That's My Bix!

Last night, Esteban and I had another of our famous fart discussions:

He called me a ‘Farty Poop’

I countered with a scathing ‘Little Farty Poo Poo’

A bit taken aback, Esteban hurled ‘Farty Boom Boom’

Non-daunted, I parried. ‘Fartadoplious Pooptopolous’

I then inundated him with a bunch of fart expressions. Until I cracked up at my own self. Sometimes I am just too much for even myself. Then Esteban thought I was crying and got very concerned, because I was laughing so hard I couldn’t breath and no sound was coming out. I just sat there, shaking with tears squirting out of my eyes. I can see how he got confused. Then I was able to gasp and tell him why I was laughing and he rolled his eyes and then utter ‘Fart head’. And it all started over again.

We are exactly four years old.

They say that there is a perfect person out there for everyone. And so it goes.

I told Esteban that I was going to write about the above convo in here. He of little ego then told me, ‘If it weren’t for me, you’d have nothing to write about in that thing.’

Not so. I spend an awful lot of time writing about my breasts.

Went and tried on the Renaissance dress last night. Man, I look so damned cute. It is way cool. Now I must find appropriate shoes. And jewelry and something for atop my head, to hide my decidedly non-Renaissance floppy ‘do. And it goes without saying that I’ll need a new bra. It’s that whole breast thing again.

Now Esteban is getting a little worried. ‘Am I going to look stupid walking next to you wearing jean shorts and a MegaTokyo t-shirt?’

That is not for me to decide, dear. That is for the world to decide.

Sometimes it is better for a relationship to keep your mouth closed.

We’re trying to figure out something ‘period’ for him to wear. He had talked about wearing a kilt originally, but even that would take too long to make, as we are going to the Ren Faire this weekend. I’m trying to convince him that my punk rock girl skirt looks just like a kilt.

He’s not buying it.

Mwah!

Have you Seen These?

2001-06-26 More Fart humor at Casa Weetabix

2001-06-26 Poet-Collab: Tea Poem

2001-06-25 – SUBLIMINAL {new} MESSAGES {bra} REVEALED {needed}!!!

2001-06-25 – Monkey Bars 1, Small Child 0, Weetabix -342

2001-06-24 – Don’t call Chez Weetabix before 10 AM on the weekend, ‘k?

I am so pissed.

Today, one of the underwires in one of my new bras gave up the fight. Yep. Around 3:15 pm at work, suddenly SPRIONG! in the armpit. And it was one of my favorites, too. A retro bra that made the girls do this little pointy thing, like I was a 1940’s girl painted on the side of a B-52 bomber, only cute and chubby.

How is it that they can put cheese in a spray can, make rain bead up on a car that has been left in the Mojave desert for 3 months, and make a gun that shoots nails and gives Bob Vilas a big hard-on, but they have been STUMPED by the whole concept of breast hoisting.

Ok, truthfully, I am demanding a lot from this little wire. That is a lot of Weetabix cargo to be hoisting there. But if they’re going to charge me $32 a bra, shouldn’t they make them out of space age material, not fucking craft wire!

And then there are those bras that advertise “No Poke” wire. Yeah. That’s about as trustworthy as “No, really, I’ll pull out.”

So I’m jaded. But I also have a pierced underarm, dammit. I’m allowed to be a little hostile.

Thus I spent the rest of the day with one shoulder higher than the other to avoid the carnage that was happening in my left armpit. Combining this with the pink eye, I think I looked a little bit like Renfield. I was thinking about maybe seeing if I could pull off a Pirate look, though. If I added a little black patch over my oozing eye, maybe I could get away with ending every sentence with “Arrrr”. I couldn’t do it over the phone, though, because the whole effect would be lost.

Immediately, Esteban would regret buying me a Pirate Play Set for Christmas. Of this I am certain.

Social psychologists have isolated hidden messages in the sound effects in the original series “Star Trek”.

The laser sound (when slowed down): a woman’s voice saying “Mountain Dew is all you need…. you don’t need a girlfriend.”

The phaser sound (when run backwards and filtered): A stern voice saying “There will never be a better home for you than in your parent’s basement.”

The “beaming” sound (when sped up and digitized): a voice saying “Nurse Chappell is hot. She wants you. She wants it baaaaad, big boy. She’s trying to convince Lt. Uhura into a threesome with you.”

I never understood why the original “Star Trek” series gives me a headache and I now understand.

Remarkably, they’ve also found subliminal messages in “Buffy the Vampire Slayer”. They are as follows:

“You are remarkably cool and have a tremendous propensity to verbal wit.”

“You can kick someone’s ass without any phsyical training or preparation. You’re tough and yet stylish.”

“You are attracted to big quiet guys with huge foreheads.”

“You desire Leather Pants of Ass-Kicking. And you’d look HOT (and then there’s the sound of someone saying “ssssssss” as they touch a finger to their butt in demonstration)

“You want to do Eliza Dushku, even if you’re pretty sure you’re not a lesbian. We think there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s ok. We’re trying to talk her into a threesome with you and your significant other.”

“Did we mention that you are one hot chick?”

“You look like one sexy Pirate girl.”

This all explains so much.

My mood right now according to my Mood Nail Polish: “Chipping Fish Scales”.

Have you Seen These?

2001-06-25 – SUBLIMINAL {new} MESSAGES {bra} REVEALED {needed}!!!

2001-06-25 – Monkey Bars 1, Small Child 0, Weetabix -342

2001-06-24 – Don’t call Chez Weetabix before 10 AM on the weekend, ‘k?

I will never again sleep past 8:00 A.M. in the morning.

It’s been determined by someone. I don’t know who. I suspect the kitchen sink may be behind it.

This morning, 8:00 A.M. The phone. Again. Don’t know who it was, didn’t answer it.

Then Clunk KerCHUNK Clunk KerCHUNK! from outside. Our newly-divorced neighbor apparently likes to chop wood. By hand. He does not have a fireplace. Nor a woodburning stove. I think he’s storing up to burn an effigy of his ex-wife. Or maybe his ex-wife herself, don’t know.

Esteban and I both cracked an eye open and looked at each other at this sound.

“I think he’s chopping wood” I say.

“Yes. He finds it relaxing.” Esteban says and then proceeds to fall back asleep.

Esteban can sleep through anything. It’s incredible. The man hears nothing when he’s asleep. Which is probably good, because apparently I snore like a congested water buffalo.

So I laid there and tried to fall back asleep. I had this weird dream about lumberjacks and Sean from “Real World Boston” all releasing their sexual tension by chopping wood. And then they started singing the Monty Pyton song “I’m a Lumberjack and I’m OK”. And then the cross-dressing started. And then I got up because it’s just not restful sleep when you’re dreaming about burly men wearing garter belts and listening to your divorced neighbor “relax” with a fucking axe in his hand six feet away from your head. It’s just not.

Scott sent Esteban an email this morning, accusing him of self-mutilation to get out of housework. Geez, Scott, you freak, would you lay off the guy? Just ’cause I let you look at my breasts doesn’t mean that you can have open-season on Esteban, ‘k? Watch it, or I’ll get Mafia Grandma on your skinny white ass.

I watched “You’ve Got Mail” last night for the 33rd time. That movie leaves me all conflicted. I bawl like a televangelist when she’s closing her store for the last time and she takes that little bell off the door. Then she turns around and sees her mother and her as a little girl, doing the twirling thing. Then she closes the door and you see the sign which says “We have loved being a part of your lives”.

BWAH!

But it bothers me the way the script needed to validate and tie up all the loose ends. To make the audience realize that, well, it was all for the best, really. The little happy feminine store being bowled over by the big corporate masculine store. Would it have been the same movie if Meg Ryan had been Fox Books and Tom Hanks had been the Shop Around The Corner? No, because then Meg Ryan would have had to pursue Tom Hanks and they would have cast a more aggressive woman, such as Sharon “Hootchie Bootchie” Stone. And then they would have had to show her snatch at one point. Perhaps during the coffee shop scene when Tom Hanks would look into the mirror. I don’t know. But I doubt it would have been as good.

It bothers me that I like that movie so much. It’s kind of a dumb movie. But I love Jean Stapleton, especially because she bought Intel at 6. And I also love the wrinkly look that Meg Ryan has when she realizes that it was Tom Hanks all along.

Yes, I’m a big hypocrite and I just don’t care.

(sticks tongue out)

But don’t assume that I don’t care about my car’s tires! And pass the kleenex, damn it!

Currently my right eye is oozing. It’s very gross. I think I might have Pink Eye. And I think I caught it from the guestbook. Unclebob was complaining of pink eye two weeks ago AND he signed it. So if you venture into the guestbook (which, by the way, you definately should. It makes me very happy when someone signs it! Very happy indeed. I do a little dance. Just ask Esteban.) make sure to wash your hands afterwards. I’m just saying. I’m concerned for your welfare.

Esteban’s parents received a very nice peppermill and peppercorns from The Spice House by accident. They called to tell the Penzeys (the owners) this and were told to keep it. They don’t eat pepper, so they gave it to us. We eat pepper. A LOT. Freshly ground pepper… mmmmmm. And I’m sort of thinking it’s all karma because I posted a link to them on Unclebob’s message board, because he said he liked spices a lot. Or it’s a kickback of some sort.

So anyway, I’m posting it here, because, hey, who knows. Maybe they’ll “accidentally” send me some of their excellent extracts. I have the double vanilla one already, but I would love the orange or the almond. Or maybe some of their butcher’s rubs. But check it out, anyway. Because once you try their spices, you’ll throw out any that you have from the grocery store. It’s that much of a difference. I highly recommend their Chicago Steak Seasoning, saffron and Cassia Cinnamon. Yum.

Someone accessed this diary last night by searching for the phrase “Boy Scout Underpants” on Google.

The internet is both a wonderful and terrifying place.

Last night, Esteban and I went to a supper club type place with Joel and Cheri and ate much underdone steak. Afterwards, we were standing around in the parking lot, silent, listening to the gastric acids in our stomachs break down the protein-heavy meal into various enzymes and apparently this made those folks with Y-chromosomes ansty. (If all that science talk made those English majors amongst you nervous and sort of space out, here’s a translation “We were full and quiet and this made the boys nervous”… better?).

The menfolk began then to talk about my car as if it were not my car. “Well, them tires are about $150 a piece, Esteban!” “Don’t I know it! Those are 15cc (or some other tire measurement, I’ve since repressed the specifics) tires!”

I’m certain that primitive man could have easily joined this conversation without a problem.

“Ur, Me hate gathering. Me hunt. Hunt is good.”

That’s how it’s evolved. Testosterone talk used to be about hunting (and still is, for some men), but now it’s about having a car with such balls it requires big fat tires. I’ve witnessed this conversation before. Guys love to talk about the Monte. It’s got a big fat engine and it drives guys wild. However, they then try to act as though it is Esteban’s car. It is not. It is my car. The little woman’s car. And the car is a SHE. Her name is Ms. Monte. And I think that upsets the guys. When I purchased the car, the salesguy kept talking to Esteban and ignoring me, even when Esteban told him repeatedly “I’m not buying the car, she is!”. And she’s allllllll estrogen, baby.

And women have their girly talk, too, not to feel left out. Lots of times, Estrogen talk is about children, having babies, and possibly clipping coupons. I don’t know. I shy away from estrogen talk, generally, because I don’t have children, have never been pregnant, and let the grocery store rip me off as much as they possibly can. But I generally feel left out, so I cling to whatever female-ness I possibly can. It bugs me though, that guys assume that *I* have no interest in the state of my tires. They’re right of course, I don’t have any interest. I figure that when my tires need to be changed, I’ll suck it up and buy new tires. There’s nothing I can do about how much they cost, so why get all worked up about it months ahead of time? But don’t assume that I don’t care, ‘k?

Cheri and I, of course, were feeling a tad left out. I turned to her and said “So, my vagina is good today! How’s your vagina?”

I purchased some “mood nailpolish”. Actually, it was a substitute for the Rouge Pulp lipstick that I had wanted to buy. Instead, I opted for the $1.99 investment, rather than the $8.99 investment, in trash beauty.

Apparently, my mood right now is “rotting corpse”. Sometimes it’s “drowning victim”.

I haven’t played The Sims since I purchased House Party because the expansion pack corrupted the game and all three disks have to be reinstalled. And it’s just too much effort for me to try to find all three disk cases for the serial numbers.

Last night, I had a dream. I dreamt my Sims were all running amuck, fornicating in their red vibrating beds, saying “Yes” when the phone rings and asks if they want a child. Their fish were dead and they all lost their jobs. They were all going to go on Sim Jerry Springer and talk about how I ruined their life. The person from the Sim show was calling me up to see if I would come on the show. Of course, they were talking in that crazy Sim language, but I understood the jist of it.

I don’t know how Uncle Bob writes his entries so early in the morning. I just got up and I get the feeling that I didn’t “give good diary” today. (That, by the way, was a quote from Blue Armadillo who said I “gave good diary” which is I think a compliment or a vague sexual euphamism. Either way, I’m blushing. Thanks Blue Armadillo!)

Wow. I just had a really weird deja’vu when I reread this entry. If this entry is a duplicate of a different entry… let me know. Or maybe I wrote it last night in a dream. Maybe while I was waiting in the green room of the Sim Jerry Springer show.

Weird.

Have you tried McDonald’s new bagel breakfast sandwiches? Do they all have hollandaise sauce on them? Because I’m pretty sure that I’ve had several of these with no hollandaise sauce on them and then this morning, I unsuspectingly ordered a sausage/egg/cheese bagel sandwich and took a bite and almost projectile vomited into oncoming traffic.

God, can you imagine the accident report on that? “What were you doing at the time of the accident?” “Hurling my guts out, officer. You see, there was this hollandaise sauce….” and that’s when the officer would affect a strange New York/Irish accent and say “You kin tell yer stahry to the judge, missy!” and arrest me.

I called McDonald’s and complained and they acted as though they’ve always been putting the sauce on it. Actually, she had to tell me what it was. I thought that they had accidentally put mayonaise on it or some foul white gel. So, I didn’t get a free bagel sandwich, because her argument is that they’ve always been that way and I’m too stupid to know the difference.

I secretly suspect that someone snuck semen onto my tasty breakfast and they are all in hysterics as we speak.

Well, maybe they’ve gotten over it by now… I mean, it is 11 hours later.

Esteban has declared that we will be cleaning the house on Saturday.

Oh. Boy.

I should be happy about this, but I am not. I’d rather be golfing. Or having my eyes picked out by vultures.

But at the same time, I know that I’ll be happier when the house is clean. I’m just not in the “Cleaning Nazi” mood right now. I’m in the “peace, love and happiness, man!” mood right now. I just want to wear my hippy sandals and walk around in my cute pajamas, pretending that they are actually clothes.

I have to tell you, though, I have the best fucking pajamas. I got them at the Avenue and I highly recommend them. First of all, the whole pajama system that they’ve got going on there right now is just fabulous. Everything is matching, but you can pick tops and bottoms. It’s like a big Garanimals for plus size women. They have short sleeve t-shirt tops, longer tops, longer bottoms, and short bottoms. I myself opted for pink flowered print boxer shorts and pink camisole top with a built-in shelf bra. Truthfully, my “rack” needs more than a shelf. I think the girls need their own bookcase. But it’s just enough support to make me feel like I’m not all pointing, er, south. And the top gives excellent cleavage. Esteban walks around very happy when I wear these jammies. Plus, I always have to suppress this urge to shake my bootay. Well, let’s just say sometimes I don’t actually suppress that urge.

Urges are good.

I suppressed a different kind of urge today.

I went to the drug store over lunch and physically had to tear myself away from the Rouge Pulp display. They’ve got a rocking red lipsticky kind of thing. I really want to buy it, but my face just isn’t used to that kind of red. It’s Estee Lauder’s “Pure Plum”… anything else and my face objects. It says “Listen, tramp, you might want to dress yourself up like a $4 whore, but I’m the one that has to be seen in this shyte, so you’ll just wear a respectible snobby lady’s lipstick and you’ll LIKE it? Understand?” My face often channels Sister Mary Gregory from Our Lady of Perpetual Polyps. It has been known to speak in tongues and hold Bingo sessions on Wednesday nights.

So I did not purchase the Rouge Pulp lipstick. I’m not sure when I’d actually wear that stuff anyway. I can’t go to work looking like Alan Cumming in “Cabaret”, now can I? Plus, would I pick up glare up from my monitor on my lips? Would I see their reflection in my monitor at work? Would I have the urge to start tonguing my phone headset at work? These are not questions I necessarily want answered.

Also, I’m worried that the Rouge Pulp lipstick would somehow accent my rosacea. Thanks to the gel which smells like ass, I’ve got a handle on it and no longer have Ragedy-Ann dots on my cheeks. And do I want to trade “fucking red face disease” to be the chick with the “red fucking lips”?? Hmmmm. Think not.

I think everyone is torn between two psyches. One of my psyches purchased my sports car and the other one shops for quilting patterns and fabric. Part of me wants to buy a black leather bustier and thigh-high boots and is all “Get your motor running… head out on the highway!”. The other part is wearing cardigans and sensible shoes and dreams of owning a sheep farm where I can weave my own expensive wool creations while listening to Enya.

Or maybe it’s just us Geminis.

It is so WRONG that McDonald’s is serving things with hollandaise sauce!!! It’s McDonald’s, not JeanPaul’s Bistro, for christ sake!