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Do they make caffeinated air???

Tuesday, July 31, 2001

Ok, this begins Day One of the Decaffeinated Weetabix.

My blood has the viscosity of slightly overcooked oatmeal.

My head is filled with lovely bunches of cotton

It is 10:30 a.m.

I’ve decided that I’m going to, for the most part, pretend that I’m a vegetarian. When I was a vegetarian, I ate rather healthy and enjoyed it. Now, meat doesn’t disgust me at this point in my life, so I’m not going to make Esteban’s life hell again by refraining from meat products. Poor man. He suffered silently and was always so respectful of my vegetarian status. He didn’t call me a hypocrite when I returned back to eating meat. Really, I didn’t stop eating meat because of any cruelty issues or moral indignance. Rather, I simply gradually grew disgusted by meat’ first ground beef, then any red meat, then chicken. At that point, I was sick of saying ‘Well, I only eat fish’ and truthfully, fish kind of disgusted me too (the skin, oh god, if there is skin on fish I can’t even look at it!), so I became a full-fledged vegetarian (although, I did meat by-products, like milk, eggs and butter because it didn’t disgust me). When meat started looking good again, I started eating it (in reverse order’ first my ability to swallow fish came back, then boneless chicken breasts, then any kind of chicken, then steak, then after a year I could eat hamburger again as well). But Esteban had a hard time with my dalliance into the herbivore life. And truthfully, meat doesn’t disgust me at this point, so I’m not going to abstain from meat entirely, just lean more toward the types of meals I ate when I was a vegetarian.

This morning, instead of my normal McDonald’s 32 oz Diet Liquid Sex, er Coke, I had a freshly squeezed glass of orange/strawberry juice. Instead of an Egg McMuffin, I had a whole wheat bagel with hummus and cucumber on it and crunching blue corn chips. For dinner, I’m planning on making grilled chicken breasts and veggies with rice tonight for dinner. I’m endeavoring to eat my five or more fruits and vegetables a day and only drink liquids that are of the replenishing sort’juices, waters and herbal teas.

I may need to prop up my eyelids with pens by noon.

I think I’m going to keep updating this entry as the day progresses. Stay tuned.

11:02 am. That hummus did NOT do anything for me whatsoever. My spring water’s almost gone. I’m getting foggy.

11:20 amWhat made me think I could quit caffeine and also eat healthy crap all in the same day? My head is so heavy. Sooooo heavy. I want to curl up under my desk and rest my head on my footrest, which looks so inviting down there. It’s beckoning to me. Must…. resist….must….resist!

12:08 p.m. I think I’m getting my second wind. Ok, it’s not so much a wind, but a gentle breeze. Or maybe a fart, but at least it’s something. In response to KathMcall’s guestbook entry: Oh I have plenty of vices! While none of the one’s you suggested apply, I have many other devious little habits. It is physically impossible for me to go through a grocery store checkout without thinking about purchasing a National Enquirer (junk food for the mind, you know). I bite my nails. I don’t balance my checkbook. I tend to whine sometimes. And I’m sometimes a mean person. While these are sometimes excusable (well, not the being mean to people thing), also being a caffeine junkie, in my opinion, is not. I detest the idea that I am addicted to something. I dislike feeling powerless over my own self. I’m already powerless over my nailbiting (sometimes doing it in my sleep) and so many other issues that I just can’t stand the idea that there is something that I can control if I put my mind to it. And as Throcky wrote in a thoughtful caring email to me this morning, (paraphrased) drinking so much Diet Coke is like applying cancer directly to your bladder. Which is something to give one pause, wouldn’t you think. But I really appreciate your validation of my pathetic need for caffeine. I thought about it. I really did. But I am steeling myself against my weaknesses. (cue “Patton” soundtrack… fade to waving American flag in the background)

1:22 P.M. You know what’s a good substitute for caffeine? Sugar. Lots and lots of sugar. I got a big Dairy Queen slush for lunch and now I’m just a sippin’ away. Stop looking at me like that. It doesn’t have any caffeine. Ok, sure, it may be not exactly the “replenishing liquid” I talked about above, but it’s not Diet Coke, now is it? Plus, they make the slush with apple juice. Seriously. I read that somewhere. slurp slurp slurp

3:32 p.m. Kudos to Kath who is volunteering to take my caffeine for me. Such a brave girl. However, thinking of her buzzing around like a big Diet Coke fiend is a little funny. She’s such a sweetheart. Actually, I feel that way about all of my readers. I love you guys. They said that withdrawl makes you lose your edge. Hmmmm. Esteban has sent me a bouquet of a dozen red roses and purplish something flowers. What a sweetheart. I may eat them by the end of the day. The sugar buzz is gone. My neck does not feel strong enough to support my bulbous head. Why did I need to have such a large head? Second thingy of Aquafina. My boss went out and purchased Wendy’s Frosties for us. I chugged that thing like a decathalon runner. One hell of a brain freeze, but I got a nice little buzz from the itty bitty bit of caffeine in it. I’m truly pathetic.

5:29 p.m. I’m home now. I’m not certain exactly how I made it home, given that I was practically falling asleep at the wheel. I missed my exit and had to drive to the next one.

I’m a menace to society without caffeine, I tell you.To respond to Trouble‘s guestbook entry, I can’t deal with coffee, caffeinated or otherwise. ‘Round about January 4th, when the temperature hits negative twenty, I can tolerate a 50-50 mixture of hot chocolate and french vanilla cappucino, but that’s about it. I’m also drooling thinking about Jen’s Dr. Pepper. At this rate, I will likely be in bed by 6:45 p.m. Still on for the grilled chicken dinner, but I have no energy to actually make this dinner, so Esteban and I are going out for it.

8:19 p.m. Well, I made it. We went out to dinner and they even had free soda and I still had water (cue John Phillips Sousa march crescendo, filter camera with hazy fog of victory). Can you believe it? I know. Wow. I’m certain that I will sleep very well tonight, despite the fact that it is rougly the temperature of the surface of the fucking sun in our bedroom.

God, tomorrow, I’ll have to get up and do this again. I don’t know if I can handle it.Oh, and thanks to all of the fabulous well-wishers in the guestbook! I love you guys! I love Tuesdays.

Have you read these?

Do they make caffeinated air???
How ’bout if I just cut back on onions, olives and liver instead?
Prithee, fine squire, shut the hell up?
Sort of like “A Star is Born”, but with Dirk Diggler
Now with 45% more RIBOFLAVIN!!!
Convenient Feminism: the religion of the Gen X woman
Singing about Girl on Girl action!

Filed in Diaryland | | Comments Off on Do they make caffeinated air???

How about if I just cut back on onions, olives and liver instead?

Monday, July 30, 2001

I’m thinking about not drinking Diet Coke anymore. It can’t be terribly good for you. Also, I learned that soda manufacturers wrongly list that diet soda with Nutrasweet contains zero calories. C’mon people. Remember back when Paula Abdul used to sing ‘Just 1 calorie! Diet Coke!’. Look at a Diet Coke label today and you’ll see that the 1 calorie has disappeared. Nutrasweet DOES have calories but the soda manufacturers have found that people don’t want to drink soda that tastes like battery acid if it has 60 calories in it, but they’ll drink it if it has negligible calories in it. The FDA routinely fines them hundreds of thousands of dollars for falsely labeling the nutritional information (that pesky law about ‘truth in advertising’ that the tobacco manufacturers stretch to the limit as well) but they’ve found that the increase in soda sales exceeds the amounts of the fines and thus they are still profitable.

Also, here’s the nutritional content of my Diet Coke: Carbonated Water, Carmel Color, Aspartame, Phosporic Acid, Potassium Benzoate (To Protect Taste), Natural Flavors, Citric Acid, Caffeine.

Breaking that down: where the hell does ‘Carmel Color’ come from? From the Carmel plant? Natural Flavors? Hog sweat is natural. Toe Jam is natural. I grew up with hippy parents, people, and I can tell you that nothing that ever came from the Natural Foods Co-op EVER tasted like fucking Diet Coke. Also, what’s the deal with the ‘To Protect Taste’ crap? If that taste is protected, I’m not sure that I could stand the unprotected taste. And what exactly are they protecting it from?

And yet I drink the stuff with relish. I get all trembly if I don’t have my 32 oz fix every damn morning. I’m Coca-Cola’s bitch’I’d be willing to suck down antifreeze if they packaged it with caffeine in chilled effervescent goodness.

Last night, I purchased a tub surround for our bathroom with Ward and June. Dad is so funny. He makes me laugh all the time. They invited me for dinner too, so I stayed and ate with them. The payment for this was only sitting and listening to a ‘You should have children’ lecture, which wasn’t so bad. I’m remarkably used to this now. My eyes glaze over and I just sit there and nod and say automatically ‘We’ll see’. We’ll see’ We’re not ready for that yet.’

They’re both on a Carb-restricted diet. I don’t know if they’ve lost any weight on it. My friend Mary Kaye has lost oodles of weight, though. I’d think about doing it, simply because I’d like to be quicker on the volleyball court, a little smoother in the hips. By no means do I want to be a 140 lb thing. I just want to be the way I was when I was 20 years old, still a plus size girl, but a little less like the Goddess of Willendorf. Not that there’s anything wrong with looking like the Goddess of Willendorf. She is a goddess, after all. And she’s got quite a rack on her. I just want to look more like my Porn Twin, but sans slutty Porn Twin makeup and big 1992 hair.

The thing about the Carb-restricted diet is that the list of illegal foods reads like the list of Top Ten Foods Weetabix Lives On. Cereal, fruit, bread, pasta, potatos, soda, tomatos, peas, bananas. The only thing I like on the ‘stuff you can eat’ list is bacon, and my affinity for bacon is tenuous at best. I like it about once a week, but I don’t know if I can eat more than that.

Also, I don’t know if peanut butter is allowed, but if that is, then I like two items on the list. And what the hell do you actually EAT the peanut butter on if you can’t eat any bread things? Do I make a sandwich by slathering strips of bacon with peanut butter? I think Elvis did that and he wasn’t exactly triathalon material. Also, it is a minor felony to eat peanut butter without bananas or jelly, both of which are on the “illegal carbs” list.

I’m allergic to milk, so that cuts out butter, cream and cheese. I’m mildly allergic to most whole nuts, so that cuts out all of the seed eating. You can’t eat any fruits, nor can you eat the only vegetables that I like. I just don’t think it’s realistic for me to attempt it. I think that the real motivation behind the Scarsdale murder was because that guy wouldn’t let her eat a Pillsbury Grands biscuit with honey.

To punish my reluctance to become a disciple of Dr. Atkins, June then began telling me about the places that Ward got hives from eating gluten. I tried to stop her, but my ears had already begun to bleed. They are so much like my parents that it puts me into physical shock when they talk about anything groiny. I want to believe they are Ken and Barbie dolls, with hard nubs of detailless plastic where their reproductive organs should be. Then she chastised me for being afraid of bats flying out of the gaping hole in the bathroom. Don’t you just love parents?

Have you read these?

How ’bout if I just cut back on onions, olives and liver instead?
Prithee, fine squire, shut the hell up?
Sort of like “A Star is Born”, but with Dirk Diggler
Now with 45% more RIBOFLAVIN!!!
Convenient Feminism: the religion of the Gen X woman
Singing about Girl on Girl action!

Filed in Diaryland | | Comments Off on How about if I just cut back on onions, olives and liver instead?

Prithee, fine squire, shut the hell up?

Sunday, July 29, 2001

Yesterday, I brought my mom and my little brother Jonathon to the Renaissance Fair. It was sort of spur of the moment’ a very cool day (64-70 degrees) and a day when we didn’t already have some major thing planned. The stars were in alignment, so to speak.

I should preface this here by saying that Jonathon likes to talk. Jonathon likes to talk a LOT. Jonathon should be a sports commentator when he grows up or maybe just some sort of commentator in general, or at very least, marry a spouse who enjoys LISTENING, because the mouth is always flapping on that kid. Most of the time, he’s so busy describing what’s going on in front of him or asking questions about benign details that he’s missing the larger picture. It’s ok and I think he’s got a bit of the storyteller bug in him but it does get a bit annoying. I’m fairly certain that he’ll grow out of it. If not, I’ll turn him onto Diaryland where he can write pages upon pages of observations.

We had a grand time. Moonie the Magnificent took off his top and I got to view his nice athletic arms. That was the highlight of my day. He’s a hottie. I’m normally there with Esteban, so I would feel awkward lusting after the men in tights, but with just my mom and my brother, I could run free with lascivious thoughts about codpieces. My mother enjoyed herself immensely. I ended up bribing Jonathon with $20 if he would stop begging for us to purchase various things for him. He ended up blowing it all throwing various sharp objects at various items in the games area (lessee, five pointed stars, darts, cross bows, and daggers from what I remember).

I was sitting, at one point, watching Moonie and then I had a strange thought. This is his job. His job is spitting golf balls out of his mouth, touching his burning tongue to the burning tongue of another flame juggler, and doing funny little faces whilst wearing tights. That’s his job. And it’s the job of some lady to be Queen Elizabeth every weekend and wear a big purple dress and a bum roll and ride a horse at the 1:00 pm parade.

I want a job like that.

Where do I apply to be the Queen? Let me know, ok?

I was speaking with my sister about this diary (while I was trying to convince her to go to the RenFair with the rest of us, but she had taco dip to make or some such nonsense’ I couldn’t hear her over the sounds of “water” running). Anyway, she’s wanting a pseudonym because ‘Everyone has one but (her)’. Which is bullshit. No one has a pseudonym, other than myself and Esteban. Oh, and sometimes I refer to Esteban Sr. as Ward because his mom’s name is June (and that’s really her name, kids) and sometimes I call him Esteban Sr, because he really is a Sr while Esteban is actually Esteban Jr. Not even the cats have pseudonyms.

And truthfully, I don’t do pseudonyms very much because I can’t remember to use them. In fact, one sharp-eyed reader wondered if I had two husbands, since I sometimes referred to Esteban as his real name and sometimes as ‘Esteban’.

Frankly, I’m game about giving my sister a pseudonym, but I’m clueless about what I’m going to call her and I also don’t feel like going through all of my old entries and exchanging her name for her pseudonym. I’m thinking of calling her ‘Mo’, since one of the first things I wrote about her here was that she ‘tailgates like a mofo’. What do you think? Any other suggestions?

Oh, and another thought: for those of you who know me in real life, who read this here diary and see things that you don’t like, just remember this: you’re reading MY diary. For whatever reason, possibly you are feeling voyeuristic or what to see what I really think of you or whatever, you need to realize that I’m writing my thoughts at the time and I try to only write things that I would say to your face anyway. I understand that sometimes it seems harsher than hearing it from my mouth, but you need to remember that you are here of your own free will. If you don’t like what you see, then don’t keep reading. It’s like peeking in the windows of the Widow Baker up the street: sometimes you’re gonna see some ugly shit.

God. I shouldn’t even have had to write that.

This is really starting to piss me off. I’m thinking about not keeping an online journal anymore.

I don’t want to stop, but I don’t want to censor myself because of whoever is reading. I also feel as though I have to censor myself because I’ve already perturbed a few individuals. And as my sister pointed out, I would be shunned from the family if anyone found out (other than my sister) that I refer to my Grandma as Mafia Grandma. (Ok, I wouldn’t say THAT to her face) But then, she’s touchy and she’ll put a horse’s head in your bed for looking at her cross-eyed. One year, she actually got pissed off at me because I had the NERVE to have an asthma attack in her home with it’s blue smoke-filled air and 11 Persian cats.

Anywho, hopefully I’ll get over my pissy attitude and figure out some way to either not let it bother me or somehow censor myself without pissing myself off, because I actually really enjoy writing in here and I love all of the cool people I’ve ‘met’ through this here thang.

Have you read these?

Prithee, fine squire, shut the hell up?

Sort of like “A Star is Born”, but with Dirk Diggler
Now with 45% more RIBOFLAVIN!!!
Convenient Feminism: the religion of the Gen X woman
Singing about Girl on Girl action!
So… you’re saying that watching a lot of Star Trek is bad?

Filed in Diaryland | | Comments Off on Prithee, fine squire, shut the hell up?

Sort of like “A Star is Born”, but with Dirk Diggler

Friday, July 27, 2001

It’s a lovely Friday. Esteban is coming home from Banff tomorrow night. I’m wearing shorts to work. I took some allergy medicine last night so I slept wonderful restful druggie sleep smack in the middle of the bed. My hair is behaving. It’s a wonderful day.

Last night, when I put my dinner leftovers (mozzarella garlic tortellini with mushrooms and marinara sauce, if you must know) in the fridge, apparently, I didn’t fight the overcrowded fridge nearly enough and the leftovers didn’t allow the door to close. And it stayed like that all night. Thus, I must clean out the fridge today and throw away countless items of food. And I’m not even upset about it. I’m somewhat actually looking forward to it.

That’s how lovely of a Friday it is.

Also, yesterday I actually got to sing sounds at my vocal lesson. I did ‘MEE’ and ‘ZEE’ and ‘LOO’ and ‘UH’. Next week, we’re moving on to actual words. I’m hoping that we will get to full sentences before she moves to the ‘Acia’ country. Also, she made me tape the lesson and I listened to the tape as I was driving home. The similarities between my voice and that of a mating cat are striking. My money has been well spent.

This weekend will be the opening of ‘Planet of the Apes’ and I’m certain that everyone is very excited about that, but have you considered the true victims of this movie?

What about Donnie Wahlberg, of New Kids on the Block fame? Can you imagine what it’s like for Donnie to see his brother with all of this success. I would think he’d be bitter. After all, it was Donnie who was the golden boy. Donnie who was in the big boy band of the late 80’s/early 90’s. I would think that there would be a lot of sibling rivalry in his family, with it’s nine children and for Donnie to finally rise above and be the hot rock star must have been quite wonderful for him. Then to suddenly have that taken away when Marky Mark became a rap thing, an exercise video purveyor, a gay poster boy, a famed owner of a large unit. It was Marky Mark who got to rub his naked body on Julianne Moore’s naked body. It was Marky Mark who is all buddy buddy with George Clooney. It was Marky Mark who got to wear a freakishly huge prosthetic penis. And now it’s Marky Mark who’s following in the footsteps of Charleton Heston and pursuing his dream of losing the ‘y’ in ‘Marky’.

My heart pours out to Donnie. I can only imagine: Donnie performing his NKOTB moves in front of the mirror on his closet, working up a sweat in his frustration. Donnie receiving scripts that had been turned down by his brother. Wallowing in his mediocrity, he’d go to the zoo and sit with the chimpanzees, mumbling under his breath ‘Get your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty ape!’ and scowling at the one he named ‘Dr. Cornelius’. The monkeys would throw orange rinds and feces at him through the bars. Donnie would then go and hide behind the Nocturnals house and cry into his faded zippered Members Only jacket.

Remember Donnie in your hearts, people. That’s all I’m saying.

Have you read these?

Sort of like “A Star is Born”, but with Dirk Diggler
Now with 45% more RIBOFLAVIN!!!
Convenient Feminism: the religion of the Gen X woman
Singing about Girl on Girl action!

So… you’re saying that watching a lot of Star Trek is bad?

Plus 2 hit points if you can lay some killer farts

Filed in Diaryland | | Comments Off on Sort of like “A Star is Born”, but with Dirk Diggler

Now with 45% more RIBOFLAVIN!!!

Thursday, July 26, 2001

Last night, our volleyball team got shanked again’this time by a team with only four players. I’m a little discombobulated now. I mean, we used to be in second place, losing out only to a team of cyborg barflies for whom chronic drinking has the same affect as training at high altitudes. And I was ok with that. But last week, we lost all three games to the fourth place team and this week I was too disheartened to even see who we were losing to, but I believe they were the third place team. Plus, they had a bunch of their menfolk who were hooting and hollering like we were playing the damn Superbowl or something. I’m assuming that there were no Nascar races to watch last night. I almost got into a bar fight telling one of them to shut the fuck up. Ok, I didn’t really, but I did give him one deadly stare and in my mind said, ‘Shut the fuck up, Loser’. It’s very hard when you make an error and there’s a bunch of raucous people on the sideline, screaming and cheering like you were the Nazi guy in the Indiana Jones movies and you got your face melted off by the wrath of God.

Next week, we’re playing Jackson Elementary’s Girl Scout troop and truthfully, I’m a little concerned.

Also, I think I pulled something lunging for a serve that I undoubtedly missed. My ass hurts, although it could be from all of the inhaling exercises I’ve been doing for my vocal training. I’ve got another lesson tonight, where I’m certain that she will spend twenty-five minutes making sure that I’m EXHALING properly.

The senior pictures turned out fabulous. I’m surprised actually at how really good they are. I suppose I shouldn’t be. I was concentrating a lot on doing everything right. I have this horrible tendency to lop off the top bits of people’s heads. Honestly, why does that bother people so much? I mean, if you want a picture of the top of your head, I can take a picture of the top of your head.

Last night Esteban ICQ’d me from Banff. Then he called me but his cell phone was cutting in and out horribly so we just resorted to chatting. I kept having this strange feeling that I should be telling him my age, gender, hair color, etc. It was very odd chatting with my spouse. Also, I was being a smart ass to him and then I was realizing that my sarcasm was not really translating through the written word. For instance, I told him that Tilly was freaking out, which just means that she was being schizophrenic as normal, but he got all nervous ‘What’s wrong with Tilly? What’s she doing? Where’s Chelsea?’ He asked where Chelsea was because sometimes Tilly will attack Chelsea for no apparent reason when she’s being a freak.

Tilly is the enforcer in their relationship. If we yell at Chelsea, Tilly will go beat her up. If we yell at Tilly, she will go and beat Chelsea up. I’m not sure why. Maybe she knows someone should get their ass kicked but she gets confused. We also have to be very careful about stepping on Chelsea, as she’s gotten an attitude in her old age. She does not feel she needs to move for ANYONE, which means that she is often underfoot. If we step on her, she’ll yowl in surprise and then Tilly will get confused or something and begin to stalk her with the intent on pummeling her. Poor Chelsea, first she gets stepped on and then she must fear for her life.

I am so tired this morning. Our volleyball game was scheduled for 8:45 last night (read: Weetabix’s bed time) but they were running very late and we didn’t get on the court until 9:15 and didn’t finish until 10:00. And it’s not like you can run off the court after a hard game and jump right into bed (aside from the sandy feet issue, which can make your bed an experience which ranges from exfoliation to dermabrasion), so I played around on the computer and watched Letterman until 11:30 p.m. and then finally went to bed.

I’m so tired this morning that I actually wore my hippy sandals to work because I didn’t want to bend down to tie my shoes nor find my slip on loafers. Plus, I didn’t want to have to put on socks. How sad is that? I think if I had some hot venus bod, I’d probably go to work in my pajamas or possibly naked. Just think: business propriety has been reserved due to my love of KFC. And who said the Colonel never did anything for the world?

Edited because I’m Freudian Slip Girl recently. Yesterday I slipped when writing about taking a bath (I wrote “taking a bat”). Today, I had to edit the above bit because I wrote “I didn’t want to bed down and tie my shoes” instead of “bend down”. God, I couldn’t PLAN for funnier slips if I tried.

Also, wanted to add that someone from a Ralph Lauren server is reading this while working there. I have this sudden urge to apply suede paint to my background and attire ChubbyTink in a tweed fox hunting outfit. I’m not entirely sure whatit means that someone at Ralph Lauren is reading this, but if you’ve got any pull whatsoever, could you please get me a Ralph Lauren t-shirt made up in XXXV (that stands for extra extra extra Voluptous). Ralphie doesn’t make t-shirts in big sizes, as far as I know. I’d like a pink one. I’ll gladly pay. And just to show how tired I am, I actually for a moment thought “Who do I know at Ralph Lauren?” and then I thought “Oooh, I know Rachel Green! She works there” but then I remember that she’s on “Friends” and I don’t really know her. Pretty pathetic, isn’t it?

Have you read these?

Now with 45% more RIBOFLAVIN!!!
Convenient Feminism: the religion of the Gen X woman
Singing about Girl on Girl action!

So… you’re saying that watching a lot of Star Trek is bad?

Plus 2 hit points if you can lay some killer farts

Filed in Diaryland | | Comments Off on Now with 45% more RIBOFLAVIN!!!

Convenient Feminism: the religion of the Gen X woman

Tuesday, July 24, 2001

My life is completely hypocritical.

I pride myself on being a feminist. I can point out politically incorrect ad campaigns and dissect insulting behavior in a heartbeat. Yet in my every day actions, I am a helpless wittle flower, wilting at the sign of adversity or gender-opposite tasks.

This morning, I told you about how Esteban had arranged for Joel to come and mow the lawn yesterday. Well, today while I was at work, my Dad (Esteban Sr, actually, but he IS my Dad) brought over his lawnmower to take care of the lawn and found it (mostly) cut. He remowed parts of it, so it didn’t look like a victim of a pinking shears fight. Then he cut a hole in our bathroom wall (as he’s going to be putting in an in-wall cabinet in there). He called me at work and warned me about the hole in the wall and apologized for any mess that he had missed.

‘What about bats?’ I asked.

You see, when I was a six-year-old child, a bat got into our house (when we lived on the farm, which my mom was still married to my stepfather) and appeared in the bathroom while I was taking a bat. I screamed. I screamed a lot. I thought that it was possibly a baby Pterodactyl. The lady a half mile up the road met my stepfather outside (where he was disposing of the dead bat, because in the seventies, no one cared about the environment, they were too worried about the price of gasoline and Jimmy Carter’s lazy brother, Billy) because she had heard someone screaming all the way down by her house. My stepfather explained that it had been me screaming and had to show her the bat to prove it, as she didn’t really believe him and I suppose thought that he had killed my mother and possibly myself (which I wouldn’t have put past him, but that’s a whole other story). I wouldn’t take a bath by myself after that, but my mom left my stepfather shortly thereafter, so it wasn’t a big deal. In fact, for some reason, I felt safer in showers, I think because of the shower curtain. It was possibly bat-proof, I’m not certain.

Years later, we lived in an old Victorian house betwixt several large cathedrals downtown. My bedroom was the one at the end of the hall, the one which sat under the peak in the roof. A gable? I’m not sure what that architectural feature is called. Anyway, the roof formed a big triangle in that section of the house, but my room squared off toward the top, leaving a little attic in that triangle area between the ceiling of my room and the roof. Every night, I’d lie in bed and listen to the sounds of the bats in the attic (Belfry? Cornice? Hayloft?). They’d make these little weird sonar squeaks and I could watch them through my window, flying out at dusk. One night, my mother reported having a weird dream. She dreamt a large bat was flying around her room, back and forth, around her bed in circles. Now, my mother sleeps like the dead and likes to become extremely drunk besides, so we both just brushed it off, especially after she searched her room extensively and found not a single sign of winged rodentia. A few days later, I was sitting in our living room, facing the French doors which lead into the foyer/stairs. A bat the size of a California Condor flew down the stairs and began to swoop all over the room. I screamed. I screamed a lot. Our pekingnese Max was of no help. He did not rush to my safety. He cowered under the dining room table but then he was cross-eyed and perhaps thought that there was a swarm of bats. Or is it a gaggle of bats? A battalion of bats?

Anyway, I screamed and then I realized that there was no one to help me as I was alone. I crawled across the living room to the French doors and tried to close them, trapping the bat in the living room/kitchen area (and away from my bedroom!). Then I ran out the front door screaming ‘Bat!!!’ and started to run up the street to my 28-year-old boyfriend’s house (who was undoubtedly macking on my friend Will at the time and actually would not have been much use in a bat melee).

Fortunately for me, I was spared the sight of their love, as my mother happened to be driving down the street. I relayed the Bat Drama to her and she called her boyfriend (see’ there’s a pattern emerging here) and he came over with a tennis raquet. For what? A little mixed doubles? I’m not certain.

They found no bat.

They didn’t believe me.

Several months later, my mother had noticed a peculiar odor down on a lower shelf in the kitchen, near where she fed the cross-eyed Max. She thought it was his food and threw it all out (oy how that dog suffered for his cowardice in the Bat Drama! It’s karma, baby.). Then she scrubbed the floor. Still stinky. Then she noticed that the pitcher that she used to water the plants was there so she picked that up, thinking that maybe she had left egg shells inside it (remember, it was all about organic stuff).

At the bottom, she spied a bunch of dried up leaves.

Then she realized that the leaves had feet.

You see, there had been water in there and the bat must have drowned.

I can think of more evil deaths for something that undoubtedly was the reason I have begun to go gray at the tender age of 30.

Don’t get me wrong: I actually like the IDEA of bats’. I just don’t like the VICINITY of bats.

Thus, when Dad explained that he had left a big gaping Billions-Of-Bats-sized hole in our bathroom wall, my first thought was ‘Oh god, I hope that there aren’t any bats.’ But he assured me that there aren’t. And then I realized that Esteban was in Banff and if a bat DID get in the house, I would have no recourse: I would have to deal with it or perhaps live in my car, which is a sports car and while it does have reclining seats, the console is broken and it’s far too much for me to deal with all at once…. both having bats and a big gaping broken console. Thus, I would have to smuggle the cats into a hotel. Or call Dad to come and evict the bat, as the presence of a Y chromosome automatically is linked to Bat Wrangler genes. The Bat Wrangler gene is recessive in women. It’s like baldness.

And that’s when it hit me. For all of my feminist shoutings, I’m just a big wussy girl who shaves her legs and armpits and does stupid wussy girl things. Like screaming over winged creatures of death’ I mean, bats. And freaking out about stepping on a bug.

I agreed to take some photos of a daughter of a friend for her senior pictures. They are too broke to do the senior picture thing right, so they’re asking a favor and being a nice person who is unable to say ‘No’, I agreed. So we drove around tonight to various locations (with the air-conditioning on, because the mom was complaining that she was hot and wanted her feet rubbed and shit like that) and my fuel gauge was pointing on Empty, but I figured I had at least another twenty miles out of it. Because, you know, I like to play that game because it makes me feel like I’m somehow screwing with the world. Like a big hairy feminist, you know? So it begins to get dark and I want to quickly take them home and then get home and watch Big Brother since it’s Tuesday night and it feels like I should be watching something at 7:00 pm. And, believe me, I passed many many gas stations along the way. Then I’m driving home and my big piggy motor suddenly goes Cough Spit Grrrrrrrrr umph shhhhhhh. Yep.

Out. Of. Gas.

So I called Dad; he and Mom came out and brought a gas can. Then he made my car go again.

I hate reinforcing stereotypes. I’m a total hypocrite. I’m all ‘Don’t you dare suggest I can’t do something because I’m a woman, but OH MY GOD! GET THAT VERMIN BEFORE I GET THE VAPORS!!!! LAWDS SAKES ALIVE! My husband realizes this. My father-in-law realizes this. My mother-in-law is fine with this. Even Joel realizes this.

I’m such a complete tool.

Seen on a vanity plate:

Abscond

Now THAT’S a vanity plate!

Have you read these?

Singing about Girl on Girl action!

So… you’re saying that watching a lot of Star Trek is bad?

Plus 2 hit points if you can lay some killer farts

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Singing about Girl on Girl action!

Tuesday, July 24, 2001

This summer I decided that I was going to do something that I’ve wanted to do all of my life: get professional vocal training. I’ve sung a lot in bars and stuff, but I really want to get involved in musical theatre and just be more satisfied with my voice in general.

I decided to go with the head of the vocal music department at my alma mater. She had done some work with me on my speaking voice before I gave my senior poetry reading in college and I felt very comfortable with her. I was going to do this last summer, but it turned out that we couldn’t afford it (both Esteban and myself were still at our previous jobs). So last May, I sent her an email requesting vocal training this summer (she only offers private lessons during the summer, being that she’s the head of her department and has silly things like classes to teach, etc). She was apparently teaching something in Iowa and wouldn’t be back until mid-July.

Yesterday was my first lesson. Immediately, she informed me that she was moving and I said ‘Where?’ and she said ‘Lithuania’ or some ‘Ania’ or ‘Acia’ country. In three weeks. Thus, she’s milking me for all the money she can by having me come twice a week until then. I’m OK with that at this point. Then we began the lesson.

I sang three ‘Mum’ scales and then singing stopped. We spent the next twenty-five minutes breathing. She taught me how to inhale for twenty-five minutes, people. Not just inhale but inhale using my back muscles, my ass muscles and my forehead. Betcha didn’t know you could breathe with your forehead did you. She also grabbed my head and pulled it. Singing and Chiropractic adjustments, so I guess I shouldn’t complain about the $20 lesson. I inhaled while walking, while standing, while sitting, and while crouching. At one point, she actually made me lie down on her floor and she put a very large book on my stomach to watch me breathe. Crazy.

My second lesson will be on Thursday, at which point she might just teach me how to exhale. Woooo. I can’t wait.

A very pleasant surprise: Joel knocked on my door last night and informed me that he was there to cut our lawn. Apparently, Esteban was concerned that he had told me that he would cut the grass before he left for Canada and he didn’t get to it, so he sent Joel instead. He cut our lawn last night at 9:30 at night in the dark. There’s a strange pattern which is apparent now. I’m calling it modern art: an urban juxtaposition of shorn and unshorn foliage. Or maybe it’s a Victorian lawn maze. I’m not certain. But it was awfully nice of him.

He also requested that I remove the hit that I have out on him. I informed him that Scott had already made a plea for that and there was no longer a hit out on him. He also said that when he said ‘Is it worth my time to read your diary’ that he didn’t really mean it that way. What he meant to say was that he’s only a vanity reader and only reads the stuff about him. Then, why, I ask you, why were the only people who voted in the Poll for ‘I want to see if she’s writing about me’ were Scott and Amandabean?

Really, I find it funny that Joel was worried about it. All I did was request that my two readers make fun of Joel willy nilly.


There’s a lot of sex out on Diaryland. I’m such the prude, I guess. I never realized. I’m currently transfixed by Badsnake who talks about a lot of polyamorous lesbian lovin’. And by ‘lovin&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9- I mean lots of hot steamy sex.

If there’s anyone STILL reading this, having resisted the link to Badsnake’s diary, I hope that you all have a wonderful Tuesday.

Oh, and my boss just stopped me and said that she saw a sign this morning on a bank that said ‘Our Mastercard ROCKS!’ and she thought of me, because apparently I use that term often.

I’m glad that my professionalism is so obvious.

Mwah!

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So… you’re saying that watching a lot of Star Trek is bad?

Monday, July 23, 2001

Now a bit of disturbing news from the family that puts the ‘fun’ in ‘dysfunctional’: My Mafia Grandma’s Betty is in the hospital. Perhaps I should explain. My Mafia Grandma couldn’t stand working for the MAN anymore, so she became her own boss. She had a lot of experience working in group homes, so she began running a private home for mentally retarded (as it was called then, and also in our home as a “matter of fact” term) senior citizens the year I was born. She started out with two ladies (because she didn’t want to deal with giving baths to old men) named Betty and Charlotte. Charlotte died (actually, she was just old, not mentally impaired, but my Grandma would take people who were wards of the state) and then a progression of replacement Charlottes filled her spot. Betty was a constant though. I think I get my appreciation of fine fart humor from Betty, as she very much enjoys farts and farting in general. Her favorite trick is to walk up the stairs, farting on each step and then laughing. That’s not an easy trick. You should try that some time.

Growing up, I thought that EVERYONE had a Grandma who stayed at home. I thought EVERYONE had some strange older ladies living with their grandparents. Betty was great fun when I was a child because I’d crawl up onto her lap and we’d sing songs and she’d tell stories of living in the state mental institutions (which I think is where I developed my love of gothic horror as well) or I’d bait her by getting her to pronounce words such as ‘helicopter’ which she would in turn pronounce ‘Hell of a Copter’ and I would dissolve into peals of laughter.

When my Great Grandmother developed Alzheimer’s disease, my M.G. semi-retired so that she could care for her mother as well as Betty. Then some laws changed and the state wanted all of its wards in state facilities, so my Aunt ‘adopted’ Betty so that she could stay in our family. All of Betty’s family is dead, although they claimed no responsibility for her so that they wouldn’t be held financially responsible for her care. My M.G. continues to send Betty cards from ‘her sister’ so that Betty doesn’t get upset (she now gets more contact from ‘her sister’ now than when she did while her sister was alive). Betty’s now 82 years old and just as likely to tell you to ‘Go to Hell’ or call you an ‘asshole’ as she was thirty years ago. And now she’s in the hospital and declining.

Truthfully, my sister and I have been expecting this for a while. The thing that upsets me is that she’s been in the hospital for five days and no one even told us. I already know what my M.G. would say, ‘I expected you to call me.’ Yeah, like I call for a freaking health report every three days? Nothing like a little resentment and distrust to go with your compassion, huh?

Yesterday I made a ‘dorky’ crack at people who play D&D, which includes my husband. Honestly, people, Esteban will be the first person to admit that he’s a geek. One of his friends actually has his email ending with ‘@geek.com’. They’re ok with it. Honestly. And I often tell folks that Esteban married me to improve his coolness factor. Sure, it downgraded my own coolness factor, being married to a geek, but hey, he’s a geek with an 8-inch schlong, so I’m pretty ok with that.

And if the only thing that makes you geeky is playing role-playing games, then fine. It’s ok. Everyone has at least three hidden geeky traits that they don’t like the rest of the world to know. Once you start to exceed that Three Traits of Geekdom, though, now you’re approaching Geek status. If you’ve maxxed with 12 traits, then you’re approaching the Dork level.

Traits of GeekDom:
Can quote original Star Trek episodes
Knows the difference between Dungeons & Dragons and ADVANCED Dungeons & Dragons
Wears only one type of shoe’. Very dirty Nikes or some other athletic type shoe.
Can name all of the Xanth books’ in the ORDER that they were written
Fifth Food group is Mountain Dew
Is Pissed that Babylon Five is off the air
Actually counted the shots in Terminator when Arnold is going into the police station killing all the cops to get Linda Hamilton
Backseat of car is a virtual shrine of fast food litter
Doesn’t quite have the ‘personal space’ issue down
Has strange facial hair’ and by strange, I mean that Amish men are complimenting you on your beard’ even if you’re a woman.
Makes computer or html jokes and thinks they’re funny
Has a collection of action figures of your favorite TV series
On computer an average of 8 hours a day (not including working hours)
Quotes Monty Python movies (Thanks Uncle Bob!)
Checks their Diaryland statistics more than twice a day (um, yeah, well, stop looking at me, ok?)
Has ever uttered the phrase ‘He’s dead, Jim’ and expected to get a laugh
Lusts after Lara Croft’ before she was played by Angelina Jolie
Ever rushed out to the store to buy the latest copy of Diablo
Waited in line overnight for tickets to ‘Phantom Menace’ and is bitterly hating Jar Jar Binks
Lives with a married woman’ Mom.
Drives a piece of crap car, but the computer cost more than $5000.
Tells nephew and niece ‘When I was your age, I only had a 2400 baud modem and a 40 meg hard drive and I LIKED IT!’
You are Anthony Edwards
Has a program created on your computer counting down to the date when High Speed DSL will be available in your area
Knows Pi to more than the fourth decimal place.

I’ve got a few of these. I definitely do the web page statistics thing. I have also made html jokes. I also start to tremble if we are away from home and it is nearing the ‘Buffy’ hour. And I read the National Enquirer sometimes’ it’s junk food for the mind. So all I’m saying is that if everyone owned up to their geeky qualities, maybe the world would be a better place and maybe people like Tom Cruise or Chuck Woolery would get off their high horses and let up on the rest of us, ok?

 

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Plus 2 hit points if you can lay some killer farts

Sunday, July 22, 2001

Last night, Esteban and I drove to Appleton for Mongolian food and book buying at Barnes & Noble. Esteban needed healthy amounts of reading material, as he is flying out to Canada tomorrow morning. He’s got a conference in Banff, where the elk are plentiful. Apparently, wildlife is conducive to computer talk.

Then on the way home, I was trying to get some CD’s out of the console of the Monte (some Rob Zombie, if you must know’ I hope that you do not think less of me, but sometimes a little ‘Living Dead Girl’ aids in digestion of Mongolian food) and did not realize that Esteban was resting his elbow on the console and, thus, now have a broken console door. That sucks. Esteban is currently trying to fix the little plastic piece, but I’m not sure how it ever went in. I have faith in his rigging efforts, but as he is flying to Calgary tomorrow and the glue he’s used to fix the little broken plastic piece will take 12 hours to dry, I will have an exposed CD compartment all week. And I won’t be able to wrest my elbow on it either.

Esteban always has a role-playing game date on Sundays. I feel for him, however, as the house at which they play does not have air-conditioning. Also, the owner of the house has installed a fan, pointed directly at himself. Esteban stated that this would not bother him except for the fact that he sits on the opposite end of the table from the owner of the house and apparently these sessions are rife with ass blowing, being as there are only men present (because of course, most women would not put up with flagrant farting, not to mention the prime dorky factor of role playing games in general).

Apparently, several of the participants have the unhealthy ability to lay some deadly stealth farts. Blame can only be laid when their neighbors begin to turn green and mass evacuation happens. Thus, with the homeowner’s fan blowing the air across the table, all ass winds blow toward Esteban and stop there, lingering for tens of minutes. I’ve tried to explain to Esteban that these are the downfalls of game playing, the dorkiness factor aside. He has, however, brought his own fan. It was purely a survival move on his part, he explained. I’m a bit astonished that he actually had to strategize the ‘Fart Defense’ so to speak.

Have I mentioned how glad I am that I am not a man? Never at a Mary Kaye party would someone let a big butt bomb and then start to giggle when throngs of women began to faint or vomit! Never. This is not to say that I don’t fart or that women in general don’t fart. And I may participate in gentle fart humor with Esteban but the sanctity of our relationship upholds a level of fart etiquette. One does not waft a deadly vapor over one’s spouse. One should warn when noxious fumes are present. It is one thing to ‘thip’ playfully, it is entirely another to engage in toxic warfare.

Oh, and that reminds me, last time I saw Joel he asked me if it was “worth his time to read (my) diary again”. No, you fuck, it’s apparently worth my time to write it, but your precious time is far too valuable so don’t bother.

Dumas. (which, by the way, is the refined way of saying “Dumb Ass”)

Seen on a tube of Pantene hair gel:

Full-bodied hair builds a full-bodied soul.

Are we so spiritually bereft that we need to buy our religion with our styling products?

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Only the Young can say they’ve never rocked to Journey

Saturday, July 21, 2001

There were only 4 mullets sighted at the Journey concert. I was very disappointed. However, one mullet apparently did not have a good seat and felt fit to wander the aisle in front of us throughout the entire concert, playing air guitar as though his performance was somehow dependant upon the success of the concert. I know that it certainly aided in MY enjoyment of the concert!

I should have warned Carissa. I was cursed when I was four years old by a gypsy, tramp and a thief to always have a very tall person standing for no apparent reason in front of me at any concert I attend. Three rows down from us was what I assume was a husband and wife with their two sons’. Or should I say one normal son and one freakish genetic mutation of a son. Or possibly Andre the Giant’s love child? Not sure. I felt like walking over and asking the woman if she had ever indulged in a little Fessig lovin’ but I refrained.

For some reason, I feel compelled to now give you a bit of Weetabix trivia: I once touched Andre the Giant’s sweaty arm. Yes. Be in awe. I think that possibly his sweat absorbed into my skin and the free-floating testosterone then caused my upper lip to need waxing for the rest of my life.

Anyway, at a certain point in the middle of Peter Frampton, the family three rows down decided that they would stand up and groove to ‘Do You Feel’. And then never sat back down again. Even when Peter was playing b-sides to songs that never saw the light of day, the family did not want to sit. Finally, the father threw up his hands in disgust at the music and sat down. The wife continued to dance and gyrate and then finally collapsed into a pile of menopausal lust for Frampton. The two boys continued to stand, straight solid. I think they felt that by standing, they could disassociate themselves from their parents. But the Freakishly Tall boy was standing directly in front of us and would not sit down until long after Frampton had left the stage.

Frampton was enjoyable but strange. Whenever I’d find myself starting to enjoy the music, I’d then become concerned that he was going to break a hip or something. Oh, and he cut all of his hair off now. He vaguely looked like my seventh grade math teacher. The souvenier stand was selling Frampton bi-focals(TM) and Frampton Collostomy Bags(TM).

The big conundrum of the night: it was 120 degrees. I think I may have lost 20 pounds in sweat. Carissa and I dislike beer very much. Only once in my life has beer ever tasted good and that was when Esteban and I went on a tour of the Miller Brewing Company. They subject you to a bunch of videos and presentations and by the time you are done with the tour, the only things important to you are God, America and Miller Beer, in that order. And at the end of the tour, they give you three free Miller beers (Lite, Genuine Draft and Icehouse) and at that point, you are brainwashed into thinking ‘Damn, that’s good beer’. And I did think that and also fought off the urge to buy a package of Marlboros and vote for Bob Dole in that year’s election.

Anyway, at one point the guy next to us was crawling over me to get out of our row. I asked him ‘Are you going to get beer?’ And he said ‘Yes, would you like a beer?’ And it sounded wonderful, so I gave him a twenty and said yes, get us two beers. And thought nothing of it. Carissa at that point had become friendly with the couple on the other side of us (because Carissa is the kind of person who makes immediate friends with anyone anywhere and thanks to her, we always have loads of men surrounding us at any affair we attend) and explained what happened. They were certain that I would never see beer nor my change. I stood firm in my belief that they would come back (because honestly, why would anyone give up their good concert seats to steal $20? That’s ridiculous! Plus, the guy had spiked hair. Actual spiked hair. Anyone with spiked hair in 2001 has to be too dorky to be dishonest. It’s a rule.) I had the urge to quote Will Rogers or possibly Garrison Keillor but it would be lost on all present and I would have simply looked like a pretentious ass. But Spiked Hair returned, with our icy cold beers and my change and all were left with faith in humanity. It was a touching moment. And I had beer to guzzle without having to leave my seat, which made me very happy indeed.

When Journey came onstage, immediately the family stood up again, ignoring pleas from those of us in the four rows behind them. I noticed two empty seats in FRONT of them, so I went up there and sat or stood, depending upon my mood. Didn’t matter because they were standing the whole time, so I was obstructing the view of no one. Carissa reluctantly joined me (she has a very strong moral code and was worried that we would be STEALING those seats which were the same price as the ones we had, only four rows up) and immediately made friends with the people around us in THAT row.

PseudoPerry rocked the house down. He had an excellent stage presence, obviously studying under the tutelage of David Lee Roth. He doesn’t quite have the vocal range as Steve Perry. Occasionally, I saw him squeezing his nether regions to obtain high notes. However, he was attired in the Leather Pants of 1984 Rock Stars so perhaps he was adjusting. After all, it was like 150 degrees and I’m certain that leather pants can be non too cool especially while gyrating under hot lights. Maybe they weren’t real leather pants? Maybe he was wearing PseudoPants? And speaking of his wardrobe, he was wearing tan leather pants with a black belt and brown shoes. That’s not good rock fashion sense, PseudoPerry.

Actually, it doesn’t matter what PseudoPerry was wearing because he was HOT! And he also looked very much like ActualPerry, with long 80’s permed hair and the big Perry beak nose. It was actually a little disturbing. He sounded so much like Steve Perry and when you squinted, he looked like Steve Perry. It was almost like he was a pod person that didn’t quite turn out.

Then we walked the five miles back to the car and drove home, blasting the Journey CD and the air conditioning as far as they would go. We actually had condensation on the OUTSIDE of the windshield from the extreme temperature differences. Finally, at 1:30 in the morning, I got home and Esteban was waiting up for me, I think to make sure I didn’t go off to live in sin with a overly-endowed leather pants wearing aging rock star.

Lack of mullet-hunting aside, it was a splendid time.

The Guestbook wants to know what your favorite concert experience was?

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