I have this strange urge to update…. I have no idea. It’s almost as though my fingers are moving of their own power.
Must be Her doing.
Go visit the Message Board
Oh, and if you get a chance, there’s a new Diarylander who just made her very first two entries today. You can visit her Here.
Carissa and I went to lunch together. I’m trying to convince her to use one of her seven and a half remaining vacation days to go golfing with me on Friday morning.
There is nothing like driving around on a golf cart, looking cute and drinking wine coolers. Yes’. Drinking and driving. A fine Wisconsin tradition.
Also, it is my goal to make those people with seniority blow all their vacation.
Bwahahahahahaha! (Weetabix wrings her hands like Snively Whiplash and twirls her unwaxed upper lip).
I started this new Message Board thingy. I thought it would be better than the guestbook because sometimes you guys say something and I feel a response is required so I either send you an email or leave an answer in your own guestbook and that’s kind of a disjointed way to hold a conversation.
Hence the Message Board.
We’ll see how it works out.
I am very bored today. I have nothing else to write about.
Did I mention that I have a pink putter? And a purple golf bag? It is tres cute. It is sometimes more important to look cute rather than play well. My short game sucks.
sigh
So very bored.
I’m just going to pimp the Message Board and leave it at that.
Mwah!
Damn, I am so excited. Dead Dog Dorris is making me this bitchin’ diary layout. It’s so damned cool. I can’t wait to unveil it.
Yep. That’s right. It’s so damned cool, I could only resurrect an 80’s word like “bitchin” to do it justice.
Never fear, however: Chubby Tink will be gracing the new layout. I know many of you would miss her. I know I would. And all the secrets she holds, too.
Tonight, I stopped at the grocery store before going home, under the guise of picking up some hamburger buns and Pringles Right Crisps (which I find less scary than Wow chips, with their strange chemical that makes your poop all runny and aliens crawl out of your butt and stuff like that). $78.92 later (and that was WITH the bureaucratic Big Brother-esque “Frequent Shopper” card thing) I emerged with three bags of groceries. Healthiest thing: red grapes. Least healthy thing: toss up between Stouffer’s French Bread Cheese Pizza and Tombstone Thin Crust Pepperoni Pizza (which were 3 for $9.99… a bargain for us pizza snobs). Going out on a limb purchase: frozen baked beans. I don’t recall the brand. They were $1.99, so I figured, what the hell. Live a little.
Number of Hamburger buns purchased: Zero.
Packages of cookies: Two.
As I was loading up the little cashier’s conveyor belt, I was in front of a very cute obvious bachelor. In his cart: orange juice, Wheaties, wheat bread, grapes (hey, we had something in common!), and many many scary fiberous vegetables.
In my cart, enough sodium and fat to take down the offensive line of the Philedelphia Eagles.
I really shouldn’t go shopping when I’m hungry. It’s not a good thing. I had this strange compulsion to say “These are for my children” or “Boy, I’m having a strange wild party full of picky eaters.” I was so worried that he’d look at my conveyor belt of processed junk and think “God, no wonder….” when he looked at me. Instead, I kept waving around my bag of grapes, as if to say “Oh my, these are MY grapes… the rest of this food is for someone else, but I will live for two weeks on this pound of grapes, mercy yes!”
sigh
Those Pepperidge Farm Mint Brussels cookies didn’t even taste that good.
The only worse time to go grocery shopping is when I am sick. Then I end up with White Castle cheeseburgers, Marshmallow fluffs, Campbell’s jars of soup, and gallons of premade orange juice.
Trust me. Any other grocery excursion will find Boca Burgers and whole grain breads in my shopping cart. Honest.
Never mind. It’s the preservatives talking. Just a little case of Shopping Cart guilt. Carry on.
I just got a phone call from a telemarketer wanting me to make a donation. First of all, she sounded exactly like Lily Tomlin’s Phone Operator character, and secondly, she called us at six minutes to 9:00 p.m.
That pisses me off. I mean, I realize that I’m a big sleepy head and everything, but hey, some people work early in the morning. Some people like to be in bed by 8:30. Some people have kids. Don’t be calling soliciting past 8:00 pm at night. That’s not righteous, folks.
She started to make her little speech, and I said “No, I’m sorry, could you take us off your list. This is a little late to be calling asking for donations.” I said this completely politely and slowly, to show that I wasn’t upset, just concerned.
“Well,” she snipped. “These are solicitor’s hours, but fine, we’ll take you off our list.” And then she hung up.
I have half a mind to call up their headquarters and ream them out. And the worst thing is that I have actually MADE donations to them!
Maybe I should donate a half-eaten bag of Pepperidge Farm Mint Brussels cookies.
Man, I think I am the poster child for Pink Eye.
I just cured it in my left eye and now I’ve got it in my right eye. My eye is just weeping all of the time. I think a lot of people at work don’t know what to make of it. They must think that it’s overwhelming grief or something. No, just fucking Conjunctivitis, thank you very much.
I have these drops which seem to be some kind of acid that burns the little germs up. You’re supposed to use it four times a day, but I never remember to do it in the proper intervals, so I end up doing it lying in bed in the morning, lying in bed at night and then occasionally, I’ll wake up in the middle of night and do it again.
Nothing like waking up in the middle of the night and dropping some burning shit into your eye. Puts you in a really restful state, let me tell ya.
And I’m constantly touching my eye because it puts this puss crap in the corner of my eye, so I don’t want to be walking around with eye boogers all the time. That’s uncalled for. Just because I’ve got eye crap doesn’t mean that I must show my eye crap to everyone and make them all grossed out.
That’s probably why I keep getting the eye crap. It’s a vicious cycle because I’m a thoughtful person and don’t want you to have to look at my eye boogers.
My Diet Coke cup from McDonald’s is all in Spanish.
It’s not like I live in the Hispanic seat of North America. It’s Green Bay, Wisconsin, people! Not Miami. Not Houston. Not Los Angeles. Goddamn Green Bay Wisconsin. Where people think that they’re being multi-ethnic if they visit Taco Bell and order Fah-git-taz.
Midwesterners are the reason that they had to change the name of the Chillito to the Chili Cheese Burrito. We couldn’t handle that.
Anyway, my Diet Coke cup is all in Spanish and it’s giving me the wiggins. I’m fine with being multi-lingual and truthfully, I’m probably one of the more open-minded residents of the area, but I doubt that they would do a Diet Coke cup in Ugandan or French.
When I asked the drive thru lady why my cup was in Spanish, she said ‘It’s a new promotion’. Read the cup.’ ‘I can’t read Spanish.’ I said. She answered by laughing and nodding.
Which is Drive Thru language for ‘Whatever, lady, just get your ass out of my drive thru lane ’cause I’ve got McMuffins to dole out and I’m getting McUnderpaid.’
It’s not entirely true, anyway. I actually can speak passable Spanish. I know that ‘Sabado Gigante’ on the Spanish Channel means ‘Big Saturday’, but I can’t stand actually watching the show. The local cannery employs many migrant workers. I learned a little Spanish back when I worked for the local homeless shelter but only certain phrases, like ‘Sir, please stop peeing out the window’ and ‘Please move your car.’
Truthfully, I think it is just too early in the morning for my brain to process an alternate language. I mean, other than grunts and nods, I’m pretty verbally challenged before 8:00 A.M.
Or maybe it’s the pink eye. I’m owly today.
I hope Will doesn’t get kicked off of Big Brother. He’s so wicked and funny. He’s like Jeff from Survivor II, but funnier and he looks a little like Donny Osmond.
Donny Osmond’s Evil Twin’.. God, he’s perfect!
Edited to add: here’s the cup translation from Babelfish.
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I had a lovely day yesterday, which took away some of the lingering agony of the last week.
I went to ArtStreet with my sister Mo and niece Abby (who graces my banner ad below). It was lovely. I purchased a handmade paper stationery set, with which I intend to use to send Natalie a letter. It’s a pretty cool kit… it’s got pieces of marigolds and ferns pressed into the paper. I dig on that botanical stuff. It appeases my hippy background and assuages my guilt for doing non-hippy things like driving a big gas-guzzling sports car with leather seats.
I also stopped and talked to a lady who started a local children’s theatre group thirty years ago. She directed a few productions that I was in back when I was a wee Weetabix. She remembered me and gave me a big hug. She’s one of those women who I admire greatly, simply because she’s really wacky and she doesn’t care. She was wearing jean shorts and black and white striped knee socks.
I noticed that they’re having auditions this fall for one of the plays I remember trying out for when I was a Junior in high school. How sad is that…. they’ve run out of plays and are recycling them.
I am way too fucking old.
Strangely enough, we also bumped into my mom and Jonathon there, which was lovely. We all ate lunch together. Then it started to rain and we left, which is probably just as well, because I was teetering on purchasing a framed photograph from a local artist for $298. I suppose if I really wanted it, I could go back and get it, but I don’t think I really want it. It was a color photo and our living room is all black and white photographs, so it wouldn’t really fit the whole schema.
Then I went home, got changed, and Esteban and I went to dinner with several of our friends and their six month old babies (two sets of friends each have babies born within six days of each other). Oh, and Kim V. and God are expecting a child now. Wow. There are fewer and fewer of us who are putting off adulthood.
Afterwards, the women and children went home and I went with the boys to the cinema, where we met up with God and Scott and saw “Jay & Silent Bob Strike Back”. That is such a metaphor of my life. The girls go wherever it is that they go and Weetabix goes with the boys where we laugh at a bunch of fart and blowjob jokes.
And I’m ok with that.
I never have really gotten along with girly girls. I’m not a girly girl. I mean, I am sometimes… I like pretty underwear and jewelry, but at the same time, I’m not going to shrink from talking about computer games or books. I find that the girly girls at work or wherever talk about pregnancy or other girls. I just get along with men better. Or other women like me. Carissa is not a girly girl and I think that’s why we get along so well.
I think that the wives were going to invite me along with them. One asked “Weetabix, are you going to the movie?” And I was just stunned. Why would it be assumed that I WASN’T going to the movie? “Um, yeah.” I stuttered. “Oh, I didn’t know. I didn’t know if you were a Jay and Silent Bob type.” I said “I was actually the first person among us who saw ‘Clerks’. No one believed me about how funny it was until they saw ‘Dogma’.” Which is true.
The movie was funny, but if you are thinking about going to it, you should take Levontaun’s advice and rent the previous four movies first (Clerks, Mallrats, Chasing Amy, and Dogma) because a lot of the jokes are references to the previous movies.
Scott was a brave man. He had not seen any of the previous four movies, yet he said he enjoyed the movie more than any movie he had seen this year. I think he’s just jonesing because he sat next to me in the theatre and I kept offering him my Dots to chew on.
Oh, and Scott also mentioned that he was very disturbed to read that I had peed in the toilet he was working on last week. He mentioned that he had lain on the floor next to the toilet after I had done that. First of all, I replied, it was just a little tinkle, not a big old logger or anything. Secondly, I failed to mention, he probably urinated all over my lawn, which I have undoubtedly walked over in bare feet, so I don’t want to hear about it. After that little plumbing fiasco, Scott closed on a 3-year-old house. I’m trying not to look for the slam on our 53-year-old house there, buddy.
This morning, Esteban and I went to a bar and ate our Alcoholic’s Breakfast. We didn’t drink or anything last night, with the exception of Esteban’s few beers at dinner, but every now and then, we get the urge for hot wings and burgers on Sunday mornings. Today was one of those days. Amazingly, I had been hungry for breakfast at the bar and then Esteban suggested it. I love that weird married psychic wavelength thing we’ve got going on sometimes. Then, after “breakfast”, Esteban stopped at a gas station to pick up a paper, and I tried out the psychic thing again. Get me a diet Coke or something to sooth my hot sauce burned mouth……. He came out with two ice cream cones and then we went for a drive on the bay. Man, the things he does sometimes really makes up for the times when he’s a big jerk. But then, I suppose that’s his whole plan.
Give me an ice cream cone and I’m yours.
It’s sad, really, how easily I can be bought.
Oh, and if I know you in person and you are reading this diary and HAVE NOT SIGNED THE GUESTBOOK (Paul, I’m talking to you), you should know that that pisses me off to no end.
Don’t make me come after you.
An update on Auntie Brumhilda:
Apparently there has been a debacle.
It’s being heralded as The Marshmallow Incident.
Sources say that Auntie Brumhilda and her family went back to Grandma’s house after the funeral. There, in full espionage mode, my other Aunt attempted to slip Brumhilda’s daughters some marshmallows. The girls went outside to eat their marshmallows where their mother would not see them.
But she did see them.
Apparently, she chased them out of the house and forcefully snatched the offensive Stay-Pufts from their scrawny little hands.
Then she chewed out her sister for slipping her malnourished children some marshmallows.
Mafia Grandma was quoted as saying “I don’t know what’s gotten into Brumhilda. I think she has a food demon.”
A food demon indeed. A demon with a thirst for marshmallows.
No, ok, not really, but it’s pretty bad when a grown woman goes screaming out the door after her two children, to snatch purloined marshmallows out of their hands.
I believe that a marshmallow has roughly 13 calories in it. And no fat.
Doesn’t matter though. My mother has also witnessed Brumhilda lie to her children at meal times when they ask for more food, stating that they didn’t have any leftovers. The girls later went into the kitchen and lifted the cover off a pot of carrots and said “Mom!” and Brumhilda said, “Oops, you caught me!”.
Someday when the girls aren’t there, I want to go over to her house with a big fucking ice cream sundae and then proceed to eat it. With my fingers. And let it dribble down onto my chest, sucking the hot fudge off my knuckles.
It will surely drive her insane.
And I will then shout “GET THEE BEHIND ME FOOD DEMON!!!”
Some days, I wish I were an Osmond. They don’t have these problems. They just have big shiny white smiles and amazing harmonies. Of course, I’d be known as The Sassy Osmond, but I could live with that. If I had any problems, I could just go to Merrill or maybe Jimmy and they’d talk me through it. Yep. It’s an Osmond’s life for me.
But then someone would have to explain what that whole Mormon thing is all about.
The funeral was strange.
It was pretty much just our tiny little dysfunctional family. Not one person who had an actual genetic connection to Betty. I suppose that it might be sad, but then, I’m glad that she belonged to us and not her actual family, since we were obviously the only people who cared about her.
My mother’s sisters were wearing their finest cat claws however. At one point, my Mafia Grandmother announced to everyone in the funeral parlor that my mother was 50 years old. Then my Aunt said “Where is she anyway?” and I spoke up and said “Obviously out of earshot, since she didn’t come in here when you announced her age to everyone.” They hate her because she’s beautiful.
My Aunt Brumhilda, my mother’s youngest sister, is extremely thin and has been compared to Julia Roberts in some light. She starves her children, though. Her girls are 13 and 11 and look like they’re 10 and 6. I highly doubt that the oldest has begun her period yet.
She doesn’t allow them to go places with relatives because she’s afraid that the relatives will feed them. They are only allowed to go places with her. One time I offered to take the youngest one to audition for the local production of “Annie” and Auntie Brumhilda dragged herself out of bed with a migraine so she could come along to the audition. Because she was afraid I’d force feed her children Happy Meals. Or maybe fat is contagious and I might pollute their scrawny little bodies with my presence. I’m not certain.
One time, when I was growing up, she had moved into her own apartment (there’s nine years between her and myself, so I’m guessing she was about 20 or 19 then) and I slept over at her house.
For breakfast, she cut up a grapefruit and an orange. For the record, I detest grapefruit. I can’t stand it. But the kicker here: she made me turn on The Jack LaLane Show on television and do the half hour of aerobics with good old Jack before I could eat. And she sat on the couch watching me, critiquing my performance.
Then she let me eat the damn grapefruit and orange pieces.
Then she claimed that she was too busy to take me home, so I should just ride my bike home from her house, which was over three miles away from home.
Nice lady, huh?
When we had been at my grandmother’s earlier, the oldest kept turning the television station to the Food Network and her mother kept yelling at her to turn it to something else. Whenever Aunt Brumhilda wasn’t watching, oldest girl would turn it back to the Food Network, where a guy was showing how to make mayonaise from scratch, and then later showing how to rescue a batch of mayonaise which had separated. She was enthralled. I imagine that it was the most mayonaise she had ever seen in her life. How many 13 year old girls would skip over MTV or even Nickelodeon to watch a guy make mayonaise from scratch?
When her mother went upstairs with M.G. to pick out some clothing for Betty to be buried in, oldest girl casually went into M.G.’s kitchen and raided it, coming back into the living room with a hand full of marshmallows, which she quickly shoved into her mouth.
When that girl was three years old, she ate more than I did at a picnic. She ate a brat, a hotdog, a hamburger, a huge amount of potato chips, potato salad, several pickles and a big dollop of fruit salad. Guess who wasn’t at that family gathering?
After the funeral, we went to a local establishment for a meal. I wasn’t sitting at their table but I noticed that the youngest was only allowed a cup of chili for her meal. The oldest was allowed a grilled cheese. They weren’t allowed sodas. I heard her snap at them when they asked if they could have sodas “You had one at the funeral home! I saw you.” Yep, my mom had given them each 50 cents for a soda, which they took outside so that they could drink it. The oldest denied that they’d had any sodas, though.
After the meal, my other aunt (who is a little more relaxed, but still very strange) had this whole system of giving french fries to the girls. They would walk up and pretend to be asking her a question, and quickly snatch a few fries and shove them into their mouths, with a wary eye on their mother. They all performed this espionage with such grace that I’m certain it’s been played out time and time again.
Aunt Brumhilda was quick to note on Betty’s pictures that she had been heavier, but now she had slimmed down nicely. Um, that’s because she lost 40 pounds in a month.
When did our society turn from pitying thin people for looking sickly and praising them for looking in control? I realize that this has been broached time and time again, but it’s ridiculous. Aunt Brumhilda’s girls are going to have the mother of all binge eating disorders and probably end up overweight because they have no idea how to eat when they’re not being governed by their anorexic mother.
One time, I was trying to point out the dysfunction in my family and Aunt Brumhilda piped up and said “Well, Weetabix, when are you going to do something about your weight? We’re all concerned about THAT!” I should have said “Look, bitch, I AM doing something about it… I’m gaining weight as we speak. Hopefully I’ll never be in danger of becoming a pathetic little boyish twig and I’ll maintain my womanly curves. How about you? Do you need some advice on your weight problem?”
Bah.
What a grumpy day I’m having.
So yesterday I’m sitting in the funeral home with my grandmother, aunt, and my sister, Mo.
The funeral director guy’s name was Dale. We didn’t call him “Mr. Lyndahl”, we were to call him Dale. It was this whole weird happy shiny funeral business. Very strange. He hugged Mafia Grandma after we finished the arrangements. I think it was the first time that woman’s been hugged in twenty years. The look on her face was priceless. She sort of stood there, like an overstuffed teddy bear, arms stuck awkwardly out, since she didn’t want to actually place her hands on his person.
The things that I find amusing sometimes….. sheesh.
Anyway, at one point, “Dale” had gone somewhere to retrieve the picture we had just given him for the obituary, and we were sitting in this little room titled “Advanced Planning”, which was sort of strange. Advanced of the death? But we were there post death. Truthfully, my grandmother had done some “Advanced Planning” so maybe that’s why we were still in that room. But it still makes me wonder. Did they also have a room called “Nick of Time Planning” or some such? Morbid, I know, but so is a room called “Advanced Planning”.
There were no tissues in the Advanced Planning room. Maybe that was the difference. If you’re planning in advance, they don’t need to break out the free box of tissues. There was also no garbage for the tissues I stole from the lobby, so I ended up walking around with a big sodden mass of tissues. Oddly enough, I wasn’t crying there, I was highly allergic to something at the funeral home. Maybe I’m allergic to “advanced planning”. Note to self: Must remember to take a Zyrtec tomorrow before the funeral.
Anyway, we’re sitting there waiting for “Dale” to come back and suddenly there was a commotion outside of the door. Apparently, two people had startled each other and one of them screamed.
I couldn’t see what was going on, I just heard the screaming/startled noise. Immediately, I thought of bodies rising from their slabs, wandering through the home, like “Night of the Living Dead” or something.
I know. I watched far too many classic horror movies when I was 15. It’s changed me somehow.
They had mints in the “Advanced Planning” room, too. Mints, but no tissue. I’m having a hard time figuring the logic.
Last night, my three-year-old niece called Mo a spank.
Mo didn’t know where Abby had learned that.
I thought it was pretty funny. Especially because Mo is kinda a spank sometimes. Like the time she kicked me out of her house for having smelly feet. Sheesh.
Elizabeth Theresa Barto died this morning at 3:13 a.m. She was 86 years old.
Rest in Peace, sweetheart.
My life has been so much better having known you.
Another depressing entry, but it ends on an up note, I promise’..
It strikes me as so strange, sometimes, the extent of human fallibility and carelessness. And then I am stunned by the compassion of strangers that my faith in the world is renewed.
Last week, I received a phone call from my good friend Mary Kaye. She lives out of town and sometimes visits during the middle of the week, as her work schedule allows.
‘I will be in town from Tuesday until Thursday afternoon. When will you be free?’ She asked.
I explained that I wouldn’t be free and that it was not a very good week for me, as Betty was in the hospital dying and I would be spending my nights there.
‘Oh.’ She replied. ‘Ok, well, then I’ll see you the next time I’m in town’ probably on Thanksgiving or something.’
A little background: Mary Kaye’s father died in March after a long illness. I sent flowers and spent the entire seven hours of visitation and funeral at her side at the funeral home. Her mother requested that I take my camera and snap pictures of the family, which I did. They then requested that I come along to the family gathering afterwards, which I gladly did, staying late into the night, despite needing to wake up early in the morning the next day. Don’t get me wrong, I certainly don’t need a Martyr award for this. I was happy to do it. I wished I could have done more.
Last night, I got another phone call from her.
‘I’m going to be in town on Wednesday and Thursday nights. Which night is better for you?’ automatically implying that we would be doing something.
‘I’m sorry, probably neither. I’m working until 7 o’clock each night and I’m also going to be going to the hospital visiting Betty after work each night’. Although I am expecting that we’ll probably be having a funeral one of those nights.’
A pause on the other line.
‘You mean she’s not dead yet?’ she sighed.
I managed to stammer, ‘No, she’s not.’ And then quickly ended the phone call.
My god.
I should have said nothing. I should have rewarded her comment with silence. I should have given her a lovely sarcastic comment, but the wall had fallen and I was painfully exposed, not expecting to need to defend the woman who is lying weak in a hospital bed, especially to one of my best friends.
Now, to be fair to Mary Kaye, I’m certain that she did not mean it the way it sounded, but I think on some level that she did mean it exactly as she sounded. Sometimes we say ‘I didn’t mean it that way’ when what we meant to say is ‘I didn’t mean to say that out loud.’ We think it, but we don’t say it out loud because it’s insensitive as hell.
So, I’m so sorry that her dying doesn’t fit into everyone’s schedule.
On the Betty front, the doctors are amazed that she is lasting this long. She is very strong for someone who was supposedly failing and having all that organ failure. It’s very difficult to be at the hospital. It’s amazing that I was complaining last week about being there, as it was not as bad then. Each day it is an unseen level of horrible. She’s really struggling to breath and you just want to help her but you know that you can’t. I haven’t been talking about it much here, because it’s just too hard to deal with it on a day-to-day basis. I deal with it in the hospital’ when I’m out of the hospital, I can’t think about it without feeling the need to be at the hospital. If I think about it at work, I want to leave work and go to the hospital. And yet, when I’m there, I just want to escape.
On the other side of the spectrum, last night I read one of the most beautiful entries I’ve ever read on Diaryland. It was beautiful and a testament to human strength, courage and nobility.
Go read it now. Bring a hanky. Write her a note, and please choose your notepaper well.
Life is both wonderful and horrible at once.
