That's My Bix!

You know, I don’t really delve into current events on this thing, mostly because I’m a ditzy airhead who prefers to tell you the color of her nail polish (OPI’s Rock And Roll Red as of this writing, in case you’re interested) than discuss foreign policy, but every once in awhile, I pull my head up out of the sand and blink, amazed at the world and the country in which I live.

It’s all very embarrassing. I suspect that at cocktail parties, the other countries all watch America stuff its face with mozzarella sticks at the buffet line and they just snicker and roll their eyes. And then Wales says to Egypt ‘You know, they tried to protest by changing the name of FRENCH FRIES. Can you even IMAGINE? Honestly, we wouldn’t even invite them to these affairs, but they do have Hollywood, so we can’t just blow them to smithereens. Have you tried the pate? It’s divine.’ And Britain is telling Sweden ‘I know, we normally wouldn’t even TALK with them but, well, you know how it goes.’ And of course, France looks smashing without even trying, and hangs out with Italy, Brazil, and strangely enough, Luxembourg, at the cool country table, meanwhile America has spinach stuck in its teeth and is using its pinky finger to dig wax out of its ear. And then smelling it.

And God help me, every time I see the President talk, he reminds me of the president of a fraternity I was acquainted with in college. He was only in college because his father was in the administration. What is more, at age 24, he had a taste for veal, so to speak, and had been able to hush at least three tawdry little incidents of deflowering 15- and 16-year-olds. I suspect he was too banal and insipid for girls of legal age. So every time I see GW up there talking about ‘evil doers’, he has that same earnest look on his face that the TKE president had when trying to convince his frat brothers that his date was actually 19 and just looked young for her age and couldn’t drive because she was on medication. Not to mention the fact that every time GW says ‘evil doers’, my brain turns it into ‘eva doors’ so he sounds like Nell and I expect him to start with the Tae ina Weend too.

Gah. Mofo politicians. Remember when our biggest worry was where our President was sticking his cigar? Remember? We were so innocent then. We had no idea how stupid things could get, with the Freedom Toast and the Evil Doers. Not to mention stupidly deadly, with Rachel Corrie getting rolled over by a bulldozer. On purpose. And then my Abby Hoffman brain voice sarcastically adds ‘Oh, don’t fret, it’s not like you live in a country headed by a leader you didn’t elect’. Oh wait’.’ And then he snickers because that Abby Hoffman, he knows how to make a point. I wish he had stuck around instead of offing himself in 1989. He missed all of the fun.

This French thing? The French fries and the French dressing? I cannot even believe it. It’s ridiculous. Evany is right’ it’s like the folks at the Onion found a way to pull an elaborate prank. I watched Amelie the other night in protest to the protest. I also would have had salad with lovely orange Imperialistic Dog Dressing, but Special K with soy milk won out, as it was even less work than dumping bagged salad into a bowl, followed by grape tomatoes, feta cheese crumbles and sliced mushrooms. Mostly because it didn’t give me stinky feta fingers. But if we get pissed at Greece, I am so there with the feta. And then for a snack I had a crumpet, which isn’t French, but is a lot more froo-froo than my other option, an English muffin. I may burst into a song, perhaps from Les Miserables.

You want to incite a fat girl to revolution? Start messing with the food. Viva la Resistance’!

You don’t think the Freedom Fry thing will stick? Persians, a sweet pastry donut thingy, were renamed in homage to Admiral Pershing during I believe WWII. They used to be called something else. I think Berliners, or Some Other German Town-ers but I just spent entirely too much time looking for it on Google to no avail but I’m certain someone will have the answer in the comments section. I did learn entirely too much about Admiral Pershing though and my head feels all full of boy stuff now so I must go gaze at some Hello Kitty stuff until my girl pH is back in balance.

Ah. Much better.

Anyway, there it is. Disgruntled with my country and thinking about moving to Canada, because hey, anywhere that loves monkies and gave us Wangitude and the formidable 12% Beer can’t be all that bad, right?

So, errm’carry on.

Oh, I made a goofy little quiz. You can click on the button that doesn’t look like you should be able to click on it but don’t forget to come back and spill how you scored in the comments section.

Thank you to whomever nominated and voted for this diary and the entries in this quarter’s Diarist awards. I can’t tell you how honored I was to be nominated and selected to be a finalist and to be a vehicle for Chauffi‘s guest entry. And now being voted in thrice was something I never imagined, especially since I was up against, in my opinion, far better diarists than I. You have no idea how much easier it makes it to get another thin envelope from a graduate program saying no thanks when I can think “Yeah but… look at how cool this is!”. So thank you. It made me smile a bunch of times and I just keep smiling.

Good God, it happened again.

This morning, I was sleeping the first long uninterrupted morning of sleep in 14 days. Esteban had set the alarm for 5 am, needing to Michuru to the airport for his trip to Japan. I had bolted awake and then said something to the effect of ‘Hey asshole, that’s your alarm.’ Because when I am asleep, my inner sailor comes out to play and I am not the refined belle of femininity that I play on the internet. Apparently, I drop the F-bomb in my sleep quite often as well. But I managed to fall back asleep, to be awoken again at 6 am, when he stumbled back into bed, commenting about how it was likely above freezing outside and he thought it was going to be nice out. Welcome to my life. Most people are treated to dreams with the content of Cinemax or at very least BBC. I get the Weather Channel.

I managed to drop back off, but then the phone started ringing. I still haven’t checked the caller id to find out who I cursed to an eternity of walking around hell with a tail of bloody entrails coming from their anus, but it was probably someone like my Grandmother and then I’ll have The Guilt. Anyway, I didn’t get up to answer the phone, but now it was strike three against peaceful slumber, so I was wide awake. Nothing can be helped. I can’t sleep on planes either, unless I take a mofo red-eye, and then end up sleeping in little five minute bursts, jolting awake every time I drift into unconsciousness because I am so terrified that I will let loose with The Big Snore and the stewardesses will huddle in the galley and refer to me as the ‘congested water buffalo in 34C’.

So instead I laid there, staring up at the sunlight streaming in through the window above my head and listening to the sounds of Melt outside. I peeked down and saw Tilly stretching out on the floor. That in itself is quite odd. The cat will not stretch out on the floor if there is something soft or something high to sleep upon. For instance, she has her own love seat in the bedroom. Well, she shares it with my teddy bears (one beige anorexic twenty-six year old teddy named Uki, a similar but newer bear named Monte, and my Gatsby bear who is ready for the links with bear-sized golf clubs), but she also has an antique beaver fur coat that she sleeps upon (my mother bought it at an auction because it was a plus-sized fur coat and she figured I would want it. It makes me squeamish and it’s really really old, so I let the cat sleep on it, which makes her happy because cats like dead things).

Wow, not just one but TWO parentheticals in one paragraph. Amazing.

I tilted my head, perplexed. She was gazing lovingly at a little ball of something. A little ball of something with a tail. The cat was stretched long above a little pile of mouse like a line and dot creating an exclamation point. An exclamation point that perfectly punctuated my shrieks.

Esteban bolted up out of bed. All I could say was ‘There! There! There! There! It’s there! Therrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrre!’ But Esteban could not see it. He didn’t know what I was panicking about. ‘What? What? Where? What???? Where?’ ‘The tail. See the TAIL!?!?’

Esteban groaned, hopped out of bed for some paper towels and brought the dead mouse outside, all the while praising the cat for her good deed. Then we went out for pancakes because hey, there’s nothing like a little morning trauma to underline the need for pancakes in the world. But throughout our breakfast, all I could think was ‘mousemousemousemouse’. The only thing that managed to distract me was watching a plaid flannelled farmer at an adjacent table pour syrup on his pancakes, then actually LICK the syrup dispenser to tidy up the droplet of artificial maple flavoring. I had a brief moment when I considered standing up, pointing my finger of shame at him and shouting ‘Oh no you did NOT just lick that syrup pitcher! Oh no you di’int!’ But the mouse was throwing off my normal societal self-righteousness and I could only stare into my pancakes as though they were oracles of inner peace and melted butter.

When we finished breakfast, my original plan was to go grocery shopping and then return home to do laundry and various homey things, but I really couldn’t stand the idea of the Mouse House right then, so in honor of the incredible 50 degree afternoon, I perked my eyebrows at Esteban and suggested a jaunt up the Door for some cheese and excellent chopped cherry jam. I had purchased quite a few jars of the excellent jam last fall, with the hope of it lasting throughout the winter, but then I gave away my last two jars because I had a supply of excellent homemade RoadiePig jam, but apparently winters are long and jam is a wonderful thing, so now I am without quality jam. Esteban is against my jam snobbery. He feels that I should be happy with lesser jams, such as Smuckers. Bah! I exclaim. Smuckers is nothing but a Jam Sham.

Luckily, Esteban cannot resist the perky eyebrows. They are the staging area for my withering glare and have been known to engage the impenetrable pout. Very powerful stuff. So he caved and instead of a clean house, we drove 110 miles round trip to Northport to Be’s Ho-Made for some exquisite jam. And I now have $45 of it sitting on our counter. Because as God as my witness, I will not be without chopped cherry jam again.

No. I’m serious. It’s really good jam. I suspect that I could be talked into doing some very interesting things with the promise of good jam.

In other news, I tried on the small jeans this morning, the ones I purchased six years ago, a week after returning from England where I walked everywhere and lived on fruit and water.

I can close them now.

If I sit, I can taste my own liver, but seriously, I can get them buttoned and zipped. I did a little song and dance to The Jeans. I held them up and I think that the heavens themselves opened up and washed me in their gentle light. Of course, the Jam Plan is diametrically opposed to Operation Hottie. Which do I love more’ the jam or the jeans? This is proof, right here, that O.Henry is using our lives as fodder for his short stories. Only mine will be featured in a dramatization for a Richard Simmon’s infomercial.

Maybe Be is short for Beelzebub.

Too much’ too much’ can’t write a narrative, so instead bullets to put me out of my misery.

• I’ve already alluded to a Night of Wacky Fun with Jen, Chauffi, and Mopie in the previous entry, but here’s more: We went to eat at the Stinking Rose, which is named for garlic and not some unwashed camel toe (good god, maybe not even the bullets will save me from brain death). There were many little garlics on the wall and many big garlics on our plates. My companions all had delicious garlic pastas and I, unable to shake my earthy Midwesternism, had meatloaf and mashed potatos. The meatloaf became the Weetloaf and much hilarity ensued. And then we found our Separated At Birth garlics. Chauffi’s was the Kool-Aid Garlic Man, Mo’s was getting in touch with their inner voyeur in the bushes (one hand was pointing but the other hand I suspect was involved in some serious self-mincing). JenFu’s was going to take over the earth, and mine was the Largest Garlic on The Wall. Go garlic girl, go.

• Then we went to karaoke at the Best. Karaoke. Bar. Ever. Now with added spaceship unisex toilets. Urinals are unnerving.
• I am so from Wisconsin.
• During the Karaoke Of Love Fest, we danced, we drank, and we had furious halitosis breathed upon us. Despite my Throat Of Death, I manage to sing twice in possibly six hours because everyone in San Francisco is just dying to get a mike in their hands. Or something in their hands. Or something in their something. Orgies are a very complicated thing to plan. I’m thinking a Powerpoint flow chart with footnotes for next time. Note to self: find clip art showing a minnow frolicking in a stream.
• My friends are absolutely infused with comedy, but we each have within us a peak, whereby we hit our absolute pinnacle and everything beyond that is downhill. An example of a peak: ‘Just wait until they start licking my nipples’. I denied ever peaking but then when Mopie told me that everything about me was cute and I said ‘Yes I am! You should see my poop!’ it was all over, people. Thank you very much and tip your waitstaff. Ms. Fu, talented little minx that she is, is the lovely exception to the rule and still has miles to go before she peaks.
• Oh, and I got to see an actual hooker. Heeeee!!!!!
• Have I mentioned that I am so from Wisconsin?
• After drinking on Thursday night, Chauffi and I went to a Jack in the Box, but you couldn’t eat inside, so we were walking down the street eating cheeseburgers. Walking. Down the street. Eating a cheeseburger. If I had been wearing lime green stretchpants and clashing horizontal stripes, I could have been the living breathing punchline to every fat joke ever written. And it just wouldn’t have mattered that I asked them to hold the mayonnaise.
• On Saturday, my wardrobe plan was thrown completely out of wack when I coordinated my outfit around my light blue v-neck t-shirt. The problem there was that I stupidly put on my black tinkerbell undies, which matched not a thing. Right there. That’s where the Greek Chorus should have started to sing about bad wardrobe karma. Don’t mess with the wardrobe karma. It will bite you in the ass every time.Because then I couldn’t find my blue jeans that I wanted to wear, so I put on my new ones (the ones that are down a size). And apparently I shrunk them. They are tight all the way down to the ankles, like 80’s acid washed leggings now. I started to do some deep knee bends in front of the mirror, but because they are low riders, they started to slide, so I grabbed a belt loop to pull them back up and Rrrrrrrip. Add sigh and mix well. I panicked and put on a black pair which matched the light blue t-shirt not at all, but Drewbear was on his way to pick me up for breakfast. So then I was fixing the pockets on those jeans and somehow ended up with a bright red lipstick print on the stomach of my light blue t-shirt. I grabbed a Shout Wipe and tried rubbing it off but succeeded in making a CD-sized wet spot with an iris of red lip print. Sigh again. Then I stuck the entire front of the shirt under the faucet and tried to rinse it off, leaving me with an inconspicuous wet spot the size of Anna Nicole Smith. At that point, I gave up and put on a black t-shirt. Which, incidentally, left me in a prime outfit to match my black tinkerbell panties. See, people? For God’s sake, practice safe fashion and no one will get hurt.
• I went to a great bookstore off in somewhere someplace. It actually made me hurt a little bit to see the books that I love to read just there, waiting for me, read by people who read like me. The used bookstores around here are filled with romance novels and Tom Clancy. Lots of Harlequin and Danielle Steele. I scored so so many books, forcing myself to stop shopping when I couldn’t carry any more. And for just a moment, I had myself completely convinced to move to San Francisco, because you just have to love a place where there are more words than your arms can possibly carry.
• Dinner at Bix was very fun. Petrouchka was dressed to the nines in all black ensemble and scarlet tie, offsetting his purple hair quite nicely. And he let me sample his balls, which were succulent and made my mouth water. Ahem. Ron and Phyllis were absolutely delightful, although with the acoustics, I’m not sure that anyone actually heard any of the dinner conversation. I had three cosmopolitans but did not shake my hootchie, even with the presence of the Rock Star jacket. And I have apparently forgotten how to walk on high heels.
• My monkey bag insisted upon getting pictures with everyone.

• Afterwards, I brought three men in my hotel room. The girls at the front desk were starting to give me high fives whenever I traipsed through with another man. But that night I kicked them all out after proving quite nicely why I can never write a short entry. Because I can’t tell a brief anecdote. They’re all Russian novels. Every one.
• You see, in Wisconsin, we have very long winters, there is no reason for brevity. None.
• We went to Fisherman’s wharf for some incredible lobster bisque, calamari, and sourdough bread. And then much to my chagrin, I learned that the Hard Rock no longer carries the Black Hats with White Writing that I have been collecting many these long years. I pouted and got a hat pin, refusing to accept a lesser beige and cranberry Hard Rock Original Logo hat or the fugly new Black Hat With White Writing And Urban Flava logo.
• Chauffi’s Saab took a big bite out of my thigh. I have a contusion the size of my fist. It’s rather Technicolor, actually, like a sunset in a Robert Frost poem. Nothing gold can stay.
• Except for my white gold earrings which are damn fine. I love them very much.
• On Sunday morning, with my laundry back from the service, I tried for Round Two with the blue t-shirt, this time with properly matched undergarmets. And strangely enough, I had located the other pair of blue jeans, so life was good again. I was feeling good. I looked good. I was working it. I walked down the hill to Sbux at the gate of Chinatown and it was one of those rare moments when everything is exactly where it is supposed to be in the universe. The air was sweet and the sounds of the city were murmuring below my feet and the sun was speckling down the hill, basking selected blocks with sweet contrast while above me terraced gardens sent down the smell of spring. With Sbux in hand, I windowshopped at Avant Card, passing a girl who sat outside her hotel and smoked. On the first passing, I sensed that she had done an appreciative scope of the Curvy Round Sex Goddess before her, but on second passing, my suspicions were correct. She brazenly met my eye contact and then slid her eyes down to my feet and slowly back up again, her lips curling as she morphed between hookah smoking caterpillar and a Cheshire Cat. I walked off into Chinatown, ironically in search of, among other things, White Rabbit candy, feeling her eyes smiling behind me.
• After packing extremely quickly, Chauffi and I embarked on a tour of San Jose, listening to incredible mix CDs and soaking up the sun at a very cool Sbux, while snarking about some uncoordinated people attempting Frisbee in the park, which is one of the things that makes our e-lationship so grand. Then we went to the airport, singing DJ Sammy’s ‘Heaven’ in ridiculous falsettos, and I prepared to go home.
• This is the part where you would THINK I would get on the airplane and fly back home, but in a Surprise Twist Ending, my Northwest flight to Minneapolis has been unexplainably delayed two hours, making it impossible for me to catch the last connection of the evening to Green Bay. I called Chauffi to tell him ‘You’re never going to believe what is happening to me’ but he had a similar crisis. His car broke down not twenty minutes after dropping me off, so he was waiting for a tow truck and couldn’t even come back to fetch me if I was stuck. At that point, I decided that my baby blue t-shirt was cursed and needs to be cleansed by ancient shamans or something. Northwest made me wait in a Tourist Cattle Corral for two hours, where I made friends with the other stranded travelers, one of which was from Green Bay (but doesn’t live there now) and the other was from Milwaukee. We were singing songs by the Happy Schnaap’s Combo and had exchanged business cards by the time I finally got up to the ticket counter where they gave me three options: I could either stay overnight in San Francisco and be back in Green Bay by 4:50 pm, I could fly to Minneapolis, stay overnight there, and be back in Green Bay by 8:05 am, or take the 12:45 am redeye to Minneapolis and still get back to Green Bay by 8:05 am.
• I chose the last option. It seemed the easiest. The gate agent allowed me to check my bags, leaving me with my carryon laptop. I had nine hours before my flight, so I flagged a cab. But I didn’t have anywhere to go. Then I thought of Drowning13, so I took a chance and called him and he gave me directions to his secret motel. Then I realized that I had only my driver’s license and my credit card, no actual cash. The cabby assured me that he could take a credit card, but when we got to the secret motel, his credit card machine wouldn’t do what it had to do. Harold met my cab, but then he got in with me as we drove around trying to find a spot where the machine could do its communication thing. Finally, we saw an ATM so I jumped out and got cash. I was completely frazzled by that point and on the verge of an asthma attack, so we walked back to the Secret Motel, where I drank juice and water called Rescue and Harold made tea and assured me that the day could only get better.
• He was right. It did. It’s a wonder what sitting in a cozy little womb of a room and being still can do when you’re about to weep. We talked about literary things and diaries and writing and music. His bookshelf was filled with the long lost twins of half my reading collection and on his desk sat a neat little notebook and fancy pen. I suspect he’s a pen junky like me. After a weekend filled to the brim with going and buying and doing and seeing and getting, it was nice to just sit there and be. I like Harold. I stole some of his electricity for my laptop battery while I was there and maybe if I’m lucky I also got some of his creativity. After all of the whining I did about not getting to see my favorite authors in person, I somehow ended up doing just that anyway.
• When I finally did get on the liquid bullet aiming toward the sunset in Minnesota, I went to sleep with DJ Sammy’s ‘Heaven’ stuck in my head but when I woke up, it had been replaced by ‘Lolly Lolly Lolly get your adverbs here’, it was negative twelve degrees and I had a seatbelt jamming my spleen. Forcefully. Angrily.
• Coldly.
• Sleepily.
• Lovely.
• (Insert your own ‘ly word here.)

Just a quick update before I go…

I am so completely certain that I have forgotten to pack something crucial. Oh, and I have a sneaking suspicion that The Uterus wants to play in San Francisco too. There is a decidedly crampy feeling about my person. Oh well. I refuse to think about it. I will think about it later. And besides, I’ve read that liberal dosages of vodka clear up cramps quite nicely. Or make you forget that you have an abdomen at all.

In other Weetanews: I am not the girl who will be attending the University of Iowa’s graduate program.

I got two thin letters yesterday, one from Iowa and one from Minnesota. Apparently, they had 740 applicants with 25 spots and 400 applicants with 13 spots, respectively. On the plus side, I’ve now got the autograph of a Pulitzer Prize winning author. On my rejection letter. Chauffi commented that it would make for an amusing little anecdote when I accept my own Pulitzer prize. As always, my PA knows exactly the right thing to say. Ah well, I’ve still got two applications out there and I have decided that whatever happens, I will try to get into Iowa again next year. Because this girl will not give up. Nope. Not me.

But I may need a bit more vodka.

Chauffi, once again being a perfect PA, has compiled the following information bulletin:

Many people have expressed an interest in visiting with Weetabix when she arrives in the Bay Area. Below is a sample of her Itinerary.

Thursday:
Arrive in the evening.
Check into Hotel.
Drinking.

Friday:
Morning Constitutional, involving Starbucks.
Shopping at Devils Corner.
Lunch/Light Meal with Chauffi
Afternoon open for sightseeing.
Dinner w/ Mopie & Jenfu Location: TBD
Drinking.

Saturday:
Morning Constitutional, involving Starbucks
Book Shopping
Cable Car ride to Hard Rock for hat purchase
Lunch
General Activities
Dinner w/ Asst Internet folks
Drinking.

Sunday:
Morning Constitutional, involving Starbucks
Dim Sum
Check out of Hotel
Visit to South Bay
Leave for Home
Drinking

Somewhere along the way, I became that girl.

That girl. You know. That one.

I’m the girl whose windshield wipers break and then when she fixes them, she runs out of windshield washer fluid on the way to work. And then she switches to a rental car for a business trip and it’s out of washer fluid too. And I’m the girl who believes the rental car company when they tell her that a Mitsubishi Gallant is a ‘full-size car’. I’m the girl who tried to buy black tights last winter but was told that they don’t get tights in until summer with the rest of the winter merchandise. That girl who went back in the summer and bought two pairs of black tights. The girl whose big toe went right through both pairs of black tights on each first wearing.

I’m the girl you want to go to the bars with. The girl who will sing with you to every song you love and she knows the words too, not just some jumbleglarglehootersnuffer like some people might. The girl who tells you how hot you look and then uses some specific analogy to make you feel good. The one who makes friends with the staff and the people around you and has strangers hugging her by the end of the night.

I’m the girl who won’t walk through rabbit tracks on fresh fallen snow. I’m the girl who tries to catch snowflakes on her tongue, even in March. I’m the girl who huffs the lilacs in May like she was trying to store all of that lovely scent in her brain’s smell pantry. The girl who watches on road trips to point out a hawk sitting on a highway sign. I’m the girl who knows the answer to the ridiculous trivia question and says things like ‘You know what I could really go for? Some Google banana flavored peanut butter.’ I’m the girl who can locate your high school boyfriend on the Internet. I’m the girl who buys you Wacky Packs for your birthday that she got on Ebay. I’m the girl who tells the world via her diary that you remind her of sperm when you swim.

I’m the girl everyone says hi to at work. The girl who always smiles automatically. The girl who physically cannot help herself from smiling at people who smile at her and once caught herself smiling at a cartoon dog on television with a lopsided grin. And if you start to cry in front of her, I’m the girl who will cry with you so you won’t feel weird. In fact, I’m the girl who can’t watch certain Disney movies without crying. Like Monsters, Inc. The girl who sets her TiVo to record Mister Rogers, knowing full well that she’s going to cry again. And that 31, almost 32, is really too old to still be upset about not having a Mister Rogers anymore.

I’m the girl who will crochet you a scarf–a glam scarf, but still a scarf–to keep you warm. I’m the girl who worries that you might get a chill. I’m the girl who lived with two cats for ten years and still lives with one because her husband loves them. I’m the girl who is terribly allergic to cats. I’m the girl who wants to make you tea when you get sick and make you drink juice until you turn purple and eat chicken and stars soup even though you’re a vegetarian who is watching your sodium intake.

I’m the girl everyone thinks is a little weird. I’m the girl who wants to believe she’s cool but knows she isn’t and marvels that she has everyone so convinced. I’m the girl who is happy to be your best friend but doesn’t have a best friend of her own. I’m the girl who respects your Oreo dependence. I’m the girl who will be ready to fight someone she doesn’t know if they made you feel bad. Even though she doesn’t believe in violence and even though she grew up spouting Lennon lyrics and reading Herman Hesse, you know I’m the girl who is fully able to kick their ass. For you. Sometime, someplace, someway, somehow. I’m that girl.