Skip to content

Tales of the Vanilla Mocha Inept

Tuesday, October 22, 2002

This morning it occurred to me as I was brushing my teeth that I hadn’t a clue what I was going to wear. That’s unusual, right there. Normally, it gives me a grand sense of security to have my outfit planned to the undergarments and socks. I don’t have a chart or anything, but I usually have a loose mental fashion agenda of the next day if not the following few days.

I think it harkens back to my childhood when I had a very small cache of clothes and needed to plan each day of the week carefully so that I wouldn’t repeat something during a given week. I had exactly five pairs of pants, including one pair of dressy pants that I detested. I usually recirculated my Monday jeans on Friday. What is more, it was a very complicated process because those horrible 1980’s striped jeans were in vogue, as well as the patterned shirts, therefore I couldn’t wear a pair of striped jeans with a checked shirt or whatnot. It gave me a great deal of stress and probably resulted in the period of time between 18 and 24 that I like to call The Black Years, wherein every single item I purchased was a solid black or bright white. Even now, most of my clothing is black, white, red or blue if you count my jeans.

Thus, as I flossed, I comforted myself with the knowledge that I could pull together an outfit without a problem. I had jackets I could wear over any of my plethora of white shirts. But wait… they were out being laundered. I also have several pair of black trousers. I would find something. It would be ok. Then I went back into the bedroom where Esteban slumbered and Tilly had claimed my side of the bed as her own. (She’s Single White Femaling me. Seriously. She claims each and every place I sleep in or sit upon. If I get up from the sofa, I return and have to hoist a 18-pound cat out of the way.) I spied my acid green panties in the drawer. Awesome. I would wear those with my acid green bra and my acid green turtleneck with a black cardigan. Brilliant.

After selecting the appropriate pair of black pants and then putting on a pair of black socks because my feet were freezing, I went back to my lingerie drawer. No acid green bra. Not anywhere. Ok. I could wear taupe. Taupe is an acceptable and sometimes necessary substitution for matching lingerie. It was mentally acceptable. Besides, the panties would still match.

But there was no taupe. No taupe? I have like 14 taupe ones! I searched through the jumble of laundry baskets, the clean ones, the dirty one, the one containing shirts that must go to the cleaners and jeans which must be patched. Nothing. I had several black ones though, but if I wore a black bra, then it would show through the turtleneck. GAH!

I freestyled and found a black t-shirt over which I threw on my charcoal cardigan. It was imperfect. Only after I tied my shoes did I remember that I was still wearing the acid green panties. And not a stitch of acid green anywhere else on my person. The horror. The HORROR! I should have stripped the offensive article from my body as soon as I realized it. I had time. There was no excuse other than the unwillingness to succumb completely to my irrational sense of matching. I feel all discombobulated now, surreal and out of focus. As though everything is tilted slightly to the left.

(cue swelling music and technicolor sunset in background)

As God as my witness, I’ll never go mismatched again!

(Weetabix clutches a taupe bra in her hand. Fade to black)

I tooled through SBux this morning to get my Venti Vanilla Nonfat Mocha. It’s taken me a couple of visits to reacquaint myself with the Starbucks vernacular. Much painfully inept ordering ensued.

“Hi, I’ll have a fat free vanilla venti mocha please”

“One venti vanilla skim mocha!” The barristas would shout back, passive-aggressively chastising me for being ignorant in the ways of the Bean Elite.

Then I’d try again the next time. “A venti vanilla skim mocha, please.”

“One venti mocha with vanilla, nonfat.” They’d confirm.

The next time: “I’d like a venti mocha vanilla nonfat please.”

“One thin mulatto sans whip!”

Huh?

They’re toying with me. Barrista bastards.

Unsurly Girl greeted me last week. When I drove up to the window, we both exclaimed “HEY!!!!!!!!” in unison and smiled. I sensed a little apprehension, though, like the morning after sex with an exboyfriend. Would this be a new beginning? Did I realize what I had been missing and would I return for good? Or was I just using her for an easy caffeine fix? I threw an offhanded “I only like warm drinks in the cold weather. I drink Diet Coke in the summer.” but we both knew it was just lip service and I wouldn’t be around for the long haul, come rain or come shine. Even with the emotional baggage, I like Unsurly Girl. She seems to like me. She used to comp me drinks, although those disappeared along with my loyalty. Perhaps I should explain that I haven’t been seeing other barristas and I have come to understand the SBux monkey on my back.

Thus, this morning I endeavored again. “Venti vanilla nonfat mocha.”

It was Barrista Barbie. “Venti Vanilla Mocha with skim milk.” She sneered back. I think they delight in making me feel as though I can’t handle ordering my coffee.

When I arrived at the window. Barrista Barbie asked if I wanted whipped cream. No, of course not. Why put a dollop of fat on top of a nonfat mocha? It made no sense.

Unsurly Girl brought me the drink and then gave me a conspiratorial aside “I told her no whip, she didn’t listen. I have a question for you though. What happened to your music? You always had the rocking tunes. Your car used to thump.”

I had Michelle Branch playing softly in the background. I took a breath. I then stammered something about how I have a more stressful job now that starts later in the day so I don’t need to wake myself up with funky tunes and I just wasn’t in the mood for loud stuff right now but rather more mellow stuff.

But really, I think it’s seasonal. When Sbux first opened and I began my relationship with Unsurly Girl and Starbucks Guy (sniffle!), it was late January and early February. I was sick of darkness. I was reacting to the increase in daylight. I was hyper. I wanted spring. I had more energy. Fall and early winter are about winding down and introspection. And perhaps it was a not-so-subtle attempt to show Starbucks Guy how very cool and hip I was because I listened to Nine Inch Nails at quarter to seven in the dark winter mornings. But all of this was too much to relay in a minute conversation at a drive through window. And some things are better left unsaid between you and your barrista.

Filed in Diaryland | | Comments Off on Tales of the Vanilla Mocha Inept

You don’t have to call me darlin’, darlin’

Sunday, October 20, 2002

Penny and I are sitting in Sports Bar #54 in downtown Green Bay. Around us, fraternity boys in baseball caps with the brims curved just so are playing video golf and drinking Heineken. I didn’t really want to go out drinking but I accepted Penny’s proposition to go to karaoke, where I could drink just water if I wanted to. Penny is going through a divorce and facing that inevitable realization of just how much time being married takes up. I suspect that there are palpable points in her life that can almost be labeled ‘This is where the married part went’. It’s a good thing that Penny is getting a divorce, though. Her husband is a dick. A very small one actually.

The karaoke setup is overly loud and somehow overly quiet as well. The karaoke lady is wearing skin tight denim leggings and looks like a Weeble Wobble that someone has stuck legs on. Her fans call her Lady Di because of her short blond hair, but honestly I’m certain that the late Princess Diana would have been horrified. I wonder if Weeble Lady wears her seat belt when trying to escape the karaoke paparazzi. I somehow think she would. And that her paparazzi would consist of drunken men with flowing mullets asking if she will let them do Garth Brooks ‘The Dance’ again because their girlfriend was throwing up in the bathroom during their first rendition. Her voice booms out at us from the speaker on our left while she sings to our right. There’s no escaping it.

Penny wonders about ‘You Don’t Even Call Me By My Name’, because Carissa, who is at home this night, being a mom and putting in her married time, always bellows out the song. Carissa, like apparently the rest of the state of Wisconsin with the exception of perhaps five of us, really enjoys country music. A lot. The sad thing about that particular song is that the first three hundred times I heard it were at karaoke bars, therefore the one time I actually heard the recorded version, it sounded worse than some of the renditions I’ve sat through. It is a rule that some drunken man in five-day Levis and a shirt unbuttoned too far must sing ‘You Don’t Even Call Me By My Name.’ The direct correlation to this is that if the crowd is younger, a group of college girls with too much makeup must sing ‘Love Shack’ terribly off key. The B-52’s dress like some tequila dream, but there are harmonies there that shouldn’t be attempted while intoxicated.

‘You Don’t Even Call Me By My Name’ and ‘Love Shack’ might just be the ying and yang of bad karaoke.

There is a diva in the crowd tonight. No, it’s not me. It’s another fat girl, this one wearing far too much makeup, but in a tasteful way if that’s at all possible. Like Halle Berry does, with those enormous overly white teeth of hers. This karaoke diva is the classic ‘such a pretty face’ kind of girl. I’ll bet she hears that a lot. I used to hate that. People just can’t resist the comment when they can see possibility. She sings a Celine Dion and a Shania Twain. She’s very predictable and I want her to be unique, because she’s a pretty fat girl and I want her to not fit so easily into the Fat Girl Showing That At Least She Can Sing like a Thin Girl category. Sadly I make a mental prediction that ‘And I Will Always Love You’ will be attempted.

I am not wrong. She sings the Whitney Houston version from The BodyGuard and then goes back up and slams the Dolly Parton version on the head for good measure.

My own voice sucks tonight. I’ve been battling an almost hoarseness for the last month and a half and it’s delving into the land of laryngitis. Even so, I attempt a song, but apparently grabbed the wrong mic and you could barely hear it. Penny is the only person who claps. My single fan. I thank her profusely. The boys in the perfectly curved baseball caps don’t even look up from the electronic hole 5.

A man wearing a leather vest, black t-shirt and jeans with sitting creases on the thighs and a five year mullet cascading down his back approaches the stage. The beginning strains of ‘You Don’t Even Call Me By My Name’.

There is a part in the middle of the song where the singer begins talking about the song itself, telling you who wrote the song and how it would be the perfect country western song if it talked about trains or getting drunk or getting out of prison. I hate that song. I hate it because it tries to be all Ferris Bueller and embraces the meta and I hate that. I hate that because I do that too. Also I hate it because it seems to be everyone’s favorite part of the song, because it’s showing that they realize how completely stupid the music tends to be as well. Perhaps it’s an apology for polluting the world with pointy-toed boots and trucks with Nascar symbols and Calvin Peeing stickers. And I suspect that the song is so popular because of that countrified rap part. (Old joke: what do you get when you mix together country and rap? CRAP!), just like everyone’s favorite part of Love Shack is the Tin Roof Rusted part. It’s the part everyone knows. It’s the part that makes me vomit. Perhaps vomit glitter on the highway.

A middle-aged barfly walks past us. I would guess she is in her late forties but she has that indeterminate age of people who smoke too much and drink far too much, do most of their living after 10 pm and get most of their vitamins from wedges of lime. She reminds me of the very worst parts of my mother, except that she’s wearing a hideous little sailor outfit, with the stripes and epaulets detailed in gold lame’. My mother would never touch that outfit. The barfly is wearing possibly every piece of QVC jewelry she owns. She walks through and I cringe because we’re so remote here that they allow themselves to dress like idiots.

Penny and I talk about a lot of things. We talk about Operation Hottie and how I don’t necessarily want to be a classical ‘Hottie’, I just want to look more like myself and when I look into the mirror I want to someone who looks like my innermind picture looking back at me. I want to be where I was when I was 21′ still curvy, still round, still by all indications overweight, but my legs looked good in a skirt and I wore miniskirts and got hit on in bars (although I didn’t know it at the time because I was clueless). We talk about how everyone is always asking about when we’re going to have children and how Penny isn’t interested and never has been. We talk about my plan to finish my graduate degree and how I wouldn’t want to even consider getting pregnant until after that and how I’ve always had the number 34 in my mind because it just seemed like a good age to have children and be like Hope and Michael on thirtysomething, having the intent to focus on their children’s lives and not trying to smush it into everything else. My mother had me when she was 20 and honestly, she wasn’t ready for children then. She had my brother when she was 38 and to me that seemed colossally old at the time (I was 18, what did I know) and she is a much better parent this time. I always envied those kids who had older parents. They were at all of the ballgames, the recitals, the plays. They remembered the names of their kids’ friends. They owned homes and seemed content to be in them. They orchestrated environments and not the slipshod thrown together amalgamation of cast offs and stolen moments that I and other children of haphazard parents had come to understand as home.

A curved baseball hat goes up and attempts ‘Margaritaville’. He doesn’t pick the broken mic but is so very quiet and shy that you can barely hear him and the Karaoke Lady Who Does Not Look Like Lady Di cranks up the background help vocals. His friends look up from their video golf with surprise and cheer. Perhaps they are drunk enough to believe that their friend suddenly grew an extra set of perfectly-tuned vocal cords.

The Nautical Barfly walks past us on her way out the door, having gained herself a staggering middle-aged man in the process. I tell Penny to look at her and then said ‘What do you think’ Hooker on a cruise ship?’ Penny laughs and then said ‘Yeah, like that girl from Love Boat?’ ‘Julie, your cruise director’ twenty years later.’ Poor Lauren Tewes’ even with the cocaine addiction, she doesn’t deserve that. Without her, Paige Davis of Trading Spaces would be nothing.

We drink Smirnoff Ice because they don’t have Stoli Citroen. Over the course of the evening, we each have two. Half of my second goes warm and begins to taste like acrid urine in the back of my throat so I switch to ice water. I explain that I didn’t really want to go out tonight because I worry about going out too much. We’re planning a big Bad Bar night in two weeks with the entire crew and I wanted to save up my irresponsible behavior for November 1. We talk about how it’s not all that much drinking, especially in comparison to the rest of Wisconsin’s drinking society, where you go out to bars because that’s the only thing to do when the mercury drops below 20, as though people are trying to stop themselves from freezing on the inside too.

The Diva and her mother are now the only people singing, taking turns up down up down up down. Penny is nervous about going up and singing after the Diva but I point out that she’s going up every other song so there’s really no getting around it. She sings a Linda Rondstandt song that is often played at the Bad Bar. ‘When Will I Be Loved’. She nails it perfectly but both follows and precedes the Diva. Everyone is too drunk to notice.

Penny thanks me for coming out to karaoke and tells me that she had almost given up on me, as I didn’t call her until almost 9. I explain that I went to dinner with Esteban after work and then went home and screwed around trying to insert pictures into my diary entry about fall in Wisconsin and after 45 minutes of that, had Internet Explorer unceremoniously dump it. And my computer was toast and I hated it but my new one was at that moment being built by Joel and he was planning to join us after he finished. And how I felt bad for spending so much on a computer when I just went to San Francisco and I still haven’t bought my husband something decent for his birthday.

Everything in this bar is too yellow. As with many sports bars in Green Bay, the theme is the Packers. This particular bar has some credence, however, as it is located in the former Packer offices. In fact, the billiard room used to be Vince Lombardi’s office. At that moment, however, I am unwilling to forgive them for so much yellow.

At 1 o’clock, I call Joel. He’s having problems putting the PC together. I explained that we were leaving so he shouldn’t bother coming out. Penny and I walk out in separate directions. I like hanging out with her. She’s funny and she laughs at my jokes. It is very cold outside. It had snowed earlier that day, big fluffy white flakes that melted as soon as they hit the ground. My hands are freezing and I don’t want to touch the steering wheel. I wonder where my gloves are, but then I realize that they’re in the trunk of the car, have been there since last spring when I had probably been unloading groceries and tossed them there. They don’t match my jacket. Ohh, my sheerling jacket needs to be picked up from the cleaners. Hopefully they got the ink stain out.

I drive home listening to Michelle Branch’s ‘Goodbye To You’ and think about how succinct she is in ‘the last three years were just pretending’ and how sometimes it seems as though a life is pretend and the reality is the spaces in between. I think about how those people look forward to their Friday nights at Sports Bar #54 where they will walk around the yellow room and have nothing more to show for it than the sounds of drunk people clapping and an air of stale smoke on their clothes.

This is the part where I should come up with some observation, some lesson learned tied up in a bright little package, but I can’t. I’m still trying to figure it all out. But perhaps this will do it: The bar’s real name is Glory Years. That sounds so pat that I’m sure you will think I’m making it up, but it’s just one of those things that makes you think O.Henry is writing our lives like stories to fill in eighth grade lit books. But then, I suppose that Penny would be wanting to have children but be getting divorced and I would be not wanting to have children but happily married and everyone would be miserable in the end. It’s not that easy.

The bar’s name is Glory Years. That’s as close as I can get today.

Filed in Diaryland | | Comments Off on You don’t have to call me darlin’, darlin’

Just a little prick

Thursday, October 17, 2002

I got a flu shot today. A lady named April came at me with a big fucking needle.

And now I have guilt that I just swore up there. But honestly, that’s the most appropriate adjective I can muster when confronted with a needle. And really, it’s appropriate in the Freudian sense as well. Because of the penetrating and stuff. And sometimes I wish I had a penis. No, not really, but that’s my favorite Freudian joke ever.

My arm hurts.

I did preplan for the shot, which I’m very proud of and feel like an actual adult. I wore a cardigan sweater with a short-sleeved t-shirt underneath so that I could slip off the sweater and expose my meaty grandma arms to the nurse. Or the sadist. Whichever. And I went to the store at lunch and felt completely vindicated in purchasing a large Ghiradelli chocolate bar with caramel inside, like the one I inhaled on the plane coming back from San Francisco and while writing my Journal Con entry. Because chocolate makes both flu shot whininess and the Post-Online Community Turned Into Real Life Community angst go away.

I hate getting a flu shot. I hate all of the questions. They’re so serious. “Have you ever had a bad reaction to a flu shot before?” Yes. It hurts like a mofo and usually it makes me squint when you’re sticking me and then I usually whine a lot and my back gets a little sore that evening and I need a big mug of chicken & stars soup to make it feel better. I suppose that’s not really a bad reaction. It’s an inconvenient one. “Are you allergic to eggs?” What kind of question is that? Am I allergic to eggs? Not that I know. But what if I am? What if I don’t eat enough eggs to know that I’m allergic to eggs? What if I’ve suddenly developed an allergy to eggs in the last week since my weekend Pancakes and Scrambled Eggs breakfast? What if I AM actually allergic to eggs but the pancakes and maple syrup counteract the allergy, thus making it seem as though I’m not actually allergic to eggs and now I’ve been completely mislead and the scary flu shot will send me into anaphylactic shock and then I won’t get all of my work done and I’ll get hives and itch for a month the way I did during the entire month of July? What if that? Huh?

And now as I’m typing this, my hands are cold and I’m wondering if that’s a symptom of being allergic to eggs and then I will most likely die.

Ok, maybe not so much with the adult thing.

In other news, after chatting with Jake about my best friend MoPie’s hilarity in the Sim world, I ran out to the local media blitz place and purchased The Sims Unleashed. And a Michelle Branch CD. And a hands free unit for my cell phone. When I need instant gratification, I do it in a big way.

Then I installed it. And I ran out of storage space, because I have 10.5 gigs of mp3s on my Frankenstein computer. And then I deleted a bunch of stuff, emptied the recycle bin, and tried again. And then it bombed. Can’t Find Sims Data Drive, which in EA-ese means “Sorry, Bitca, you’re going to have to reinstall each and every damn Sims disk you own and whoops, don’t forget to make backups of all your clever little houses and people!” Gah. Every time. Every damn new release. It goes without saying. That’s why I never installed Hot Date, actually, because I knew that I’d end up having to uninstall and reinstall from the beginning and I just didn’t want to go through it.

And all of my Simmy goodness needs to be backed up first, if they’re not already gone. Like the Trailer O’Evil. It’s a paneled white trash paradise with a Velvet Elvis and a Velvet Last Supper and a beer sign and Astroturf for carpeting and all the furniture in the living room is actually lawn furniture but it’s got a state of the art entertainment center. Darth Vader Sim lives there and makes blueprints for an elaborate Death Trailer, which will have the ability to obliterate other Rebel Sim Houses and then a thousand Sim voices will cry out and then be no more. Or my enormous Swedish Modern house, where all the residents are named after Wagnerian characters. Most of them died, though, during the great Gerbil Plague of 2001. It was a sad day. Well, Darth wasn’t sad because he didn’t like any of them anyway. None of them wanted to rub up against his black plasticy salty badness. Actually, maybe he killed Siegfried and Biterolf. Regardless, Torvald is still in mourning.

After arguing with my piece of crap PC, I called my husband at work, because it was 9:30 at night and he was working, and said “Husband, you are rebuilding my piece of crap PC this weekend, and I need a bigger hard drive, so do whatever it takes.” Because I’m very authoritative like that when I’m grumpy, and “whatever it takes” means “spend the money I was going to spend on flooring for the kitchen and living room”. He got a bit gleeful at this, because it was an opportunity to spend money on computer parts. Thus, sometime in the next three days, I’m getting a new PC of my very own and not simply inheriting Esteban’s discarded old technologies. And perhaps Darth and Torvald are not really gone. And perhaps my PC will stop freezing and giving me the Blue Screen of No Fun whenever it gets cranky. And perhaps I’ll get to actually play a game developed in this century.

Go me.

I’m allergic to eggs. I’ve definitely suddenly become allergic to eggs. I can tell because my mouth feels sort of strange and my chocolate is all gone. This is the beginning, right here. The beginning of the end. I will be dead before my time, or perhaps just swollen up into an unrecognizable ball, like a pasty white Violet Beauregard. I will have been to Georgia and California but I will have never been to me.

I had a strange dream last night that Pete and I went to Lillith Faire in the car I used to drive when I was 16 (which was a 1972 poop brown Grand Prix that had no heater nor radio and could only hold 5 gallons of gas without spilling unleaded all over the road but the speedometer went to 150 and it really did go that fast, although you could actually watch the fuel gauge sink as you pressed the accelerator) which was being held in Iowa somewhere but when we got there, it was actually a rodeo. I’m certain I’m really precognitive and that was a portent of my doom. I’m pretty sure that bronco-busting and plaid snap shirts mean Death By Flu Shot. It’s all there in Freud’s Interpretation of Dreams. Seriously. I am not making that up, either.

Filed in Diaryland | | Comments Off on Just a little prick

Esteban is not king of the world

Wednesday, October 16, 2002

Ok, so just two days after kvetching about too much html in my diary entries, what do I do? Go and take a bunch more pictures. Because I like to make life miserable for myself. And I’m dumb. That’s why. And now I’ve spent the better part of my evening downloading them from the camera, formatting them, cropping and sizing the pictures, and then uploading them. And now I’m bitching about it. Because I’m in that kind of mood. Freaking gah.

Oh

So I went for another long solo drive yesterday, but spared you the big melodramatic entry. It was cold outside. Damn cold. The wind was coming off the bay in buckets, which doesn’t really make much sense because wind doesn’t really come in buckets, but don’t argue with me because I’ve apparently been dabbling in happy hour with many estrogen martinis and I don’t want this to turn into another mofo uterus entry, mostly because I’ve declared a moratorium on the speaking body parts. Yes. Save your emails. I don’t care. Don’t engage me when I’m in the mood either, missy. I don’t want to hear about it.

Just back away slowly. Weet is cranky.

And Weet is apparently taken with speaking of herself in third person.

So instead of hauling out the big words and the big ass sentences that all start with the same phrase, I brought my camera and took pictures. Because someone said they’d never seen a leaf. And that’s just wrong. Oh, and I don’t believe you, by the way.

Leaves.As I was driving around, I realized that’s been a long time since one of our cabin retreats. Esteban and I used to have a fall getaway around this time of year. Last year, however, it turned into a whirlpool hotel room in De Pere over the Fox River, the day after I got the hunk of wood in my butt, so it was rather subdued.

I think our efforts were stymied by The Incident. It’s been five years since the incident and only now has the gag order been lifted and I have been freed to tell the tale.

I used to be a retreat coordinator at a summer camp, which had the added perk of renting cabins for the weekend at a reduced rate. One fall weekend in October 1997, Esteban and I went up with Kim V and her husband God. We arrived late Friday afternoon. Esteban and I then realized that we had left our clothing sitting on the bed, so he went back home and fetched our bag, foreshadowing our stupidity for the rest of the weekend. It was unnaturally cold and we delighted in the fact that I had knowledge of the super secret stash of camp staff firewood. When you opened the door to the cabin, steam would roll out into the clearer-than-clear night air.

We slept the sleep of the dead that night, each in our little camper bunk beds, blissfully unaware of the events that would haunt us from that point forward.

That morning, we awoke, took our showers in the camper bathhouse (The Green Latrine, if you must know), each of us locking the door to assure that the perennial camper specter of Jason, the Ax Wielding Maniac, did not slaughter us in our ablutions. Because when you’re in a cheap camp slasher flick, you just know someone’s going to die when they head to the shower with their bath gel in hand. It’s a given.

My sister Mo showed up with her boyfriend Mike. We snacked upon some bagels and then embarked upon a trip across the lake to the sliding rock, which was a natural rock waterslide. We had a few ways to get to the rockslide. We could drive, which would have taken us about five minutes. We could hike, which would have taken us about three hours. Or we could go over water, which fulfilled my need to have an LL Bean moment and made me feel tough.

Knowing that Esteban did not appreciate canoes (we actually owned one for a time and he forbade anyone from breathing too much, as he was certain we would tip over and be eaten by monster muskellunge, our toe bones being pulled by anglers for years to come), I opted for the safe paddleboats. I had seen senior citizens in these things. They seemed easy. And we had three couples, thus the pairing was perfect. After making sure that everyone was properly equipped with PFDs (that’s Camp Counselor for Personal Floatation Device, by the way. Camp Counselors love acronyms even more than computer geeks), we chose our respective paddleboats and embarked out toward the other side of the lake.

Well, the other two boats embarked. Boat 12, manned by Esteban and myself, limped weakly out into the middle of the lake. Mo began to laugh while she leisurely paddled along,. Meanwhile, my ass was actually raising up out of the seat in order to put some weight behind the strokes, yet we merely inched along. About half way across the lake, sweating and huffing profusely (seriously, we were cranking the paddling), the Burgermeister came forth. “Why are we going across the lake?”

“To go to the sliding rock.”

“But it’s too cold to swim.”

“It won’t be too cold in the stream.”

“And it’s across the lake?”

“By that dam up there, yes.”

“Damn!”

“That’s what I said.”

“This is ridiculous. I don’t care about a sliding rock.”

“I don’t understand why this is so hard. It’s not that hard! I’ve seen eight year olds do this!”

“Well, maybe we’re too heavy?”

“But I’ve seen four people on these!”

“This sucks. Bring me back! I don’t care about the waterfall! I’m going to read my book”

Thus we turned around and began our slow return back towards camp. Except that we were still moving backwards with the inevitable sureness of a glacier. It seemed as though our only progress had been due to the fact that the slight breeze and the pull of the current toward the dam across the lake. Our olympic paddling had been for naught.

I asked God and KimVee to go back to camp and get canoe paddles. They put it into high gear and actually sped across the water. Their speed mocked us in our drift towards the dam on the other side.

Mike and Mo considered the idea of towing us back. They grabbed the rope on the corner of our boat (the one that is used to tie it to the dock) and attached it to the corner of their boat. Then they towed us in a perfect circle. You see, you cannot link two boats by the corners, as they make a little circle. It’s physics or something. I don’t know. Then Esteban decided that we should use the other rope and tie it to the other front corner of the boat.

This is when the Greek chorus should have started warning us of deaths at sea and the Scylla and Caribdys.

First, he stood up in the paddleboat. I should preface this maneuver by explaining that my spouse is physically very similar to the Great Pyramid of Giza… if you stood it upside down. Micheal Barisiknakov he is not. I think his center of gravity is somewhere in his throat. I forbade him from playing volleyball with us because he would topple over whenever the ball came anywhere near him. The football coach at his high school still actually get misty and frustrated, citing Esteban as the “one that got away”, as he is the exact physical specimen desired in an offensive line, with the exception of the extraneous IQ points.

After standing, he then put one foot on the other side of the peddles. On the side that said ‘No Sitting Or Standing’.

‘Don’t, honey! You’re going to tip the boat.’

‘You can’t sink this thing. It’s a paddleboat. They don’t sink.’

‘No, look! Look at how close the front is to the wat&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9-

At that moment, he put his weight on his right foot and lifted his left leg to step forward. The entire front of the boat tipped forward into the lake and green 36 degree water started to pour into the foot area. I scurried up to sit on the backrest and leaned off the back of the boat, trying to right the thing. The native loons and wood ducks were frightened by the barrage of foul words which were impressively amplified over the water, the source of which was now standing in frigid water and soaked Levis. He quickly hurried back to the seat, which was covered in water.

Just‘You can’t sink these.’ He said softly, as if the very words themselves would make it so.

Mike and Mo rowed closer and tried to throw their rope to us.

‘No, don’t!’ I tried, but at that point, it was like lighting a match in a rainstorm. He was bound and determined to prove that you could not actually sink a paddle boat.

‘Don’t worry! This boat is made of Styrofoam! It’s not going to&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9- At that moment, he stepped to the fore of the paddleboat and again, the entire front of the boat dipped under the surface of the water, this time filling the seating area completely with water. I hung off the back of the boat, trying helplessly to right it.

The good people of Mountain, WI still talk about the cacophony of four letter words that colored their Saturday morning years ago. It’s the legend of ‘You Can’t Sink It!’

Just then, one of my fellow counselors rowed by in a canoe. This fellow counselor was actually a brilliant, sardonic guy who had tried unsuccessfully to talk me out of accepting Esteban’s marriage proposal. In fact, this moment was the first time he had ever actually seen Esteban and you could almost see his internal confirmation that my betrothed was an idiotic tool.

‘Having trouble?’ He said.

‘No, we’re fine!’ I said cheerily, as though I had complete and utter control of the situation and perhaps this was part of a ‘Trouble on the Water’ scenario during a boating safety course.

‘It looks like you’ve got a problem.’ He pursued, trying not to laugh at Esteban’s obvious state of anger at the fact that a paddleboat is indeed sinkable.

‘Just a stupid kind of problem. It’s fine.’ I countered. He shrugged and politely rowed away.

We drifted toward a little peninsula that extended toward the middle of the lake. Esteban looked down into the water and could see weeds.

‘It’s not that deep here. I could jump out and go get the motorboat, then we could tow it back to camp.’

‘No, you’re right. That’s maybe five feet.’ Mike agreed.

‘That’s just an illusion. That’s not the bottom, Esteban. That’s the tops of some very very tall weeds. You’re not’ don’t!’ But it was too late. Despite the fact that I knew the geography of that lake very well, Esteban lowered himself over the side of the boat, proving once again that in the time of crisis, a consensus of male opinions will trump a female with experience and knowledge. He lowered himself over the side of the boat.

‘Can you touch bottom?’ Mike asked.

‘N-n-n-n-n-no.’ He chattered, the cold water immediately soaking through his clothes and shoes.

And that’s when he remembered that he couldn’t swim. And that the almost freezing water after all that paddling was making his muscles seize up tighter than a spandex miniskirt on a skinny bitch. Rather than admit that he was wrong, he grabbed the end of the other paddleboat and had them tow him to shore.

ThisKimVee and God then returned with two canoe paddles. I took one and proceeded to try to splash out the water. Finally, I used the paddle to steer myself more or less to the dock of someone’s cabin. KimVee jumped out and ran after Esteban to make sure he was ok while I sat on the dock and shivered, my pants wet up to my waist. I couldn’t see Esteban or KimVee, but I watched as the camp maintenance guy jumped into the motorboat and sped across the lake to the paddleboat.

‘Hey Weetabix’ trouble at sea?’ He grinned.

‘Yeah.’ I blushed. It was humiliating. I had a very in-charge persona at the camp, especially since I worked the weekends and was often the ‘in charge’ person, and to need to be essentially rescued was very embarrassing.

ThisHe hopped out of the boat and surveyed the paddleboat. With one impressive grunt, he lifted it out of the water and tipped the bilge into the lake. From my vantage point sitting on the dock, I got a lovely view of the underside of paddle mechanism, which was wrapped tightly with a ball of weeds, making the paddle completely worthless.

‘Want a lift back to camp?’ He asked, after hooking the boat to the back of the motorboat.

‘Nah, I’ll just walk’ I said, since our cabin was actually near the boarder of camp on that side of the lake and only about 75 yards away. Also, I could see the smug camp counselor sitting on the waterfront, waiting for me to return so that he could gloat over the fact that I was engaged to someone who subscribed to the White Star Line dogged optimism that a boat was unsinkable.

Thus, I trekked through the woods until only a smallish soupy bog stood between and the cabin. I could actually see the tartan print of the interior of my sleeping bag through the window. Luckily, there was a moss-covered log that spanned the wet ground.

No problem.

Once again, a Greek chorus would have been nice here.

Using a willow branch to steady myself across the soft somewhat rotted log, I made my way out across the bog. Once away from the 2 centimeter twig, however, my confidence was blown. I tentatively stepped out and my wet Ked shot off the moss and into the bog. And kept going. Until my right leg was submerged up to my thigh in dense black humus and my left leg was contorted and still hanging on the log.

This was not good. Right there. Not good at all.

ThisIt is at times like these that humans have been known to find extraordinary strength. Mothers have lifted cars off their children. Firemen have carried their partners out of burning buildings. And faced with the decision between either calling out for help and having someone find me submerged up to my muddy ass in what could possibly have been a plot on Gilligan’s Island or actually giving up the ghost and dying right there of shame, I somehow found the strength to hoist my ass up out of the sucking filth and back up onto the log. To this day I honestly don’t know how I did it. I mean, I could feel the cold wet earth in places only a female bikini mud-wrestler would understand, but apparently my left leg is one force to be reckoned with.

Once back on the relative safety of the mossy log, I had to make a choice. I could attempt to cross the log really fast by running across it, but with one wet shoe and one shoe which was now completely obliterated with black sludge, I was pretty sure that I’d simply make a rather spectacular dump into the mud, which already had a taste of a Curvy Round Sex Goddess and most assuredly wanted a second chance at claiming me for its own. Or I could walk all the way around the bog. Which I did, walking through dense brush and making a wide circle back to the cabin. Gah.

There I found Esteban, cranky but now changed into dry clothes, nestled in front of the fire reading his book. He wanted to do nothing but that, while I felt responsible for the other folks and was determined to not wallow in self-pity over the Drama On The High Seas. Thus, I threw on a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt and then led the crew to the archery range where we tried our hand at target shooting and archery. Shooting old Mountain Dew cans is excellent therapy. After that, we decided to do horseback riding. God opted to join Esteban in the cabin for some reading and fire time, and the rest of us went horseback riding, which was incredible. Then we all went to a nearby restaurant that was recommended by our horseback riding guide. There, we proceeded to get hammered on the local custom of Exceptionally Strong Old Fashioneds while we waited for a table. KimVee actually requested a plain glass of soda to mix into her drink and was met with the response ‘You’re not from around here, are you?’ Needless to say, I don’t remember much of the actual meal. But it was good. And I don’t remember much of the rest of the weekend. But that was good too.

And thus, the prime players of that fateful weekend have moved onward. Mike and Mo are no longer an item. God and KimVee got married and had a baby. Neither Esteban nor I have ever ventured into another paddleboat. But yet all of us carry the marks of that day somehow. Perhaps it is the root of a nightmarish dream of weeds and cold water. Perhaps a subtle shiver when passing a muddy field. But it’s there with us. Always. Waiting to shock us. The heart is a lonely paddleboat and the subconscious is a dank pit of wet earth that wants to bite you in the ass and give you mud babies.

Oh! The official winner of the Banner Contest:

John Howard and his fluttery rainbowy Chubby Tink, as seen here. I’m very flattered that the highest ranking man in Austrailia went through so much to make me a banner ad. Maybe he doesn’t realize that this won’t get his picture on a box of Weetabix. Because, you know, I have no power over such things. Anywhoo, congratulations Mr. Howard!

I’ll probably run at least one other of the entrants as well because I’m the judge and this is America and what do you think, the popular vote counts for anything? Ha! I’m thinking Chauffi 2, because it’s a big poop joke. And I do love me a good poop joke.

Filed in Diaryland | | Comments Off on Esteban is not king of the world

The requisite monthly non-funny entry

Saturday, October 12, 2002

Have you voted for your favorite banner ad yet? Polls are open until Midnight Saturday, CST.

A bit of leftover JournalCon stuff: Even though I’ve got enormous dark circles under my eyes and a nose that seems to go on forever, Kymm’s got apparently the only picture of me at JournalCon where I do not look like ‘Mountain of Journaler’ (TM JenFu, who was not talking about me, but I’m borrowing it because it’s appropriate). Man, that was a completely awkward sentence, but you know what I meant.

A bit of Bix Trivia, Kymm’s also got a picture that shows my hotel door, as she was staying in the room across the hall from mine. That’s my room 704 right there next to the fire box (which is where I would set my Venti Mochas while I dug for my keys in my bowling bag purse) and across from the Three Pictures Of Floral Vomit. And tell me, does that hotel NOT give off The Shining vibes? Seriously. If you stare at that picture long enough, a big flood of blood might come rolling down the hall.

I’m feeling much better. Still a little fragile, but Esteban reports that my ‘color’ is back. Apparently, I was a bit Victorian for the past three days, sans bustle and corset however. The miracle that is juice and chicken soup. I don’t care what anyone says, I believe almost ridiculously in the power of 100% juice. I drank 64 ounces yesterday, in addition to constant water. I’m surprised I’m not in a diabetic coma now. Maybe the color that is back is really just cranberries. Go juice!

Of course, the 12 plus hours of sleep last night probably helped as well. I woke up and demanded pancakes, which was a good thing because I haven’t been hungry recently and my jeans continue their downward pull off my hips. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I hope it sticks. I may try on the small pair of jeans that hasn’t fit in five years today. I’m feeling optimistic. Well, maybe not. Optimistic is not the same as insane.

It’s dark and rainy this morning. I headed out to the farmer’s market alone but it was already past 11 and raining, so most of the farmer types had long packed up. The folks left had mostly been picked over. I really only wanted a butternut squash, some honey crisp apples, and a nice pumpkin to carve Martha Stewart-esque leaf shapes into, but I walked out of there empty handed. Maybe next weekend I can haul myself out of bed in a timely manner. GD sloth. It’s such a pain in the ass deadly sin.

Then I met Esteban at the local ‘home style’ diner so I could have my weekend pancakes, as is my nature. Or three bites of pancake, which is really closer to the truth. I have big intentions in the morning, but I’ve never really been able to commit to them, honestly. You wouldn’t think by looking at me that I would leave so many half-finished plates of food in my wake, but it’s true. I’m a horrible wasteful thing. I think that might be a deadly sin as well, but at least I’m not gluttonous. Or not with pancakes, anyway.

After breakfast, Esteban went off to work because he is very industrious. I, on the other hand, scampered to Seroogy’s, because I have been craving their seasonal caramel apples like nobody’s business. I will likely have one for dinner. I’m a shameless hussy with their caramel apples. The caramel is homemade. Or ho-made, as they tend to write on their labels. Freaking gah. They’re still incredible so I suck up my abhorance of all things cutesy and buy them anyway. I picked up half a pound of original dark chocolate cashew ‘snappers’ (like turtles, but, you know, NOT) for Esteban, as it is his birthday tomorrow. He wants to go shopping together for his present next week sometime, but I wanted to be able to give him something tomorrow. I also impulsively purchased a raspberry truffle for myself to eat in the car, but I ended up taking one bite and then spitting it back out because it just wasn’t that good. What’s up with that? Spitting out perfectly good chocolate. I don’t recognize myself anymore.

I had a dream last night that I woke up and all of the leaves were gone, leaving tree skeletons that made eerie screams when the wind blew through them. I hate that moment, the almost imperceptible moment when the autumnal color has peaked and the leaves are falling unnoticed and there is more bare than tree up there.

Thus, I went for a drive because while it is dark and rainy, it’s such a perfectly beautiful quintessential autumn day that I just wanted to inhale it all. You can almost hear the sounds of a slowing tick tock as the season comes to a close. The rain makes the leaves stick on the road, as though some grand aesthetician has pasted them just so, and my tires on the road made sort of dither sound, spitting with the rain. It’s such a juxtaposition compared to last weekend in San Francisco where it is sunny and hip and bright and everything is very populated and molded by humanity and built to accommodate thousands of feet rushing over it.

Here, everything is very modest. The environment threatens to overtake everything if you’re not careful. It will consume you, in one way or the other. There are probably more animals than people. The landscape is incredible, barren and dispersed but also somehow lush and giving. This is what molds us. This is what gives us our stereotypical Midwestern friendliness. This is what sets us apart, good or bad. Something in the land, in the way that the silos stand sentry over us, season by season. Something in the way that squat little barns, the womb of any farm, huddle apologetically amidst the farmhouses and cows. And cows. And cows and cows and cows. Something in the way a dog will run, tail wagging, up a long driveway to see if you belong to him. Something in the way that sumac, the most plebian of weeds, becomes a roadside ditch peacock and reminds us that things that are beautiful are sometimes poison too. Something in the way we settle in, like it or not, until we’ve worn a groove into the earth. And we belong. We belong to this strange often-ridiculed land, the butt of jokes we don’t even understand, far more than it belongs to us. It’s the soil in which our family trees grow. It’s beneath our fingernails. That’s Wisconsin. That’s my Wisconsin.

It’s almost a given that I’ll hurl out a big introspective entry whenever I go for a long solo drive on a Saturday. It really begs the question’ does the drive cause the mood or the mood cause the drive. Gah.

Filed in Diaryland | | Comments Off on The requisite monthly non-funny entry

Too much HTML can make you sick.

Thursday, October 10, 2002

So, update on Aunt Brunhilda. Apparently, she’s stopped eating completely. She hasn’t been brought to justice for the identity fraud and we’re not sure if she realizes that they’re onto her yet, but she’s simply stopped eating. The woman only probably weighs 98 pounds soaking wet already. Maybe she’s going to try to go into hiding by standing sideways. Mafia Grandma is aware of this and was quoted as saying ‘She has a food demon.’ She’s said this before, actually. It’s all getting pretty interesting. I have this urge to pull up a bench and a bucket of popcorn to watch. But that is why I’m going to Hades. Not for dropping the Spirit Stick at JournalCon, but rather because I relish family drama. But I’ll probably be blamed for this all somehow. Like because she was afraid she might catch fat from me or something. Man, Tennessee Williams has nothing on my family. NOTHING, I say!

I think I’m sick. I’ve been alternately hot and cold for the last twenty-four hours and now I have a headachey-turned-backachey thing going on. I think Bev and I shouldn’t have been making out at JournalCon.

Oh, no, we didn’t. Cripes. Don’t believe everything you read on the internet.

But seriously, I suspect that the elevators somehow made me sick. For mocking their garrulous color scheme and their music ‘Songs To Commit Serial Crimes To’.

Thus, because I am sick, I made honest to goodness chicken soup tonight, with carrots, celery (from the salad bar in the grocery store, so I wouldn’t have to wield sharp instruments too long, as I might have fainted and then impaled myself, proving my belief that I will die in the stupidest manner possible, such as Death By Celery Chopping), white mushrooms, red cabbage, red peppers, onions, tons of garlic, chicken breasts, broccoli slaw (going for the nutrients there), enoki mushrooms, and Italian parsley. Yum. I made something like 20 servings, although I know that only I will be eating it. Esteban is in Miami right now. It sucked. He left, he came back, I left, I came back, he left, I made soup. It is the cycle of life. Elton John and Tim Rice should write a song.

Damn, would you shut that window, it’s FREEZING in here!

Gah, remind me never to do two html-intensive entries in a row. This crap is giving me a headache. Like, I don’t want to even look at the diary for awhile after the last two entries.

Here’s the long awaited banner ad contest. Participants will not only receive the additional hits on their page, but will also receive some leftover JournalCon Weetaswag if you send me your address. (And yes, I know that I already promised one half of the Two Bobs a thing of blue Doh because he helped me deal with Adobe when I was making the labels, so I’ll throw a little something extra in yours so you don’t pout too much, b. )

Bill

Chauffi 1

Chauffi 2

John Howard 1

John Howard 2

Louise (who as far as I know did not send me a link to a website)

LoveInVein

Sarabeth

Sundry:

Sexy Chula

Two Bobs #1

Two Bobs #2

Go vote in the comments section. You have no more than three days. Once again, the judges have the final say in the matter. And don’t be a big cheating poopy head and vote more than once. It’s just a goofy contest. It’s not worth the bad karma, people. Be good girl and boy scouts. And then bring me my heating pad and some more orange juice.

Oh. And the remote too. I gots to watch my TiVo’d episode of Soap.

Filed in Diaryland | | Comments Off on Too much HTML can make you sick.

I left my ass in San Francisco

Tuesday, October 8, 2002

I am so very tired.

JournalCon has thoroughly kicked my ass. I’ve somehow resprained my ankle. None of my pants are staying up anymore. I feel as though I’ve been beaten by a group of toddlers wielding pillowcases filled with pennies. Gah.

Too tired from her vacation, poor Weetabix! It just makes your heart bleed, non?

So JournalCon.

Eleanor We ate dinner on Friday at the Golden Phoenix. That’s probably why I’m so tired because dinner took no less than three weeks, during which time Chauffi and I spent being extraordinarily snarky to each other and defying etiquette (Bev wrote about it best here, and yes, Chauffi and I would be the people who refused to ‘eat it like a taco’, although I think the fault really lies to Chauffi there. Because’. Just because he’s so evil. No, he isn’t really. Wait. Yes. Yes, he is.) Oh, that’s Eleanor wearing the Official Best Shirt at JournalCon2002. I hope I can be like Eleanor when I grow up. Or at least dress as well as she does.

MoPie As evidence to my incredible stamina, I did manage to socialize after dinner at the Irish Bank until roughly 10:01 pm (which, to be fair, WAS after midnight on my internal clock and quite impressive when you consider that I was up at 3:30 Friday morning.)

Wrote the previous really awful entry because my mind was reeling from the day’s events and then passed out in a food coma.

Screw the ‘chicken in every pot’, I want a Starbucks on every street corner!

On Saturday morning, I skipped down the block to Starbucks (god, I NEED a Starbucks nary a block from my home! My life would be so much more vibrant, let me tell you!) and then attended some of the incredible journaling panels. Coming Poor Sars had had a nasty experience the night (I’ll let her tell you about it, though) so I gave her some Playdoh. She smiled. In that moment, all of the schlepping, the scheming and hauling 43 pounds of Weetadoh around various airports were worth it because it made her smile, despite a truly horrible evening.

Never underestimate the power of Doh.

After the panels and a quick lunch with several notables from the Journaling community at the mall adjacent to the hotel, Chauffi and I visited the Castro and then went to visit the hippy Mecca, Haight Asbury. It was very very cool. It reminded me of Madison, only without the cheese factor. This was legit quirkiness all rolled up in a Grateful Dead poncho with no apologies for being Midwestern. I did a little shopping, broke from Operation Hottie to enjoy a Chocolate Peanut Butter Truffle ice cream from Ben & Jerry’s (shockingly I’ve never been to a B&J’s, so it was a day of firsts) on the famous corner of Haight and Asbury. We also visited a leather store and got squicked out when we saw a case of scary metal implements. I recognized the speculum, as they visit me in my nightmares on a fairly regular basis, but there were some wiggy metal hook things that we just didn’t want to even KNOW what they might be for, therefore we fled with our modicum of innocence still intact.

World's Then we went to a store which I’ve forgotten the name, but it could very well be my favorite store in the world, full of eclectic retro kitsch and goofiness. Upon entering the store, I saw some bowling bag purses. $19. I started to walk past them because I’m a marinator when I shop. I don’t instantly grab things I want. But these purses. Oh the purses. They were incredible. I instantly fell in love and grabbed a light pink one. Because it was the best. Then, strangely enough, I found myself attracted to a wall display of retro refrigerator magnets. Not that I need refrigerator magnets, not that ANYONE needs refrigerator magnets, but these were very cool. BecauseI ended up with a set of four photos of vintage business signs. It wasn’t until I was back in the car and taking a closer look that I realized one of the signs in the retro magnet pack is actually the sign for a motel in Green Bay which I pass every morning on my way to work. It’s sad that I buy a souvenir from Haight Asbury and it ends up being a picture of something in Green Bay. Sad but funny. By the way, the strange picture to the left is the INSIDE of the world’s cutest purse. My digital camera decided that you needed to see that.

(I’m writing this on the plane and the stewardess just offered me wine and then apologetically said ‘You’re 21, right? You look very young.’ I started to laugh and said ‘I’m 31.’ And her eyebrows shot up and she said ‘Wow! I was thinking maybe 22 or 23.’ While she’s probably simply myopic or just outright lying, it still rocked my world. And the strange thing is that I have this incredible urge to catalog those little events, as they become fewer and fewer. Each time, I think ‘that one might be the last time’ and savor it. Girls are silly. Girls afraid of looking old are even sillier. I used to laugh at those Estee Lauder products that declared youth in a bottle for the low price of $59, but now I’m starting to think that suspending the process, if not only by a few precious years, isn’t such a bad idea. But perhaps that’s because I spent the last 73 hours in a very shallow town, staring at women on the street who probably weigh in the same as a healthy eight-year-old.)

Chauffi and I had a fabulous dinner near Union Square. We split an incredible bacon and Gorgonzola salad and a wild mushroom pizza. I guzzled two Cosmopolitans in short order. Then we apparently encountered a cultural gap between the Midwesterners and West Coasters. When Chauffi asked for our bill, I whipped out my credit card to hand it to the waiter. A look of horror passed over both their faces. It was almost as though I had whipped out a decapitated head of a cocker spaniel puppy. It seems as though there is a bill ritual that must be followed in California. They must examine. Perhaps they mull over the philosophical ramifications and the class distinctions between themselves and the service industry. In the Midwest, or at very least in Green Bay, we are uncomfortable with acknowledging that we are not eating in a friend’s home and are actually paying for the food. We want it over as quickly as possible. We don’t examine the check. We pay it and then try to put it behind us, as one would with the flush of a toilet.

I’d like to teach the world to sing’ in perfectly awful harmony

They're

We went to Karaoke in Japantown. We were the first wave of JournalConvicts to hit the Laser Karaoke bar and were a bit dismayed to find the karaoke songbooks filled with Japanese songs. It's Not just Japanese songs, the titles themselves were written IN JAPANESE. After scouring the book, we discovered four songs in English. An Aerosmith, a Janet Jackson, a Debbie Gibson (‘Lost in your eyes’, if you must know) and something by Faith Hill. The name of that one was in Japanese, but the artist was Faith Hill, so I’m not entirely certain which particular brand of Faith Hill putrescence it was. My best friend MoPie (not to be confused with my sister Mo) led the second wave and quickly procured us the English Song Books. I was very pleased to discover that there was extremely little country karaoke, my most hated of things. Chauffi explained that Californians hate country music, which made me love California instantly. They eat like me, they have cute stores and merchandise, and they hate country music. Now if only they’d embrace the kind of women who can actually menstruate, let alone have a non-angular body, I might consider moving.

MoPie The bar had a two-drink minimum. I ordered a Blind Russian, which confused the Japanese middle-aged lady bartender.

‘White Russian?’

‘BLIND Russian.’

‘Brind Russian? That like White Russian?’

‘No, not quite. Instead of cream in the White Russian, you put in Bailey’s Irish Cream.’

‘OooooooOOOOOOOOOoooooooh!’ Obviously she was quite impressed with the magic that was the Brind Russian.

We learned that it would cost $2 a song to do Karaoke. That shocked me. You have to pay to sing? I sincerely hope this does not trend to the Cute Boy bar or the Ass Splinter bar, because I will be quite put out.

John Scalzi, who has a name that just rolls off your tongue like the finest poetry, showed up with the third wave of diarists and graciously paid for the first 10 songs, leading with the first song. John Chauffi sang and incredible rendition of ‘Playmate of the Year’, dedicated to MoPie. The bar was so very small that you could just sing without the microphone, so he actually serenaded her at one point from the middle of the bar. It was a bit of magic that will likely go down in the JournalCon annals, if there is such a thing. He should consider a lounge act in Vegas. It could be big, I’m telling you, baby! HUGE!

Chauffi, Lisa, John Scalzi The and I performed ‘Dancing Queen’, complete with ABBA-esque choreography. My pants kept falling off my ass. Gah. I can’t wait to see the pictures. I realize that it’s very difficult to hear the sarcastic tone of voice there, but believe me, that sentence is so dripping with it that you may want to take a squeegee to your monitor. I’m just saying. Scalzi then treated us to an incredible rendition of George Micheal’s ‘Faith’, complete with bootie-shaking. Of course, I snapped the picture for posterior’ er, posterity.

(Mmmmm’ they just served the freshly baked still warm chocolate chip cookies. You’ve just gotta love Midwest Express.)

Most Surreal Moment

I stopped by Glitter and Kymm’s hotel room, right across the hall from my own and invited them to dinner, Kymm perked up and pointed at my necklace.

‘Oooooh, are those the Ass Splinter pearls?!?!’

They were indeed. Had this come from someone else, I might have been squicked. But I wasn’t. Instead, it was just surreal.

That having been said, I must clarify that there was no dorkiness from Karen when we met at all. She’s the portrait of style and casual grace. Don’t believe her for a second.

Sunday’s At 7

On Sunday morning, I woke up nice and early and went out in search of coffee and Band-Aids with Chauffi as my sneakers had been unkind to my feet. After sucking down our caffeine and finding the Walgreen’s near the hotel closed, we walked down a few blocks to another Walgreen’s, passing no less than four more Starbucks along the way. I love the way they think in California. It’s almost as though someone read my mind when they designed that city. No, I lie. If they had, there would be fewer freaking hills. Hills’Gah. Perhaps cliffs and precipices would be more accurate. I’m used to gentle, rolling glacially smoothed hills. The streets of San Francisco are angry. They obviously have issues with the people walking on them. They want them to pass out and perhaps even die.

How Many Diarists does it take to Confuse the Elevators?

The elevators at the Galleria were strange. First of all, they were covered in a rather hot pink fabric. Secondly, they had rather amorphous music piped into them, music which very possibly could be the soundtrack to Hell. And finally, they were the most temperamental pieces of machinery I’ve ever seen. We watched as a gaggle of senior citizens stuffed themselves into the elevator, ignoring the sign which stated that there was a limit of four people in the elevator. Not only was there a limit, but if you stepped rather jubilantly into the elevator, it wouldn’t budge. You had to then dance with it, sending members of the party off the elevator and then back on. Mo set off the alarm at one point, undoubtedly shocking Pigwidgeon into a quick recovery. The seven senior citizens simply stood in the elevator, scratching their heads, then arguing about who should get out of the elevator. Meanwhile, it blithely played a lovely piece of endless Muzak which apparently was priced by the note, as it was a tune made up of only C, B flat and G. I think it was to lull you into a false sense of security.

On Monday morning, I waited for the elevator to take me down from the seventh floor. And waited. And waited. Finally, I decided that I could walk down, and in doing so, passed little groups of confused older folks who persisted in waiting for elevators which would never open. When I passed the third floor, the alarms started to go off, signaling that folks were trapped in both the elevators. I can think of no worse punishment’ that glaring pink fabric.

I really ache for the person who wrote that music, although I suspect he’s one of those self-righteous folks in high school who was adored by teachers, always wore gym socks with black loafers, and now lived in a meticulously clean little anal-retentive home, writes these horrible bits of mediocrity on a Casio keyboard in a walk-in closet that he calls his ‘studio’ and still wears gym socks with black loafers. But maybe I’m being too harsh.

No, But I’m Flattered. Really.

This conversation took place, in one form or another, no fewer than five times over the weekend:

‘Are you the Poundy Wendy?’

‘No, I’m the Weetabix.Diaryland.com Wendy.’

‘Are you sure you’re not Wendy from Poundy?’

‘No, I’m a different fat girl named Wendy.’

I thought it was funny, but it was likely very off-putting. Chauffi is right. I really am a bitch sometimes.

Further Proof that the Galleria Park Hotel might have been the inspiration for The Shining

Lunesse After some more incredible panels, Chauffi and I went to the rooftop garden to practice our readings, ignoring the sign which said that the garden was closed on Sundays because the door was unlocked, so hey, must be a lie. We sat up in the lovely garden and laughed in all the right places at each other’s pieces. Feeling satisfied that we would not give an ass-like reading, we tried to leave the garden.

Locked. But wait, I had the key! The key that would have led us to freedom if the door had not been deadbolted from the other side.

We tried to be creative and find an alternate route of escape. Nothing. They were locked as well. Chauffi, being all James Bond and clever, whipped out his cellphone and called the front desk and someone rescued us, after admonishing us for ignoring the sign. But perhaps the blame should go to the person who had obviously deadbolted the door without checking to see if anyone was outside, hmmm?

Mind if I stalk you?

We then decided to do Dim Sum for lunch, but since Dim Sum comes in fours, we would see if any of our new friends wanted to join us. We went into the main conference room and schmoozed.

Selilavie has applied to be my stalker. We’ve got many applicants (oh golly, this cracked me up), so we’ll keep her resume for consideration. It can be a very hard job, as I live in a cold climate and it requires many hours standing outside my window and tracking my movements, but it is very upwardly mobile. After all, look what it has done for Chauffi, who is now my PA.

Oh, and I talked to Pamie.

EEEEEEEEEEEE!

Pamie! She’s very nice and simply oozes a sense of something I can only describe as ‘approachable cool.’ And she said she has actually visited this page, which almost made me stop breathing because I always feel like apologizing whenever I meet anyone who reads this thing. Hez assures me that I didn’t make a complete spaz of myself and there was only a tiny bit of effusive fawning. And then I talked with the very lovely AB who should be a politician or something because it’s simply impossible not to fall immediately in love with her. She told me that Jelias told her to say hi to me, which is actually the same message I was going to pass onto her from Jelias as well, so it was opportune that we could pass along the mutual ‘hello’s from our friend Jelias.

Chauffi, Hez and I then scootled (and yes ‘scootled’ is SO a word so just hush!) to a great place for Dim Sum, but found it missing in action. I whined about the trek back to Chinatown so we hopped a cable car (Rice A Roni, the San Francisco treat! Ding Ding!). Chauffi hung off the side, because he is brave and young and has complete disregard for the angry streets of San Francisco. We had lunch at a place that claimed they had Dim Sum, but really they only had appetizers that they called Dim Sum. It wasn’t the Dim Sum experience of many steaming carts of strange dumplings and ground unidentifiable meats. Even still, it was incredible. We split a chicken salad, a huge caldron of hot & sour soup, an order of the plate of pseudo-Dim Sum, and an order of lemon chicken, which sadly did not come with the parsley that made it taste so yummy at the Golden Phoenix on Friday night. It was still the best Chinese food I’ve had in, oh, centuries. I’m beginning to realize that the Chinese food we have in Wisconsin is to Chinese food as Taco Bell is to Mexican food. Gah.

(The pilot just told us that we’re flying over South Dakota. If you’re reading from South Dakota, I just waved at you.)

Kymm We went back to give our readings. Chauffi brought down the house with his reading of his Zen and Dip A Chip, which is one of my favorites of his diary. Kymm had a very humorous entry about Vincent D’Onofrio’s poor choices in movies and sweaters. And then I read the original Uterus entry, with a little help from MoPie, who read the Weetabix lines, and I those of the reproductive organ. It was fun.

And then JournalCon 2002 was officially concluded.

Sniffle.

Promise to write?

We all settled in the leather chair and fireplace area of the lobby and chatted with Glitter, (about my visit with BadSnake),PAs MoPie, Jen, and JenFu, who enjoyed swatting me with a fly swatter from Mighty Kymm.Chauffi fell asleep on the chair, echoing the sentiments of all of us. JenFu was giving neck massages.

It was all very ‘last day of summer camp’ and poignant, as most folks were leaving right away. I had this urge to give out friendship bracelets that I made in Arts & Crafts. Luckily, we all work in this incredible medium which allows us to preserve parts of ourselves for all to see (which is something that Pamie talked about in her panel’ she’s so incredibly philosophical and yet kicks ass so entirely much! I’m not going to’.wait, one last time’ EEEEEE!) so it’s not the end, just a lesser level. Mwah!And then I said adieu to Chauffi and embarrassed him with my Midwestern sentimentalities. I can’t help it. Sometimes I’m a complete and utter sap.

All by Mysellllllllllllllf

Then I went up to my hotel room and took a brief nap, until my growling tummy woke me up. I went for a walk with my Canon, loaded with black and white film, in Chinatown, where I scored some cheapass trinkets for the folks back home, including a Gundam Wing lunch box for Esteban. I snapped a few b&w’s and missed an excellent shot of a little girl wearing a plaid skirt doing Irish dancing illuminated by a single floodlight in the doorway of a shop where everything was lettered in Chinese. Her parents admonished her for causing a racket and gave me a harsh glance. They probably thought I was some freak, trying to whip out my big awkward lens and then wait for the perfect moment when cars weren’t zooming into the shot. Ah well. It's

I walked until I was tired again and then headed back to the hotel, still hungry. There, I made further friends with the men working the front desk. One of them ran down to bring me soda from their staff room because it was only fifty cents down there. They were ordering Italian, so they asked if I wanted to piggyback my order onto theirs, or I could order wherever and they would get it delivered. I took their recommendation and ordered lasagna and a side Caesar salad. Again, I screwed up the money thing, as I tried to give it to the desk guy and he got all nervous about it. Damn me and my midwestern faux pas! I’m plagued by Wisconsin. Or as we in Wisconsin apparently would say ‘wisCAHNsin’. Anywhoo, the food from the Italian place was divine, although apparently I should have specified a PIECE of lasagna and not the entire pan of lasagna, Even though I was absolutely famished, I could only muster through half the order before I surrendered the leftovers to the trash. I drank my two sodas with Absolut (drinking alone in a hotel room, my drunken mama would be so very proud) and then crashed into a lovely vodka coma.

This morning was filled with packing and tying up loose ends. I went to Jamba Juice and got a veritable bucket of orange juice (LOVE the Jamba!!! Need one of those in Green Bay too, preferably right next door to my house) and an egg, spinach and havarti English muffin. Then I walked along with Hez and her mom to a ‘new’ Starbucks (one I had not yet been to), nary one block in a different direction from our hotel. It was so comforting to know that if I ever got lost in that city, I would never be more than a hundred yards from a steaming nonfat venti vanilla mocha. This time, however, I got some juice (because I had hoped to sleep on the plane, although I seem to be just spending my in-air time writing this entry) and a mini angel food cake to nibble upon while we chatted. Then back to the hotel, said goodbye to Hez and then walked for a big bottle of water at the corner store. I’ve been seriously low on fluids this weekend. I haven’t been drinking even close to my normal 1.5 gallons of water and after each of our treks through the angry streets, have been sweating more than Trading Spaces Frank in a room full of broken ceiling fans.

And then there was one’.

On my final descent in the wacked elevators, I got my first chance to talk with Steve (who takes some INCREDIBLE photos, by the way, and I strongly urge you to check them out). He told me that Chuck said hi and was disappointed that he couldn’t make it. (Hi right back at you Chuck! I’m sorry you couldn’t make it either and would have loved to have said hi in person). Steve was the JournalCon Survivor, being the last remaining Journalist, leaving around 3:00, beating out Amanda and bumping me down to the Rudy position of third place. Amanda and I shared a Lincoln Town Car (hey, go out in STYLE, baybee!) to the airport. She’s a sweetheart. Love her. But I do fear her musk candy.

I’m struck by something one of my coworkers said to me the day before I left, as she accused me of always jetting off everywhere (so not true, by the way’ the last time I was on a plane was in January 2001). She said ‘It’s just that’ your life is so’. Very. It’s just that. Very.’ My life is indeed very. And I really like it that way.

Anywhoo, my laptop is growing dim, we’re going to be landing soon, and airplane tards keep walking to the bathroom and bumping the seat ahead of me into the monitor, which pisses me off to no end, so I’m outtie.

Filed in Diaryland | | Comments Off on I left my ass in San Francisco

No sleep makes for a strange entry

Friday, October 4, 2002

I’m sitting in row 11 seat A on Midwest Express flight something or other. I was supposed to have been in seat 7D, sitting next to a very nice continental woman with a miscellaneous European accent. She was tiny. Maybe she was from Lilliput. Not sure. I do know one thing’ I hate typing on my mofo laptop keyboard. I keep turning on the caps lock. I’m a fast typist, about 70-80 words a minute, and I’m accustomed to typing on a wavy ergonomic keyboard.

The flight attendant looks like Beverly DiAngelo and she’s pissed at me because I swapped seats. My fruit plate was delivered to the European lady, whom I’m certain was happy to have it. I’ve just been served champagne and we have turbulence so I put my glass in my coffee cup, which is a good thing because my half-full glass just sloshed over everything. I called my mom this morning from Milwaukee’s airport. I had hoped to reach my little brother Jonathon before he went to school, but I wasn’t fast enough. It’s his birthday tomorrow and I forgot to tell him that I’d be missing it, cavorting with the online diarist community in San Fran. Instead, my mom told me that she had a dream about me last night. She dreamed that she was reaming me out because I’ve been ‘ignoring them’, as if we’ve been at cocktail parties and I’ve snubbed them repeatedly or something. Then she thought that maybe she had become a psychic friend because in her dream, I had missed Jonathon’s birthday too and she was yelling at me about that as well. I need to go pee, but the mofo drink cart is in the way. Gah.

The continental woman is cold. She is wearing a coat and already has a blanket but she just asked for another one. Maybe her little people world is closer to the sun.

Just had a thought for a song like it’s all about the benjamins but instead it’s all about the vitamins.

Ok, that was written on the plane with zero sleep. Esteban came home last night at midnight from his plane ride home from Atlanta. I was trying to sleep but couldn’t because I was too jazzed on the JournalCon thing. Finally, I realized that I had to wake up in something like ninety minutes, which immediately made me tired. Then I had crises about what to wear, what to do about the three spontaneous zits that appeared in eight hours, and how I was going to wrangle 56 tubs of PlayDoh into already maxxed luggage. What to wear: jeans, Tinker Bell tee exchanged about five minutes before I left for a plain white $7-turned$2.96 t-shirt and a red hoodie. What to do with the three zits: suck it up and be ugly and proud. What to do about the 56 tubs of PlayDoh? Stuff 40 into one of Esteban’s Novell swag backpacks and forget about it.

I of course, couldn’t sleep on the plane. My laptop gave out right about the same time that my creativity did, which is just as well anyway because I was pretty much using it only to play solitaire and listen to Me First and the Gimme Gimme MP3s. Then I had to listen to the ancient pair of tourists behind me expound about the parts of the United States that they expected we were going over at that point. ‘Why, that’s Tulsa, yes, I recognize it from 12,000 feet, I think I see Marge Schmidt’s house. She always did like such garish colors.’ I tried to sleep at that point but it was disturbing. I swear as God as my witness at one point, the man told his wife that we were going over the Florida Panhandle. I know. People are strange.

Oh! Today’s most momentous occasion: after almost a year of emails and talking on the phone, Chauffi and I met face to face. He picked me up at the airport, like a very good PA. And he had a chilled bottle of Dasani waiting for me in his car. That rocked my world. I’m getting misty right now thinking about it. Because we had priorities, he brought me shopping. I had my very first IKEA experience. It was so very fun. I bought two lamps for something like $8 a piece, a magnetic knife rack (again, $6) and some other stuff. Chauffi found a neat little metal lunchbox. We then went to Trader Joes, where I scoured some McCann’s Irish Oatmeal and some other oddities. Then off to drive around San Francisco, where we scouted out the Real World house, site of numerous Puck lugies and Pedro’s last few months. We drove down Lombard street, which is really honestly just ridiculous. That would be a suicide chute if they had snow here. I checked into the hotel and hung out with the Con folks. Met a lot of people. Saw Pamie (EEEEEE!), met MoPie and hugged immediately, because she’s my best friend and all. I also got to meet her poor ailing little Pigwidgeon. MoPie, Chauffi and I went tooling around downtown, in search of a Starbucks. A man with strange facial hair accosted us. It was my fault really. I made eye contact. I can’t help it. I’m from the Midwest. We’re a friendly people. Then we went to Starbucks where we ate lovely sandwiches and drank Iced Tea and tried unsuccessfully to get on the internet using Chauffi’s laptop. After a lovely light lunch, MoPie then went back to the hotel to do official Con stuff while Chauffi and I walked all over everywhere. I went to Urban Outfitters, Anthropologie,

Apparently, I embarrassed Chauffi when we stopped at French Connection United Kingdom to pick up a t-shirt as a gift. I picked up the medium shirt and went to check out. A very friendly little salesgirl asked if I needed a fitting room. Feeling extremely large in California in general (there is a significant lack of curvy round kind of people in this state), especially in a store geared for the fashion model type, I jokingly held the little tiny babydoll t-shirt up to my chest and said ‘I don’t know. Don’t you think it will fit?’ and then laughed. Chauffi said I was being mean. Then I had guilt. But then she said ‘So you’re from out of town?’ which I’m certain she meant in a friendly way, but still. Gah.

I’ve been awake for 22 hours at this point. I could have packed the remaining Playdoh in the bags under my eyes. I have so much more to write about. I have laughed more in the last ten hours than possibly in the last month. Also, it’s super to hang out with someone who is just as snarky as you are. It means that I’ll have company when I go to hell. The rest will have to wait. I don’t think I’m making sense anymore. Gah.

Filed in Diaryland | | Comments Off on No sleep makes for a strange entry

A weekend is nothing without 14 different shirts

Thursday, October 3, 2002

Gah. I might just be lapsing into JournalCon-induced insanity.

I had a big luggage trauma a few days ago. My luggage was all too large. I kept thinking about how I’d be carting around the suitcase equivalent of a mobile home and how I’d have to slap a Wide Load sticker on the back of it and how Chauffi would pick me up from the airport and it would be too big to even fit in his Saab and we’d hitch it to the car somehow and head out onto the highway and then it would explode, strewing my very cute panties all over the California landscape. Because if you didn’t already think that girls are crazy, there’s your proof, right there.

I called my Mom-In-Rock, June, and pouted and whined. She offered her lovely medium sized suitcase. I was happy. It was the holy grail of luggage. It would give me ample room for three days of clothes, 50 plus tubs of PlayDoh, and my down pillow and also leave room for San Francisco shopping booty. Yes. Life is grand!

Then I packed.

I need a bigger suitcase.

There’s no way I can fit my pillow in right now along with all that PlayDoh. Or maybe I don’t need three pairs of jeans, a pair of dress pants, a pair of cargo shorts, a pair of capris, a dress, two different pairs of jammies, a sweater, a sweatshirt, a hoodie sweatshirt, my rock star jacket, and something like fourteen different shirts for 72 hours, unless there will be a fashion montage scheduled somewhere in that time.

I think it’s the strangeness of it all. I don’t normally have such an issue with packing. When I went to London, I could have fit everything into one suitcase and I was there for an entire summer. But this time, I’m going across the country to hang out with people I’ve never met. Alone. Gah. It’s anxiety-inducing and apparently clothing is my security blanket.

Oh, but one cool thing. I apparently purchased the world’s best brassiere last week. I tried it on last night while packing and could only stand in front of the mirror and stare, slack jawed. I had somehow been transformed and now had the world’s most perfect breasts. The cleavage was incredible. I think even I wanted me. If anyone has any doubts of my self-proclaimed title Curvy Round Sex Goddess, I can invite them to take a gander at these super breast twins of badness and they will know the truth. If there were a Weetabix action figure, these would be her breasts.

A coworker pointed out that I name every piece of clothing I own. Not entirely true. Just the clothes I like. Therefore I’m naming this bra the Dayam!Bra.

I ran around in a delirium for most of last night, packing, eating a very adult dinner of a bowl of cereal eaten out of a Gladware container because I didn’t want to wash a real bowl, and doing laundry, until I changed into my new long pajamas and then collapsed into bed to rewatch my TiVo’d Buffy episode. I got halfway through it before I paused it to go throw some Shout Wipes into my bag. Then I got back into bed, only to pause it again to put an asthma inhaler and my leather-bound journal in my PC bag. Then I took a look at the bed and decided that I had entirely too much to do, so I figured that I might as well just sit there and make Weetaswag.

I threw my Birkenstocks on and trudged out to my car and retrieved several dozen tubs of PlayDoh. Then, as I was walking back into the house, arms completely overburdened, I felt my pajama bottoms start to slip. My new pajamas do not have elastic in the pants but are instead tied with a black satin ribbon. Which I apparently had only half-heartedly tied during my most recent bathroom stop. I tried to walk bent over but that made the bottoms fall even faster. Then as I lifted my leg to go up the porch steps, I felt the cold night air assault my bottom. I was giving my neighborhood the Curvy Round version of the Coppertone Ad. Luckily, it was rather late at night and it was raining so the aging hippy dad across the street didn’t get a free show of Nude Butt Ascending Staircase. Gah.

Esteban is in Atlanta today. He’ll be back tonight at midnight and then I’m leaving at 5 a.m. tomorrow. He joked that perhaps he should just sleep on a bench for a couple of hours at the airport and then I could just hand off my car keys when I arrived a few hours later. Joel will be picking him up so that I don’t miss any sleep tonight as I anticipate being awake for something like 24 hours on Friday. Ward will be driving me to the airport tomorrow like the wonderful Dad he is.

I know I said that I’d be posting the much anticipated Banner Ad contestants today, but I just haven’t had time to do all the formatting and linking and stuff, so it’s going to wait. I’ll probably do it in the airport or on the plane and post from JournalCon. Maybe. It’s very possible that I won’t post until Tuesday when I get back. If so, have a super weekend and make sure to tie those pajama bottoms tight!

Filed in Diaryland | | Comments Off on A weekend is nothing without 14 different shirts

The Unbearable Lightness of Being a Hottie

Tuesday, October 1, 2002

I woke yesterday and had that languid kind of relaxed non-rushed feeling. It was a weekend feeling, transplanted to 7 am Monday morning, a rare thing indeed, especially when my day was due to be filled with a long conference call, a frantic search for a tailor to possibly take in my Scully suit, and a big spreadsheet that I’m filling in slowly and surely, one cell at a time from a bazillion other spreadsheets.

I ended up donning my Hottie Jeans (TM), sneakers (which are like Keds and not like Reeboks or New Balances, in case there was any confusion), and a plain white t-shirt (one of the cache of $3 t-shirts that June purchased for me… I heart my Mother-In-Law. In fact, she’s a Mother-In-Rawk.). Then I floofed up my hair (which is sexier than fluffing), pinned a rhinestone barrette in place, and took a gander in the mirror.

I was right sexy. Damn.

I did a little hip hip wiggleness. Man! Look at me! Sometimes I am so incredibly cute I can barely stand it.

I went to work and proceeded to garner compliments left and right. I talked to Penny for a bit and she adored my jeans, and then made me turn around so she could check out my butt. And what a butt it was. I’m not often filled with butt self-love, but yesterday, my butt was working it. It was winking at boys and they were asking to buy it drinks. It was up on the bar, dancing with the bartender and the club owners. The DJs were asking me if they could make a mix tape for my butt. Roadies were approaching my butt and asking if it wanted to meet the band backstage or maybe go back to the hotel for drinks afterwards. Peter Gabriel wrote a song about it called “Above Her Thighs” and then John Cusack came and stood outside its bedroom window, holding a boombox playing that song over his head.

In other words, the Hottie Jeans are a good thing.

I explained to Pennilicious that the jeans with their swooshy boot cut legs and weathered stripy looking things down the front and back, combined with the itty bitty shiny barrettey made me feel as though I were sixteen years old. Penny gave me a puzzled look.

Then I declared “I could be sixteen. I’m cuter now than I was when I was sixteen.”

“Well, maybe 18,” she offered. I ignored her completely.

Then Carissa came by and immediately volunteered “Wow! Look at you! So cute!”.

“I look sixteen, don’t I?” I asked hopefully.

“Maybe 20.” She replied diplomatically.

You’ve just got to love friends who are willing to play to your delusions but still honest enough to not let you go completely over the deep end. And honestly, I’ve got way bigger hooters now than I did when I was sixteen. And am not struggling to pass the road test or get the cute yet geeky senior with the dreamy eyes to look my way. Although had I known what I know now, I probably would have walked up to Chuck and said “Look, Chuck, I know you’re probably shy but how about you and I go to a movie this Saturday night? And maybe if you smell good, I’ll let you chew on my lips later.” and not wait until he drew many comic book monsters and superheroes, filling an entire page in my yearbook, before I realized too late that we’d been staring longingly at each other all year but had been too shy to do anything. Gah.

If only I had the Jeans of Hotness then. My life would have been so entirely different. I would have had left a trail of shy adorable cute boys in my wake. I could have had computer viruses named after me. I could have been somebody.

Nah. It was probably God’s way of equalizing out the world. If I had been all Hottie Boom Bottie at the tender age of sixteen, rather than the not-as-tender-yet-not-tough-like-shoe-leather age of 31, I might have burned out like a brief flame, extinguished far too quickly. Like Faith on Buffy. She too understands the power of Hottie Pants and look where it got her. Written off the series so she could go out and wear a leather cat suit in a Jay and Silent Bob movie, that’s where.

So it’s probably a good thing. But I was incredibly cute yesterday. Two separate people stopped me in the cafeteria to either tell me how incredible I looked or to inquire how much weight I’ve lost (answer: I don’t know… I haven’t weighed myself since early July). Even after I switched to the Adorable Jammies which include my girly boxer shorts, I still looked like a chubby version of Meg Ryan, with that whole “somehow a woman but also somehow a little girl” kind of sexy thing that guys seem to love. It was lost on Esteban, who is still in the throws of Nyquil induced delirium and spends long hours sitting on the sofa in a nest of Hall’s wrappers and grape juice bottles. The neighbor man got all excited when I ran outside to fetch something from my car though. He yelled over “Hey, Weetabix! Isn’t it lovely outside! Can you believe this weather? I think it’s getting hot out here… I’m gonna take off all my clothes… oooh yeah.” which is far less fetching coming from a 50-year-old former hippy with Coke-bottle glasses and a gaggle of piddling Shih-tzus swarming around his ankles.

But today I’m back in my flat fronts which are too loose and thus the Pants of Expansion. I was too lazy to search for one of the three pairs that actually fit over my still curvy and ample bottom. Besides, we can’t be hotties every day. We divas must be magnanimous and Clark Kent some days. It’s only fair to the normal non-curvy non-goddess types.

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...
Filed in Diaryland | | Comments Off on The Unbearable Lightness of Being a Hottie