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It’s stalkerlicious!

Wednesday, September 17, 2003

Carissa, Penny and I went out to lunch and now I have Dick Cheney breath. And then, I realized that I probably shouldn’t mention that to anyone else.

It just goes to prove, though, that almost anything sounds bad if you put Dick Cheney’s name in front of it. Which should tell you something right there.

Oh, and I dropped hot alfredo dipping sauce down my cleave. How’s that for smooth? I swear, I am every fat girl stereotype ever invented. Do I have to tell you that I was the president of the drama club in high school? No, I didn’t think I do.

One of my sales weasels called and convinced me to come in and try a different car that he thought I might like. The Oldsmobile Aurora. It was blue, but not in a ‘I’m going to smurf over to McSmurfington’s and smurf me some smurfberry pie’ kind of way. Sort of a sapphire color that I suppose the manufacturer calls ‘midnight’ or something. Had leather seats, a decent engine, a CD player (and cassette, which stymied me for a minute, looking at the slot thinking ‘what the hell is that?’ and then ‘oh’ yeah’ tapes&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9- How quaint.), AND a moonroof. And I sort of liked driving it. It was good. I had a good feeling about it. It was the first car that I actually liked how it looked and also liked the things inside of it. And it had controls on the steering wheel (hi, I’m completely handicapped and suspect that I will crash my vehicle during my attention deficit channel changing). I was happy. I was almost giddy. I even decided that if I purchased it, I would call it the ‘Roar-ah’, because the Ruh Roh ‘Raggy is better than some Disney-fied ‘ooooh’ mystical lights in the sky’ crap.

I drove it home and demanded that Esteban try it out. He got in and his head hit the ceiling. Damn him. Why did I marry a man whose head is the size of a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day balloon. You’d have thought I would have noticed this earlier. It’s damned inconvenient.

I’m about two seconds away from Squeeeing over the fact that Journalcon is exactly a month away from today.

Update from last Friday’s Bad Bar excursion:

Apparently, while Carissa was dancing en solo on the windowsill, some men out on the street motioned for her to flash them her breasts.

So she did.

This made the men very happy. Very happy indeed. Via sign language, they urged her for an encore. Through some complicated hand motions, she said ‘Fair is fair, kind sir, and first you must show me your hot man meat.’ Thus, one of the guys dropped trou right on the street to display his package. Then she looked at his friend expectantly, but his friend was a tad shy. However, the lovely Carissa stood firm and would not expose her bosom twice for only one male protuberance, thus after being coaxed by his friends, he unzipped and then pulled forth his wiener and then did some crazy sidewalk gyration involving choreographed pelvic thrusts. I imagine there was also some floppage.

And yes, I did just giggle writing that last bit. Wiener. Heee!

Thus, Carissa rewarded them for their efforts with another gander at her fine rack.

You know, I say it again and again, but I think the above demonstrates quite nicely that it is indeed a bad bar.

Bad. Bar.

So I’ve started my graduate writing workshop in Oshkosh. What I hadn’t realized was that it is a combined undergraduate/graduate class. Actually, there are only two graduate students in the class, including myself. The rest are all undergrads taking this as an Intro course.

I suppose that it makes me a bit of a snob, but I never would have taken the class had I realized that my stories would be workshopped by Intro students taking the class as part of their GDR. I’m even using a book I used for a class in 1995 (and repurchased, because I didn’t feel like digging through the chaos that is our study) and a Best American Short Stories 2002 (which I repurchased as well, despite already owning a copy that is sitting out in plain sight, because I have a head full of cottage cheese some days, or perhaps another salad accoutrement).

But I’m glad that I did take it. I have definitely gotten some new insights in the first two classes and while it’s nothing that I haven’t learned in previous undergrad courses, I really like the instructor and it’s nice not already having a preset reputation within their English program. That having been said, I’m keeping the class. I really like the instructor. He reads the same stuff that I do and he notices the same stuff that I do. We’re reading ‘The Red Ant House’ at some point, which is one of the best stories I read last year. Seriously. Go check into it. Find a copy of the Best American Short Stories 2002 (it has a red cover, I believe edited by Sue Miller) in the Anthology section of Barnes & Noble and just find a comfy chair by the fireplace (or by the cute boy/girl reading the art book) and take fifteen minutes or so and read that short story. It’s incredible.

In other related news, through sort of a strange coincidence, I recently learned of the whereabouts of my ex-boyfriend Mike. How weird is this’ the very same week that I suddenly have a reason to be driving to Oshkosh every week, I learn that Mike now lives and works at a retail store in Oshkosh.

Because Esteban and I have been dating since practically puberty, I don’t have many ex-boyfriends. Mike is pretty much the only one since high school. And while we were never completely naked in each other’s presence, things were progressing quite nicely until the night he decided that his macaroni & cheese dinner was more important than rescuing me from the side of the road in late November (which, in Northern Wisconsin, is rather frigid). Quite honestly, I’ve often wondered what he looks like now. I remember him as being a hot blond guitar player, rather lanky with a funny nose and a sarcastic sense of humor. I had decided that he most certainly had lost his hair, since he would be in his late thirties now (that’s the secret of staying young’ always date an older man. With a normal-sized head.)

So I checked the website of the retail store. They listed a Mike His Last Name as a contact for employment. Ok’ that was sort of a confirmation, but not a total confirmation. His last name is about as common as Smith.

I clearly needed to get visual confirmation.

Read: I clearly could not resist getting a visual.

Last week, I arrived in Oshkosh early and instead of visiting the bookstore and returning my extraneous copy of Best American Short Stories 2002, I tried to find the store. But could not. Finally, I called them to ask directions.

‘Hi, you’ve reached Stalker Store, this is Mike.’

Yeah. It was him. Even after not speaking with him in fourteen years, I knew his voice immediately.

I could actually see the store then from the highway, so I apologized and said I wanted directions but I could already see the store.

I debated then what I should do. Should I delve into complete and utter stalkerdom? Or should I just leave well enough alone? I looked cute (but then, I almost always look cute), so I decided ‘what the hell’, parked the car and went into the store, inventing some excuse for being there on the fly. It was filled with people, but then from the back of the store, I heard his voice. I swiveled my head quickly just in time to catch his profile as he disappeared into a back office. I then panicked and fled, heart racing.

I am the worst stalker that ever was.

While I didn’t get a close look, he looks surprisingly the same. A little softer around the middle, but he seemed to still be holding onto the same level of receding hairline he had at 26.

Quite honestly, this whole thing is new to me. I’ve never run into an ex-boyfriend. I don’t know what the protocol is. At what point does it go from weird to friendly? Also, I broke up with him’ so does that mean that I should be apologetic? Or what? I am at a complete loss.

Of course, as Jake commented, “Ok, I have one sentence for you…. ‘Weet, I’ll come and get you as soon as I’m finished with my macaroni and cheese’.”

Yeah. I’m probably thinking about this too much.

If you haven’t already done so, today is the last day you can vote for the Diarist Awards. And yay for all of the Diarylanders who’ve been nominated again. Rock on with your bad selves.

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Dr. Jekyll and Mister Ira

Tuesday, September 16, 2003

I woke up Saturday morning at 9 something because I had an early morning hair appointment with Staci. Esteban originally had wanted to look all nice for car shopping, but I pointed out that it was raining and yucky outside and it just didn’t make sense. He opted for a nice shirt and jeans and I had utter cuteness going on with black loafers, no socks, boot cut jeans and a white t-shirt with DKNY written in black across the chest. Esteban wanted to get an early start at looking at cars, so I ate a banana and we went outside to find that it was raining quite hard. A quick run through Sbux for an iced mocha to chase away the sluggish post- Bad Bar head stuffiness and then Esteban dropped me off at the salon and went back to the car dealer to pick up a Maxima. Staci was running a bit late, so he returned and we took the Maxima for a spin and decided that while it was a nice car, it wasn’t the car for us. And also, it was listed as ‘bronze’ color, but in actuality, it was the color of a turd. No turd cars. Not for me.

I went back to the salon and Esteban went out in the rain to get some cash and a bagel, and proceeded to be the very model of a perfect husband and sit in uncomfortable chairs in the salon’s waiting room, reading In Style while I chatted merrily away with Staci about everything in the world. When she was done ripping away 90% of my eyebrows and also making me look lovely, we scurried through the raindrops back to the dealer. Then back in the Monte to endeavor to the Valley in search of the car.

‘We have to go to Oshkosh. There’s a Lincoln LS there that I want you to see.’

‘How much is it?’

‘About twenty thousandish.’

‘Weet, that payment is going to be like $550 a month for sixty months or something. You know I don’t want that.’

‘Well’. Actually’ Yesterday I checked with the bank and with the interest rate they are prepared to give us, it would be about the same that we were paying for the Monte. And actually, they have a blank check waiting for me, so we’re all set for financing. But of course, we can still shop around for a better deal.’

I cringed. I hated having done that to him. It was such a power play thing to force the issue and get my way. I felt really lousy and completely deserved to have the argument that we were undoubtedly about to have.

‘Wow.’ He said quietly. And then he turned to me and caressed my face. ‘Good job, sweetie. I’m proud of you.’

Which was completely unexpected.

Thus, we traversed through the rain, down to Oshkosh, and checked out the Lincoln LS. The same Lincoln LS that I was beginning to think of as MY Lincoln LS.

Esteban hated it. His head rubbed against the top. He felt it was extremely cramped. He wasn’t impressed by the engine or the fine leather seating or the fact that the salesguy was twelve years old and had insisted upon coming for the test drive with us. And the most important thing when we look for our respective vehicles is that the other person doesn’t absolutely hate it.

Thus, it is bittersweet. So close, and yet, so far. Good bye, Lincoln LS. We hardly knew ye. In fact’ a moment of silence for the LS.

And break.

We ebbed back up highway 41 to our most favorite of all car salesmen, Ira in Neenah. Ira is older than God and about four feet tall. We bought the truck from Ira. We even sent Joel to buy his truck from Ira. We would have purchased the Monte from him as well, but Ira had no Monte to sell. Ira is our man. We love Ira.

We trekked through the rain and located Ira. I have to admit, each time we find him, I’m surprised that he is still breathing, let alone schlepping around a car lot. He made us wait in the shelter of the dealership while he went out in the rain to bring up a loaded Bonneville for our appraisal, making us feel like dog poop for making a ninety-year-old man give us valet service. We took a test drive in the Bonneville and learned that the ceiling was too low for Esteban in this one as well, but not before we got unbelievably lost somewhere outside of Neenah. Which is ridiculous in the way that Wisconsin cities can go from city to complete rural nothingness in the blink of an eye. And despite what farmers will tell you, every cow looks the same. Every. One.

We muddled our way back and Ira then brought us a fattie Caddie, which was, as Esteban kept declaring, ‘like riding on a cloud of titties’. I explained that while it was a very nice vehicle, if it compelled him to talk like a trucker, that was reason enough to not buy the thing right there. Of course, it didn’t have a moonroof and it felt sort of like an old man car. Inexplicably, Ira guided us back to the Caddie and then gave us a ride around the block, talking about how nice it was. I felt like my grandpa was driving me to Sunday school. He then also showed us another Caddie with a CD player that was exactly like his own, exclaiming ‘Now, you can’t do better than than, can you Dad?’ as he exited the car to get the other one, leaving Esteban and I alone to discuss.

‘I don’t like these. They are old man cars.’

‘I think Ira just called me ‘Dad’. Ira. He thinks I’m his dad?’

‘Oh my god, there’s a Mason symbol on the front of that one! It’s a Masonic car! How hip would I be, driving the big ivory Cadillac with the Masonic symbol on the front? I’d have to start going to buffets at 4 o’clock and complaining about my gout.’

‘Should I call him Daddy-o when he comes back? I just’don’t know what to make of this.’

We broke it gently to Ira that we weren’t interested in the older Cadillac but we would think about the other one. He then requested the keys for the Monte to see what he would give us for a trade-in, which embarrassed the hell out of me because the Monte was trashed. My school books were in the back, along with three jackets, about a hundred empty Dasani bottles, CD cases, and cups from Sbux. Also, we had left a Good Charlotte CD at full volume in the CD player, which I was afraid might frighten Ira and then he’d have a pulmonary embolism in my front seat. Which I’m certain would decrease the trade-in value right there, to be the Death Car of Ira. Word gets around, you know.

He came back from the rain and gave us a fairly good trade-in offer for the Monte, then asked us if we wanted to drive away in the nicer of the two Devilles. We explained that it was on our short list but we wanted to keep looking. It was then that our sweet lovable benevolent Ira went all hardcore on us, giving us reasons why we were idiots for not buying the car right now and that he was giving us a good price and we’re not going to be able to find a good deal like that anywhere else. It was like he was a man possessed. Gone was the friendliness, the grandfatherly love. In its place was a cold, heartless slimy weasel man, wanting us to sign on the dotted line or he’d go for the jugular. We finally made it clear that we were not going to buy a car that we weren’t certain about (although honestly, my decision had been made) and that he wasn’t going to pressure us into anything. I swear that when we walked out the door, he waved us off with a ‘pfffft’.

We were both in shock. Our sweet Ira was no more. Esteban reasoned that when we bought the truck, we had already decided during the test drive that it was the truck for us, and therefore Ira hadn’t needed to pull out the big guns. Ira was still selling cars for a reason, but he had to realize that the hard sell doesn’t work for Gen Xers and only makes us suspicious of hidden agendas.

We drove up the way to another dealer, where we tested a Pontiac Grand Prix GTP, which on paper had everything that I wanted. Leather seats, sun roof, nice big motor, a single heated seat (which seems very selfish to me’ driver has a nice warm tushy while the passenger sits and shivers?), and it wasn’t the color of a turd.

The salesman turned me off almost immediately when he brought the car around for us and Esteban went for the passenger side and I went for the driver side, he looked at me with a raised eyebrow and said ‘YOU’RE driving?’ and Esteban and I both replied ‘I’m the one buying the car.’

This is another thing that I’m ridiculously sensitive about. I cannot stand it when the sales weasel completely ignores me. Had the Monte not been everything I wanted (with the exception of a moon roof), I would have walked out when our guy continued to only address Esteban, despite being repeatedly told that I was the one buying the car. And then later, when they send out their little ‘how do you like the car’ letter, he addressed it to Esteban. Only Esteban. Way to ensure that you’ll never get repeat business from us, you ignorant jackass.

Then, during Esteban’s turn at the wheel, I noticed that the passenger of a souped up truck with many Nascar symbols in the next lane was motioning that we should roll down the windows during a red light. He yelled to us ‘Are you buying that car?’ We yelled back ‘We’re thinking about it.’ He replied ‘You should’ that’s a sweet ride, dude!’ And he said it like a surfer. Or a druggie. Or one of the sea turtles from ‘Finding Nemo’.

Great. Approval from a representative of the local white trash. ‘You can’t buy advertising like that!’ he chortled, but quite honestly, it was almost a reason to NOT buy the car. We also tested a red Impala, which was surprisingly nice but didn’t give me goosebumps. I’m a little afraid to buy such a car in that I might open the trunk and find a golden retriever and 2.3 kids needing to be taken to soccer practice. By that time, however, I was getting loopy and kept repeating ‘that’s a sweet ride dude! Thatsasweetride’ duuuuuuuuuuuuuude.’ And we realized that we were both starving and were damp from coming in and out of the rain and absolutely frozen, thus we went to our favorite Mongolian place in Appleton and inhaled some delicious stir fry. Afterwards, Esteban told me that I could have any dessert I wanted. Anything. Even the Black and Tan Brownie from the microbrewery back in Green Bay. Anything. I was stymied, flush with so many options. I decided upon a small cache of Godiva chocolates, so we stopped at the mall and got some lovely little hazelnut shells and ganache-filled truffles. We also stopped at the DVD store and picked up Esteban’s recent requests for Spiderman and Daredevil. Then, without a word, he picked up the second season of Angel for me. Apparently, he was in an indulgent mood for some reason, although I still don’t know why. I wasn’t arguing.

We then went home, munching on our selected chocolates, and put on our fluffy comfy clothes and then cuddled on the sofa with a big down comforter and watched Daredevil and weren’t chilled to the bone for the very first time since we had left the house. I fell asleep with my head in Esteban’s lap before Electra even fought Bullseye, but it was a lovely way to spend an evening.

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Boobs and burritos… it just doesn’t get any better than that

Monday, September 15, 2003

On Friday, Esteban began to search in earnest for a replacement for the Monte. He really loves the thrill of the chase, in such a way that it scares me. As I mentioned in the previous entry, he is more concerned with a good deal than what I really really love. Thus, I began my own Internet search.

And that’s when I found it.

The perfect Lincoln LS. Silver as a bright new quarter and just as pretty. Relatively new, relatively low miles, and I swear that when I looked at the picture on the Internet, I heard the song of angels. This was it. This was my precious.

It was about 10K more than Esteban wanted to pay, but I didn’t care. Without thinking, I called my bank and secured a blank check for the future purchase of a used car, good up to 30K. Or, she added, more if I needed it.

I am a very bad girl. With a good credit rating, apparently.

I called the dealer, which was the same large conglomerate dealer we usually work with in the Fox Valley. I spoke with a very young sounding salesman. I had to work until 5 and Esteban had his Dorkathalon starting at 7, thus we wouldn’t be able to look at the thing until Saturday at the earliest. Then I had an idea’ we were going to shop on Saturday that way anyway’ what if I drove down and got the car for the evening and then brought it back the next morning? This is a fairly normal thing around here for serious buyers. He waffled and said that their insurance doesn’t allow them to do such things. Which is complete and utter bullshit, as the last time I test drove an identical car, the salesman for the same chain was practically thrusting the keys into my greedy little palm. I didn’t feel like arguing with him, so I just said fine, I’d see him on Saturday.

During this conversation, Esteban called and said that there was a 2002 Grand Prix ready for me to drive over night at the dealership next to my office. Just go and pick up the keys, they were expecting me. Fine. I got the car and the salesman encouraged me to take it overnight, although I already knew that I didn’t like the thing. It was whack. My CD sounded like it was being played over a FisherPrice radio. Poor Beyonce. She just doesn’t deserve such torment. Esteban and I went out to dinner at a local ancient lunch counter (famous for burgers absolutely dripping with melted butter) where I had mashed potatoes (something about their mashed potatoes’ they are the absolute best things ever) and fried perch fillets (bye bye Operation Hottie). Then Esteban left for his Dorkathalon and the soulless rental car and I limped our way back home. There, I imbued myself with The Hotness because it was another Bad Bar night.

Yeah. You know you love it.

I chose a pair of dirty-washed boot cut jeans and a white pin-striped button down fitted shirt, unbuttoned far more than was prudent. I paired this with silver or white gold jewelry, including a silver necklace that contained just a silver stick thing hanging down, basically making an arrow to my cleavage. Seriously, Hotness thy name is Weetabix.

Penny and Carissa pulled up and hooted at me as I got in the car. We got to the Bad Bar by 8:30 and were dismayed to find that it was completely packed. We were lucky to get one of the auxiliary tables away from the bar. We then watched and later squeezed in by the Twister board, where on a previous night, bad touching had taken place. And then made friends with the Baby Boomer’s to our left.

Almost immediately, I was accosted by a very drunk middle-aged man from Michigan, in town for the Packer/Lions game. His name was Dave and his breath might have been capable of ignition. He introduced us to his friends, also from Michigan, Charlie, Wayne and someone else (Garth?). Wayne kept putting his hands on my waist and hips, then Charlie started hitting on me too. When Dancing Queen came on, I couldn’t argue with Penny and Carissa when they pulled me up to dance on the windowsill. Complete with choreography, which entranced our Boomer suitors. Then Eric and Scotty Boom Boom showed up and I suspect that Charlie & Co realized that they never had a chance with us. And I suspect that I frightened them when I introduced Eric as our pimp.

Penny mentioned that every guy in the place was mesmerized by my cleavage, and I do have to admit that the girls were in fine form that night. I had realized while getting dressed that the D bras I had recently downgraded to were fitting on top but there was an escape issue below. There was this whole Demilitarized Zone where the bra wasn’t doing its job. Thus, I went back to my little lonely pile of forgotten DD’s and was much happier for it. It felt as though a missing piece of the puzzle had been snapped into place. The DD’s might just be my secret strength. I don’t know. It’s a mystery.

Oh, and then Carissa flashed her breasts at the sticker picture maker machine. She’s proud of them, as she should be, as they are a very fine pair. Thus, she had sixteen little postage stamps of her chest. The rule at the Bad Bar is that if you show the bartenders your boobs, you get a free drink, thus, she had sixteen free drinks at her disposal. The Bald Bartender, of course, was happy to oblige. He had started comping me free drinks as well (the secret is that I should just never order drinks from the girl bartenders’ the boys like me more). At one point, Bald Bartender was pouring someone else’s drinks and I teased him about his retro costume for the evening ‘I wish I could wear my shirt open to my belly button and be just like Dave.’ And he replied something that I still can’t quite figure out but I think he said something about my big cans. I don’t know. Then he gave me a bottle of Boone’s. Comped, natch. Which prompted Penny to hit me because he loves me best.

And then I looked over and Carissa was making out with Eric.

Yeah, I don’t know what was going on there either.

I hadn’t quite gotten over my astonishment when she spun her bar stool and then gave Scotty Boom Boom (whose new nickname is getting to be Scotty Too Hottie) a long languid spit-swapping smooch. And then had this look on her face as though she’d just gotten the wind knocked out of her by the kisses from the boys on either side of her. And then some girls kissed. Each other.

It’s a bad bar, people. A very bad bar.

My lips remained untouched however, in case anyone is keeping track. Although it wasn’t that hard for me to resist. I’m friends with Scott and Eric, therefore I wouldn’t kiss them because it would be weird. And just because I showed Penny and Carissa my breasts a few days ago, doesn’t mean I’m easy. I think I’m saving my Girl Kiss cherry for just the right girl.

In all of the excitement, Scotty fled. I still don’t know where he went. He never said good bye, he was just gone. I think he just didn’t want his face on the next Girls Gone Wild video.

Then the four of us went to Taco Bell, Penny and I in Carissa’s car (she wasn’t fit to drive) and Eric and Cari in his car. Penny and I simply stared at each other for several minutes, unable to come up with the word ‘Quesadilla’. The best I could come up with was ‘soft and cheesy and makes me happy’. Then we ordered and explained to the Taco Bell drive through guys that we loved him. And he loved our tunes. And also was impressed with our hotness. Ok, he didn’t tell us that, but it was implied. Because how could he not?

Then we went to Penny’s house and ate our chili cheese burritos and most delicious Nachos and Cheese (is there a more perfect food than crunch Nachos and fake shiny plasticy cheese when you have been dancing and sweating all night? I think not.) And then Cari stayed at Penny’s and Eric drove me home, where Esteban was asleep and when I crawled beneath the covers smelling like second hand smoke and hot sauce, he murmured ‘Beautiful girl!’ and pulled me closer.

So it was a good night, all told. A very good night.

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Cruise control

Friday, September 12, 2003

From all outward appearances, I look like an adult. Seriously, I think I pull the charade off very well. I have many bits of plastic that tell the world that I am trustworthy with money. I own a house. I manage to keep it clean, or at least do my half (if not more) of the housework, with a modicum of success. I have sex. Responsible safe monogamous sex. I go to the doctor and have her look at my adult woman parts every year, even though it’s a horrible thing that makes me want to hide in a closet. I share my toys. I play well with others, or at least that’s what it says on my yearly performance appraisal. I have a job that pays more than my age. I have insurance on my car and am considered by the Powers That Be to be a safe driver. You should hear me order my drink at Starbucks. It’s forceful, decisive, authoritative even. And if you don’t listen too closely, you might even believe I’m ordering something other than hi-octane hot chocolate.

And yet.

The other day while floating in the pool, abjectly not wearing sunscreen and trying not to think of the growing vault of voice mails undoubtedly blinking madly away, a telltale heart of my every waking day, I did some calculations of what I know needs to be fixed on the Monte Carlo. It needs the 100000 mile tune up. Actually, it needed it 24,000 miles ago, but it still moves and therefore, the matter didn’t really seem that pressing until I realized that I’m about to roll another decade of miles and maybe my sparkplugs have withered away to the size of unbent paper clips and it will possibly explode in some sort of glorious haze as though it had been hit from above by a large battleship posing as a moon. Because when bad things happen, it just feels right if they fit nicely into the plot of an action movie. Also, I’ve needed the front end aligned since I slid sideways into a curb sometime in the winter. Driving around with a skewed suspension has probably killed my big fat $100 a piece tires, so I might need two or four of those. That’s iffy, though. The transmission needs to be flushed. And then there’s the spot of rusty melanoma by the rear window that is a factory defect GM won’t own up to. And also the ping on the passenger door when I opened it in the garage and hit the side of a cpu. And then the dented front deck when a pick up truck stopped short in the rain and I slid into the back of him. And now, the front seat that Esteban broke last year and replaced with something he found in a wrecked Monte? Is broke in a different spot.

But the clincher?

The radio has stopped working. The radio.

This, of course, is karma. Or carma. The radio in Esteban’s truck has been fizzling out for the last year, but he doesn’t want to spend the money to get it replaced. I’ve offered to add it to the budget, but he resists. And then he’ll get worked up to replace it and back away when I ask him to wait until he gets paid so that he doesn’t end up borrowing money from me. One day, he mused ‘Just how long would YOU put up with a broken radio?’ My answer ‘How long does it take to drive to the stereo place?’

So, after adding all of the little problems which are plaguing the Monte currently as well as the miscellaneous mystery ailments that are certainly yet to come, we’ve decided that it is time to replace the car. Of course, we can’t get the car I WANT to get. I want a brand new Lincoln LS. Sadly, I could probably swing it, but not also go to school. Thus’ some other lesser car will have to do.

I test drove a Jaguar S class a few weeks ago. It was beautiful, like God’s concept of an automobile. Silver exterior, leather interior (the only problem was that it was BEIGE’ blech), power everything, moon roof, rocking sound system, and a purr that you wouldn’t believe. And an unbelievable deal, especially when you consider all of the added snobbery that came with it for free. I, of course, was starry-eyed. I even decided what I would call the Jag should it be mine, since ‘my Jaguar’ is so ‘my summer home in the Hamptons’ or ‘my sugar daddy’ or “my federal indictment”. The car would simply be known as ‘The Kitty’. Because that is what it would be. My little pretty kitty.

Sigh.

It was too expensive for Esteban’s taste. Once again, if you took graduate school out of the picture, it wasn’t a big deal, but then that left me exchanging my life’s dreams for a shiny automobile that made my heart race. And that had a beige interior.

I also tested an Intrepid. It was about the same as the Monte, which left me cold. I mean, why go through all of this if I’m just going to get the same vehicle with 4 doors and no moon roof? I want the moon roof! If I’m going to have another car payment, I have to get a moon roof out of the deal! And even so, I refuse to budge on the size of the engine (3.4 L is bare minimum) and leather seats. Why go down in scale? It just isn’t logical.

We both liked the Chrysler 300M, except that the one I test drove had sloppy steering. And then there is also the fact that should I purchase the 300M, I have been informed that I will receive voice mails from Jake with Celine Dion simply bellowing ‘I drove all niiiiiiiiighht’..!’ for the rest of my natural life.

Esteban has dived into this full throttle. He loves shopping for cars. He loves walking around car lots. It’s one of his passions. I, however, find the process tedious. I know what I like and I really don’t want to waste my time looking at something that I know won’t make me happy. Like something with cloth seats. Or something that is blue. I don’t want to drive a blue car. I have nothing against other people driving a blue car, but my last four car purchases have been silver then white then black then white again. I’m in the mood for a silver car this time, but I could be convinced to buy another black one.

This is frustrating for Esteban. He feels that for the price he is willing to pay (read: about 5K less than the price I am willing to pay), the cars that we will be most happy with are a Pontiac Grand Prix or another Monte Carlo. My big gripe with the Monte Carlo is that when you open the doors, they have the ability to crash into anything within four feet of you. In a tight parking spot? Then you might have to get into the back seat before you can leave the vehicle. In fact, I suspect that is how the front seat was broken the second time.

Thus, now we are stale mated. The money that Esteban wants to spend gets lower and lower, while I firmly dig my feet into the ground. I know that a car is just to get you from point A to point B, but it is so much more than that. It should be fun. It should want to come out and play when I crank the Offspring on the CD Player. It should be like AOL and ask where do you want to go today? It should be ready to party all night and then go to work the next morning wearing the same clothes and smelling like sex and leather. It should try to sneak a peak down my cleavage. And most importantly, it should give me a little flutter in my stomach every time I walk outside, jingling my keys.

When I first purchased the Monte, for months I had reoccurring nightmares that someone had stolen my car. It was a bit like first love. I just couldn’t believe it was my car, that it was exactly the car I had dreamed in my head. KimVee didn’t even believe me when I told her which car I was buying, since I had given her my shopping list of the car I wanted, right down to the black leather seats. She thought I was joking, until the day I drove it up to her driveway just to prove it. And I don’t blame her. It DID seem too good to be true. I would be sitting in the leather bucket seats, the steering wheel tilted just so, and just be in awe. This. This was MY CAR. This growling she-beast of metal and Detroit hard love was my car. This long expanse of white metal was the frame through which I would get to look at the world. The world. The world was ours. And we were ready to ride. And sure, if we needed to stop and get some groceries or go to work during one of those rides, that was all good, baby, because damn, we’d be sexy just the same.

And now? Too miss out on all of that to buy some miscellaneous good buy with a cloth interior and a miniature engine and a cassette tape player, just because it is a good deal?

Bah. Good deals are for cocksmokers!

So yeah, not so much with the adult thing.

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The Damn does not need a prop

Thursday, September 11, 2003

I got home from work the other night and greeted Esteban, who simply smiled and pointed at the entertainment center. Sitting there was a shiny new Lamborghini of the cable world. He continued to grin and then hold up the Mother of All Remotes. It was huge, silver and had no fewer than 4357 buttons on it. I felt like one of the apes gaping at the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey. I swear that I heard the theme song faintly in the background. The remote is huge. The remote could block out the sun. The remote, say it with me, does not need a prop.

Apparently, in order to fix the problem of the Misbehaving Remote Battery Door, he brought the entire cable box and remote control, sans door, back to the cable company. And got us a big’un. It apparently is like a TiVo. I haven’t discussed this with Ricky Fitts yet. I don’t want to hurt his feelings. Particularly since the enormous new unit (hehehe’ enormous unit. Hi, I’m thirteen years old.) has some insane amount of hard drive space (Ricky can record 7 hours at medium quality) and can record TWO shows at once, while Ricky only records one at a time, thank you very much. Also, there is the little fact that the new unit costs $5 extra a month, whereas maintenance for Ricky runs $13 a month. If you do the math, I could easily kick Ricky to the curb and get a second unit for the bedroom and still be paying less than I am for solo Ricky.

In a surprising move, however, Esteban was quick to jump to Ricky’s aid. For instance, the new unit isn’t smart enough to know whether you’ve seen an episode of a show or not. It just blindly records. Also, apparently, the season passes don’t work the same. And, he added, the cable company’s version doesn’t learn your behavior. So, in other words, the new unit doesn’t care about you. The new unit isn’t like happy little friendly Ricky Fitts, chirping in the corner, making the responsive and reassuring BooBOOP! when you select a recorded show. No. The new unit is incapable of emotion. The new unit has marginal regard for us and would likely kill us in our sleep if it had half a chance.

The remote is the size of a toddler. I suspect that I am incapable of memorizing where all of the buttons are and will have to watch television with a light on for the rest of my life, like my grandmother. I now know exactly how she feels when looking at her VCR and realizing that the speed of technology has just left her in the dust.

Apparently when Esteban brought in the unit and the backless remote, he apologized that the remote was missing the back. The girl said “Is it ok other than that? It still works?” And he nodded. Without even blinking, she reached beneath her counter and pulled out an identical remote back and slapped it into the device and then threw it into a box. He then added, “Yeah… I went from feeling really clever to wah wah waaaaaaaah!” Poor boy. He tries. He really does.

On Monday, I considered going for a massage because work continues to reach into my ribcage and steal my soul. But then I was too busy. And I had things to do. And I had only haphazardly shaved my legs and no doubt missed spots behind my knees and could not bear to have the masseuse see my unmentionable Back Of Calf Stubble. So I didn’t. And because of this, my body decided to teach me a lesson and tugged hard and fast on that nasty little muscle in my neck that pings like a harp string every three months or so.

I took a muscle relaxant and proceeded to sleep the sleep of the dead, lovely addictive barbiturate sleep. And then woke up doing the robot, so called into work, took another magic happy pill and went back to sleep, to get woken by a frantic Esteban exclaiming ‘Weetabix! Wake up! It’s 8:30!’ Which is nice of him to be concerned, especially since I am normally out the door by 7:00 am. I slurred that I had called in (or rather, emailed in) and took a sick day and then continued to drool into oblivion for the next several hours. I finally roused from the drugged state at 11:30 am, and had one of my favorite breakfasts (that doesn’t involve pancakes or cooking, that is) of one bowl of Golden Grahams, followed by a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. This breakfast is inordinately pleasing for some reason’ both of the cereals are square, which makes me happy because they match, and yet the Grahams are more of a hearty dinner type of cereal, whereas the Toast Crunch is lighter, crispier and offers a sweet dessert-like ending to the meal. And then it was noon, which was time for lunch, so I had another bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and decided that if I didn’t have Esteban around, I would undoubtedly subside on cereal, toast and peanut butter and undoubtedly die of malnutrition weighing 550 pounds.

The next morning, I was able to stiffly walk into work and could stand the pain as long as I did not swivel my head or make any sudden movements involving my left arm. After squinting through the morning, I gave in and made an appointment with my very favorite masseuse Sarah (whom I think of as the Baby Bear masseuse’ the first one, Pain Thumbs, had been too hard, the second one had been too soft, but Sarah? Just right.) for an 80 minute massage. I thought of Sundry when I was stripping out of my clothes literally as she was closing the door to the massage room. She then proceeded to manipulate and prod at the various muscles in my neck and upper back, declaring that it felt like a million little hard rubber bands stretched taut. Which, you know, isn’t how you want your muscles, apparently. I don’t know. Then she explained some new age thing about toxins in the muscles and that the skin over the pulled area was turning red and blotchy as she was working the toxins out of the tissue. I don’t know. I do know that my neck and back stopped hurting. And that, my friends, is worth sitting there fat, naked, and greased up with Bergamot massage oil and having your bosom go wild when you turn over, threatening to perhaps give yourself or the masseuse a concussion. Totally worth that. And the $80 plus tip at the end.

So anyway, my neck is much better, which makes Esteban very happy as he realized that certain marital acts were completely out of the question with my frozen neck.

I’m speaking, of course, of ballroom dancing.

Ahem.

Couple of more updates on past entries:

First of all, kudos to whomever told the comments section that the best thing for lips is petroleum jelly. It’s now the only thing that is making my extremely irritated lips feel any better. So rock on, Vaseline lady, rock on.

Second, someone asked about my Aunt Brunhilda’s little venture into fraud. Yes. Fraud. That’s apparently what it’s called. Who knew. Next on the Weety Springer Show, we’ll learn about polygamy.

So, anyway, according to the case search engine that another someone mentioned recently on the comments section (seriously, there are the best damn things mentioned on the comments section. Sometimes the comments are better than the entries) charges have been pressed for two counts of fraud exceeding $2500. Two counts. Exceeding $2500 each. So I still don’t know specifics, but it doesn’t sound like she just took off with a bunch of Aveda Sap Moss or something, now does it? According to family lore, this is completely nonexistent. No one discusses it. Oh, and her husband is divorcing her and now has custody of the two kids, the former Skinny and Malnourished have each put on at least 20 pounds and look healthy. Skinny probably missed her chance at reaching anywhere near her height potential and will probably be stuck at 5’3′ (by typical genetic traits, she should have been in the 5’9′-5’11’ range), but her younger sister has sprouted at least three inches since November when the separation went down and they were allowed to eat when they were with their dad. So, anyway, that’s the scoop. And I’ll probably get in trouble someday for discussing this over the Internet.

And apparently? My breasts will be a passenger pigeon at some point in the near future.

I have nothing to comment upon that. But I suspect that it is already getting worked into the plot of some Online Diary Slash Fiction somewhere.

Two of the funniest comments made in the last week that I guarantee will not translate well on the diary:

The first thing:

The Scene: Esteban and Weetabix are watching Alton Brown expound upon the magic of cooking pancakes on a large electric griddle.

Weetabix : I wish we had one of those.

Esteban : You’d never use it.

Weetabix : Oh yes I would. I’d use it every’ damn’ day.

The second thing:

The Scene: Discussing the inevitable replacement for my Monte

Esteban : I don’t like Hondas’. I think it’s because the H offends me.

Seriously. We almost stroked out twice. I know. I know. You’re just shaking your head. But trust me. It was right up there with Suspicious Smells.

So yeah. The H offends him. I’m laughing again even as I type that. Every. Damn. Day.

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For Scott

Tuesday, September 9, 2003

No entry today.

Too sad.

Actually, I’ll leave it to Chrome, who wrote this when my friend Tom died a few months ago. “Weet…first off let me say I’m sorry for the loss of your friend. You have my deepest condolences. Second…by what you say you are putting to much weight upon your own back. You are not Atlas and asking Tom if he didn’t mind if you begged out on that dance is not your Earth on your shoulders. If Tom is the man you say he is then he fully understood why you asked if you could just sit down. I don’t think for one second he felt rejected by you. Flashing memories of cruel little girls with no care for his big, loving heart. I think he knew very well that you cared deeply for him and that you where just in pain after a long and very emotionaly draining day. In hindsight we always see how we should have done it. The why’s of the world are the road blocks of our future. We can not get past what we have previously experiencied if we can’t face the fact we did and there is no changing it. I know that sounds pretentious and I hope it doesn’t make it sound like I don’t sympathize with your pain. I’m just saying the only person who has ever had a problem with that moment in your life is you…I’m quite sure Tom never thought your worst fears.”

I miss him already.

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Setting Free The Breasts

Monday, September 8, 2003

Fern has confirmed that Casper V’s dad Casper V Senior does indeed drive an overcompensating snazzy red Camaro convertible. And that she sees him occaisionally at her job and tries to think of ways to ask him to whip out a picture so that she can see what Casper V the Younger now looks like.

Sometimes, I swear we are still in high school.

There was a strange number on the caller id of my cell phone, and a happy shiny little voicemail cartoon on the call display. I listened. It turns out that the thirteen raffle tickets I had purchased at the art fair two weeks ago had been a lucky 13, because I won one of the lovely indie prints I had had my little heart set upon. It needs a better frame, but I am happy for this 3/550 print which will look all smug at my retro Italian advertisements in my kitchen and make them feel like the cliches that they are.

So yay. Art for $13. Love that.

I had a half day on Friday because I had already worked the entirety of my work week by lunch on Wednesday. In fact, if you think about it, I think I finished the entirety of my work YEAR around mid-August. So whoa is me and blah blah fishcakes. I fought back against the system by encouraging Mo, Penny and Carissa to play hooky from work and come swimming with me at Chez Parents. Then I went to the grocery store and stocked up a bunch of snacks (there is something about the combination of tortilla chips, Oreos and Diet Coke with Malibu that makes swimming just magic), and then called June to inform her that I was inviting people to swim in her pool while she and Ward were both at work. (My in-laws are simply awesome… no question about it.) Then I opened up their house, opened the pool, changed into one of my four suits that I keep at their house (which is tres convenient, let me tell you) and proceeded to entertain my guests with Ward and June’s liquor. Penny and Carissa were the first to arrive so we taught Carissa the Noodle Surfing game (way harder than it looks). Carissa actually doesn’t like water or being wet but soon she had forgotten her initial trepidation and had succombed to the pleasure of being 12-years-old. I was just about to display the bouyant principles of breasts underwater by flashing Carissa and Penny when Mo walked in. I then balked but Mo went back into the house to get a band-aid and I proceeded to completely pull down my suit underwater and let Penny and Carissa be awed by the powers of anti-gravity. Then Penny and Carissa tried it out as well and Mo called us all a bunch of perverts. But also pouted that hers are so small that they don’t look any different underwater. Because she’s tried it.

We continued to frolic in the water and declare that playing in the 90 degree water in the sunshine was much better than slaving away in some cubicle like a mushroom. June came home from work and joined us in the pool. Mo, showing her true colors as a innate tattletale, immediately narced that we had been showing our boobies under the water. Hi, I’m 32 and my little sister is still ratting me out. However, Penny had my back and later made the point of asking Mo “You’re the older sister, right?” Which made me laugh and laugh and laugh.

June brought out these enormous kickballs. New pool toys are always a big hit, but these may be the end all, be all of pool entertainment. The balls are two feet across, minimum, and impossible to sink, therefore you can float with your ass two feet out of the water, on this rather tenuous balancing act, only to be toppled with the slightest ripple on the water. What is more, for some reason, propelling yourself while perched upon these things is downright impossible. It is highly entertaining for the audience, because the position on the ball is unflattering, to say the least. The Ball Rider takes on the appearance of an overly-eager bull frog. All motation happens in the ass, as the hands are busying hanging onto the ball for dear life. I can normally make it across the pool in about six seconds sans ball, but trying to kick across the pool on the ball takes about a minute at Olympic sprint power, focusing all of your energy to just get across the 26 foot pool. Screw pilates, the damn balls kick your ass.

The girls went to their various grown-up responsibilities, and Esteban joined the parents and me for lazy dinner of delivered pizza. They were ready to watch a movie or do something fun, but by 7:20 pm, I found myself struggling to keep my eyes open on the sofa, so I drove myself home and by the time Esteban came home at 9, I was completely unconscious. From age 12 to age 82 in 90 minutes. I blame the Ball. The Ball is a harsh mistress.

I woke up fairly early on Saturday. Esteban wanted to snooze in bed, but I was completely awake and not willing to waste away the morning, thus I jumped into the car and went to the Farmer’s Market, which should be renamed The Angry Hornet Market. I ducked through the yellow jackets (Note to self: go at 7 am before the bees wake up, which has the added benefit of getting to hear all of the downtown church bells go off for about ten minutes straight) and scored a quart of blueberries, some white peaches, some tomatos, some tiny red potatoes, and a bunch of fresh green beans. Love the Farmer’s Market.

Esteban and I discussed whether we would spend the day shopping for kitchen floors or cars. For some reason, I just wasn’t in the mood for cars, and I want to get the kitchen floor put in before it starts getting too cold (since I have some deluded half-assed theory that we can get the kitchen floor put in, all of the custom moldings made, painted, and put in, and then rip out the paneling and ceiling tiles from Computer Room #2 and redo the entire thing before the snow flies). We went to a few floor stores and came away very discouraged. Esteban’s big caveat is that he doesn’t want the black and white checkerboard that I absolutely love. His feeling is that black and white show the most dirt and is vehemently against it. I do not like most flooring, hate the vinyl “trying to look like italian tile” stuff, and dislike blues and beiges. Finally, Esteban was anemic-tired and I was strangely also tired and we decided to go home and slack out for the rest of the afternoon and Esteban finally said “You know what? You can just pick what you want… I don’t care, as long as it’s not black and white checkerboard.” Which pretty much sums up our relationship. I make all of the decisions and he has power of veto. Or in this case, preemptive veto. We did manage to make one productive checkmark on our To Do list by picking up the dry cleaning. Go us.

Joel and Cheri had a gigantic housewarming party for the mansion they built two years ago (but had never gotten around to having a house warming bash). It was a catered affair, including a roast suckling pig, our friend Phil’s live blues band on their deck, and more yellow jackets than have any right to roam the earth. Unfortunately, my weird feeling from earlier in the day had transformed into an Advil-defying headache that continued to get worse as the evening went on. Also, the giant bronze pig carcass wasn’t doing my flutter tummy any favors. I spent the evening hanging out on a folding chair, marveling at the fashion tragedies in evidence (for instance, the ying and yang of pants wearing by one couple. She had pants pulled up to her bra strap and he had pants that would have definitely displayed three inches of ass crack had he not been wearing a shirt. And they were in their early to mid thirties… there is absolutely no excuse for that level of cluelessness.) Esteban made a grievous miscalculation and drank two beers over the course of three hours, which wiped him out completely. He keeps forgetting that he DOESN’T have any blood. Well, very little, which gives him the alcohol tolerance of a sixteen-year-old cheerleader on prom night. He felt guilty for bailing so early at what was essentially the social event of the summerslashfall, but my head contained its own drum circle, thus I was completely fine with leaving early. We went home and watched Six Feet Under while I went through both of our reusable ice packs staving off the impending migraine. All considered, it was a lovely quiet way to spend our Saturday night.

On Sunday, Mo offered to cut the lawn for Esteban (since he is a fragile little flower. I had been paying my little brother to do it, but with school starting, he has lost interest in all forms of manual labor.). To thank her, we brought her out for breakfast with us to the rural truckstop that makes lovely banana pancakes. We all got the same breakfast. Then we went home and Mo cut the lawn, Esteban cleaned the kitchen, and I cleaned the rest of the house. Apparently, to keep our house clean, it takes a villiage. Or at very least, three people. I, however, spent most of the time, wandering around trying to find the Swiffer refills. It was quite the mystery, as I had just used them last week. What is more, both Esteban and I swore that we had JUST seen them. Somewhere. I kept retracing my steps until it became an obsession. Finally, I cursed and started making a shopping list for the Hundred Dollar Store (aka Home Depot) as well as Targzhay. Mo finished the lawn, admonished me for my OPI nail fetish and then proceeded to do her toenails with “I’m Not Really a Waitress” and her fingernails with “Abbey Rose” (My own current display, for those playing along at home, is “Rock And Roll Red” on my toes and “Bogota Blackberry” on my fingers) while we watched the Packers stink up Lambeau Field across town.

I then went shopping and spent way too much money on stupid stupid things (vinyl gloves, light bulbs, Swiffer stuff, paper towels, a recycle bin, and are you still reading this list? Hi!) and then went home, exhausted, caught up on some long overdue correspondence and then watched The Hours. Which was confusing, because I like Julianne Moore quite a bit, but I dislike Meryl Streep immensely and normally I have a hard time liking Nicole Kidman because she has an unkind face, but strangely enough, the artificial nose enabled me to be indifferent to her. Interesting how that works. And Ed Harris… wonderful, just wonderful, and can I just say that I always end up falling a little bit in love with John C. Reilly by the end of every movie.

So now I’m torn, because I had planned to read the book next, as I have just finished with some lighthearted fare and I like to alternate between that and the heady stuff. And I watned to read it before seeing the movie, but the DVD snuck up my Netflix queue and ambushed me from my mailbox. So now I’m not really interested in thrusting my head back into the storyline so quickly and am wandering about, unable to make any sorts of decisions as to which book I should devote my brain. So I’m flummoxxed. And for this, I blame the Streep. Because I can. Damn Streep. Damn her all to hell.

Oh, and I found the Swiffer materials. They were in our bedroom, from my recent closet reorganization of last week (wherein I reduced my shoe cache to just 11 pairs total. Leaving room for new shoes!). The misplaced Swiffer stuff is also the fault of Meryl Streep. Somehow.

All roads lead to Streep.

I got the best email the other day, one from someone who claims that they never write fan mail (if that is true, they were pretty accomplished at their first shot). And I told them that I wouldn’t tell anyone that they were writing fan mail, so I’m not, but they compared the ending of an entry to John Irving. John. Irving. If that’s not the thing to make me absolutely giddy, I don’t know what is.

John Irving. I’m blushing even now.

And then!

This diary has been nominated for Best Writing in the current round of the Diarist Awards. I am incredibly honored. It’s one thing to be called a funny girl, but another entirely to be honored for writing quality. So thank you.

Seriously, y’all, you make it really hard to have that writerly “I suck” mentality. Note to self: hide laurels that make such inviting places to sit on my ass.

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And it was all yellow

Thursday, September 4, 2003

I googled Casper V and now feel like a stalker. It occurred to me that I don’t know if that had been his Camaro or possibly his father’s since he was a Jr (Just like Esteban, actually’ gah, mofo Jr’s making the world complicated). I still don’t know, but I do know that he was one of the ten last area Marine reservists to come back from Iraq a few weeks ago. Does that make him more or less likely to overcompensate with a snazzy plastic car? And does that make me a psuedo Glenn Close?

Kymm’s updating again! That makes me happy. Because 23 days without Kymm’ very long indeed.

Have you ever thought about what the most important thing is in your living room and den? Once upon a time, I might have thought it was the furniture, or good lighting. Or maybe a fireplace and a good sound system piping lovely Sarah Vaughn through some hidden speakers somewhere.

Wrong. All wrong.

The most important thing in our living room is the little door that holds the batteries in the remote control.

Or more specifically, that there be a little door there. Apparently, someone in our house likes to play with the little fipple that holds the door in place. Someone who shall remain nameless but is neither a man nor a cat. Ahem.

So now the little door thingy doesn’t stay on the remote control, and without the door, the he AA’s fall out and go rolling across our lovely new wooden floor. Sometimes under the sofa. Sometimes maddeningly just out of reach. Sometimes on my foot.

So pick up the remote? Thunk thunk. Flip over to MTV? Thunk thunk.

It is so irritating. It’s not even our remote, it comes with the digital cable box, so I can’t even just go out and buy a new one. I’ve even contemplated duct taping the thing, but there is something so inherently trash about duct tape that I simply cannot bring myself to do it, to introduce such a symbol to something that is so intimate with my daily affairs. I mean, I’d be touching duct tape. Every day, touching duct tape. The idea offends me beyond reason.

I think Esteban is going to take back the cable box and remote to the cable company and get a new one. But the whole thing is so ridiculous. Two capable adults left completely at the mercy of a hunk of plastic on the back of a convenience device. I’m pretty sure this is proof that civilization is going to hell. Right there.

Yesterday was simply grand. I woke up early, put on my dirty washed jeans and the striped cotton button down that matches just so, paired them with an end-of-season clearance pair of brown square toed leather boot shoe things ($57 marked down to $11′. Who loves ya, baby.) that were SUPER CUTE with my outfit. I had even polished my fingernails Abbey Rose to match (although, thinking about it afterward, I decided I need to go more into the champagnes for the true retro ensemble) and had perfect hair. Lovely. I buzzed through Sbux and picked up my first iced mocha in a week or so. Unsurly Girl was there. ‘Hi Weetabix!’ she greeted me cheerily. I have begun to have unreasonably loving feelings for Unsurly Girl. She’s one of my favorite people that I see all day. And she gives me caffeine. It’s really the perfect relationship, right there.

And even though I was crampy and a bit growly, I was feeling good. The air was crisp, wanting to be fall, as though Mother Nature took one look at the word September on the calendar and started pulling in her summer loving. There were school buses zipping around and children excited about a new school year. The sun was just coming up and there was a curly mist on the river and Coldplay’s ‘Clocks’ on my CD player. And I was feeling good, dressed like a rock star. And right then, I decided that this wasn’t a drive to work. This was a music video. And I think I was the Bee Girl. Only cuter.

I walked into work with my iced mocha and my little tote bag full of my sliced melon breakfast, and as I caught my reflection in the glass doors, I thought ‘Dayam, girl, this outfit is AWESOME!’. And so it was. The heels on the shoes combined with the pants and the striped shirt’ I looked like the After picture for the Operation Hottie promotional materials. And just then, one of my coworkers walked in as well and said ‘Damn Weet’ you are just melting away.’ I scoffed and gave credit to the outfit, which was true, because it is apparently a wonder outfit, but seriously, how much better can a morning get?

Work’ well, sucked, but then again, I looked SO good. I wandered over to Carissa’s desk to chat with her about golfing and express again how bummed I was that I had missed her incredible 75 yard hit directly into the hole, and she took one look at me, up and down and said ‘Mmmmmmhmmmmm look at YOU!’ and could at that moment understand every bit of the Lesbian Catnip that I try to hide from the world. So then it was official. When I die, I shall be buried in this outfit.

And then I drove home. The air was a cool 64 degrees and when I came down off the escarpment, the setting sun washed that warm autumnal gold over my face, lighting up the entire west bank, the stadium casting shadow puppets over the city and there it was again… the rock video. And somewhere, someone was cutting grass and somewhere else there were cicadas strumming away and somewhere else there were kids eating Jell-o, and for a second, it was all I could do to remain on the road, thinking about how lovely it all was and how lucky I am to get to live it. And then the end credits and fade to black.

I just spent an hour looking for an entry where I mentioned buying those leather boot shoe thingies for such a great deal (apparently I never mentioned it), but I did find that I mentioned last fall that I wanted to organize my linen closet and pantry. Which I finally did this year. How sad is THAT?!? Actually, I might have been talking about my other linen closet, which I might have actually done. It needs it again though.

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Supine

Tuesday, September 2, 2003

So the weekend.

How many of my Monday entries start like that? I think a powerful lot of them do. Even though today isn’t really a Monday, it’s Tuesday, but in reality, it’s Stealth Monday, so it still counts.

I was supposed to work late on Friday night, which was ridiculous, to work until 7 pm Central on a holiday weekend, supporting a bunch of New York Wall Street analysts who are in no way going to be working until 8 pm EST on Labor Day weekend. So my new boss came over and said “Why don’t you just take your laptop home and call in and check your voicemails.” So I did. And there were none. And thus, I did not spend my Friday night sitting alone in a dark cube farm, listening to my printer go into whatever-little-power-savey-thing-it-does and the cleaning crew rifle through the desk drawers of my coworkers. Instead, I went home and saw Esteban before he left for his bi-weekly Dorkathalon (no, not the Sunday Dorkathalon. That happens weekly. This is a second auxiliary Dorkathalon. No, it doesn’t make sense, so try not to think about it too much.) And I started to clean up the computer room (which is really Esteban’s at home office. Because he and I officially traded offices three years ago, but he has yet to fully vacate his former office, I have been granted about two square feet of space in his office on his second desk, which I must share with a four hundred pound monitor and an enormous fax machine slash copier slash printer-that-only-works-with-Windows98) as Esteban’s clutter has now begun to encroach upon my two square feet of space that I call my own, thus I attacked the area with a garbage bag, hauling away four empty Amazon boxes and a variety of mailers, worthless computer swag, and dead scratched CDs. And even though there are miles to go before I sleep, I started to get snuffly and also found all three of my Baldur’s Gate installation CDs (one of the programs lost to the great motherboard crash of May/June ’03). I reinstalled everything, found my saved game stuff from my old hard drive, and by 1 am, was reminded why I had stopped playing the game pre-motherboard meltdown.

I shouldn’t mock Esteban for his Dorkathalon, especially since I essentially ended up spending my entire evening playing the computerized version of Dungeons & Dragons. Thus is my rock star life, people. You’re jealous. I can see it from here.

I had planned initially to get up early and go to the Farmer’s Market, but slept lovely open window sleep and woke with Tilly’s enormous white feet kicking me in the stomach because all sunlight are belong to Tilly.

Damn. Just make an uber geek joke. Baldur’s Gate must be a gateway drug or something. It’s only time before I’m dusting my Star Wars figuring collection.

By the time Esteban and I showered, it was almost noon. I lobbied for banana pancakes and we went to the IHOP, but as is the case with any newish restaurant in our sleepy little burg, it was inordinately crowded and during the ten minute wait for a table, the stupidity of the staff incensed me so much that I decided that I would need to scream at them should we remain in their presence for much longer, so I declared to Esteban that we would go elsewhere. And then it struck me that my crankiness and also the tender and yet urgent feeling of my abdomen could only mean one thing…. it was two minutes to happy hour at the Estrogen Martini bar. Esteban shrugged, as he loathes IHOP. Instead we went to Sports Bar #113, where they do not serve pancakes of any sort (but damn well should), but we could watch the Badger game and eat nachos and discuss my plans for various graduate programs.

We went home and Esteban proceeded to clean the kitchen. No. Really. I know, I was as shocked as anyone, particularly since his anemia has been a convenient excuse for doing as little as possible (“You forgot to put the milk away when you made cereal and now it’s all warm and ucky.” “I know, but I’m tiiiiiiiiiiiiired.”). At one point, I walked into the kitchen and stretching out before me was a sparkling clean countertop and Esteban was bent at work scrubbing madly at the stove top. I know this sounds ridiculous and like wacky woman logic, but God help me it was the sexiest damn site I’ve seen in weeks. Seriously. Madonna and Britney kissing? Bah. Madonna and Britney cleaning the schmeng off my stove? Phew, is it getting warm in here?

We then spent the rest of the day doing the things that other couples who have normal lives must do. We went to the warehouse club. One thing of note: in the parking lot, I noticed a shiny 2003 red Camaro convertible with the vanity plates “Casper V” on it. There was only one boy that I was aware had a crush on me in school and that was one Casper V. In sixth grade, he used to engage me in foot fights across the aisle. In seventh grade, he used to watch me longingly across first period social studies, and had his friend Jason invite me to go swimming with them in Casper’s in-ground pool (I, of course, declined the invitation, because there was no WAY I was going to let boys see me in a bathing suit. I wouldn’t even wear shorts during the summer and secretly wished I were Amish. In ninth grade, he was apparently devastated to learn of my enormous crush on the judge’s son. But I was simply not interested in poor Casper. He was much shorter than me and I, like most young teens, was shallow as a wading pool.). He transferred to a different high school when his parents moved (actually, the same high school that is two blocks away from my house). Fern and I often wax upon how completely gorgeous he probably turned out, for he had enormous dark eyes and reminded me a bit of a young Enrique Iglesias.

I pointed it out to Esteban. “Look at that car… see the Casper V on it? I think I went to school with him because how many Casper V’s could their be in Green Bay?”

He took a look at the car and then snarked “Overcompensating much?”.

We bought pluots and had a light-hearted discussion whereby Esteban listed the merits of purchasing The Two Towers DVD, despite the fact that we will be purchasing The Mondo Extra No We’re Really Serious This Time version in two months and despite the fact that we have in our possession an illegal screener copy of the very same theatrical version. And of course, all the while, I remained perked for the illusive Casper V, only to be denied a glimpse. Ah well. I looked like haggis any way, wearing my tan cargo shorts that should not be worn in public and a v-neck t-shirt that is so baggy that it threatens to slide off one shoulder, and zero makeup (although I did surreptiously apply some lip gloss and juege the hair when Esteban wasn’t looking, although it’s not as though I would take one look at the petite overcompensating poor man’s Enrique Iglesias with a squeaky voice… or at least he had one in junior high and thus still has one in my head… and eschew my hirsute hulking geek husband forever. Not so. But rather it is fate that you never bump into an old acquaintance when you look smashing. No, you always must encounter former classmates and the like two minutes after a constellation of acne appears on your nose and your shirt has a gravy stain upon it.). We also went to Barnes & Noble, but as I have a hearty stack of books from various bookstore plunderings in San Francisco, I purchased nothing but an iced tea and two Godiva chocolates. Esteban, on the other hand, came away with a stack of books and could not help but chortle with excitement. The man goes through books like Kleenex. I suspect that he only reads every seventh word.

We then went home and watched said redundant DVD of The Two Towers (which, have I mentioned, is EXACTLY like our other purloined DVDs? But $19.99 is a small price to pay to keep the spouse happy, so be it.) and I made dinner of ginger chicken and garlic rice noodles for Esteban, who was very happy that his magical cooking wife has returned from her summer hiatus, and to which I hinted that many lovely tasty things will come to pass should I have a clean kitchen to make them in. Because, yes, I am a spiteful harpie when at the mercy of the Red Baron.

And yet, the universe smiles upon me, as I then received a bit of voicemail that was more performance art than anything. I strongly suspect the culprit was Patsy Cline.

On Sunday morning, I lobbied heartily for banana pancakes and was rewarded thusly, however the mega cramping had begun full force and I was unable to eat but a few forkfuls without tempting the gut-wrenching thunderstorm of muscle spasms from my uterus. I had afternoon plans for Girl Golf with Carissa and Pennilicious but called and regretfully begged off, knowing that every swing of a club would be nothing but agony. I then took Mo and Abby out for High Maintenance Pizza and was entertained by Abby as she sang along with utter conviction to Justin Timberlake on the ride home. She’s going to be a rock star when she grows up. She has declared this and I am completely convinced that it will be so.

Monday was a lost day. I was woken early by the tempestuous nature of my uterus. I tried to be productive and set up the new cat food bin (a step-on chrome garbage bin that matches our retro kitchen) but after carrying it in from the garage and taking it out of the box to find the lifty mechanism was broken, and then putting it back in the box and back out to the garage, my whole initiative was blown and I could only sit and play UncleBob’s addictive little Drug Lord game (Dude! My record is 2.7 million. Beat that shiznit, yo!) until Esteban stumbled out of bed three hours later. We took the broken bin back to the store, but by then Esteban was completely wore out, so we went back home where he could veg on the sofa and watch American Chopper on the Discovery Channel (which, by the way, has now beaten CSI as his favorite show in all the world, and has the added benefit of making him want a motorcycle “really really bad oh so bad”).

I decided that he needed some protein for dinner and I needed a new OPI nail polish (because, seriously, I have a problem, y’all. You have no idea.), so I went to the mall and picked up Abbey Rose, and then also stopped at the new Lane Bryant, where I finished my thwarted shopping extravaganza, scoring a button down weathered seventies-looking shirt, dirty-washed boot cut jeans, another pair of boot cut jeans, tan cropped pants, six pairs of panties in a variety of colors and a silver necklace, all for one thin Benjamin, so it was worth even the look of shock on Esteban’s face when I trounced in with a shopping bag stuffed to the top with cute clothes, rather than just a tiny little bag bearing a single nail polish.

A certain sense of self-righteousness plagues me when I’m hormonal. I saw a woman of a certain size in Lane Bryant, perhaps a mother shopping for school clothes with her plus-sized teen. Her breasts, easily double lettered, if not triple, were unbound, swinging free, inspecting the ground like basset hounds sniffing after a tasty morsel. When I gazed past her while looking for the perfect pair of jeans, my eyes did an involuntary Gangsta Chica roll and I had to prevent myself from proclaiming to anyone who would listen “Oh no she DI’INT!”. I mean, there we were, in Lane Bryant, purveyors of many fine personal support garments for the well-endowed woman, including but not limited to the Dayam!Bra which provides exceptional cleave, and there she was, swinging to and aft. In PUBLIC. I mean, you could practically hear the stretch marks as they happened. I simply wanted to redirect her, like a lemming, to the lingerie section, take her by the hand and say “Here, honey, let me help you.” But no. No, I could only have mental anguish for all of the fat lady stereotypes she was reinforcing, with her jogging pants and dirty athletic shoes and disrespect for the fun pillows that God gave her. At least she allows her daughter practice sane fashion choices. I threw my shoulders back and tried to lead by example, like the masthead of a ship, a proud Valkyrie of the Underwires. Sometimes it is so very trying, though. I wish there were a non-profit group out there to fix this obvious social problem.

After a quick stop at the grocery store, I made dinner (provolone sirloin burgers, hash browns, cantaloupe and watermelon… quick and easy summer dindin) and then we spent another rare leisurely evening, bemoaning the lack of Monday Night Football and traipsing around the house being lazy. Then we retired to the bedroom, where the open window by my head let in cool pre-autumn breezes and the light of a single star. Or maybe a planet. Perhaps it was Mars. I don’t know. It didn’t seem particularly angry.

Esteban just sent me an email containing only this link.

I want to make a comment about whistle-blowers, but it just seems in poor taste.

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I’ve fallen and I can’t get up

Thursday, August 28, 2003

There’s a cricket living in my garage. And with the acoustics in the garage, he sounds like the biggest cricket in the history of cricketdom. He’s not a cricket, he’s a Cricket. He’s Cricketasaurus Rex. The Cricket does not need a prop.

When I walk out into my breezeway (which is now technically a mudroom or perhaps a vestibule, since we’ve turned 2/3’s of the breezeway into part of our kitchen), the Cricket chirps happily away, serenading our grill and snow blower and my golf clubs until I step down out of the house. Then all of the sudden’. Nothing.

And I love that. It makes me happy, that Cricket quiet when I open the door. Sort of like an apprehensive hush, like the way a murmuring crowd goes still when the house lights dim or the orchestra raises their bows, meaning the star is about to take the stage. Like maybe it’s just a part of his morning that he waits for’ the girl! The girl is coming! The girl’ ooh, here she is! Shhhhh Shhhh shhhhh, can’t miss the girl!

Of course, he’s probably just whispering to his friends ‘Oh jeez, I hope she doesn’t step on me. Because seriously, have you SEEN the size of her feet!?’

I am the only person in the world to find that funny, and you know what? I don’t even care.

So something peculiar happened earlier this week.

I have a bit of a brain cloud. I don’t know how else to explain it. I had been a bundle of energy on Sunday, fitting a million projects into the hours between sun up and sun down (went to an art festival, gave myself a manicure and pedicure, did every bit of dirty laundry in the house AND put it away, slipcovered my loveseat, which was harder than I thought it would be but now Tilly won’t go near the thing, took out all of the trash, reorganized my bathroom cabinet and realized that I have a serious nail polish addiction, made dinner, and watched two DVDs as well as the last six episodes of Sex And The City, four pages of my scrapbook, and obsessively kicked some ass in Expert mode on Internet Backgammon’ phew) but then on Monday, I was having a hard time thinking. It was like I have a finite amount of gumption for the week and I used it all up by Sunday evening.

And with this brain fog, I find that I have zero concentration. I find myself only able to act if I plot things out in my head. I suspect that someone has slipped me a roofie. And for some reason, my suspicions fall to Pineapple Girl, although I realize that the notion is quite absurd. What is more, my lips are all funked out again. It’s like I bought a ‘Give Yourself Collagen Injections At Home’ from an infomercial starring Barbara Hershey and Jessica Alba, only things went horribly awry. What is more, perhaps I had a muscle spasm and instead of injecting my lip, I accidentally injected my lower eye lid, because Eye Infection? Yeah, I’m your bitch.

So not only have my superior intellectual abilities left me, but also my face decided that I was just too cute and is now revolting. In both senses of the word. And don’t clamor for pictures because the answer is simply hearty laughter.

Apparently, my appetite is also flustered by the brain cloud, as I am not interested in anything but water and the occasional ice cream sandwich. Which, according to medical science, do not provide any noticeable benefits to brain clouds. But I’m still gathering data for my study.

I had something else to say but I thought I heard someone talking about candy and I just completely lost it.

Oh. Yeah.

So earlier this week, I had left the house with a vague idea of what I was going to do that day, knowing that it involved going to the other side of town, but once I got to the other side of town, I didn’t know what I was doing over there and then decided that I needed to wake up because my head was full of the fuzzies and what better to wake me up than something from Sbux and there was an Sbux in Barnes & Noble, but then I’d have to park and also deal with pseudo snobby book people inside, looking for their Chicken Soup For The Pet Groomer’s Soul or something and I just didn’t want to deal with that and it would be easier to just go back to my side of town and go to my local Sbux with the drive through and where it wouldn’t be a hassle to get the drink I wanted and’

Candy?!

Random diary link of the day.

Anyway, I got back on the highway but by the time I crossed the river, I decided that obviously a venti cup of anything wasn’t enough to fix what was wrong with my head and I obviously needed a nap, so I decided to go home instead and do just that.

This is where the strange thing happens.

I was in the right lane because my exit was coming up. A minivan was merging into traffic. Well’ I use the word ‘merge’ like a verb, there, but something you should understand about Green Bay drivers is that they do not understand what this word ‘merge’ means. They feel that they have every right to be on the road and it is the job of the cars already there to make them feel welcome. Thus, if you are in the right lane and a car is merging, they completely expect you to make way for them by swerving into the left lane temporarily and then adjusting as you see fit. They will not speed up nor slow down. In fact, in most cases, they don’t even look to see if there are cars coming. They view the word ‘merge’ as something passive, like ‘getting killed’.

By the way, I am not advocating that drivers not be courteous to merging traffic, but rather that merging traffic should not take so much for granted.

So the minivan was running out of lane but was driving nose and nose with the Monte. I switched to the left lane because defensive driving is always the best idea in any situation. The minivan settled in along side me, going a bit slower than I was. My exit was less than a quarter of a mile away, so I sped up and changed lanes again, in front of the minivan and then looked in my rearview to scowl at the minivan because he had made me change lanes to accommodate his stupidity.

The driver was an old man. He looked like a retired pastor, had that safe sort of clueless look. He smiled to himself and then adjusted something that looked to be on the passenger size sun visor.

I probably muttered something to myself about old people driving beige minivans with running lights.

I put on my turn signal to get off the highway. I noticed that the minivan was getting off with me.

I proceeded down the escarpment and then got off the main drag to my shortcut. The minivan followed me. This was not out of the ordinary, as the road to my little short cut is also the main entrance to a suburb which is about 30 years old and contains many original owners.

Look’ I made a picture for you.

Where all those squiggly little cul-de-sacs are in the middle? Hilly as all get out. My house is at the base of that group of hills, but I like to take the hilly way in and get to see the lovely view that I pay for with my property taxes. But I digress.

So I entered the little residential neighborhood and then signaled to turn into the hilly twisty road in the middle.

The van followed me. I raised my eyebrows and checked my mirror again. The old man wasn’t looking at me intently, he seemed to be in his own little world, and kept messing with something up on the passenger size sun visor.

I shrugged and kept driving, figuring that he would turn off into one of the little cr’ches of homes nestled within the hills.

He didn’t.

I was probably being paranoid. I could actually see my backyard from the stop sign, could have hit my garage door opener and probably opened my garage door from there. But instead, I turned right, figuring I could go down my street the backway, no big deal, but this would prove that he wasn’t following me.

He turned right too.

Ok, no big deal. This was technically a more traveled street. Sure, the path I took to get there was not the most direct, but it wasn’t like I DISCOVERED that short cut. Lots of people probably used it to avoid the traffic lights on the main road.

I turned down a little two block street which intersects with my street.

The minivan followed me.

I turned up my street.

The minivan followed me.

Ok, now he is definitely following me because I was one block shy of going in a complete circle. I didn’t know what to do. I could have pulled into my house but then what? Then he’d know where I lived! And what was up with this? He was an old man! An old man in a beige minivan with daytime running lights for safety! He wasn’t the American Psycho. He wasn’t Rutger Hauer. He was this old short looking man who probably had gout and a heart arrhythmia.

I turned up my CD player as a talisman against the old man, figuring that he wouldn’t get too close if I were blasting the Nine Inch Nails.

I turned again back on the original road. He followed me.

I took another right and sped up that block as quickly as possible and then turned right again just as the minivan turned onto the street. I turned again, back onto my street and then raced down it, past my own house again, to the end of the street. I watched in my rearview mirror as the minivan followed, two blocks behind.

I turned right again, raced up a long street, then took an unexpected left, thanked the heavens for the extra gas-hoggy Z34 engine, and then took a short cut through the parking lot of the snooty grocery store and then sat there at the light, watchful for the beige mini van in my rearview mirror.

But I had lost him.

Of course, when something like that happens, you realize about three minutes later all of the things you could have done. Like use the cell phone sitting there in my little phone holder thingy and call the police. Or just let him follow me to the police station. Or simply stop the car on the side of the road and see what he would do. And then maybe peel out of there like the Dukes of Hazard, leaving him sputtering in a cloud of dust like Roscoe P. Coltrain.

And even though it was this eighty-year-old guy in a beige minivan, it was still bizarre. Why was he following me? What did I do? Gave him angry eyebrows in my rearview mirror? And then it occurred to me that he probably GOT OFF THE HIGHWAY for the sole reason of following me. What the heck is up with that? And an old man? For some reason, why does that make it less likely that he was a crazy? Because it seems like the crazy people all get themselves killed (or merged) by the time they hit the realm of senior discount for the all-you-can-eat buffets. Or maybe Geritol pacifies them. Maybe that’s what Ensure really does. Ensures that we don’t have crazy old stalkers waiting to kill us in our garages with the questionably sturdy back door, ready to bludgeon us to death with their Slim Whitman commemorative crowbar or something.

So yeah. That was weird.

And this morning? When the cricket stopped chirping when I walked out the door into the breezeway (or mudroom’ or vestibule’ whatever), I could almost hear him whispering ‘Oh man, she’s gonna get it this time. I cannot WAIT for this shit, yo.’

You know, I simply cannot believe that I stopped swiping the first comment from -b and he has YET to take even one. And he STILL hasn’t signed up for Journalcon. Sheesh.

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