead. Lurve that holiday spirit!

I went to karaoke last night’ at the Ass Splinter bar.

One thing I hate about the Ass Splinter bar’. Aside from the miscellaneous pieces of furniture which find their way into your tender flesh, that is’. is the karaoke hostesses.

The thing is run by this girl and her mom. This wouldn’t be a big issue, but usually, when you’re a karaoke host, you’re generally a pretty fabulous singer. Not a Broadway quality singer’ but you can hold your own. Karaoke Girl and Karaoke Ma are not that great. Karaoke Girl can hold her own on the songs she knows but she’s tonedeaf and hurts my ears whenever she tries anything new. Karaoke Ma, on the other hand, sings in a monotone and sings the mustiest old man songs I’ve ever heard, such as ‘North To Alaska’. And she has a beehive hairdo. And she’s four feet tall’ with the beehive.

That’s not even the main problem. The main problem is that they are microphone hogs. They will sing five to six songs in a row while other people are waiting to sing. The itinerary will go something like this: Karaoke Girl, Karaoke Girl, Karaoke Ma, Karaoke Ma, Patron #1, Patron #2, Karaoke Girl (doing something she claims was a request), Patron #3, Karaoke Ma, Karaoke Ma, Patron #4, Patron #5, Patron #6, Patron #7 and then it will start all over again with Karaoke Girl twice and Karaoke Ma twice.

I hate the Karaoke Ma. Hate. Her. What is it about short round women in their fifties? They all get psychotic or something. She has this fetish about the karaoke song books. They have six of them. Even if you have a table of ten people all wanting to sing songs, Karaoke Ma will only allow you to have one book at your table’ regardless of the fact that there is still a pile of five books up there.

‘One book per table!’ She’ll squeak at you, like a deranged little post-menopausal B-52 girl.

One time, I went up and fetched two books for our table of ten people. Karaoke Ma actually followed me across the bar, grabbed me by the shoulder and spun me around, snatching one of the books from my hand. I snatched it right back, not really in the mood for that Karaoke Obsessive Compulsive Bitch. She yelled ‘One book per table!’. I said, ‘I’ll bring it back if you run out of books! Christ!’ She wouldn’t let go of the book and I had to cold cock her down onto the dance floor. Then it was a total cat fight, with nuances from ‘Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon’, with me rising up, hovering six feet off the floor, kicking her in the face while she sang ‘Oooh Eeee Oooh Eeee Baby! Won’tcha let me take you on a Sea Cruise?’.

Or something like that.

She’s hated me ever since.

Last time, Joel hid our karaoke book in the men’s urinal. I’m certain at the end of the night, when she realized it was gone, she was frisking people, strip searching them for her beloved three-ring binder with the songs alphabetized using the White Trash filing system which necessitates that Pretenders, The follows Pat Benetar, Patsy Cline, and Peter Gabriel.

I sang ‘Santa Baby’ and got the first authentic crowd reaction of the night. Karaoke Girl shot me a bitchy look, as she had been singing her mostly-flat versions of ‘I wanna have some fun’ by S-s-s-samantha Foxx and ‘It must have been love’ by Roxette (a theme carried out well by her overly-permed big 80’s hair) to nary a titter from the crowd.

‘Don’t hate me because my voice doesn’t sound like a rusty gate.’ I said as I walked past her.

‘Bitch.’ She said

‘Talentless stage hog’ I countered.

‘Diva.’ She hissed.

Now that hurt. She didn’t have to get personal. Sheesh.

The plus side of the evening was that Born To Run Guy was there and he watched me intently when I was doing the whole Marilyn Monroe act during my song, starting with the whispery little girl voice and ending in full-out Ethel Merman throaty blues voice.

Yeah. Ok. I’m a diva. What’s it to ya?

Well, I was planning on writing about the day Weetabix and Mo were almost killed by a pyschotic school bus driver, but I’m taking a half day today, so I guess you’ll have to wait.

Have a super duper Weekend-Before-Christmas!!!!

Christmas is a crazy time of year.

Boy. That sounded dense. That was like saying ‘Ice is very very cold’ or ‘Carson Daly is a bit of a tool’ or ‘My sister Mo tailgates like a mofo’.

But seriously, I am borderline haggard. I had a mini-breakdown last night before I left work, thinking of everything I had to do that evening: get baskets for some gift baskets I’m putting together, get a gift certificate for my boss from my team, pick up a muscle relaxant from the pharmacy for my neck muscle which tends to go all wacky when I’m stressed out, purchase many many frames for various Christmas gifts, buy beer for said gift baskets, buy snacks for said gift baskets, go to the Post Office and return a package, finish wrapping gifts for a Christmas party tonight at Ward and June’s house, prepurchase movie tickets for ‘Lord of the Rings’, fa la la la la la la la la!

First stop: Pier 1 for baskets. I tried to do a bit of shopping, because truthfully, I totally enjoy Pier 1. Five of the seven pictures hanging in my living room are from Pier 1. Most of my glassware is Pier 1 as well, as is my entire bar set of martini glasses, champagne flutes and decanters (the rest is all inherited cut crystal from Esteban’s family).

It could reasonably be said that Pier 1 rocks my world. However, someone should probably tap Kirstie Alley on the shoulder and let her know that the flakey thing just doesn’t work for her. Also, the Pier 1 shopper is either a young, quirky, poor college student with a penchant for funky candles and cheap china OR an older, established yet still desperately trying to hold onto the avante guarde older woman with a manicure and expensive shoes.

I found two baskets which will undoubtedly not be appreciated, as the recipients are men and apparently the gene which allows one to understand the whole basket genre is recessive and located upon the X chromosome. Sometimes I think I have been cursed with trisomy-Wicker. (Which I’m certain no one will get other than my Human Variability professor, Dr. Mahoney’ Hi Joe!)

I then perused the store, which was extremely full of older women with poofy highlighted hair, strange bottled tans, and expensive hand-knit Swedish sweaters. I stopped by the kitchen glass, and tried to pick up one of the glass canisters, to see the price tag on the bottom. The lid fell off, caught each vase on the four shelves below it, and crashed to the ground on the tile floor, exploding into some fairly impressive large shards of glass.

If anyone in the store DIDN’T hear the sound of six pieces of glass independently breaking, I’m most certain that they heard me yell ‘JEEPERS!’ at the top of my lungs.

Only it wasn’t ‘Jeepers’. It was another word all together.

Far off, perhaps near the authentic yet reasonably priced African masks, I heard someone gasp in shock. Not only was I destroying mass quantities of $12 vases, I was assaulting the very hip atmosphere of Pier 1, with its diverse merchandise and retro Christmas tunes and six different kinds of Charger plates, with the most guttural of all Anglo-Saxon curses.

A woman, a very thin woman with tipped hair and far too much eye-makeup, stepped into view, looked at me and gave me one of the most evil, hate-filled glare I’ve ever received in my entire life. I was shocked. I met her eyes and gave a weak smile, about to warn her to watch her step so she didn’t cut herself, and she continued to glare at me as though I had offered to ritualistically slaughter puppies in sacrifice to Hitler or possibly as though I had admitted to being the person responsible for that ‘Christmas Shoes’ song that is being played to death.

I stood there until a very hip sales clerk with a nose piercing came by and said she’d go get a broom. Then I waited for her to return, still making sure that no one would accidentally walk through the field of glass. When she returned, I offered to pay for the six vases, including the one whole one with the broken top which started it all. She thanked me for offering profusely, but said that they didn’t make people pay for broken stuff. Then she gave me all sorts of props for hanging around to guard the glass.

It was then, helplessly watching her clean up the glass, that I had a sinking realization. She was being super customer-focused because I was no longer one of those penny-pinching but uber cool college girls. No. Me in my new suede sheerling jacket which still smells like a leather store, matching gloves, shoes which had been priced still in the double digits, but just barely in the double digits, kind of funky silver necklace, and department store makeup. I was one of the women who come in and think nothing of dropping $100 on goofy stuff, one of the women who sashay in and out of the store between manicures, toting their cellphones, with tons of plastic in their designer purses. I was one of those women. I was a mixer of cocktails. I was a baker of cookies, a driver to soccer. I was the gatherer of a household. I was the holder of a joint checking account, fed greatly in part by a husband who enjoys living in a tastefully decorated home. I was concerned about how my fingernails looked. I was one of those women.

I was going to hurl.

After being assured that my little glass mess was no longer a threat to the sisterhood of Pier 1, I paid for my baskets (with plastic, god help me) and fled. The store sighed in relief and I had a horrible vision as I walked out the double glass doors that they would shatter in my hands.

Next stop, the scrapbook store for a gift certificate for my boss. That went fairly uneventfully. I then drove home, where I would meet my sister to go shopping for picture frames. I tried to decompress on the drive over, but ended up tooling around a bit while listening to Nickelback and Sarah McLachlin.

When I finally went home, about ten minutes before Mo was to arrive, I found her car already in my driveway. Esteban had stayed home sick, so I figured he must have let her in the house. When I walked in the door, Mo was sitting in our recliner, watching Buffy.

‘Where’s Esteban?’ I asked.

Apparently, Mo had stopped over a half hour early. She had knocked on the door, seeing Esteban’s truck in the driveway. No one answered. She tried the front door and found it open. She yelled a bit and then just walked in and sat down. Our bedroom is in the far back of the house, in an addition. It is virtually soundproof from the rest of the house, being outside the natural walls of the original house. Esteban never heard her and was sleeping, as he does, in his underwear.

And then he needed to go to the bathroom’ which required him walking through the hall, which was in full view of Mo.

Luckily, Esteban doesn’t care. It was very funny when she told me. I then left with her without going into the bedroom to talk to him, as I didn’t want to be somehow blamed for the entire Fruit of the Loom calamity, as I was somehow certain I would be.

We then went shopping. I purchased $140 in picture frames, (which was supposed to be a cheap alternative to actual Christmas presents’ ha! The pictures that will go in them will likely be another $200), then took Mo to dinner. Then I just gave up. Part of the problem with Christmas stress is that apathy sets in very quickly when I’m pushed. I had it during planning my wedding as well’ we didn’t have wedding programs because I declared ‘Fuck it!’ the day before my wedding.

But, unfortunately, I cannot declare ‘Fuck it’ for the remainings of my shopping. I have exactly one present wrapped, and that was only because when I bought it, there was a table setup, offering free wrapping with donations appreciated for Special Olympics, so I had the $5 book wrapped and gave them a $3 donation. One down, 153 presents to go.

Thus, I am taking a half day off today, to go and wrap roughly 34 necessary presents for tonight, as well as purchase the beer to go into the gift baskets, assemble them, wrap them and place very attractive bows upon them. I create this stress. I realize this now. I should know not to attempt the basket trap. The basket trap begins with the notion that it will be a really cool present for a hard person to shop for’. A $17 basket, $40 in snacks, $30 in beer later, you’ve got an $87 present for someone for whom you normally spend $25-30. And a bucket of stress to go along with it.

Next year, I think I’ll just shop with my older, affluent sisters of Middle-Aged Hipness and get the guy a nice wool sweater or something. Maybe even a Swedish hand-knit.

And her heart grew three sizes that day.

Yesterday, I learned that the hardest substance known to man is the head of an average three-year-old.

Jonathon came over to ‘visit’ with me yesterday (read: play The Sims on Esteban’s computer while I played the Sims and surfed the internet on MY computer’. It was a nice brother/sister moment, I tell ya’. knowing my mom, that’s probably the most quality time he’s had in months) and when I brought him back home, it turned out that Mo and Abby were at my mom’s to celebrate Mo’s birthday. I invited myself and ate some of my mom’s cooking, which is always nice. I got to play with Abby, which is even nicer. We had an elaborate game of tickle torture during commercial breaks of the Charlie Brown Christmas Special.

It was during one of those commercial breaks when the back of her head smashed into my mouth and made me look bee-stung, like Barbara Hershey’s cosmetically-enhanced Beaches lips.

I spent the rest of the night kissing one of our freezer packs. It smelled mildly of corn. Time for a new box of baking soda, I guess.

Man, I’m amazed people read this thing sometimes.

Last night I went to bed with a horrible headache, much to Esteban’s chagrin. Apparently, my body must give off pheromones without my approval and this makes me irresistible. I sent him to the far corner of our bed for a time out at one point. Then I tried to snuggle into my lofty goosedown pillow and Esteban was right there again, chastising me for being an undulating sex kitten, all stretching and purring and such.

‘I’m just getting comfortable!’ I said.

‘I’m very fragile when I’m turned on,’ he said, accusing me. ‘I’m like erotic china.’

I suppose it was my fault. I was probably dressed provocatively, with my extra roomie Green Bay Packers t-shirt and pink flowered boxer shorts. This is probably how Lolita and Jezebel got their reputations. Most likely, my untimely death will involve towers and hungry dogs.

The headache was actually a precursor to some horrible gut cramping which woke me up at 3:00 this morning. You know it’s really bad when all you want to do is collapse on the floor of the bathroom. My ass hates me for forsaking its bulbous qualities, and thus was seeking revenge in the only way it knew how…. explosive gastrointestinal pain, complete with gurgles and strange internal moans which sounded like a far too rusty hinge being forcibly opened after many years. Tilly had followed me into the bathroom and actually fled at the sound. I think she feared possible projectiles, using her keen feline intuition.

I haven’t felt like that since the time I contracted food poisoning during my stay in London. I’ve always blamed the mayonnaise at the Robert Browning pub. It was room temperature when I slapped it on my red bean burger. My buds were eating the red bean burger too and suffered no ill effects. I was sick for four days, living on plain brioches and Evian water. I could only nibble on the slightest pieces, as anything larger than pea made my stomach twist and convulse. Thus, I carried plain rolls in my bag wherever I went, like some dysenteric Gretal, nibbling tiny pieces of bread here and there, searching for my Hansel and house made out of candy.

My first ever use of a pay toilet was in Canterbury cathedral. I got my money’s worth there. I’m certain that my 40 pence went toward hiring a Haz-Mat crew to clean up. I bent in prayer for Thomas A’Becket to relieve my sour gut. Later, one of my flatmates made me some chicken soup and I was cured.

I’m not sure what did it to me this time. Yesterday, I had grilled salmon, rice pilaf and grilled veggies at Applebee’s and spaghetti at my mom’s. Later, I had an Eggo Nutrigrain waffle with real maple syrup as a snack. While the jury is still out on the culprit, Applebees, I’m looking your way. Whichever the guilty party, I was cursing them up a storm between 3:00 A.M. and 6:00 A.M. this morning, between the stomach cramps and the uncontrollable shivering.

On the upside, I’m almost certain that I’ve lost a good five pounds from the incident. And today, I’m only eating dry french bread and Dasani, so I’ve got the whole minimum security affluent prison diet going on very well. If it continues, I should be in DisneyWorld by summer.

Go anorexia!

No. Not really. But a little dysentary is good for the soul. Maybe it will knock all of that unconscious tawdry temptress attitude out of me when I’m trying to fall asleep at night, anyway.