That's My Bix!

Ok, if you know me in person and don’t want to get any brain pictures of nasty Weetabix/Esteban things happening, then perhaps you might just skip this here entry. I mean, I don’t want you coming up to me later and saying ‘Dood, that was TOO MUCH INFORMATION!’, because after all, I hate that phrase. It’s become really overused and only shows how little creativity the speaker has when they use it. I even prefer ‘Gag me with a spoon’ because at least it has that whole retro thing going for it. Plus, it reminds me of ‘Valley Girl’, which had a luscious Nicolas Cage in it and sometimes he wasn’t wearing a shirt. And that was a good thing.

Might I suggest you read a previous entry instead? Here’s one I like. Or maybe this one.

If you’re still reading, then fine. Be that way. But I don’t want to hear about this in the future.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

This evening, Esteban grilled some lovely pork tenderloins and we ate just that. I felt truly carnivorous. In reality, it was because I am the side dish girl. That’s my responsibility as the female’ make the dish a well-rounded nutritional meal. Make sure there’s a vegetable. If the husband cooks, there will be no plant matter whatsoever. If it doesn’t come on hoof or claw, it will not be served from the hand of a man.

I’m being sexist. I’m certain that there are some men out there who like vegetables, maybe even prepare them, lovingly. Vegetables other than that which are in cole slaw or baked beans. Vegetables which are prepared in a light stir fry or perhaps grilled and then served with a balsamic garlic dressing. I’ve seen these men on the Food Network. Bobby Flay particularly comes to mind. I know that somewhere, men are cooking, eating and enjoying vegetables.

But not my man.

And honestly, I’ve given up. I mean, he’s thirty years old. I’m not going to stand over him and intone ‘Eat your green beans’. I make the veggies. I eat the veggies. Occaisionally, if he is making dinner, I will ask him to make me a can of peas or some other easy vegetable, which he does very gladly. But tonight, I just didn’t care. Tonight, I let it be and ate like a boy. Two pork tenderloins, thank you very much, and a glass of skim milk.

And afterwards, I suggested that I could use something sweet. Esteban asked what I would like. ‘Ice cream?’ I posed. We discussed this further and Esteban asked if it would make me happy if he went and fetched ice cream and I replied that it would indeed make me happy.

And so he did. And he didn’t know which flavor I wanted, so he bought one cup of every flavor.

Could I be any luckier sometimes? Honestly? Men, if you want your woman feel completely like a princess, bring her home one of every flavor. Unless she’s one of those harpies who would yell at you ‘What? Do you want me to get fat???’ If so, just screw that right there. It’s not worth it.

Anyway, he was bending down to receive a big hug and kiss from me so I offered him a spoonful of my ice cream. He looked down at the moderately filled spoon and said ‘Uh-uh’. Come on,’ load it up!’. So I dug deep into the frozen custard and came up with an enormous spoonful of densely chocolate yumminess. I fed it into his awaiting mouth and his lips closed over the spoon’.

‘..dropping a big dollop of frozen chocolate custard onto my stomach.

‘AAAAAHHHHHHHH!!’ I said, looking down at my light tan shorts and a big glurp of brown giving me a strange belly-button look.

Leave it to Esteban. Master of Efficiency. He bent down and licked it up off my stomach.

Who says you can’t have fun after being together twelve years? Not me.

And you’re a fool if you’re thinking he’s not getting some tonight.

See? THAT’S what you get for bringing home one of every flavor.

I specifically threw the reference to beans in for Jennanik, whom I drove to eat baked beans a couple of weeks ago. TEEE!!!

Ok, maybe it didn’t need that big ass warning above. But seriously, if I have to face them again, I really don’t need them knowing about my husband licking ice cream off my stomach.

Somewhere along the line, too many people I know personally have started reading this diary. I’m thinking of branching off and starting a different one. It’s beginning to bug me.

How do you handle it when people you know read your online diary? Or are you smart and do you keep it very secret? Discuss in the Message Board?

A diary I found by following the lead of BadSnake. Start at the beginning of The Reluctant Bride or you will be very confused.

Another “Six Degrees of Separation From Green Bay”: Joel Hodgson, of Mystery Science Theatre 3000 fame, grew up here. He graduated high school nary two miles from Lambeau Stadium.

Green Bay: Cooler than you thought.

I was watching a bit of Road Rules last night and it occurred to me: MTV never casts a cute fat chick in anything.

Nope. Not anything.

Unless you count Sharon from the London Cast of Real World, and that was seven years ago.

And then I thought “Weetabix, you are thirty years old and you are just now realizing that MTV objectifies women and portrays an unrealistic version of the world.”

Yeah, ok, I’m dense sometimes. According to MTV, there are several truths in the world:

* 75% of all people have some extraneous piercing (other than ear or nose)

* Names like Amaya, Yes, Puck, Genesis, and Tec are normal. Names like Michelle and John are not.

* Women are at least twenty pounds underweight and regularly wear items which expose their belly button.

*Christina Aguilera is a good singer.

* Twentysomethings can expect to live in a Phat Pad while having no discernible source of income, unless it’s a job at a recording studio or radio station.

*Don’t slap someone… you’ll be kicked off the show. Unless they called you a homosexual first.

*Putting your mouth on an uncooked pig foot is against a certain religion… while eating sausage is not.

*It doesn’t matter if you have a good singing voice. You just gotta look good wearing the clothes, honey.

*Pauly Shore is classic humor.

*Sometimes you just go along with something for the experience!

*MTV is about more than music videos…. especially because they never show them any more.

Time to play “Six Degrees of Separation from Green Bay, WI”

Pauly Shore was almost a hometown boy. That’s right. His mother, Mitzi Shore (although Shore is her married name, I don’t recall her maiden name), proprietor of the Comedy Store, hails from Green Bay, WI. Thus, had she not moved to L.A, I might have been friends with The Wease in high school.

Not that he would have stood out from any of the other people I went to school with. In fact, most likely he would have become some UberJock or gone some other redneck route to try to fit in.

Joel Klug of Survivor fame was born in Green Bay, WI. I’ve met him. He’s pretty hunky, but a little too slick for my taste.

Tony Shalhoub, who has appeared in many movies and is to random ethnic men what Colm Meany is to Irish guys, was born and grew up in Green Bay, WI. In fact, he’s vaguely related to my friend Mary Kaye (she’s his nephew’s sister-in-law).

David Spade and Darius Rucker (of Hootie and the Blowfish) are regular guests of Brett Favre here in Green Bay.

WHEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!! What a fun game.

Um, yeah.

Has CBS planted gunmen into the homes of all of the Nielsen families?

Because, honestly, that’s the only reason I can think of why “Everyone Loves Raymond” is still on.

Yet “Buffy” can barely squeak into the top 50.

It’s truly a mystery.

I’ve still got bronchitis.

I’ve taken some cherry-flavored Ny-quil and it didn’t even put me into the lovely druggy sleep that it normally does.

(pout)

Yep. I get pouty when I don’t feel good.

A side note: Ghiradelli makes a brownie mix that does NOT do anything for bronchitis.

It’s really damn good though. It tastes like sin in your hand.

I have no diary in me today. That must be why a bunch of people dropped me off their favorites list. I’m trying not to take it personally. I’m trying not to stare at the list and try to figure out who it was. I’m trying not to OD on Ny-quil in my depression.

I’m going to try to not let this get to me. It shouldn’t matter. It’s really nice when someone favorites you, but if they just ran out of room on their favorites list or aren’t reading you as much as they used to, well, then, it shouldn’t be taken personally. I know this.

I’m still a little pouty though.

It’s all about the Ny-quil.

Tweeting car neighbor ran his tweeting car today for a full hour in his driveway.

While I was trying to read the newspaper without coughing up the four pounds of plegm in my chest.

I couldn’t even be satisfied thinking nasty thoughts about him, because they brought over some still-warm homemade fried dough pastry things last night. And they were really really good. I would have gorged myself on them, but I had just made the brownies and the pastry things were covered in sugar that kept falling down my pajama shirt and making my chest all sticky.

Then later, when I put Vick’s Vap-o-Rub on my chest, it was kind of like a sea salt rub… a mixture of mentholatum and confectionary sweetness. All night I dreamt of church ladies making desserts out of Carmex and Karo Syrup.

I’m not really making much sense. Going to bed now. Hope you’re having a great weekend.

cough

death rattle

(Weetabix coughs up 42 pounds of plegm)

Good night!

Yesterday, I went to Sam’s Wholesale Club to purchase large amounts of various food stuffs at low low prices.

And one of my Pavlovian responses to entering the doors at Sam’s is that I must then urinate. I don’t know why. There’s just something about showing my card to a bored employee wearing a smock and a truss belt that makes me have to go tinkle.

It has never occurred to me that I have memorized which side of the “restroom alcove” the Women’s bathroom is on. It’s sad, actually, that it has become so much of a habit that I don’t even look to see which door I am entering, be it Women’s or Men’s… I just enter the alcove and swing to the left as fast as my little legs can take me. You know, it’s all conditioning. I must pee within 45 seconds of entering Sam’s or I cannot be held responsible for the outcome. It will not be pretty.

They’re doing a lot of remodeling at Sam’s. I knew this.

I did not realize that it also included remodeling the bathrooms.

Whatever Sam’s genius is involved in making their intense corporate decisions had deigned that they should switch around the Men’s and the Women’s bathrooms. Thus the Men’s would be where the Women’s bathroom once was.

And no one conferred with me on this matter.

I rushed into the Women’s bathroom and was a little disoriented. The room had changed. It was now very strange. The stalls were no longer in the same places.

And that’s when I saw him.

And he saw me.

I saw some poor man peeing into a urinal at Sam’s Wholesale Club.

I fled from the Men’s bathroom, with nary an “Excuse Me” or anything. The worst part was that a woman who was entering the Women’s bathroom (the correct Women’s bathroom, that is) SAW me exit the Men’s bathroom and enter the Women’s. She then proceeded to talk to me about how they switched the bathrooms around as she peed in the stall next to mine.

I can’t pee when someone’s talking to me. It’s all related to my intense Lutheran upbringing. We’re repressed that way. No sounds in the bathroom other than gentle tinkling. Pretend that you are alone and are doing something OTHER THAN WHAT YOU ARE DOING. Do not acknowledge anyone. Wash your hands. Don’t touch the flusher thing because that’s acky.

You know, the Lutheran Bathroom Rules.

Anyway, I then had to wait, sitting on the toilet for Chatty Bathroom Lady to leave. Then and only then could I pee. It’s strange isn’t it? I mean, had I not gotten to the bathroom, I would have undoubtedly peed my pants, yet when my ass is hanging over the toilet, the floodgates will not budge if someone is talking to me from the next stall. Thus the Lutheran Bathroom Rules must be stronger than desire to not soil one’s own pants with urine.

Then I waited about twenty minutes to make sure that I would not encounter the peeing guy when I walked out of the bathroom.

Nothing much other than that happened at Sam’s. The cashier lady broke the bag of cat litter when she slammed it into my cart, and then she acted as though it already had a hole in the bag, but that was about it.

This morning, I went golfing with my Aunt (not the one who starves her kids, this is the one who tries to feed those kids and gets in trouble for it). It was very lovely. I lost three balls.

She was impressed with my driving prowess, and I must admit that I impressed myself too. My problem is that I can make the ball go 400 yards in three hits, but then I take 8 hits to make it go 15 feet. That screws up my score big time, as you can imagine.

It felt very good to be out on the golf course. I didn’t drink though, because it was only 10 o’clock in the morning. I did look cute, though, so it was a morning well spent.

We saw some ducks on the course. My aunt fed them (again with the feeding! She’s so concerned that the world is starving) some string cheese and then they followed us for four holes. It was kind of funny to see them, four white ducks, waddling in a line towards us.

Ducks cannot outrun a golf cart, however.

Esteban and Ward are putting in our shower stall as I’m writing this. I’m pretty happy that it doesn’t involve turning off the water. I may actually get to paint the bathroom. Everything snowballs when you own an older home. We’ve spent $1000 and I haven’t even purchased the paint yet.

I hope that everyone has a safe and happy weekend. And remember, if you’re going to drink and drive, that’s fine, as long as the vehicle you are driving is a golf cart. And try to avoid the ducks. The other golfers point and laugh at you when you are being chased by ducks.

Not that I know this from experience or anything.

I’m just saying.

Today is the first day of school for kids in our area.

You might be thinking: Weetabix, why are you concerned with this? After all, you only have two kitties, one of whom is a bipolar bulimic psychopath and the other is the cat equivalent of a grumpy 147-year-old. Why would the first day of school be any concern of yours?

Well, let me tell you!

First of all, I live nary two blocks from one of the cities four high schools. Secondly, my house and specifically my side yard, lies directly between that high school and the fast food restaurants seven blocks away. Did I mention that a teenager consumes the average fast food meal in the time that it takes said teenager to walk seven blocks? I didn’t? Well, I assure you that this is a scientifically proven fact. Scientifically proven by the tests I did over the years’. During the summer, I pick up less than ten items of trash off my lawn all season–during the school year, I pick up a plastic grocery bag full of trash per week.

One time I even found a working beeper in my lawn. Every once in awhile, it would beep. I started calling the phone numbers of the callers saying ‘Who did you beep?’, trying to locate the kid. It took a week before he missed the beeper. He didn’t even say ‘thank you’ when he came to pick it up’ in fact, he whined that we weren’t willing to drop the beeper off for him at his house.

I don’t hate teenagers. Some of the coolest people I know are teenagers. I just hate the teenagers who litter on my lawn.

The first day of school brings another issue. The honking.

Remember my neighborhood which tweets? Well, the first day of school adds a different noise’ honking.

Every school day at 7:04 A.M., the neighbor girl’s ride drives up her driveway (which, incidentally, runs along the side of our house which contains two of our bedroom windows) and honks for her to come out. Within seconds, the girl is out the door and in the car (as she’s undoubtedly been watching for the car anyway), where they then drive a block to the high school parking lot and then walk a block into the school.

Why does she bother? Two reasons: first of all, parking is so tight at the high school that the only way a kid can get a parking permit is if they have at least two other kids riding to school with them, thus I suspect that she’s filler in someone’s carpool. Secondly, everyone knows it’s cooler to drive to school than to walk to school.

The honking pisses me off, though. I mean, it’s 7:04 A.M. every morning. I’m usually up and checking my email when she honks, but Esteban is still sleeping (since he doesn’t have a morning commute, he can afford the luxury of sleeping later) and I know that Mr. Wood Cutting guy behind us works nights, so it’s probably waking him up too.

I want to complain, but I never talk with any of our neighbors. Esteban is Mr. Chatty Pants with the neighbors. He’s fixed the Hippy Christmas Light’s computer across the street, he’s helped Mr. Wood Cutting Guy with his siding, he’s even given Honking’s mom our old lawnmower after he couldn’t fix hers (she’s one of the legion of divorced single parents in our neighborhood and Esteban tries to help her out as much as possible).

I, on the other hand, am completely Uni-bomberesque. I don’t like to make friends with our neighbors. I think it comes from years and years of moving from house to house. I lived in more than 20 different homes from birth until age 21. My mother is a nomadic soul and we’d move at the drop of a hat, which is not conducive to long term relationships with your neighbors. Esteban, on the other hand, had lived in just two homes from birth to age 21, so he finds it natural to strike up conversations with the people who live around us. It’s not that I am unfriendly or anything, it just doesn’t occur to me to chat with them. In fact, I even KNOW one of the divorced moms in our neighborhood’. The lady with the parrot who imitates her telephone is a friend of my mother’s and I’ve known her since I was twelve. I was even present at the birth of her skateboarding son. So, it’s not like I feel weird because they’re strangers, it’s just not on my mind to be social with them.

Anyway, I’d tell Esteban to ask Honking’s mom to make the honking stop, but he doesn’t actually have a problem with it. Esteban could possibly sleep through a Limp Bizkit concert, which is probably a good thing, since I snore like a congested water buffalo, but a bad thing because he’s not emotionally invested in the honking situation. Plus, he probably wouldn’t want to appear like a grumpy neighbor.

Last year, I was actually so riled up about it that I was going to talk with her myself, but then I realized that the school year was almost over and I had somehow convinced myself that Honking was a senior and we would be seeing the end of the honking forever.

So this morning, as I was checking my email and there was this obnoxious honking, it took me a minute to remember that school was starting and that honking was only the beginning of what would end up being 180 days of honking.

It shouldn’t bother me, actually. It’s just that some mornings, I’ll be sitting in the computer room (which also has a window facing their driveway), and I’ll find myself actually tensing up, waiting for the honk. It’s not a pleasant way to start a morning.

It’s probably why I’m addicted to caffeine, actually.

Yeah. That’s it.

I’m becoming one of those grouchy old people I think.

Just watch, I’m going to be outside wearing a big floppy sun bonnet and a flowered house dress without a bra and I’ll be out there with my hose, threatening to spray any kid who rabble-rouses on my lawn.

And my name will be Arlene.

Just watch. I’m thisclose.

Is anyone going to JournalCon in Chicago in October? I’m toying with the idea, but I haven’t decided. See the message board for details.