That's My Bix!

So breasts.

Got em? Like em?

Go sponsor Diaryland’s own Marn in her Boobtacular endeavor. I’m happy to be a Bazoonga supporter myself. God only knows what I’d have to talk about if I wasn’t all boobalicious.

I had a half day on Friday, so I went shopping for summer clearances because the siren call of Visa has been loud and clear for the past several days. I scored a cute white ‘ sleeve DKNY t-shirt, a pair of 450 thread count king size pillow cases and a navy/white toile slip cover for the love seat in our bedroom and also, in a rare bit of forethought, picked up the wrapping materials for Abby’s birthday party on Monday (Way cute blue/lime/orange see-through gift bag with lime tissue paper, two blue and lime suckers on long thin sticks and coordinated ribbons. I tend to go a bit anal on my gift wrapping, or as Chauffi once remarked ‘Martha Stewart just called and said you were a total bitch.’ Pretty presents make me happy.) Then Esteban sent me an email with the subject line ‘Arrrrgh’ and the body of which read ‘What time is the Pirate movie playing?’ And then I did a little cheer, because three times, I have been thwarted by exterior forces from seeing the damn Pirate movie and now, finally, the planks would be walked and the swashes would be buckled!

We caught a late afternoon show (because Esteban is pretty much his own boss and can just declare a Pirate afternoon should he so choose), chortled at Johnny Depp (who was BRILLIANT! He gives such good crazy!), and merrily consumed a dinner of popcorn, Dots and blue raspberry Icee, as it seemed like an appropriate Lost Boy dinner. We completed our very responsible evening by going home and playing video games and eating ice cream sandwiches.

Disclaimer: The Management realizes that Dumber Than A Box Of Rocks has several readers under 21, including many under the age of 18, who are practically fetuses, in our humble opinion. We do not in any way want to impose unrealistic concepts of the world upon these impressionable minds, such as the idea that being a responsible adult means evenings of eating dinners with questionable nutritional value. No. It also means that one can legally party like rock stars (well, maybe Justin Timberlake), get cheap insurance, and also have bunches of sex. Thank you.

On Saturday, we woke up relatively early. Esteban has been looking for a specific carrying case for his laptop, which is very possibly the largest laptop in all the world. He purchased a backpack (because the laptop looks at over-the-shoulder strappy bags and actually laughs, a deep guttural laugh that causes my little Toshiba to run and hide beneath the sofa) from Ebags, which claimed that it was large enough to fit the girth of Esteban’s enormous unit (heh heh), but alas, it apparently requires the Magnum Extra Extra Large equivalent. Thus, he had researched a bag by Jansport, and it so happens that Jansport is located in a nearby city, so we endeavored to visit their factory store and try stuffing the Behemoth into one of their packs.

We hopped into the Monte and were on our way, until I declared that I needed caffeine and I needed it fast and also I was quite hungry (wonder why, given the buffet of culinary delights I had the night before). I pointed out that there was a McDonald’s right by the entrance to the highway. I braced myself for Esteban’s general tirade about how McDonald’s is the Great Satan of Hamburgers and how we shouldn’t subsidize their evil plot to make everyone so fat that they cannot move and then Ronald McDonald will be able to overthrow the government because we’re all too busy watching The View and being cut out of our houses. But Esteban said nothing, just nodded. I smiled. This was going to be a good day.

We pulled up to McDonald’s drive through at 10:26 a.m.

Weetabix :I wonder if they have lunch menu yet, because I just want a cheeseburger and a Diet Coke.
McSquawk : Welcome to McDonald’s, how may we help you.
Weetabix :Hi, I’d like a cheeseburger with just ketchup and a large diet coke.
McSquawk : We’re serving our breakfast menu right now.
Weetabix :Um’ until when?
McSquawk : 10:30.
Weetabix :And’ what time is it now?
McSquawk : It would be10:27.

There was a moment of silence where the three of us let the stupidity of that sink in. Looking back, it was almost as though fate itself hung in the balance.

Weetabix : (Looking at Esteban)
Esteban : (Looking at Weetabix)
Weetabix : (about to say ‘Ok, we’ll sit here for three minutes and then we’d like a cheeseburger and diet coke’)
Esteban : (with scathing sarcasm) Ok, thank you VERY much. (speeds away).
Weetabix :What? Wait a minute! What about my Diet Coke!
Esteban :Look’ we’ll go to Burger King instead.
Weetabix :But’ but’ I need Diet Coke.
Esteban :Burger King has Diet Coke.
Weetabix :But it’s not the SAAAAMMMMME!
Esteban :It’s Diet Coke. They’re both Diet Coke.
Weetabix :Yes, but’ McDonald’s Diet Coke tastes better.
Esteban :That’s it. No more McDonald’s. They’re the Great Satan of Hamburgers. Consider this an intervention. Say Bye Bye!
Weetabix :But’
Esteban :Bye bye!
Weetabix :But!
Esteban :Go ahead, sweetie, wave Bye Bye to the Great Satan! Bye Satan! Bye bye!
Weetabix :But!
Esteban :(pulling into Burger King) What do you want?
Weetabix : (pouting) Diet Coke and a cheeseburger.
King Squawk : Welcome to Burger King, would you like to try our cinni minis today?
Esteban :They’re still serving breakfast.
Weetabix : (leaning over him shouting) Hi, when will you be serving your lunch items?
King Squawk : 10:30
Weetabix : (Looks beseechingly at Esteban)
Esteban :We’d like a Diet Coke and some Cinni Minis.
Weetabix :Cinni Minis! We don’t want no stinking Cinni Minis!
Esteban :I do, actually.
Weetabix : (grumbling) Inferior Diet Coke’. Probably lunchtime by now’ who are they do determine when people should be eating their breakfasts and when people should get their lunches’ mickey fickey breakfast Nazis, that’s what they are.
Esteban : (receives the Diet Coke and Cinni Minis) Thank you.
Weetabix : (loudly) YOU SUCK!
Esteban : (aghast) WEETABIX!!!!
Weetabix :There’s another McDonald’s up the highway’ we can get a cheeseburger there.
Esteban :No, you forget. Bye bye, remember? Apparently, you don’t need an intervention, you need an exorcism.

Yes, I know. It was not my finest moment. Sometimes my inner Diva sneaks out, particularly when I haven’t had any caffeine. I’m not proud of that. What is more, I’m not proud of the fact that I then unleashed the Mother Of All Pouts. Sad puppy dog eyes. Lip engaged to eleven. And it had no effect whatsoever. Thankfully, for all involved, the Pissy Snit lasted all of five minutes. Coincidentally, five minutes is the amount of time it takes for inferior grade caffeine to hit the system.

Through the miraculous recesses of my memory, I was able to navigate our way through the country roads of middle Wisconsin and lead us right to the Jansport factory store (which I had only visited once before, eight years ago). It was completely crowded and had only two employees checking people out, so I browsed while Esteban tried to jam his laptop into the plethora of backpacks available, but unfortunately, did not find the one he needed. I, however, scored an embroidered Notre Dame sweatshirt for $10, so I was very happy indeed.

We then traversed the landscape back to Ward and June’s suburb, where our growling tummies (Inferior Diet Coke does not a breakfast make) drove us to the restaurant where our wedding reception had been held four years ago. Afterward, we drove to Chez Parents and floated in the 91 degree water for endless hours until my back once again bore strap marks and Esteban gained a suntan hid his recent anemic pallor.

We then scurried homeward to watch the Packer game, as is our regional tradition. However, the Packers were of the tribe of Suck so I started cleaning the bathroom while watching the game. I realized that we were out of toilet bowl cleaner goop at about the same time that the Packers fumbled for the eightieth time, so I decided that it was a good time to go to the store. I also wanted to cut the art paper I bought at Flax in June, but most of it was far too large to fit into my paper cutter. I decided that the best course of action would be to cut it like fabric using my rotary cutter and ruler, but then I would need a self-healing mat thingy. And I also needed a box of Kleenex and some triple roll toilet paper (yeah, how diva is this? I have a bunch of packs of standard size stuff that we got free from Ward, but I hate using them because they run out too quickly and it ticks me off) And there was only place open at 7:00 pm on a Saturday night which sold cutting mats and Kleenex and toilet paper and toilet bowl cleaning stuff.

The dreaded Mal*Wart.

I took a deep breath. It wouldn’t be that bad. It was, after all, a double coup of shopping incidences’ a Saturday night and also a Packer home game, which meant that 70 some odd thousand people were sitting in a large green bowl on the other side of town and a good percentage of the remaining lot would be sitting at home, drinking beer, and watching the game. The odds were in my favor.

‘I’m going out to get some toilet bowl stuff and other stuff.’

‘Oh’ ok.’ Esteban shrugged. ‘Will you get me a twelve-pack of bottled water? And some sunflower seeds in the shell?’

I grimly nodded, knowing that we had just exceeded my list-remembering abilities. Four things? No problem. Five things? Um, sure’but just hope that I don’t get distracted by something shiny. Six things? If they were literary devices or Brady kids, no problem. But mundanities toilet bowl cleaner and sunflower seeds? This is some unknown territory. I just kept repeating everything to myself, turning it into a little song, but then I started remembering other stuff that I absolutely had to have’ like a notebook with a folder pocket for my writing workshop. And some more Blistex for my newly irritated, swollen and red lips. Gah! Eight things! Eight! Things! I have forgotten entire courses from college, how could I remember eight things without a list carefully written on the back of something pulled from the recycle bin? Eight! Oh and our folding table has been misappropriated by Esteban for an undetermined time for his Dorkathalon, so I really should also pick up another table. Nine! Nine things! I was going to pass out from the strain.

I pulled into the lot. This is why I’m not a bookie, people. I’m not very good playing the odds. Mal*Wart was fairly busy, but I was able to find a parking spot without getting pissed off at the exodus of shoppers bearing cheap plastic crap, so I took that as a good omen.

I grabbed a cart and ran to the back of the store. ‘Card table’ notebook’ sunflower seeds’ sunflower’.seeds’. there! One down’. Bottled water’ score!’.. need a card table’ and cutty thing’.. back of the store.’ I raced around like a maniac, grabbing the card table and my self-healing mat. Then I went back to the cleaning stuff and grabbed my toilet cleaner, along with several bottles of various squirting cleaners that I keep in various places in my house to ward off dirty spirits. Good thing the cleaners were in the same aisle as Kleenex, as I would have totally spaced that and the toilet paper out.

As I made my way back through the store to the checkouts (a record 18 minutes spent seeking my quarry), I had to weave my cart through various klatches of Mal*Wart shoppers, standing here and there, socializing. I looked around and realized that there were more people gathered here and there, wearing wife beaters and too much Brut or bedazzled in Tweety Bird from head to toe, watching their children run barefoot through aisles yanking down packages of cheese doodles, than actual shoppers. In fact, it was almost as though my local Mal*Wart has become some sort of quasi local pub, complete with popcorn, ammunition, and cheap cheap twelve-packs of beer.

The line for the one open checkout stretched around back to the magazines. The sole register was being manned by one Josh who looked as though he had been shopping and mugged by an overly salacious Greeter and awoke dazed and confused to find himself wearing a blue smock, replete with requisite flair. To pass the time, I studied the impulse purchases along the side of the checkout, which always boggle my mind. I realize that they are there for someone like me who has a hard time containing items like ‘batteries’ in our soft little heads, but even still. Playing cards. Who goes to the store and says, ‘Oops, I totally forgot to pick up some playing cards!’ Or teeny tiny recipe books. Or inspirational stories about house pets.

Finally, Josh made it to the bi-lingual man (or perhaps uni-lingual, as the case may be) who knew enough English to specify that his eighteen items needed to be checked out in four different transactions. Josh continued to work as though oblivious to the line of fourteen or more shoppers stretching behind me. We were now on Minute 45 of my shopping excursion and I had only just begun to load everything but the card table and the cutting mat up onto the conveyer belt. Josh finished the bi-lingual guy’s transactions and then realized that he had neglected to give the person ahead of him all of their bags of cheap plastic crap, and thus he disappeared out into the parking lot, leaving his cash drawer open. I leaned over and closed it, waiting for the Mal*Wart police to swarm down and slap a pair of cheap plastic handcuffs on my wrists. The nice old lady behind me shook her head, unable to believe the cluster that was happening in Line 14. Finally Josh returned and began to check my items. I asked him if he could just scan the two items without my having to take them out of the cart. He did, proceeding to bend the crap out of the cutting board. The nice lady behind him tsktsked him and then held the cutting mat up so that it wouldn’t bend, and then proceeded to rearrange my cart so that the shopping bags were holding the mat up. And I left Mal*Wart, a bit amazed that I was not the only sane person in the Always Low Prices Always Idiocy landscape. Even still, I felt as though I had just gone through the shopping version of Saving Private Ryan and barely made it out alive without getting some Stupid on me. You’d think I’d learn.

And I forgot to get the Blistex.

In other news, if you’re on the fence or procrastinating about registering for JournalCon, please be aware that it is filling up extremely fast (already 100 registrants and counting) and members of the committee have mentioned a likelihood that they will be closing registration much earlier than planned. I’ve even heard September 1 (which is Monday). So don’t snooze.

Stop’ part one of this entry is here.

Go read it. I’ll wait.

Phew.

Penny and Carissa asked if I would do their hair for our evening’s hotness. I accepted the challenge, complimented that they feel that confident in my beautifying techniques to entrust their heads to me. It’s been a weird summer, as this is the third time someone has asked me to do their hair for them. The problem is that yes, my hair does look acceptable most of the time, but honestly, it’s the cut, not me who makes it look that way. I am entirely low key about the matter. And also, on that particular night, my hair had not done good things. It had not been kind whatsoever. It was bordering upon being Female Gym Teacher Hair. Regardless, I rose to the challenge, packaging up all of my products (Esteban’s favorite thing now is to mock me and refer to any hair goop as ‘Product’. He especially likes to repeat Kyan during ‘Queer Eye for the Straight Guy’ every time he says ‘Product’ too. He’s so goofy.) and heading out. It was entirely too warm and humid to bother with dressing cute, so I wore my tan cargo shorts which are dumpy and baggy, but extremely comfortable and I cannot bear to think about the day that they will undoubtedly slide off my hips in whilst I am in line at Target or somesuch. Although, according to the damn jean skirt at Lane Bryant, that day will be very far off. I paired this with a olive shirt with a retro Limited 1986 insignia on it. I called it my Militant Lesbian outfit, as it was so drab and baggy, but I didn’t care, as comfort was the theme of the night.

Carissa, however, was fucking hot and that was in no reference to the thermometer. Her efforts on Weight Watchers have earned her a fifty-plus pound loss and she was smoking in military-esque pants, a funky sleeveless top, and some strappy shoes (which, incidentally, she purchased to wear at my wedding, but they have aged gracefully). Very Studio 54. I made the cheeky comment that she actually looked her age (I always tease her about having forty-year-old hair) and she told me that if she didn’t adore me as much as she did, she would have smacked me. Yeah, but I was dressed like a lesbian, so what the hell do I know about fashion?

At Penny’s, I ordered both of them to wet their hair and gave them Tigi’s Superstar to give them volume. Had I known then what I know now, I would have forbade Carissa from even looking at the bottle, because she has more than enough hair to cover all of the Hair Club for Men. I began blow drying Penny’s hair, giving her a piecey fluffy shag, but her top pieces were very long, so I was having a problem giving her the desired effect on the top. Then I turned to Carissa, whose layered cut should have been accepting to the volumetric blow drying technique I was giving it, but it was like trying to put out a fire with gasoline. Her hair was so thick and there was so much of it that my arm actually got tired while I was drying it. Then, when I thought I had pretty much finished with the dryer, I realized that half of her hair was still wet! I forged onward through the thicket, wielding my vent brush, freestyling with a straightening technique, but finally realized that I was giving her an afro. Finally I threw my hands up in defeat, declared that her head was my Waterloo and have decided that while I know what looks good, I can’t do it myself. So I’m kind of like an art critic. Or Larry Flynt. Carissa took over and tamed the savage beast that was her head, creating a cute shag from the wilderness.

Then, with the addition of Lisa and her friend Judy, we headed out to the Bad Bar, with strict orders to claim the side by the Magical Wall of Support (which is the best side of the very small bar, because you don’t have people standing by you, squishing in to get to the bar, and you don’t have people walking past you to try to get to the bathroom, and you still have access to the windowsill for dancing), but were surprised to find that there was maybe three people in the whole place. We staked out our real estate and quickly ordered a round. Penny was drinking something that looked like Smurfberry Blue kool-aid (which I used to drink by the gallon when I was first living on my own and excrutiatingly poor. I called it Smurf Pee. Yes, I was classy even at a young age. And which the folks at Kool Aid no longer make’ damn you Kool-Aid man! Damn you to hell!). It was made with lemonade and Blue UV and’ oooh’. Bad Bar! It tasted like Blue Raspberry Slushie, only it didn’t give you a brain freeze if you chugged it because it was soooo good. Bad Bar. It’s a Bad Bar. Bad Bar with the glowy magical cups.

By the time I was into my second glass, I was feeling the effects of said concoction. I did the math and realized that I had forgone the ten dollar food rule (on Bad Bar days, you must eat at least ten dollars worth of food’ by my calculation, all day, I had soft pretzel sticks, a bag of microwave popcorn during the DVD, and most of a 99 cent bag of Cool Ranch Doritos which are my personal snack food crack. Thus, total for the day was less than five dollars.) I felt that an emergency Chili Cheese Burrito was required, but we had all been drinking and the nearest Taco Bell was at least five miles away. Thankfully, Jason walked up right then, so I commandeered him and his BMW convertible and we sped off into the night in search of cheap Mexican-food alternatives. Carissa and Penny followed me out the door, shouting their food orders until we were trying to remember them, ‘A chilito’ a soft shell supreme taco’ another chilito’ nachos with cheese’. Ok, two chilitos’ a soft shell supreme’ nachos with cheese’ this is too much for a drunk person to remember! A gallon of milk and a stick of butter!’ Which is what Esteban yells at me whenever I attempt to give him a list that exceeds three things.

Drive Thrus whilst in a convertible are a totally new experience. Also, Jason’s car only seats two people. And it’s not kidding, either. There is no ‘But my friend, she’s a fashion model, she can sit in the back’ I almost told him ‘Dude, there’s no way you’re ever going to get some threeway action going on now!’ but then the sad realization that he would probably be happy with just some two way action’ and I kept my mouth shut. Even while tipsy, I am occasionally blessed with propriety. A mosquito had the audacity to bite me on my shoulder through my shirt. I was completely shocked at this. It would never have happened in car which wasn’t made by Fisher Price. But at the same time, while sitting under the drive thru canopy, we got to look up at a ginormous spider that was straight out of a book by E.B. White, leaving me to exclaim with delight ‘Its thorax is the size of a bean!’. And leave me in wonder’how is it that I could pull from my drunken brain the word ‘thorax’ when usually I just call my friends ‘baby’ because I don’t actually want to go through the trouble of remembering their names? It is a mystery.

I returned with the fiesta of cheap food, having purchased more than requested, including an additional chili cheese burrito, three meximelts, and an extra nachos with cheese, all of which were quickly inhaled. Carissa worried for a moment that we would be thrown from the bar for eating take in, but then Steph, our favorite bartender, walked over and said ‘Ooooh’ is that a Chilito??’. Thus, showing her age, because all children of the eighties call a chili cheese burrito ‘Chilito’. And I suppose the addition of food allowed us to stay at the bar longer and also to drink more, theoretically to buy more drinks (although I believe I only spent nine dollars, excluding the Taco Bell stuff. My normal source of free drinks, the Bald Bartender/Owner was not there that night, but my girls Steph and Nancy were both comping me drinks and Eric was surreptitiously buying me refills of the Blue Death while my back was turned because I gave him one of my patented back massages. I suspect that I made him drool. Penny got jealous, so I gave her one and then she also asked if I could teach that to her boyfriend. Next in line was Carissa, who said she understood why I was happily married, given that my mastery of physical pleasure is not limited to my oral skills. I never realized that it was all that great, but Eric said that it was not too soft, not too hard, it was juuuuuussst rayht. And it all made me giggle, just a little bit.

Then Eric claimed me as his bitch by giving me his earring to wear. So I think we were engaged again. For the evening at least. At one point, I think I made his night when I said ‘Yes Sir’ about something and he was astonished, stating that he never thought that he would hear those two words, in that order, coming from my mouth in all sincerity. But I was his bitch, what could I do? Well, maybe it wasn’t that sincere. Thanfully, he didn’t want me to put out.

There were many rocking tunes spun on the MP3 player that evening (The Bad Bar may be retro, but it’s up on technology, yo.). Carissa and Penny pretty much owned the dancing window ledge for most of the evening. And for good reason because they were so hot they were altering the weather patterns. I did manage to ascend the window ledge for Run DMC’s ‘Tricky’, because it is my song. Apparently I missed ‘Dancing Queen’ while making my Chilito run, and thus Penny and Carissa hauled Lisa up to complete the Charlie’s Angels choreography. They taught her the glorious arm waving and pointing. I’m so very proud of them. Look at my little party girls! They are all grown up.

The bar started to get more and more crowded. Jason had been sitting in the bookend spot on the bar, guarding the boundaries of our much desired bar real estate, but Jason is one who likes to dance and do the wacky at the bar. It occurs to me now that this was poor planning. I should have assigned seats, as it is my own personal vendetta to keep our claimed spots at the bar. Some interlopers tried to budge into Jason’s spot while he was dancing and Eric and I made him come down from the ledge and reclaim his territory, which he did with much finesse and charm. But it was like trying to keep back the very tide of the ocean with the drunken skinny bitches and their dull as toast boyfriends. Soon Jason’s spot was gone again and there was simply nothing to be done. Choose your battles and all of that. Obviously, the Chilitos had interrupted my level of inebriation, else I would have been asking them to step outside and take on the angry lesbian in baggy cargo pants. Eric commented that they wouldn’t try that shit with Boobs McCallahan and I have to agree. And then Eric did the Godfather chin scrape gesture, and I decided that Boobs McCallahan’s trademark would be a licked finger circling her nipple. And then Jason almost had a stroke and I suspect passed an entire bottle of imported dark alcohol through his nasal cavity.

Speaking of which, my normal hotness vibe was completely off. At no time was I ever the hottest person in the bar, even when there was only six of us there. For instance, the cute bartender that I kissed on my birthday was there, and did he ask for more Weet loving? He did not. He didn’t even blink. I think of it as a ying and yang thing. Or maybe my hotness is hibernating, getting set to come back stronger and more irresistible than ever before. One can only hope.

And then I got tired and Scotty Boom Boom offered to drive me home. Carissa and Penny made sad faces at me and then off I went, into the night with Scotty, discussing blow jobs and Esteban’s illness and the love of a good gardener. And there it was. Another Bad Bar night in the books and me not even a little drunk anymore. Ah well. I crawled into bed. Esteban walked in from his bi-weekly D&D game just as I turned off the light and then we proceeded to sleep the sleep of the dead, allowing me to catch up on my sleep deficit quite nicely. All in all, an excellent way to spend a Friday.

This is Boobs McCallahan. Signing off on another Bad Bar entry. Mwah.

So my lips.

I had noticed a wee bit of tightness associated with sunburn on Sunday. I was a little irritated by this because I actually had specifically put on lip stuff with spf 25. But it was no matter, for they were tight and somewhat sore and red. I put on some Lush lip stuff and smugly went on my merry way.

Esteban and I spent Sunday tooling around. Esteban was hungry for barbeque, so we drove down to Appleton and partook in the joy that is Famous Dave’s menu. I declared that we shouldn’t eat much because I wanted to split a dessert with him. I always want to try their desserts, but usually after the platter of ribs, corn bread, two side items and corn on the cob, I am unable to think of anything but an emergency stomach evacuation. One of my fatal flaws is that I always think I am much more hungry than I really am. I don’t think ahead. I order full meals, take two bites, and then sit there with a guilty expression. But this time’ this time! Not only was I starving and had not eaten anything all day, but I was going into lunch with a PLAN. There would be sweet revelry like none have ever seen before.

Thus, Esteban ordered a smaller dinner of rib tips and I ordered a sandwich. Which, to my surprise, came with corn bread, two side items and corn on the cob. And who am I to back down from delicious drunken apples (imagine a hot apple pie with no crust to slow you down) and delicious spicy baked beans? I am not that girl.

That has nothing to do with my lips, just so you aren’t trying to tie everything back together to the beginning of the entry. But the whole time, I was like ‘oooh,.. ouch. Barbeque sauce. Ouch!’ And yet I kept eating because even through the pain, it was so very delicious.

Of course, I could not finish my meal and was hoping that some kind deity would smite me over the head for gluttony and I would no longer suffer the overstuffed tummy and the fact that there was no dessert to be had on that day. But some day. Some day. Oh yes. Some day.

That evening, I had been planning to finally see the Pirate movie with Mo, but she was nowhere to be found. She piked on me. Her excuse on Monday? ‘I was in a funk.’ I’m sorry, but there is nothing that cannot be unfunked by Pirates. Pirates will not put up with a funk. You funk? You walk the plank. End of funk.

This is, by the way, the second time I’ve attempted to see the Pirate movie. The first time, Esteban and I had a coin toss to decide whether we should see the Pirate movie or the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen Plus One Chick. I picked heads, because pirates have heads. Heads it was (Arrrgh!) and off we went to see the Pirate movie, but avast ye mateys, the local theatre website had listed the time wrong and it was twenty minutes into the movie, so we opted to wait another twenty to see League. Which sucked. And now Mo and her funk. The world is conspiring to keep me away from the boys in eyeliner. First Human League and now this.

Random journal link of the day:

Every time I see this diary in my referral stats, I get Verve Pipe’s ‘The Freshmen’ stuck in my head.

Every. Stinking. Time.

So by Sunday evening, my lips, they were on fire. I was wondering through the house trying everything. The Lush lip stuff. Some Aveda moisturizing stuff. The blue Ultimate Moisture stuff that smells like Froot Loops. EVERYTHING. Nothing was helping. Nothing was stopping the fire on my face. Nothing. They felt like two strips of sandpaper had been stapled to my face.

I slept fitfully that night, clutching a tiny tube of Lip Smackers in my hand like a crucifix. When I woke, I found that my lips were no longer burned as much as chapped. Extremely chapped. They were puffy, as though I had been visited in the night by the Collagen Fairy. The role of Weetabix was now being played by Steven Tyler’s Lips.

I am not exactly deficient in the lip department. Mine are decent almost pretty lips. With the added swelling, they now stick out from my face, as though they’ve been victims of a very select bee attack. My top lip is the size of my thumb and my bottom lip could eclipse the very sun. Not only are they huge but they are now covered with these tiny little bumps. Papillae? Was my tongue staking out new territory by laying down taste buds? To purse my lips is to experience a delicious agony that is only akin to scratching a chicken pock until it bleeds and scars.

I went out to lunch with Carissa and Penny. They watched as I attempted to apply some Aveda colored Lip Saver, but then shrieked in pain and rushed to wipe off the burning stuff with a napkin.

Penny: Why don’t you use Carmex?
Carissa: Yeah’ or Blistex.
Weetabix: I don’t like to use medicated stuff. I don’t need them. My Aveda stuff is fine.
Carissa: It’s obviously not fine.
Penny: I use things with medication all of the time, it helps, it really does.
Weetabix: No! My lips are crazy sensitive right now. It would burn the little skin I have left.
Penny: No, that’s why you need the medication!
Weetabix: And then I’ll have to use it all the time. That’s how they get you, those medicated lip people. They pimp out their ‘healing’ lip gunk and pretty soon you’re pimping out your teenage daughters for a tube of Blistex. I don’t need another addiction.
Carissa: And you’re not relying on something right now?
Weetabix: Is this some kind of LIP INTERVENTION!?!
Penny: We’re here to help.
Carissa: Weet, you have a problem.
Penny: Don’t just use lipstick. At least get something from the drugstore.
Weetabix: (cradling her lips in her hands, mournfully)Those are gateway drugs! The first one’s always free!

Luckily, Penny diverted attention from my bodacious lips by doing a strange juggling routine involving ice, Mountain Dew, and guilt. However, their words of concern weighed heavily on me and when I left work, I found myself, hands shaking, in front of the medicated lip goop display at the drugstore. I was unable to pick my poison, sneering at the cherry flavored Chapstick and the Vaseline Intesive Care Lip stuff in the dispenser that looks exactly like spooge coming from the tip of a penis. I ended up purchasing a little pot of Carmex and a tube of Blistex. The idea of lip stuff so powerful that it doesn’t even mess around with applicators appeals to me. The Carmex smells like grandmothers and comes in a little camphory pot that you slick your finger around. It’s like lip vapo-rub. The tube of Blistex has a tiny little nozzle and cap. There’s no smushing it on your lips directly from the tube, as it would certainly maim my pore swollen nodes. No, I must dose my lips from my finger, hoping that the cool minty feeling from the Blistex is the healing action at work rather some psychotropic Allantoin, which makes me think of the song ‘Allentown’, which had the best video of the 80’s because it showed dirty men taking showers and surprisingly firm steel worker asses. The Blistex label also portents the destruction of cold sores and severely dry, cracked lips. I’m not certain that what is going on with my lips can even be described as ‘severely dry’. It’s like I’m slowly morphing into some version of Lara Croft Boob Raider, one sad male ideal beauty trait at a time.

As I was writing this, Mo just walked over by me and said ‘Oh my god, your lips are still SO HUGE. It’s like you got those shots!’ and then she laughed at me. And then some more. And then laughed and laughed and laughed until I told her that she could go away now. But she said that they look better than yesterday, when I apparently looked like a poster for The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

I took pictures last night. You know that there had to be pictures. It had to be documented so that when my lips inevitably take control of my body, the scientists will have something to study. However, I got up in the middle of the night to take them, so I’m not posting them because I have serious sleepy eyes and funky hair, not to mention the lips of Louis Armstrong. And also, I know that people with sensitive stomachs read this web page and I wouldn’t want to cause any convulsions.

Oh, and Esteban said they looked hot. Then he made an inappropriate suggestion and pointed at his crotch.

You just know that this is Fate’s way of punishing me for all of those times that I worked my pout to my advantage. Note to self: Next time I see Fate, I’m so going to kick Its ass.

Esteban heard back from his doctor, who agrees with ‘Dr. Asshole’ (as Esteban now refers to the hospital doctor guy) in that the culprit is most likely the teeny tiny little ulcers around his hiatal hernia. She said that with men in their late twenties/early thirties, this condition is almost always gastrointestinal. We’ll know in three weeks, when he takes another blood test. If her theory holds true, he should have gained a point after the Nexxium lets his little ulcers heal. So hopefully, in the Case Of The Missing Blood Cells, the butler did it. As long as he doesn’t cut himself shaving or anything. Thank you to everyone who left their good thoughts on the comments section and email.

I love you guys. I really really do.

Random entry today because so much so much so much since the last entry.

I had to fess up to Stacy, my hair stylist, about the hair trauma I faced in San Francisco in June. It had faded to a sort of orangey blonde, and also June took my advice and now goes to Stacy as well, and apparently they spend the entire appointment talking about yours truly. June ratted me out on my cheating ways. I brought Stacy a cookie, sort of a prophylactic to the schooling that I was certain would come. Instead, Stacy laughed. And then laughed some more. And then laughed at me again and again. And I did the whole guilty girlfriend thing and promised never to stray as long as I lived and she can’t die until after I die because she must style my hair forever and ever. Anyway, the Sharon Osbourne look is back. With a Vengeance. I love it. Gone is the tomato soup stain that was my hair, back is shiny fluffy deep eggplant with ruby red streaks. Life is good once more. She had to cut a lot off’ or so she said. I’ve been growing my hair out for the last eight months and it is as short as it was last summer. Ah well. It’s just hair.

One interesting thing’ apparently one of the things that Stacy and June talked about was the fact that I have very high self esteem. Not in a snobby way, she assured, but in this strong sense of self kind of way. She commented on one time when she and I went out to a meat market type bar, some asshats made an unflattering comment and while she got very upset, I was just like ‘so what, they’re assholes’. While I was contemplating that, she remarked that she and June had come to the decision that I either had exceptional self-esteem or was really good at faking it. I assured her that it was not the case and that I tremble with fatness whenever I set foot on the West Coast and look over my shoulder for fear of the Fat Police, mostly due to that which forever will be known as The Dim Sum Incident. But I certainly won’t live in fear of schoolyard taunts. Why would I let a stranger decide how I should feel about myself? Why does their opinion count more than mine? Good God, life is way too short. Besides, I’m fabulous.

My body is a goddamned wonderland. And don’t you forget it.

Harrumph.

Dude!

DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD!

Which reminds me. My drinking buddy Eric is back from Australia. Oh, and I think Joel and Cheri are as well. Hmmm. The game is afoot. I suddenly have a craving for Pixy Stix.

Damn you, Dat Phan. DAMN YOU!!!

Yesterday, I was dressed entirely cute. Jeans that fit (for once not too baggy) paired with a perfectly pressed creamy white pinstriped button down shirt. Four people commented that I must have lost weight recently or said ‘You’re getting so skinny’ which always makes me laugh, because skinny, she is not me. I am in no danger of the skinny. However, in further proof that the universe does not want me to look cute, after I applied my post-lunch lipstick, I was getting into the car and my breasts were so perky that as I ducked my head, my lips touched my chest. On one breast of my white shirt, a perfect upside-down lip print in Prescriptives Pillow lip gloss. I swear, on some days, it’s a wonder that I don’t just crap my pants.

You know how my sister Mo now works twenty feet away from my desk?

She has stolen all of the Shout Wipes from my desk drawer.

Also, she just came over here to show me her leg and just put her foot on my knee no fewer than four times. And she was wearing flip flops. With bare feet. So not only do I subsidize her needs for free dollar bills, spare change, gum, and ‘hey, can you find something on the internet for meeeeeeeeeee?’, no’ now she’s taking my damned Shout Wipes. And the worst part is when she was ten and pulled that crap, I just threatened to beat her up, but now? I’d be featured on When CoWorkers Attack or something. Mofo Mo.

One cool thing: I got neato mail the other day. Not a bill, not a coupon for a lawn service, not another credit card application, not a disk for a gazillion hours of free AOL. Actual real mail.

The first thing that was cool was a letter from my friend Laurie, she of the Shit In Her Face. She had lots to tell me about working with disadvantaged kids in Portland, showing them how to have writer’s workshops and also be politically active and yet have time to sparkle too. We were a strange friendship, Laurie and I. She was tiny. She could have passed for a ten-year-old, and she was punkadelic and vegan and too cool for Green Bay, whereas I drove a Pontiac 6000 and had a decent apartment and was an administrator for a local homeless shelter and wore blazers to all of my classes. Wool blazers. With leather shoes. But we somehow became excellent friends and made each other laugh and ate lunch together every day and scowled over the poseurs and laughed at the one who signed all of his poems first initial last name. So we’d just call him R because it was so ridiculous. Only we’d say it like a pirate, because even then, pirates were cool. And we both felt fully vindicated when the teacher in a workshop was talking about things we do to mentally prepare ourselves to write and he said in all sincerity that he puts on his copper helmet to prevent the radio frequencies from messing up his creative process.

And in the middle of this letter, she said ‘Hey, do you remember that time that we were leaving class and we saw Johnny Cash!? Wasn’t that cool?’ And it was. The funny thing is that I was just telling Patsy Cline about that when I was in San Francisco. Laurie and I were leaving a late night class, walking out to the parking lot behind the performing arts center. I suspect that I was giving her a ride home, because otherwise she took the bus. There was a fog blowing up off the Bay and the backstage light was a puddle of yellow between the humming shadow of a luxury tour bus. And our friend Bob was walking with us and one of us had just said ‘Who is playing at the Weidner tonight?’ And then we saw this tall proud figure walk from the back door through the improvised spotlight and ladies and gentlemen, it was Mister Johnny Cash. And I wanted to run up to him and say ‘Hi Mister Cash. I just wanted to tell you how cool I think you are.’ But Bob said ‘No, he’s probably tired. We should leave him alone.’ So instead we just watched him walk to his tour bus that sighed as he climbed aboard. Then we marveled at how surreal that had just been. And even now it feels a bit like something I dreamed, because it was just so random. So utter glee that she mentioned it, because it is one of my favorite memories from school.

Second coolness’ AKKelly, the lovely mommy that she is, sent a lovely pair of silver aquamariney earrings that are cousins of Tiffany earrings I drooled over while in San Francisco. She has basically ensured that I will be visiting the land of too many lakes very soon.

Apparently I put out for gifts. Who knew? Ok, well, everyone. Shut up.

Oh yeah, my email is having a problem right now, so if you’re accustomed to using the Nandgate address (and if you’ve sent one recently, I didn’t get it) you can use Weetabix Funky At Sign Diaryland Dot Com for the next few days and I’ll let you know when my lovely woohoo email is back. Perfect. Mwah.

I should be going to sleep right now, but instead I’m sitting here sweating at my keyboard. I subbed for Pennilicious’s volleyball team tonight. I haven’t played in two years. I would have thought it more than that, but wouldn’t you know it, I wrote about my old team back in the summer of 2001 on this here archive, so I couldn’t even pretend that I had forgotten how to play.

It went very well, although Penny had assured me that they all sucked when in fact, they did not. They were all Bumpy Setty Spikey whereas I’m just all Hitting The Ball, Yay, I Hit The Ball Go Me. They had a tactical strategy. My strategy was to not let the ball hit the sand. They can all overhand serve. I got called for carrying during a set. My moment of terror passed when it was my turn to serve and I didn’t hit the net. Although the stance started coming back to me in the beginning of the third game, I think it was too late to prove to the boy jocks that the fat girl could actually have some manner of athleticism. You need three things in volleyball: strength, speed, and flexibility. I have two of the three, plus I’m tall. Once the muscles remembered how it felt to balance on the toes in the sand, I hit my groove and scored some points, including serving the winning point of the final game. Although I feel guilty, because we only won the third game and that’s the game when I felt like I was contributing rather than contributing to the errors. Ah well. It was fun. It reminds me how much I used to love playing. I may have to look into doing a girl’s team this fall. Oh wait, that’s right, I’ve already got a fiction workshop going on. Ah well.

The weekend was lovely. Esteban still isn’t feeling very well and Saturday morning saw incredible thunderstorms, which nixed a day spent in the pool, so we trekked up the Door in search of sweet cherries and fresh cheese curds. Ah the cheese curds. They were incredible, still warm and dripping with whey, squealing against our teeth with freshness. (For those unfortunate of you who have never tasted a cheese curd, the fresh ones squeak when you bite them. I don’t know why. They just do. And it’s a little piece of saturated fat heaven. Trust me.) We also scored some bing cherries and then had lunch at the Swedish restaurant with the goats on the roof, where I had Swedish pancakes and lingonberries, which just makes me more happy than lingonberries have any right to be. We also made a stop at the jam place, so that I would be well stocked with chopped cherry jam to uphold my jam promises at Journalcon. And then we drove home, munching happily on cheese and cherries and peaches and cherry ale and monster cookies.

Oh. If you couldn’t tell, I’ve pitched my no Sugar/Flour thing. Why? Because in the month I’ve had my foray into the carb-free way of life, I’ve gained a pound.

Gained. A. Pound. Not only did I not lose anything in five weeks, but I actually backslid somehow. It’s very disheartening.

So, I’m back on Operation Hottie basic training, which includes various forms of Special K, yogurt, whole wheat bread, and pasta. The tenants of why I had been successful, I think, with the original plan was that I didn’t outlaw anything. I just ate good 80% of the time and ate not as good 20% of the time. It allowed me to not fixate on eating a Fillet O’Fish, because I’d just eat the damn Fillet O’Fish and be done with it. I’m still trying to not drink as much Diet Coke, though, and on a whole, I’ve been pretty successful. Also, I’m trying to stay away from empty sugar calories, which just seems like a good idea all around.

Oh my hell, I bought these white nectarines. They are like buttah. I don’t even LIKE nectarines, but these? Damn. Damn damn damn. I feel a bit guilty eating them, actually, because they are SO sweet and delicious and drip down your hand and you want to lick the juice from your wrist kind of good. Man. I love the two weeks of the year when Wisconsin gets good produce. I’ll miss them when they’re gone. But tomorrow’s breakfast? A bowl of a cut up peach, plum, white nectarine, blueberries, bing cherries and ranier cherries. I just made you hungry, didn’t I? I’m sorry. But back to the weekend recap.

We drove home from Door County and then popped in Gangs Of New York, which I’ve had from Netflix for something like two months, but we’ve resisted playing. And it’s two DVDs, you know, so you kill your rotation sitting on that bad boy. At 10:30, I put up the white flag and said that I was falling asleep, even though we hadn’t made it through the first disk. The next morning, we picked up where we left off and learned that had we watched another two minutes, we would have hit the end of the disk. Gah. What we did not realize was that Gangs Of New York is the Longest Movie That Ever Was. By the time it ended, we felt as though we had sat through a ten hour miniseries. A ten hour miniseries starring Daniel Day-Lewis’s greasy hair. Also, Cameron Diaz can only play Cameron Diaz. And you know that she was hoping for an Oscar nod for that, don’t you. I swear at one part, she got confused and thought she was in some kind of scene for Charlie’s Angels. Which would explain it when she slo-mo ran up some woman’s bustle and did this weird Matrix triple kick into the face of William The Butcher.

Afterward, Esteban went to play his Dorkathalon and June called me to see if I wanted to come over and play in the pool. She’s got this insane rule that we must use the buddy system while swimming and cannot be alone in the pool. Ward was working, so she was going to be out of luck if I didn’t want to, but who am I to pass up sun and splashy fun? I called Penny, who had also expressed interest and the three of us splashed around in the pool. Later we were joined by KimVee and her adorable little child. He loves me best because of my magical bosom. He finds it very comforting, but then all men do. I entertained him by going under the water and blowing bubbles at his feet, which was very thrilling. Later I did bouncy bouncy wavy wavy with him while KimVee learned the delicacies of noodle surfing. I am still the undefeated champion noodle surfer, although I think Ward, who got home from work after dinner, is following close second. So essentially, the afternoon was spent pretending that we were eleven and twelve and didn’t have jobs and beepers and cell phones and eight hundred emails waiting for us in our inboxes. And then we had brownies. So it was a very good day.

And I got a sunburn on my back from not wearing sunblock. But you know what? Beats hives any day.

And now for some talk of boobs. My male readers might want to just skip this part because it’s not like good boob stories about touching boobs or showing boobs or anything. So you might want’. Oh, who are we fooling. Of course you’re going to read it.

My chest is doing something strange. First of all, I have definitely downgraded from the DD to the D cup. I noticed that the additional space in my bra had become more or less permanent and the underwires were now poking in my armpits, so I downgraded both cup and band size. It was good timing. I do not have that little overflow problem that was the reason for my hesitation, so I am certifiably now a D cup.

But now? There’s room in the D cup.

I keep shaking my head. That can’t be right? Five years spent as a double letter and then only three weeks at the next step? At this rate, my chest will disappear before I’m even within spitting range of size 12. And what then? Concave? Will men with mantits seek me out for slow dances? I am at a complete and utter loss.

Also, the other thing I have noticed is that my new bras creak. They creak. They’re not rubbing up against my shirt, they’re not slipping, they just creak. Like a suspension bridge. Like a crane holding up a piano that you know is about to drop on a cartoon character. It’s like my bra is saying ‘Aye captain! We can’t take much more’a this!’ So now I’m perplexed. There’s room in my cups, but apparently I’ve exceeded the weight limit for this grade of elastic. Are they particularly dense? Do I have breasts as seen on the planet Jupiter?

I have no fucking clue anymore. It’s so hard to be a girl sometimes. Seriously. You men have no idea. See. I told you it wasn’t any good boob stuff.