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Noooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!

Wednesday, May 21, 2003

As God as my witness, Marti Noxon, you are going DOWN bitch!

Sniffle…. my snarky undead boyfriend.

Excuse me. I cannot think today.

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La souris gare la voiture

Tuesday, May 20, 2003

Thank you to whomever nominated this entry for Best Dramatic Entry in the Diarist Awards for Quarter 1 2003. I’m greatly honored and am in some great company along with Cutting Through Fluff (whom I met at JournalCon 02 and still have her little pink fluffy swag sitting next to my computer) and Sunshyn.

I sent Bryan’s mom a copy of the notification that the entry was nominated. She’d read the entry after Bryan’s funeral, but wasn’t able to get through all of your comments until recently. She left a message to everyone on the comments.

I’m so lucky to have such awesome readers. Thank you again.

Esteban thinks he has discovered the source of the mice. He saw some in the garage, by last year’s birdseed. Mice apparently like birdseed. So much for truth in advertising. I’m honestly not surprised that they could get into the garage. The back door for the garage is really just the suggestion of a door in that it has a doorknob and it is made of wood, but the door is fully aware that it’s not kidding anyone. I would not be surprised to walk out some morning and find a horse living it up in the garage, drinking my Diet Coke, grilling up some’ um’ corn or something.

And apparently, when they were putting in the addition to the kitchen (which has now extended to share a wall with the garage), they removed a pipe of some kind but left the hole there.

I was ecstatic. The great mouse scourge had been discovered. ‘So, we’ll stuff the hole with something they can’t chew through, like steel wool or squirt that stuff in there, that expanding stuff&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9-

‘No. I’m going to set up some live traps in there and catch them.’

I was thunderstruck. Why in heaven’s name would he want to catch them in the garage? And let them go where? Outside??? In my opinion, they could have the garage. I was completely willing to share.

‘Well, ok, but still, we want to seal up the hole right away.’

‘No, let me catch them out there first. I don’t want to lock any of them in here with us.’

‘What? Why would you think they’re leaving the house? Why would they do that? The house is the Prime Objective. Do you really think their base of operations is the garage and they are sending little reconnaissance missions into the house?’

‘Well, the birdseed is in the garage.’ He pouted.

‘Yeah, and the Oreos and the Teddy Grahams and the pears and the Special K and the mozzarella and the miscellaneous gunk under the refrigerator is IN HERE.’

‘They couldn’t get the mozzarella. That’s in the refrigerator.’

‘Oh, yeah, that’s right. If they can’t get at the mozzarella, they would decide that it just wasn’t worth the effort. The whole deal would be off.’

Poor deluded Esteban. I think he’s watched The Secret Of Nimh too much as a child. He apparently thinks they have little meetings, led by the wizened old Sean Connery mouse, saying, ‘Look, I’ve been in The House. You haven’t. You don’t know. You CAN’T know. It’s marvelous. Crumbs beyond your wildest dreams. I’ve heard tales of a dishwasher now, but even so, it’s a mouse paradise. We’ll take them through the walls, using our high-powered night vision goggles. Now’ synchronize your watches.’ And there would be some schizophrenic John Leguizamo mouse that starts whispering about an enormous cat with glowing green eyes, man, and it sits there evilly licking it’s enormous belly fattened by the bodies of mice! Lick! Lick, man, lick! And then he gets killed early in the mission, much to the relief of everyone.

But in the end, I relented and have given him his opportunity to catch mice in the garage. During which he has done nothing. NOTHING. Which is, of course, Esteban’s preferred method of household management. Do nothing and hope for the best. GD Burgermeister. I’m buying some of that squirty stuff tonight. Mofo mice.

Yesterday while I was eating lunch, for about fifteen minutes, I was entirely convinced that I had the very perfect ad slogan ever’ one to rival ‘Got Milk?’ and ‘Just Do It.’

Here it is:

‘Garbanzo beans’ really chick peas. Who knew?’

One of the most surprising facts in the world is that people have actually paid me to write their ad copy. I am not making that up.

Two nights ago, I had the absolute best dream. I dreamt that I was rich; the daughter of wealthy parents with a house in the Hamptons and my boyfriend was Spike. The vampire. Yeah. And my parents were all shocked, but I invited him to a dinner/tea, where they served cookies instead of a fish course, much to Spike’s chagrin, and then we were forced to listen to my maiden aunt play her violin and sing arias, until we fled to the boathouse (which housed our 1920 vintage wooden boat called Gatsby) where he became my sweaty chew toy.

Damn.

Then later, apparently still flush from my dalliance with forbidden vampire lust, I walked into a book store somewhere and bumped into Margaret Atwood, spilling some stories from my paper journal, that she very nicely picked up and, through some amazing Canadian speed reading ability, said ‘Oh my gosh, you’re Weetabix! Wow. These are fabulous. You must be my opening reader at my next series. Would you be able to tour with me?’

And then I woke up.

Some days I really love my life, but then my brain pulls the rug from my feet and says ‘Let’s see what’s behind Door Number Two, shall we?’ Because sometimes my brain channels bad television game shows.

So needless to say, I was quite excited to fall asleep last night, hoping to find my way back to the boathouse and tell Spike that I would have to leave him to do my literary tour with Marge (as she asked me to call her, despite the absurd notion of Margaret Atwood going by the name ‘Marge’, like the ghost in Pee Wee’s Big Adventure or something), but before then, perhaps he would like to convince me to stay by plundering me with his vampenis.

Oh, stop looking at me like that. It’s not adultery if it only happens in your dreams and it’s with a fictional character. And besides, it’s not like I’m not going to hell already.

Instead of finding Spike, I had one of those soulless dreamless dark nights. I suppose with a tiring imagination like mine, my subconscious needs a night off now and then. And instead of Marge reading tight prose that makes my heart ache and feel empty, I was woken at 4 am by cats making fierce and passionate love outside my bedroom window. I felt like I was in a cartoon. Unfortunately, I did not have a tin can to throw at them and my ACME Cat Coitus Interuptus Spray has yet to be delivered, but luckily the feline l’amour finished and I fell back into my dreamless sleep, during which I apparently crossed the bedroom and turned off the alarm then crawled back into bed without waking up. Perhaps my brain is on strike, knowing that tonight is the last Buffy EVER and I have this suspicion that something dire is going to happen to Spikelicious. And then I’ll have to kick Marti Noxon’s ass. I don’t want him to be a martyr. I don’t want him to be dust. I just want him to parade around somewhat dirty, pose a bunch, and make snarky comments with his lovely fake accent and be my undead boyfriend. Is that so much to ask? Is it? Is it?

Hmmph.

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Firm support

Friday, May 16, 2003

I had this afternoon off, due to my insane work schedule earlier in the week, so I had lunch with Fern in which I defied the very laws of nature and ate barbecue while wearing a white shirt and escaped unscathed. The weather was incredible, so I drove eastward, blaring the Abba and singing at the top of my lungs with the windows rolled down and fuckall to anyone who had a problem with that, toward the homestead, planning on going grocery shopping at the upscale grocer in our neighborhood. However, once my car neared my stomping grounds, my bladder decided that I needed to stop home. Right then. Now. Right now.

Hookay.

I left the car open, purse sitting on the front seat, contents spilled out like the lunch of a fashion model (appropriate metaphor for those who actually know me and know that my purse is smaller than your average Tylenol caplet, but holds quite nicely a compact, my wallet, cellphone, keys, asthma inhaler, pill container, and five lipsticks. It’s all about your priorities.) and ran into the house to use the facilities. Then refilled my water bottles. Then wandered around aimlessly throughout the house. Then checked my email. Then decided that I should go watch something on the TiVo in the bedroom and the grocery shopping could wait, so I crawled into bed and promptly fell into a drool coma for three hours.

What follows is a public service announcement.

The Dayam!Bra is a very important part of a busty girl’s wardrobe. It can defy gravity while making the jaws of any redblooded male hit the floor. In just one day, it can erase years of hiding behind notebooks and having to feel embarrassed in gym class because you’re wearing a five-hook granny bra. It truly is the miracle of the millennium and probably deserves the Nobel for breakthroughs in the world of medicine because I know that I certainly get a boost to my self-esteem by just putting the damn thing on.

So, let me make that completely clear. The bra is a good thing.

And while it is a rather simple design, a bit of foam (for proper perkage restraint), a bit of padding (that would be the hoisting apparatus), some straps, some hooks, some elastic, some molded wire and rigid plastic, some complex pulleys and power pistons, a mini turbine engine and a healthy amount of Kevlar, it is surprisingly comfortable. I don’t really notice that I’m wearing it, other than occasionally bumping my breasts with my chin when I nod.

However sleeping in it is another matter entirely.

The jeans didn’t bother me. The choker necklace didn’t bother me. The wires from my earrings digging into my skull didn’t bother me. The bra? What works for you while vertical definitely works against you while horizontal.

I don’t know about you girls, but when I sleep on my stomach, there is a relaxing action that happens. They sort of smush flat, creating a pleasant curved cleavage view for my pillow. Breasts, natural ones at least, are a bit like water. They will take the shape of their container and when tipped, spill out. However, with the Dayam!Bra in place, nature was fighting design and design had decided to play dirty. One was smushed up into the area my boyfriend when I was thirteen had called ‘The Colorado River’ (because thirteen year old boys are extremely suave and charming), as though perhaps some kind of tectonic plate movement had happened and California was now in the ocean. There was rioting in the sheets. The other breast, perhaps seeing the abuse being inflicted upon its sister, tried to escape through the bottom of the bra, getting trapped and partially segmented into two smaller breastlettes. It was telling its mutated sister to go on without it and to save itself. And I’m not sure what happened with the underwires, but I can now wear hoop earrings in my arm pit.

When Esteban woke me at 5:30 pm, the one had made the complete migration to the middle of my chest, as though it were sitting on a couch at a party and a third breast had asked it to scoot over. It was simply not a pretty picture. In my somewhat sleepy haze, I looked down at my accoutrements and thought ‘Wow, it’s like the aliens have found wheat fields pass’ and have taken to making crop circles with breasts instead.’

I’m somewhat surprised that Esteban still finds me attractive after witnessing it all. Personally, my own crush upon myself has definitely taken a backseat after that freakshow.

Perhaps they are angry, though. They are listed as casualties in Operation Hottie. Sadly enough, my normal bras now have space in the cups. I was sort of ignoring it, but now I could possibly use the space as storage for various things, maybe my winter woolens. I purchased two bras which were down a cup size, but I have still been wearing my old normal size ones because with normal bodily fluctuations, they were not reliably too big. Some days they were just right. However, I can pretty much now count on having a space there, so I will be putting the old bras in the ever-growing box of clothes which are now too big.

I modeled a smaller one for Esteban, announcing ‘Smaller bra!’ figuring he wouldn’t see the difference or realize that it meant that the contents had gotten smaller as well.

He looked at my chest and whimpered. I kid you not. He whimpered.

It was like I was taking away his favorite toy. And then I realized that yes, it was exactly like I was taking away his favorite toy.

Poor little Esteban. I tried to remind him that there were husbands of fashion models who had to make due with tiny little mosquito bite breasts and Debra Messing continues to wear freakier and freakier clothing to display her non-existent chest. I am still in a cup size that is in the ‘post-boob job’ range.

And he did manage a smile. After I flashed him.

Behold. The power of breasts.

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I’m Above Average for containing my own saliva

Thursday, May 15, 2003

Mmmm’. It’s spring.

You can almost see summer, almost touch it even. It’s just right there, inches away, and you can almost brush it with your fingers if you reach out far enough.

This morning, I woke early, dressed WAY cute (Hottie Jeans, even though it’s a Thursday, sneaks, and retro 70’s athletic shirt, with a big 55 and the stripes on the sleeves, tousled hair, shiny pink lip gloss and Smart Girl glasses. I’ve gotten four compliments already and it’s not even noon. Go me!) and proceeded to jam out to one of my new Punk Girl mix CDs. You know, any day that starts with The Cure’s ‘Just Like Heaven’ and Jane’s Addiction ‘Been Caught Stealing’ just has got to be a really good day, non?

Although, I am completely disgusting with my level of physical non-fitness. In all, despite my appearance, I am surprisingly flexible and strong. I never NEVER really pull muscles. I suspect that if I were to ever engage in yoga or some other form of non-exercise exercise that I would blow everyone’s mind. In fact, during the President’s Fitness Challenge tests in high school (god, did you not absolutely HATE those?) I scored highest in my entire class for flexibility. Because I was the first person to take that particular test, my gym teacher thought I hadn’t done something right because all of the jocks and jockettes that followed were only able to get half or three quarters of my score. So after everyone had finished, he made me come up and take the test again and when I exceeded my first score (since I wasn’t performing cold), he just raised an eyebrow and said ‘Humph.’

Dante certainly missed a level of hell for gym teachers. Some of them are far more evil than tax attorneys. I’m just saying.

However, somehow, through some rather spectacular bout of morning gymnastics, I managed to pull a muscle in my leg. I’m not certain, but I suspect it was when I preformed the rather death-defying maneuver of putting on my left shoe. Yes. There is shame. Much shame. And then poetic justice when I tried to walk really quickly toward an office potluck so that I could secure a brownie sans nuts and found myself limping rather pathetically, arms outstretched to the buffet line. Sometimes I suspect that my life happens for the sole purpose of God’s entertainment.

On next week’s episode of Holier Than Thou: Heaven’s Funniest Moments, we have this hysterical clip of Our Favorite Fat Girl scratching her arm pit. Hold onto your halos! What WILL she do next?

Speaking of that, I had a strange half hour yesterday where my lips were numb. No reason. No dentist. No accidental punchings. Nothing. Just the corners of my mouth suddenly got numb. And felt like they were huge.

It went away, but not before I was talking with my boss and felt drool escaping the corners.

Prime comedy. Seriously. It’s best to leave a memorable impression for the next performance appraisal. And now for this commercial break.

Speaking of commercials, I logged onto Amazon.com this morning, in my bleary-eyed haze, as I usually browse the internet in the morning while I wake up, and the first thing that assaults me?

You set up a wishlist thinking that maybe it would be handy to send your clueless relatives to or if your husband is feeling unexplainably generous or, in my case, to keep track of the stuff you want to buy, and what does Amazon do? Use it against you. You know, at first, it’s like this honeymoon period. Everything’s wonderful, they put out with the free shipping on a regular basis. They convince you to write a review by admiring those people who write reviews on everything, including their morning bowl of cereal. But then one day, they catch you moseying over to BN.Com because they have Naked for only $3.99, and then right away, the silent treatment. You ask them what’s wrong and they say ‘As if you didn’t know’. And then the tearful accusations and they’re throwing your hopes and dreams in your face, using the soulful puppydog eyes of Rhett Miller as their pawn. That hurts, Amazon.com. That really does.

It’s official.

If you want to hang out with the Weet, come to the Web Writer’s Weekend in Austin this October. Or, as we old schoolers call it, JournalCon. Not because it’s a better name, but rather because we’re old and forgetful and opposed to change. Actually, I like the name Web Writer’s Weekend quite a bit because it makes what I’m doing here sound more important. Instead of just saying ‘Oh, I have a little page where I talk about boobs and farts’, I can say ‘I’m a freelance web writer.’ It’s all about the PR. I mean, that’s the only difference between sharks and killer whales, you know. PR. The killer whales hired an up-and-coming PR firm where everyone dresses in black and wears sunglasses and walks around with tiny little earphones that they will suddenly comment into at random moments, whereas sharks hired a 78-year-old man named Walter who has one phone line and a manual typewriter and makes all of his copies on a mimeograph machine. If he can find the ink for it… it was around here somewhere. PR. Never underestimate the importance of PR. Just think if it had been reversed? Instead of Free Willy, it would be the tender story of an orphaned boy who battles corporate greed to release a great white from becoming cat food. And we would have been spared sequels because all of the characters would have passed away from loss of blood. I’m certain that Free Bitey would have been a smash, baby, a smash!

Anyway, I expect to see some of you in Austin this October. It’s a cheap vacation. Really. They’ve scored some incredible prices for the hotel rooms and the price of registration is just $55 right now (but it will be going up the longer you wait). And I cannot even begin to tell you how cool it is to hang around with a bunch of like-minded people all weekend, people who you feel like you know, even though you’ve never met them. And there are Diary Rock Stars all over the place. And let me tell you, I had better be seeing you and you and you there too. And my arch nemesis. None of you have any excuses. None. Now go sign up.

(PS. I’d also like you and and you to come so that we can hang out and giggle and drink vodka in one of our rooms and sing Madonna songs into our hairbrushes and then the next morning, look all tired and have undereye circles and demand that no one take pictures of us because ‘Y’all would just not believe it if we told you. Now where’s the coffee’. Because that would just be cool.)

What are you still doing here? Go sign up already!

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Silly rabbit, some Brits are shits

Tuesday, May 13, 2003

Finally finished wading through my collection of Manor House episodes on the TiVo. It was a bit like running a marathon, mostly because each episode was two hours long and through some crazy Public Television logic, without commercials, so rather than being two hours of TiVo time, it was two hours of REAL time. By the time I was finished, I wanted to schmuck Sir John. Or wanted to see the Crazy French Chef do it. What a freaky man that Monsieur De SomethingOrOther was. He just made me giggle, especially one bit where they just showed him staring into the camera with those crazy Hunchback of Notre Dame eyes of his and not saying anything. Was he was wondering where he could hide the bodies? It was just all so absurd. And the tutor? Petty little bitch. You just know that he does a drag revue in London on the weekends and makes catty remarks about the other Girls’ hairy backs. I kept rubbing my eyes, thinking he was really Bobby Trendy. And I suspect that he was hitting on Charlie. Also, the Second Footman Rob? He came thisclose to being my Edwardian boyfriend. Seriously. Thisclose. And apparently, he appreciates the curvy round kind of girls, as he apparently had a thing going with Antonia. But alas, he simply could not compare to my Frontier House boyfriend, Nate. (Or my Diaryland boyfriend, Mangus, who likes to make me look pretty. )

Best part of the entire series was when the Ladies Maid got choked up, holding an antique newspaper, for a death that happened in 1911. It showed how terribly real everything had become to them. They didn’t show that sweet woman nearly enough. Poor little Cinderelly.

In other news, I have this intense urge for chocolate that I cannot even begin to describe. It’s all about the chocolate. Chocolate chocolate chocolate. Suddenly, the Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs bird doesn’t seem so over the top. He was merely motivated and thinking outside the box. You’ve got to admire that, really. He wasn’t channeling Bing Crosby like Honey Bear. He wasn’t on speed like Dig Em Smacks. He wasn’t epaulet-wearing alternative lifestyle poster boys like Snap, Crackle and Pop. He wasn’t a freak like Count Chocula or Frankenberry. He wasn’t all sly and full of artifice, like the Trix rabbit. He was just jonesing on some chocolate. You’ve gotta give a brotha his chocolate, baby. To hold out ain’t righteous. Or something.

Hey, are any of you old enough to remember when Trix had a big promotion where kids could send in votes on whether or not the Silly Rabbit could finally get a bowl of mickey fickey Trix? And thousands of kids clipped their little Trix ballots off the backs of countless boxes of Trix and sent them in, voting No Silly, Trix are for Kids or Yes, Give The Rabbit His Trix so that he will shut the hell up and we can watch the damn Smurfs?

And then after the polls closed, they had a countdown to the day the commercial airing the results would air. I remember that day Mo and I were so excited to watch cartoons and we woke up uber early so that we wouldn’t miss the results. Finally, at some point, probably between The Snorks and The Littles, they revealed that America’s voting children had spoken and felt that the Rabbit finally deserved his bowl of Trix. And that cartoon rabbit was so excited, he was almost humping the announcer’s leg and the two kids gave him his bowl of Trix and then’ we didn’t get to see him eat it. Suddenly, after he talked about how incredible it was going to be, how fruity and delicious and part of this nutritious breakfast it was, he looks down and his bowl is empty.

And the two trust fund brats snicker and say ‘Silly Rabbit, Trix are for kids.’

If that wasn’t a metaphor for everything in life that sucks, I don’t know what is.

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I have no idea what to put for Hair Color on my driver’s license

Sunday, May 11, 2003

Our television in the bedroom is going all hookey and I was lying there in bed, getting extremely frustrated with it, because the only way you can stop it from fizzy shizzy squizzy is to bang it on the side for some temporary relief. But I had just banged it on the side so many times my hand was hurting and I just wanted to watch the TiVo’d Friends episode (which was so completely meh, by the way, but I’m glad that Phoebe is back with Hank Azaria because honestly, he’s so obviously her lobster) so I was getting really grumpy and Esteban heard the racket and came in to investigate and then we proceeded to have a pissy snit at each other wherein he argued that he could swap out the 25 inch for the 20 inch sitting in a spare bedroom (not acceptable because yes, I am spoiled) or we could go out and buy another 25 inch television and then I accused him of wanting to foolishly throw money at a problem rather than taking the time to actually fix it or have one of his friends fix it and then he said he had more money than time right now and everything wasn’t about how lazy he was and then I apologized for taking my frustrations out on him and then he accused me of apologizing just so that he’d go away so that I could watch Friends and that pissed me right off again so we did that ‘Fine!’ ‘Fine!’ ‘FINE!’ (stomp stomp stomp) thing that you always see in romantic comedies which proves how much the main characters really truly belong together forever and ever. But then I heard Esteban tromping back through the house and I thought ‘Oh man, round two? There has to be a round two? No round two!’ but instead he deposited a very disgruntled Tilly next to me and said ‘She got another one.’

Gah!

I don’t know exactly how she had done it, because she was sleeping peacefully next to Esteban on the sofa when he got up to see what I was beating in the bedroom and our little pissy snit lasted maybe five minutes. She must have just gotten up and went directly into seek and destroy mode. The mouse was dead, so Esteban finally got a chance to do his Man of The House duties. That may be sexist of me, but damnit, if the world is going to give him the societal benefits of having a penis then he can do some stereotypical duties now and then.

Especially when the ishy is involved.

So I think it was the mouse that Tilly’erm’ ‘misplaced’ in my bedroom. Esteban cited that it was very large and the Haley Joel Osment mouse that was exceptionally cute was noticeably larger than the others she had taken out. I had even wondered if perhaps it had just seemed larger because it was alive, but I think it was simply a larger than average mouse. And this is normally the place where I would make a little joke about the size of the mouse, maybe a little metaphor or something, but I’m just too GAH! thinking about it.

You know, for some reason, my inner brain voice keeps wanting to say ‘Hi! Hi! Hi? Hi. Hiiiii!’ I don’t know what that’s all about. Like a song stuck in your head, but instead, it’s a greeting. Hi. Hi. Hi!? Hi? Hi! Hiya! Hi. Hey there. Hi. HI! Is that what the beginning of insanity sounds like?

Scene: Weet and her sister Mo are sitting at their Mom’s house on Mother’s Day, talking amongst themselves while Esteban tries to show Mother how to work every single aspect of her computer.

Weetabix: Did you know that dude is like almost as old as Mom?

Mo: That dude. That Dude? Which DUDE, Weetabix?

Weetabix: That dude’ Stryder’ Aragorn. He was born in THE FIFTIES! I just don’t know where to put that information in the hotness equation.

Mo: Eeesh. Oldness. But he’s so hot in the movies. And in real life? He’s not that hot. His hair is short and light and uck.

Weetabix: But in the movie? Right sexy. When he’s dirty. Dirty equals sexy. Clean? Not so much.

Mo: Yeah’ not so much. It’s depressing.

Weetabix: Legolas? He’s not hot in real life either, but cleanliness works well with him in the movie.

Mo: You’re always about the Legolas.

Weetabix’s Mom: (from the other room) God, you and Legolas.

Weetabix: Because he’s hot!

Weetabix’s Mom: He’s a FAIRY!

Weetabix: He’s not a fairy, he’s an ELF.

Weetabix’s Mom: Humph. Same thing.

Mo & Weetabix: (erupt into laughter)

In other news, I made another drastic hair alteration yesterday. We’re back in Rock Star hair mode, but even more than last summer. My hair has become less a fashion statement and more performance art. In the newest incarnation, the all-over color is a deep Coke Can Red, with blonde streaks alternating with deep coffee bean brown streaks. And in the back, underneath, is a section of just all dark brown, au homage to Debbie Harry. It’s quite dramatic. I don’t have a decent picture of it, but here’s a glimpse of the general wackiness.

Hi!

This is the Sunday morning Can’t Wash My Hair Yet look. The blonde parts got a little color bleed from my mismanagement of my freshly colored hair (I curled it last night and I’m certain that I inadvertently fused some red onto the blonde) but hopefully that will be resolved when I can wash and properly style it. Also, it was actually raining when I took this picture, so you don’t get the full effects of the contrasts there. Ah well. Performance art hair. Gotta love it.

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Because I’ve got a vagina

Thursday, May 8, 2003

Scotty Boom Boom went to the funeral in the Monte with Esteban and me. We had all sorts of varied discussions, ranging from how much our various jobs suck (point of reference: I was asked to call in from the funeral and check to make sure I didn’t have any voice mails. Yes. Really.), boy things, girl things, and mostly about the Five Words that I detest. I realized that this was news to the rest of the world, although Esteban was already aware of my moratorium on some of the words.

For the record, three of the five words that I dislike are slang for a part of a woman’s body. The first four-letter word begins with a C. Yes, I’ve seen the Vagina Monologues AND read the book and know all about reclaiming the word. I just don’t like it. Without doing some kind of vagina love song, that is just one of the most offensive words ever. It pisses me off and makes me not like people who use it. I cannot stress that enough. The distaste I have for that word rises up within me like bile. Esteban, for instance, is fully aware that the C word is That Which Shall Not Be Uttered Ever, else I never speak to him again. (Arguably embodying the very essence of the word itself?)

The second word isn’t nearly as offensive but it’s the idea of it that I find offensive. The P word. It could almost be cute and lovely, like a little angora kitty, but more often than not, it is used by men to call other men cowards or otherwise emasculate them. Why is it that the only slang for a woman’s genitalia only has negative connotations, but the most popular slang for a man’s genitalia (‘he’s a dick’) is negative, but also means that they are aggressive, almost could be admired in some circles? And compounding that word with a ‘whipped? Inferring that the person is not MAN enough to properly institute their will upon their woman? I simply do not have enough words to express how offensive that is.

The third gynecological slang word isn’t really offensive, just annoying. The four letter T word. Esteban didn’t get it.

‘Starts with T, ends with T?’ I prompted.

‘Tits?’

‘No, I’ve used ‘tits’ on occasion. Besides, that ends with an S.’

‘I just don’t get it.’

Scott got it. The cows on the side of the road got it. The meaning could be seen from space.

‘Has a WAH in the middle????’

‘Huh?’

It was like we were suddenly in that Sesame Street skit where the Muppets push letters together to make words. ‘Ta!… Wah!… Ta!’.Ta..wah..ta’.Tawahta’.’ It’s amazing that he actually uses words for a living. Thankfully, he finally figured it out.

It’s not so much the word that I find offensive. It’s just so’ undignified. Even the P word has a certain amount of dignity, a social moray that is being broken. The P word is out there and it just doesn’t care what you think about it. It’s a proud word, that P word. But the T word? It’s like onomatopoeia for a wooden plank striking wet concrete. I would expect such an object to emit a sound like a squashed duck when frightened. The intent there is unclear. Is the use of the word trying to demystify, to belittle, what? For some reason, you wouldn’t think this word would be describing something clean but rather something that had an odor of burnt chum. I just don’t like it. It’s not ladylike. Therefore, it’s on the list of forbidden words.

The other two words I don’t think need explanation, racial slurs beginning with N and C. I discussed this with Penny and she brought up a slur used for people of Hispanic origin, which is also quite offensive, but as I never really encountered the word until I was 15 and never have heard anyone use it, it doesn’t evoke quite the response that the other two words do.

After I expounded upon my whole list of Bad Words, Scott theorized that Esteban wouldn’t use it for fear of getting ‘shut out’, whereas he had no access and no hope of access to my feminine wiles, but also was expected not to use it for fear of accused of treating women poorly BECAUSE of their feminine wiles and thus it was a catch-22. Finally, the answer to every question became the singsongy snotty phrase ‘Because IIII’ve got a vaGIIIIIIIIIInaaaah!’, which is a lovely phrase when put to music and frankly, I’m surprised that it hasn’t been used in a Diane Warren song.

Dude, if she snags that lyric I am going to be SO damned pissed.

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Cleanliness is next to Mouseliness

Monday, May 5, 2003

I have some very disturbing news to share:

There are mice in our house.

Ok, I know that you’re looking at me like ‘Well, duh!’ because of the first mouse and the second mouse incident. But you see, I had rationalized them. With the First Mouse (well, technically, half a mouse), I figured he was sort of an Indiana Jones kind of mouse. Bravely investigating the whereabouts of some mythical lost mouse arc or something, only to get beheaded (and betorsoed) by the Nazi Feline Deathtrap. I figured, huh, fluke. And then, with the Second Mouse, it must have been little Indiana Jones’s friend. I figured that he must have been sitting around with the other mice in wherever it is the mice live (someplace that is not Inside My House) and suddenly he looked up and said ‘Hey, have you guys seen Ralph recently? I better go look for him. And then let’s go and get some nachos. I’ll be right back.’ You know’ famous last words, right? So, Mouse The Second went looking for little dead halfling mouse and found a Lugubrious Cat instead.

That was my thought process, you see. Because sometimes it’s not beneficial one’s sanity to be creative. And because you’ve just got to know that mice jones on nachos.

Tonight, after I watched as much TiVo’d Manor House as I could stand, I turned off the lights. Then heard the sound of Tilly rambling around on the floor.

muffle bumple badump bump

Then a different sound. I do not know how to type the phonetics it but I swear it was the sound that the evil Gremlins made in the Phoebe Cates movie. Or like those psychotic little troll things in a 70’s movie staring Karen Valentine, I believe, where these little evil things live in the walls of the house and come out through the fireplace when it got dark.

WAY SCARY!

I sighed. It had to be another mouse. Because she wanted to show me, you see, so she was going to bring it to me. IN FUCKING BED. This is my worst fear, right there. That I will be sleeping and suddenly Tilly will jump up onto the bed and drop some cold dead little lump or worse, some wriggling squeaking live little scurrymonster onto my pristine white sheets where it will then TOUCH ME or otherwise destroy any future ability to ever sleep soundly again. Esteban has given me strict orders that if such a thing should ever happen that I am not to kill him in the attempt to flee from the vermin, but I have assured him that I doubt that I would do anything but shoot straight up into the air and all he would see were legs and ass running out of the room, the way Scooby and Shaggy did when they were really scared, only I wouldn’t do that stupid run in place thing first that they always did, just Zoombyebye.

I didn’t have a light by my bed, so I turned on the television and watched as Tilly chased a little black mercury torpedo around my side of the bed and into my jeans on the floor. (insert joke about getting into my pants here) I undoubtedly decreased Tilly’s ability to see the little ball of pestilence. The mouse ran between two hampers toward the loveseat. I jumped up and flicked on the overhead light. Tilly began to sniff around the area that was easily 12 feet away from where the mouse went. I started moving things to see if I could see it.

Suddenly it ran out and froze next to a balled up sock!

‘TILLY!’ I whispered, trying not to scare it. I grabbed her and threw her at it. She ran away. The mouse didn’t move. I grabbed her again, by the tail, and tried to point to the thing, but she could only sniff at my finger.

God, I wish someone would breed the concept of POINTING into animals. There is nothing as infuriating as when you point at something and they think you are presenting them with a delectable bit of tuna finger.

The cat meowed and then ran out of the room. The mouse did nothing but look at me. With its cute adorable little eyes and big perfectly round Mickey Mouse ears. Even terrified out of my wits, I was struck by how completely adorable it was. Why did it have to be a Haley Joel Osment mouse, hmmm? Why couldn’t it have been a Danny DeVito mouse or a Jason Alexander mouse?

Oh, did I mentioned that I was barefoot and wearing only a t-shirt and a pair of rather voluminous granny That Time Of The Month panties? By rights, that mouse should have died of fright right there. I grabbed a Lane Bryant bag, hoping to scoop it up, but by then, the mouse had scurried off under the loveseat.

Why do we have a loveseat in the damn bedroom? Why? It’s just a place for the cat to sleep. The cat who brings mice into the bedroom and then LOSES THEM.

I walked out into the garage, flipped on the light (in aforementioned tshirt and granny panties, not caring if the neighbors saw me), grabbed the live trap, put it on the floor in front of the love seat, grabbed a flashlight off Esteban’s dresser, then crawled back into bed, cursing the tailored bedskirt that would be the perfect little device for some vengeance-ridden rodent to scale and then tap dance across my face with impunity.

I crawled back into bed with a flashlight. Tilly was prowling around the loveseat and the baskets of clothing, as though she remembered that she came in there for something but she couldn’t quite remember what. Finally, she gave up, hopped onto the bed and proceeded to clean herself while making noises that sounded suspiciously as though she were eviscerating a mouse on the bed. She wasn’t. I kept beaming my little flashlight on her, only to find her contentedly licking her butt.

Note the lesson here from the animal kingdom. The only thing more important than protecting her owners from the threat of home invaders is proper butt hygiene.

I then couldn’t sleep, thinking about the fact that the ball of peanut butter in the live trap was undoubtedly old and wouldn’t give off the proper alluring Choosy Rodents Choose Jif scent, so I got up again, cleaned out the trap, gobbed two new big gobs of peanut butter inside and then replaced the trap. Then I sat on the computer for an hour, hoping that the mouse would come out sniffing for a midnight snack, but it was no use and I finally fell asleep in bed, hugging my Mag lite to my chest like a security blanket.

Esteban woke me up when he came home from Anaheim at 1. He had all sorts of questions to ask, things to tell me about Tom and about his trip home, wondering why I had rearranged the kitchen (answer: to make room for the shiny new dishwasher, happy anniversary three weeks early Esteban!), asked about the new makeup mirror screwed into the wall in the bathroom, etc, and then I told him about the second mouse that Scotty had removed and the fact that there was at this very moment a mouse in the bedroom with us, listening to our conversation, rehearsing the tap dance that it was going to perform on our sleeping faces.

He shook his head and said ‘Wow, I just can’t deal with all of this right now.’ And so it was. He was right. In one hour, mourning for Tom, frustration with the airlines, excitement about the dishwasher and the general squickyness over a potential murder that would happen while we slept. So we did what anyone would do in the same situation. We pretended that nothing in the world was the matter and promptly fell asleep. Because it was late and Esteban was thankful to be home and I was thankful to no longer be defending the homestead by myself.

Gah. Fucking mice.

Sadly, right now, the house is the cleanest it has been in months. With Esteban gone, I was a MACHINE. The kitchen actually sparkles because when I cleared off a space, I had no one chasing after me saying ‘Wait! Where are you putting that? I need that!’ or using the freshly cleared space as a convenient spot to dump more stuff. Thus, clean house. It’s so nice. I’m going to miss it so. There’s already a laptop bag on the counter and a bunch of cords splayed out in the living room. I think I’m becoming a mom without having ever passed anything through my cervix. I haven’t yet used the term ‘I’m not the only person who knows how to pick up around here!’ but I feel it dangling on the tip of tongue with a spring trigger. And yet the universe rewards my productivity with what I believe was one of the plagues of Egypt. Seriously? If I find locusts in my bed tomorrow, I am SO selling this house. Because I am NOT going to paint my front door with blood. I’m certain there’s a neighborhood ordinance that frowns upon that.

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When to dance

Sunday, May 4, 2003

Another friend, another funeral to come.

Tom was 31. We just found out today. Esteban called me in tears this morning as I was drying my hair. I almost broke it right then, but I had to stay strong for Esteban, who was sobbing into his shirt while sitting on a bench outside his hotel in the Happiest Place On Earth. He’s coming home tonight at some point, but he’s going directly to where his friends are gathering. He has literally spent 8-10 hours with Tom once a week for the last seven years.

I’m still not sure how it happened. I always have suspected that Tom perhaps had Marfan’s Syndrome, because he was gentle and sweet but with a giant physical presence, but regardless, it may have been something related to that. I don’t know. I don’t know. I’m only guessing, trying to make sense of it all. He is 31. I am 31. Esteban is 32. I just don’t know.

There are few things in my life that I’ve done that I’ve been ashamed of, but one of them I did to Tom.

Esteban and I were married on a very warm day in late May. The chapel was a tiny little white clapboard dating back to the mid-1800’s, and, without air conditioning, was extremely warm, even with the lovely floor to ceiling windows opened. The white tulle that my mother had swathed the church was dancing ever so gently in the breeze and each window was a ballerina pirouetting to the Pavanne played on the antique grand piano. Tom sat by himself in the very back row of the ancient pews because the farthest row had more space between it and the one in front of it. I have a picture of the congregation before our mothers took their seats and you can see Tom standing there in the back below the choir loft, arms clasped before him, dressed impeccably in a black coat and long-sleeve white shirt that must have been stifling in the heat, and looking very protective over the entire situation, as though he were just daring anyone to try to wreck our day.

Sweet, sweet Tom.

Flash forward throughout the vows, the recessional, the receiving line, the dinner, the toasts, the eight million photographs. Flash forward to the point when even the cute Keds sneakers with the big grosgrain ribbon laces were making my feet hurt and my train had unbustled for the 34th time and felt like I was carrying around perhaps a small Korean woman on the small of my back. Flash forward to the point where my mother’s boyfriend insisted upon showing up uninvited, wearing a polo shirt and jeans, and my brother didn’t want to go home and my grandmother wanted me to sort out the fight that my mother was having with my brother and when I realized that my mother had just lied to me about how much alcohol she had had. Fast forward beyond all of that, to almost the end of the night, when Tom approached me and said ‘Weetabix, would you like to dance with me?’.

You already know what is going to come next.

I begged off. ‘Tom, do you mind if I sit this one out? My feet are absolutely killing me.’

I would like to believe that only now, looking back, do I recognize so much hopefulness on his face, so much anticipation for getting to dance with the bride at a wedding. I know that Tom probably wasn’t that popular in high school and I don’t think he had a girlfriend. Esteban once said of Tom that he was the classic ‘I like you as a friend’ kind of guy. I would like to believe that all of that didn’t occur to me right then, standing there, sweating my ass off in too much satin and a foundation garment with so much boning that I couldn’t go to the bathroom by myself or bend over at the waist. Because I would like to grant myself temporarily blinded by my own discomfort rather than to know that I had knowingly just become every Homecoming Queen, every popular girl, every unobtainable piece of shit bitch who ever shot down his attempts in one cruel sentence or made him feel unworthy.

Aging memories show us in our best light and my head automatically glosses up a script in which I make a promise of dancing the next dance with him, after I had a chance to catch my breath but I have a feeling that I didn’t. I have a feeling that I might have made an excuse about not having even danced with Ward yet, which implied that Ward was far more important than Tom. Because sometimes I am a horrible person without meaning to be. Tom, of course, always the understanding gentleman, said ‘Oh, yes of course! I’ll bet your feet are sore.’ And he probably offered me a chair right then, because that’s the kind of person that Tom was. And it’s not the kind of martyrdom that happens after a person dies. Tom really was just that genuine and kind.

And then before I knew it, the evening was over. And we never did get our dance.

Afterward, I told him that the next time we were at a wedding together, he owed me a dance. And I have always planned to dance with him one of these days. And if the appropriate occasion arose and Tom was feeling too shy or had forgotten or figured that I was just saying that to be nice, I was going to walk up to him and say ‘Sir, I believe your name is listed on my dance card.’ and offer him my biggest, flirtiest smile and hopefully make him feel really good just then.

But even though amongst our friends, Esteban and I have been together the longest and were engaged first, we were the last to actually get married, so there have been no weddings within the group of friends since our own in 1999. No opportunities to dance. Not yet. Not ever.

Last week, I wrote in my paper journal Somewhere there are puppets on strings enacting our next moves. Somewhere, there are people watching them with rapt expressions and sudden bursts of laughter. The strings are strummed by the wind while below the puppets dance and loll their heads in delicious agony, knowing that they are but a heartbeat ahead of us. We are, all of us, destined to relive our casual cruel strokes of history each and every day. I can only hope that it is to teach us to be better people. I can only hope. Because I’ve never really been able to forgive myself for that little flippant decision I made to not withstand numb feet for another two minutes in order to make a lovely person smile. And right now, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to. Because if I had one wish right now, I would dance until there was no music left to play.

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Whole

Friday, May 2, 2003

It is but a testament to the human spirit that I am able to write this entry.

The cat brought another mouse to me tonight.

Alive.

We now must move. Immediately.

I’m all trembly. Thank GOD Scotty Boom Boom was here and took care of it. I may have to think of incentive other than Free Eats to hang out at the house in case of another Incident.

The horror. The HORROR!!!!!!

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