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Proof that there’s no such thing as Too Much Information

Friday, August 30, 2002

I am not wearing underwear today.

Oh, I’m wearing a bra. That goes without saying. When you’re sporting the load that I’ve been granted, there is no going out in public sans support. I think if my house caught on fire in the middle of the night, the first thing I’d grab is my underwire. That’s probably wrong but so it goes.

But the panties. The only clean panties I had were my sport thongs and I just couldn’t bring myself to be shifting and un-thwacking on a vacation day. A day of what is supposed to be filled with rest and frolic, but will instead be filled with my attempts at bringing my domicile to a standard higher than that of the howler monkey cage at the damn zoo. I take that back. Howler monkeys would stick their noses up, preferring to groom each other for lice in the comfort of the street than my shoe and empty Dasani bottle filled living room.

The main problem is that we’ve been living as though our parents went on vacation and left us alone in the house. Or more correctly, I’ve been living that way. I suspect that it is Esteban’s modus operandi.

When I was a kid, my mother would rent this lovely A-frame cottage on the shore of Lake Michigan in Door County. It was a lovely time, usually during August over the week of my mother’s and her hippy boyfriend’s birthdays. However, during my sixteenth summer, I was unable to attend because I had driver’s ed. That meant that I got to be alone in the house’ a first in my sixteen years. Oh, I had been without parents before but usually I was supervising Mo, which is not the same thing as being completely alone.

It was a wonderful summer. I spent evenings on the deck, ate a lot of microwaved soy dogs (we had just gotten a microwave that year’ a first for the hippy family) and took my bike everywhere. I seem to remember that Ms. Tschuss hung out with me a lot that summer too, which was always a blast.

My official job was to watch my mother’s two little pekingnese, Max and Tiera, and my own Saint Bernard, whose unfortunate name was Bernardo Dioggi (pronounced D-O-G). Bernardo was a dog capable of enormous waste potential. I had no idea. I dutifully let him out every day and was somewhat aghast at the large amount of ex-Bernardo accumulating in the backyard.

There was a mound of sand near the deck, part of a patio project that the hippy was engaged in during that summer, and Bernardo had decided that the sand made a nice comfortable toilet for him. Day by day, the mound grew in size, the ratio of sand to poo slowly shifting toward the favor of the excrement. I was befuddled. I figured that it just went away somehow. I wasn’t certain exactly how. Maybe it had to rain out. Then one night it rained and that morning I was shocked to find that the sand pile had now turned into a gelatinous mound of unmentionable horrors. You couldn’t even see the sand anymore because it was covered in a poop slurry. It was almost as though a ginormous St. Bernard deity had come along and left a benediction. Flies started to lounge on the lovely deck area, shouting ‘Oh cabana girl!’ I stopped hanging out on the deck. Then I kept the door to the deck closed, despite the summer heat and the fact that we had no air conditioning. At that point, it had begun to dawn on me that I should have picked up the poo when it was in the more manageable solid form, but at that point it had gotten so completely disgusting that I decided a better plan would be to never go in the backyard again for as long as I lived. And when my family returned, they would also see the wisdom of this plan immediately.

Three weeks later, when my mother returned, she asked why I hadn’t picked it up. I explained that I just thought it would decompose somehow and then I thought that it needed water. She then proceeded to relay the story to my Mafia Grandmother, twisting my logic to claim that I had expected a ‘Poop Fairy to come along and gather it up and take it to her Poop Kingdom.’ Nothing of the sort. I just thought that my duties were done when I let the dog out. No one ever explained that I would then need a bulldozer to pick up after him as well.

It’s just not a Weetabix entry if I don’t talk about poo, non? And we’ve already had talk of boobs. It’s more Weetabix for your money.

Oh. That’s right. This is free.

Anywhoo’.

Now, however, the cicadas are strumming every day and the moon hung low in the sky, golden and somehow a beacon to bring about the nesting instinct, almost audibly calling ‘Winter’s coming. Gather your crops and make your house habitable because you’re going to be stuck in it for possibly eight years.’ This brings forth a creature I detest. A creature that stirs fear in Esteban’s heart. A creature he has dubbed ‘The Cleaning Nazi’. Gah.

But she’s not coming full on for another few weeks. Until then, I guess I’ll go commando and struggle through a summer’s worth of procrastinated housework and projects. First order of business’ wash laundry. Or I’ll have to be naked tomorrow. Hmmm’ that should make for some interesting lawn mowing. I’d be willing to bet that the Sexually Frustrated Wood Chopper next door will be outside, splitting logs during that little adventure. I’m pretty sure that operating a large spinning wheel of death while naked is probably not the wisest course of action. Ah well.

OH! Get this. I went out with Joel, Cheri and Jason last night, to the Ass Splinter bar, where they had karaoke with the tone deaf Karaoke Ma. Born To Run Guy was there. He didn’t sing Born To Run, though, which was a bummer. And he had a different shirt on, bringing the total number of shirts I’ve seen him wearing to THREE, yes THREE for those of you keeping score on the home version of Dumber Than A Box Of Rocks. Last night, it was a plain white t-shirt, the kind I suspect he got out of a package of three for $8.95. He had paired it with black jeans, black tennis shoes and white socks. I know. It made me want to faint from terror. I think he wants to believe that Billy Jean is not his lover. It horrifies me that he makes me so strung out when he sings. It’s not Beer Goggles, it’s an Audio Blindfold. I can’t even help myself. He’s not very good looking. He reminds me of that trucker in that beer commercial, you know the one where the guy is hitching a ride with the trucker and then he brings out his ventriloquists dummy? Yeah. I know. I have the shame, you don’t even need to say it.

When I went up to sing some Fiona Apple, he actually made eye contact with me for the first time in ever. He lifted his fist to show approval to my song choice. I made the devil rock and roll sign back at him, in kind of a joke since it was FIONA APPLE that I was about to sing. I don’t think he got it.

I must have been in fine form though, because I did notice that I had a mooney-eyed boy staring at me from a back table every time I sang. However, I was denied when he left without doing the normal mooney-eyed thing of coming up and complimenting me. I’m such a diva sometimes.

Joel and I did the Barenaked Ladies song again and one of the other singing divas (who sang ‘Can’t Live Without You’ in what had to have been some homage to American Idol and made me roll my eyes) yelled up ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this song, Weet’ It’s so beneath you!’ HEE! Joel was tipsy and couldn’t remember how it went. And then I made him laugh, which then made me laugh. So unprofessional. That’s probably why Mooney didn’t come up and fawn over me. I’m a lousy karaoke diva.

Joel did tell me one thing though. He said that he’s been reading my diary but he only reads the first couple of paragraphs. If it hooks him, he continues to read and if it doesn’t, he skims down to see if there’s a dialogue bit. And then he said that I should take that as a tip to make my diary more interesting. Weirdo. It’s MY diary. It can be as boring as I want it to be.

Just for that, I put this mention of him at the bottom.

Hope you all have a super Labor Day weekend. And if you aren’t in the US, you can just have a good weekend and make the most out of what you’ve got, because you’re going to have to go to work on Monday just the same.

Gah. I’ve got to find some underwear. I doubt I can go grocery shopping this way. I’ll freeze my ass of in the dairy section.

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Is it possible to commit adultery with an automobile?

Wednesday, August 28, 2002

Oh. Oh. Oh. I was a bad bad girl yesterday.

Bad girl!

First, the back story:

The other night, we were driving someplace and I spotted a Lincoln LS and said “Oooooh! Pretty!” There are very very few cars that I get the Pretty! vibe from. The Jaguar comes to mind. I dig Jags. Certain models of Mercedes also come to mind. I also really like Corvairs, for that retro look. Before you begin to think that I just like expensive cars, strangely enough, I also like the newer Dodge Intrepids and the VW bug, which is very cute and perky. But Esteban knows me entirely too well. He told me that I should avert my eyes when then new Lincoln LS commercial plays on the television. “Why?” I asked. “What’s it like?” “It’s…. zoomy. I actually said ‘Oh no!’ when I saw it.” He replied. Danger, Will Robinson. Danger.

As part of my new position, I was going to be required to do a certain amount of travel. Since our clients are based out of exciting locales such as New York, San Francisco, and London, I felt pretty certain that some sweetness was coming my way. Then I was asked to do some actual traveling.

To scenic Fond Du Lac, Wisconsin, population 40,000. Ah the perks of world travel and only after a week officially on the job!

I dressed in uber executive clothes…. bootleg black pants, starched white button down with pointy collar (unbuttoned more than I thought was prudent, but mandated by my PA, Chauffi), black button-up jacket, dove grey Ass Splinter pearls and spiffy shined Doc Martens.

My morning was spent driving down in the Monte, singing along to my stereo, wearing my Nautica shades and feeling oh so cute. I met with my people down there. I think I scared them. They were on their toes, and that always makes me feel uncomfortable. I would not make a very good manager because I can’t handle people who think I’m their superior. Maybe it’s a girl thing. In one of my gender psych courses, I did a paper on how little boys immediately establish a hierarchy of power and their relationship structures and forms of play are all about reinforcing that structure and the struggle to climb the social ladder, whereas little girls struggle to regulate everyone to the same level and when an Alpha girl gives a directive or leads an activity, she’ll even turn the instructions into a sort of game, softening the language to take her out of the control position. There’s this innate fear of being a Hermione Granger. I guess that just doesn’t go away with the appearance of wrinkles and grey hair.

After the meetings, I was brain-fried. I hopped in my car and promptly zoned out during my drive back home. Then as I got closer to Appleton, I started to think about my love of the Lincoln LS. On Monday, I had gone onto a large dealer’s website and looked up a reasonably priced used LS. Silver with a V8 and a sunroof, it was exactly what I had in mind as a suitable replacement for the Monte. No one can associate a Lincoln LS with Nascar! Until I throw a big “#3 1951 – 2001 RIP” sticker across the back window, of course.

On a whim, I dialed the general dealership number and asked to talk to a sales person. The dealership had several different locations, several of which were behind me on the highway. Chances were that the vehicle I had looked at would be at the Imports and luxury dealer that I had already passed, but what the heck? They transferred me to the Internet Sales Manager, Bob, who worked out of a car lot at the very next exit on the highway. I described him the car and he exclaimed, “Why, that car is here!” Wow. Karma! I thought. (Or Carma. BWAH!) I exited the highway and scooted to the dealership a few blocks away.

I spotted my car (MY CAR!?! See how I was thinking already? This was not good.) in the lot. It was then I should have known that I was stepping into dangerous territory. I think in the background I could hear the low strains of the music of seduction. No, not Barry White. The Lincoln LS is far too classy for that. No, it was Offenbach’s La Belle Helene.

Immediately, Bob approached me with the keys for a test drive. God, he was a good little car salesman weasel. He knew the best way to deal with a frantic yet attractively dressed curvy young executive with poopy brown hair. He popped the door open.

I swear, the smell of gentrification and old money wafted out at me. It was the smell of leather reading chairs in mahogany paneled country club reading rooms. It was the smell of New York 5th Avenue and a pack of credit cards an inch thick, all screaming “Spend me! Spend me now while we’re young! Before we get grandma skin on our hands!”. It was the smell of weekends spent in Vermont in the fall, sipping cider from hand-thrown pottery mugs after a day of antiquing. It was the smell of CEO sweat mixed with the shavings of trust funds, valet parking receipts and the NYSE pages of the Wall Street Journal. It was the smell of corporate buy outs, of under the table bargaining, of bilingual domestic help, gardeners and pool boys. It was the smell that you might catch a waft of, right before the door closes to the Good Old Boys network while hearing chuckles and the clinks of ice cubes in glasses of 50 year old scotch.

It was a very good smell.

Then I settled into the driver seat. The seat that had the capability to heat my curvy round bottom in the arctic winter months. I mean, I have a hot bottom, but this is Wisconsin and our winters get pretty cold. It’s not a stretch of the imagination that I would enjoy an external heat source! My cheeks deserve radiant heat from buttery leather seats! I adjusted the steering wheel to my comfort. With a power tilt. A POWER tilt. I felt a little lightheaded. Bob slid into the seat next to me and I put that mofo into drive. It responded with a throaty growl. We were on the road, oh yes we were. The LS sneered at the other cars on the road, the plebe Chevrolets, the pass’ Passats.

Then we went onto the highway. Bob the Very Nice Car Salesman showed me the various features, including the lovely power sun roof. I mentally calculated that I would be able to easily stand and drive hanging out the sunroof while Esteban drove, and I would be king of the world and then probably die a tragic death floating in the Atlantic while Billy Zane and Francis Fischer got to live out the rest of their shallow existences.

Then I warned him, “Ok, I’m going to test the 3.9 L engine now. Just so you don’t, you know, get the wiggins.” He grinned and I stomped the gas.

That’s when it started to talk to me. “Mon cheri….” it began, low, growling into my inner core. “Mi amore, we belong together. You and I…. free and wild and yet classy and luxurious.”

“Did you hear something?” I asked Bob who was gripping the safety strap.

“No, that’s the beauty of this car. You don’t hear any of your normal road noise blahty blah bublah ya da…”

The LS interrupted. “Don’t listen to the walking pamphlet over there. We’ll get him out of here soon enough and then you and I can be alone together. We can go down that 20 mile stretch of road by the Bay at 75 and it will feel like you’re in a car commercial. You can bring that CD with the song on it from the DeBeers Diamonds commercial.” I felt a ripple along the seat, caressing my thighs. “Oooh, you make me wild, Weetabix. I’ve been waiting since the assembly line to have an owner like you. Someone who understands the complexity of a sport luxury car. Someone who knows how to handle my aggressive side.”

“I really like this car!” I said. I didn’t add “I think it’s turning me on!” But it was. That’s the horrible truth. The car was turning me on. I wanted to lick it.

“Well, you’re a person who seems to know what you want. What if I let you take it home for a couple of days, see if your husband likes it? I think you’ll be happy with it. This is a beauty.” Bob the Weasel Salesman replied with an eager to please manner.

“Oh my.” I said. A bead of sweat broke out on my forehead.

“Oh yes, sweet Weet, you and I, together. Who needs Esteban? You can have me. I can love you far more than any silly computer writer. Does he make you look like a debutante borrowing her Daddy’s car at Nordstrom’s? Does Esteban know how much you like to zoom, to speed along the roads? Can Esteban make you look like a millionaire with a desire to blend in with the rest of the peasants? I can make that brown hair work for you. It will seem classy rather than dowdy if you’ve got a sweet ride like me, baby. Come on. Take me home. I’ll make you breakfast.”

“Um….” I bit my lip.

“You can keep it through the weekend.” He added generously.

“I’m not crazy about the light grey interior. I wanted black leather seats. Let’s see what kind of trade I can get for the Monte first.” I conceded, drooling over the idea of tooling around town in my dream car for a couple of days. Even driving back to the lot, I was bargaining with myself. The car cost less than a new Grand Prix and it had far more features (and more mileage, but who’s counting?). The payment wouldn’t be that much more than my current one and I was making more money now. And I deserved it. I deserved a nice car.

We went back to the dealership and I reluctantly got out of the LS. We went into his office and he “went to talk to his manager” about the Monte. I hate it when they do that. They’re just making you stew while they get a cup of coffee. It’s all psychological. You sit there in their glass offices, staring at the pictures of their wives and kids and just start to think. They’re hoping that it makes you want the car, but it just gives me time to think. About payments. About the fact that the car would be just a big status symbol and nothing more. About the fact that my mom owned either used Volvos or $300 POS cars and I grew up just fine. About the fact that I could invest that $25,000 and just drive my Monte, which was fine until a few months ago, and be able to actually have a little of that financial stability rather than just look like I do. What is more, if I just drove up in an expensive vehicle, it would have been a huge pressure to Esteban. It would have been a wife game, and I don’t like to go down the manipulation road, especially not less than 24 hours after I purchased air fare and hotel accommodations for Journal Con, a vacation that he will not be attending.

Bob returned. “Well, my manager thinks that we could probably give you $2500 for your trade in.”

I did a double take. I happen to know that while my car is no longer the pricey ride it was when I purchased it, similar cars are going for $8000 in the paper. If he would have come back and said it would be something like $5000, I probably would have signed whatever I needed to sign and did the test-drive. But $2500? That was ridiculous! I was moderately insulted.

I explained very nicely that I didn’t want to drive home in a car when I hadn’t seriously talked to Esteban about buying a new one. I had only intended to test drive one so that I’d know how they handled before I did any serious research on them. Besides, I added, I wasn’t crazy about the color of the interior and I didn’t think there were audio controls on the steering wheel. Bob didn’t think so either, but he wasn’t sure. He walked me out to my car but on the way, we both stopped by the car to see if it had the controls on the steering wheel.

It did. My heart broke. Without looking at me, Weasel Bob just held out the keys and jingled them. They tinkled like perfectly little tuning forks. The LS began to hum the theme from Lovestory.

I called Bob an evil, evil man. I told the LS that I was sorry, but I couldn’t be a mean manipulative wife. I took Bob’s card and promised him that I’d call. He gave me the spiel about how the car probably won’t last very long on their lot.

I went back to the Monte. The rust spot (a factory defect on the rear window that I’ve been arguing with GM about) looked as though it swallowed the entire car. The ding in the side door looked like a crater. The whole thing looked like it belonged at a Poison concert, with a Playboy air freshener hanging from the rearview. During the ride home, I was mentally calculating. The LS wouldn’t have felt that bump. The LS wouldn’t have streaky wipers. The LS wouldn’t have gotten passed by that guy in the truck with the Calvin peeing sticker in the back.

It’s probably for the best, anyway. I’ll probably take Esteban to visit the car if it’s still there this Saturday, but I’m not setting any hopes upon it. I’m not really in the market to buy another car until next year and I’m not entirely sold on the LS. Plus, I’m not sure how to negotiate the whole thing. For months after I bought the Monte, I had nightmares that things would happen to it. That disturbed me, that I put that much emotion into a material possession. It was such a status symbol and it bothered the former hippy child in me that I cared that much. It still bothers me, especially now that the little Wannabe Debutante in me has upped the ante.

It will be interesting to see which half of my brain wins. I’m honestly uncertain. The hippy child has a much more pure heart but the Deb is very vicious.

This just in: Vegas has set the odds that I’ll be in a Lincoln LS in two months at 3:2. Hmmm.

I plugged a bunch of photos into yesterday’s entry and also added a paragraph because I think I might be going bald.

That just goes to show how much I love you guys, right? The fact that not only do I show you pictures in which my hair looks like utter ass, I also invite speculation on my premature girl baldness. Gah.

By the way, I must rescind the comment that my hair is Librarian Brown. I’ve had my knuckles soundly slapped in the comment section by a reader who is apparently a racy Librarian, the type normally found in magazine articles which begin “Dear Penthouse, I never thought this would happen to me, but one night I was working late at the library…” who informed me that librarians do have fun hair. Great. Now my hair isn’t even cool enough to be Libarian hair. I’ve changed it to Soccer Mom hair. Send all complaints to the message board. It’s lonely and could use some hot racy Soccer Mom action. Instead of an LS, I should be pricing Chevy Ventures and putting one of those “My kid is an honor student at Richard M. Nixon Middle School” bumper stickers in the window. Or a soccer ball.

Dear God,

If having the hots for Justin on American Idol is wrong, I don’t want to be right. Sure, I’m like 8 years older than him. Sure, he’s got that whole Sideshow Bob thing going on, but… DAYUM!

And that’s all I’m going to say about that.

Sincerely,
Weetabix

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Sleeping single in a king size Galleria bed at JournalCon

Monday, August 26, 2002

So Fall.

It’s mofo Fall already.

Oh, sure, not in the rest of the country, but here in Wisconsin, we are only scant weeks from seeing white stuff. We don’t actually have Fall or Spring here. We get like a week of Fall and a week of rain that we call Spring. And then schwoom! into frigid bitter cold or smothering heat and humidity.

When I got up this morning, it was dark. Oh sure, I did set my alarm half an hour earlier so that I could get back on the Operation Hottie track, but still. Dark. Dark when I’m waking up. I hate that. I hate dark. It brings about this primordial sleep response wherein I need something like 14 hours of sleep to function. Not to mention fattening yet jet-propelled Starbucks Mochas with a shot of Vanilla syrup.

Over the weekend, I made a decision. I was slated for a refresh of my hair color. I really enjoyed my crazy rock star look. The blonde bits were really fun. It was truly a magical haircut, because it seemed like almost anything I did looked good.

Well, almost anything. I did have one night where bad things happened. It was terrifying. The more I tweaked, the more everything went dreadfully wrong. I could have been a sidebar in “When Bad Styling Products happen to Good People”. You know, in some kind of Surf Betty magazine where they care about such things. Strangely enough, Penny even complimented me on my hair that night, stating that no matter what I did, it always looked cute and quirky.

And seriously, is that a freaking bald spot? I mean, can what is obviously a gross misuse of too much Tigi Bed Head and Manipulator make you actually go bald? Shouldn’t they put a warning label on the container? Well, obviously they should put one on already that says “Caution: Don’t cover your head with two cups of styling product or you will achieve a look that Kato Kaelin would be proud of” Or am I in need of a little Rogaine? I’m not sure what’s up with that right there, but it’s freaking me out.

But, in deference to the impending mercury drop, I decided that it was time to stop being the haphazard multi-colored touseled head that I’ve been all summer. It was time to go dark, subtle and respectable. It was time to put the carefree attitude behind me. It worked for Courtney Love…sort of.

Thus, instead of streaking my hair with blonde and red, I had Stacy give me streaks that are sort of paprika and chocolate, giving sort of a “lowlight” effect with my generic light brown. The effect is less than stellar. Don’t get me wrong. It’s exactly what I wanted.

Subtle. Refined. Subdued. Responsible.

FUCKING BORING.

God. I’m having Post-Blonde stress disorder or something. I think I may have aged like 10 years. Instead of Rock Star, it’s now the color I call Librarian. Or maybe if you squished together the heads of both Mary Richards and Rhoda. Oooh… that’s a disturbing metaphor.

My face used to light up the room, now I slink in with the trash. The other night, pre-Librarian, Esteban told me that I looked like a beautiful little angel while I was sleeping. Now I look like a drooling mouth breather who makes sleeping noises not unlike truck stop coffee percolator. There are a few streaks of blonde here or there, just enough to look like I got a little wacky with the Clorox during Saturday’s wash. Just enough to remind me (sniffle!) of what used to be.

Did my hair ever know that it was my hero? Did it ever know that it was all I wished I could be?

Did it? I think not.

Oh, I know. I was all freaked out by the blonde two months ago. It’s not really the hair color, it’s just the transition to Fall that’s sogging my Frosted Flakes. It’s the fact that across town, the Packers are playing their last pre-season game and already it’s starting to get chilly. It’s the fact that it was DARK this morning when I woke up. DARK! It’s the fact that I’m starting to want to do indoor activities, like scrapbooking and playing for hours on the internet. It’s the fact that I looked at my bathroom floor, all covered in bathroom schmeng and wisted ‘You know, nothing would make me happier than a bright and shiny bathroom floor.’ Then thought ‘Whoa! Where the fuck did THAT SHIT come from?!’. It’s this entire shift from Slacker Girl to Ms. Kick Ass, the twist from grasshopper to worker ant. I actually asked the bank to start withholding some money from my paycheck and put it into my savings account. VOLUNTARILY! I mean, that’s Malibu and Diet Coke money. What’s more, I was shopping this weekend and saw something or other and thought to myself, ‘Hey, those would make great Christmas presents!’ That’s a sign, people. I never think about other people during the summer! Never! I’m a selfish Nelly and damned proud of it. I get by with a smile, a giggle, a shake of my hip and a roll of my eyes. None of this altruistic ‘save for winter’ crap.

I had more to say, but mostly I just lost interest, so let’s just leave it at that.

Do you have a hall pass, young man? Respect the Dewey Decimal System!!!

Oh!

I broke down and purchased my airline tickets for JournalCon tonight. I love me some Midwest Express. I’m so excited. I love to travel. I love the empowerment. I love sleeping in a king size bed all by myself. And I promise not to fawn over Pamie too much.

If you are an online diarist and have an interest in learning more about the other people out there, you can go to the link above and sign up. But hurry. You only have until August 30, I believe. Hope to see everyone there!

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Half cap no foam no fat soy venti latte, please…. with a cinnamon

Sunday, August 25, 2002

scone. And butter. I broke down today and went through Starbucks for a damn Venti Tazo Chai Frappuchino. Damn, it’s so good. Cold and creamy and undoubtedly chock full of sin. They should just cut through the crap and call it what it is. It’s basically a milkshake that is Adult-Friendly with that green alluring Starbucks logo on the side. The dome top reminds me of those Icee things that they used to give out at Kmart. And when I was inserting the straw into the dome thing, which looks vaguely like some misogynistic breast, I watched as the cream spouted up through the top. I lifted it to my lips and slurped it up, running my tongue delicately along the opening. And then I realized that I think I learned that trick from a porno movie and now I was basically fellating a damn Frappuchino.

Yup. Cup O’Sin.

I think Surly Girl doesn’t work there anymore, by the way. I’m uncertain about Viggo. There’s a new guy there who looks like Casper Van Dien. There is a gaggle of female barristas too, each with the prerequisite 23-inch waist. I wanted to ask one if she actually ever DRANK anything she served because the logistics of it boggled my mind. It reminded me of this short story I read in Omni magazine when I was very young, too young to be reading Omni magazine. It was about this guy with a weight problem but he was very successful. He’d lose weight and then every three years or so, he’d have gained it all back, so he’d take a vacation to some spa and come back looking like a movie star again. The only thing is that he was really being replaced with a clone, a clone that would then gain weight and bulk up and then call the ‘fat farm’ to lose it again. And the formerly fat guy (whose name, I believe, was Barth. See. That tidbit stayed in my brain for 24 years. Barth. Things like that are taking up too much space in my brain. I’m not going to remember the names of my grandchildren when I’m 60 but I’ll still remember that character’s name) then was put to work on a farm, where ironically, he did lose weight.

Well, maybe that’s what’s happening at Starbucks. Or maybe they just fire the ones that don’t look like extra cast members of Dawson’s Bloody Creek. Actually, I’d even hasten to say that the barristas at our Starbucks are even more attractive than the people of The Creek. I might even put them in league with American Idol, where it really doesn’t matter how well you sing, but rather how well you wear the clothes. Maybe there is a throng of less attractive, slightly puffy barristas crying as they are voted out by the Coffee Drinking Consumers of America.

Actually, I secretly think that Starbucks must be shipping them in. I mean, this is Green Bay, Wisconsin, where we don’t care how many calories it has, as long as it tastes good. Our women are large. We all drive trucks for a REASON, and that reason is larger towing capacity and heavy suspension. We eat deep-fried cheese, people! There’s no way to make that low calorie. None whatsoever. Our culture is built on butter! We have child-birthing hips, wide expanses of ass and big old bouncy chests. We’re big farm girls of hearty Belgian stock. There’s not a natural 23-inch waist in the crew, unless you consider the 2nd grade Brownie troop. Those little A-cups and tiny little perky bottoms just gotta be shipped in. That’s foreign T and A. No doubt about it.

But they sure do make a fine Frappuchino.

I’m not sure if I should be proud or ashamed of the fact that Word’s auto spell checker didn’t have “fellating” in its dictionary and I had to go to look it up.

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The one where I should have just played some Solitaire or something

Thursday, August 22, 2002

So last night, I was bored. And what do bored people do when they are home alone and have already watched all of their DVDs and they should be working on their grad school applications and researching schools but they really don’t because it just seems like a waste of time and they just found out that they could get into Notre Dame if they only had $25,000 a year tuition and that doesn’t even include books or silly things like food and shelter and really, why are they even considering such things when they already owe the government a German automobile with leather seats that should be racing at 145 kph on the Autobahn and is instead the sole result of some five years spent studying English and Psychology only to end up talking to people over the phone, saying things like ‘Do you see your Start button on your task bar? Right click on that. No. Right click. RIGHT click. With the mouse. Yeah.’?

I’ll tell you what they do. They log onto IRC.

I hopped into a Wisconsin room. Immediately I was private messaged.

HornyNetGeek> Are you wearing a thong?

I was flummoxed. Was I wearing a thong? I didn’t know what to say to that. I mean, what did that have to do with being from Wisconsin? I was not, in fact, wearing a thong. I was actually wearing my Strawberry Shortcake undies, but I didn’t really want to tell him that. It seemed overly personal. I mean, he didn’t introduce himself or anything. But I suppose that I’ve just announced it to the world, or at least everyone reading this page, that I was wearing Strawberry Shortcake panties yesterday. And I have, in the past, told y’all about my thongy days. But you guys are like my friends. He’ he was just’annoying.

I sighed. And replied.

WeetaGrrl> Yes. It’s made of barbed wire.

I closed his little chat window. Then I had The Guilt. I don’t like to be mean, especially unnecessarily and blindly out into the cyber void. But he was so rude. I can’t imagine that he thinks this is the correct way to act. ‘Hey, how low do you hang?’ when meeting a business partner?

The little window popped back up again.

HornyNetGeek> ok pic?

I logged off. Gah. I should have known better. Sometimes I think I’m entirely too na’ve for the internet.

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Fallout from the Attack of the 50 ft. Menstral Cramp

Wednesday, August 21, 2002

I’ve totally got ‘Cool Rider’ stuck in my head from Grease 2 because MoPie used it in the title of her one of her latest entries. Poor poor Michelle Pfeiffer. I doubt that she fully understands that like a zillion women in their late twenties/early thirties spent their adolescence secretly wishing for a Pink Ladies jacket and black Capri pants. Possibly if she had a firmer grasp upon this, she wouldn’t feel as though she had to appear in movies where she is a frazzled mom who trips over things so that we won’t hate her because she’s beautiful. She realizes that women can’t think she’s a skinny bitch if she’s clumsy.

But she needn’t dump a goldfish bowl filled with water down her shirt just to prevent me from hating her because George Clooney wants to sleep with her. I like Michelle anyway (and besides, I have absolutely no interest in sleeping with George Clooney). I almost ruined my braces chewing bubble gum in that snotty J.D. way. I couldn’t understand why she was with Adrian Zmed in the first place. His hair looked like the shag carpeting in the back window of my neighbor’s Camaro. I don’t know why he felt the need to put black shag carpeting back there. It always smelled somewhat of hot dusty wet dog and that is what I have assumed Adrian Zmed’s hair would also smell like. I mean, why would she want Adrian when she could have had Louis DiMucci? At thirteen, let me tell you, I was ready to do it for MY country too. Dayum. And he had a voice. Yum.

Yeah. I’ve always had a thing for slightly geeky looking guys. I can’t help it. I think it’s part of the reason that I adore Weezer, They Might Be Giants, and the Violent Femmes too.

Have I mentioned my new illness that precludes my ability to return a DVD to the store within the allotted 5-day period? Chauffi actually sent me a thing on NetFlix after I complained that I recently almost needed to take a loan out to pay my late fees. I should probably just purchase them. It would be so much easier and cheaper, in some instances. For instance, I would now OWN Amelie instead of paying the video store $24 in late fees.

Chauffi has totally taken up the cause as my personal assistant. I never knew that I needed one but apparently I do. Actually, I’ve been complaining that I need a wife to do wifely things for me, the way I do them for Esteban, but a cute furry and occasionally snarky P.A. will do quite nicely, thank you. Aside from assisting me in making valuable life decisions and fashion choices (he told me what to wear for my interview for my new position, wisely nixing my snakeskin shirt idea right in the bud), he saved me when I grew frustrated at the fact that I couldn’t get some downloaded fonts to work.

Then I complained that I didn’t know how to store numbers in my cellphone. He asked for the model number and then not only found the manual online but also summarized what I needed to do to store the number. What more could a girl ask for? To thank him, I stored his cell number in my phone and then called him twice on my drive home, once to test it and then a second time to blather to him. It went something like this. ‘Three things: first of all, the internal organs in my pelvic region are reenacting the final battle scene from Braveheart. My left ovary has its little ovary face painted blue and keeps yelling ‘Freedom! Honor!’ They just mooned my liver. It’s crazy. Second: (ok, I think the second thing was too embarassing and I’ve repressed it because I simply don’t remember what it was). Third: people who sit by the side of the road and sell corn have an IQ of like, 45.’

He wrote me an email last night: ‘There are people selling porn on the side of the road there? How tacky!’

Corn, people. It was corn.

This is not the first time that I’ve had some horrible moment where either my Wisconsin accent gets in the way or I sound like Bob Dylan’s retarded cousin. Another time, I left him a message in which I told him that he was a spoon.

A spoon!

I don’t know what the hell I was talking about either. I think I said something else but I can’t for the life of me figure out what I said. Maybe I was channeling The Tick. I’m completely boggled. You know, Baby Jesus probably made me unable to work my phone so that I wouldn’t compare people to kitchen utensils. Because honestly, that is just wrong.

Sheesh. DVD rental scumbag. Too dumb to install a font even though I work in technical support. Don’t know how to work the phone I’ve had for a year. Sometimes I simply cannot believe what a complete tool I am.

Last night, I was Ms. Cranky Pants. Esteban asked very nicely when I expected the Hell Bitch mode to kick in, as he was having a hard time gauging it. I figured that I was either right on the cusp of Full Blown Hell Dervish or on my way down from that. He congratulated me for keeping it nicely in check because he hadn’t noticed. I thanked him and told him that he was a wonderful husband for putting up with me so well and I probably didn’t tell him that enough. He responded that I normally am quite complimentary during the Hell Bitch stage but then I swing the other way with alarming speed and call him an asshole or something like that. Then I must feel bad about it and tell him how wonderful he is.

‘What the hell do you mean by that?’ I asked’ but I was smiling. I am fully aware that girls are dumb sometimes. I like to think it’s all part of our charm, that ephemeral sweetheart quality that lingers beneath the surface of a Sheestack. (That’s a girl Sleestack, so just save your emails, ‘k?)

I also discovered that it is very possible to eat chocolate while Operation: Hottie is employed, provided that’s all you eat. Dinner last night was two brownies. Well, not really. Esteban came into the room chomping on what I thought was possibly the last brownie.

‘Are you eating the last brownie!?!’ I snapped, already envisioning ripping it from his selfish fingers and then bitchslapping him across the living room.

‘No,’ he answered. ‘There’s one more.’

I shook my head, trying to quell the murderous thoughts from my brain. In the midst of my irrationality, I sometimes have a moment of clarity where even I am amazed at how psycho I sound sometimes.

But then I went into the kitchen and saw the brownie pan.

You see, my initial calculations were accurate. There HAD been only one brownie left. Esteban cleverly cut that brownie in half, knowing that he would be crucified if he ate the remaining luscious truffle-like Ghirradelli brownie.

‘You bastard! You ate the last brownie!’

‘I did not! I did not! I left you one!’

‘You left me one HALF!’

‘Yes, but it was the bigger half because I knew you’d go ballistic. Besides, in case you hadn’t noticed, you ate most of that pan of brownies. ‘

‘Yeah, well, in case you hadn’t noticed, I made all of that fucking pan of brownies!’

Thankfully for all concerned, I had begun to eat my brownie niblet and the luscious curative chocolate molecules were absorbing directly into my core of insanity, thus lulling me into temporary satisfaction. I doubt that you gain any weight from food that is eaten for medicinal purposes.

Luckily, the uterine crisis seems to have passed overnight. I put on my jeans that were too tight last week and they fit again. Without interrupting my lung capacity or making me taste my spleen. So it’s all good. I think I burn a lot of calories shouting and waving my arms around or running for Advil.

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Not again!

Monday, August 19, 2002

Weetabix’s Uterus: I want Oreos.

Weetabix: I just had a bunch of sweet stuff. I don’t need anymore sugar. I’m going to turn into a diabetic or something.

Weetabix’s Uterus: I want Oreos and you can always get some insulin somewhere. I think they make that from sheep pancreas or something. You have good insurance. Give me some goddamn Oreos.

Weetabix: I want to fit into my jeans. My medium jeans that are almost comfortable. Oreos preclude fitting into my jeans.

Weetabix’s Uterus: I don’t give a damn about your jeans. Why would you want to wear jeans when you have all of those incredible comfy and lose pants with the elastic waists? Pants of EXPANSION. Pants which allow room for infinite packages of Double Stuffed Oreos?

Weetabix: But… but… Operation Hottie!

Weetabix’s Uterus: What about Operation Wide Ass? Your husband loves you as a curvy round sex goddess… Your diary readers like that plump little fairy you’ve got. It’s your schtick. (rolls eyes and snickers) You’ve got that fat grrl thing going on. It works. If you lost weight, you’d just be another bimbo. You’d be succumbing to the pressures of the MAN, sweetie, the MAN. All that media bullshit that you say you hate. Make a statement. Be proud of your fat self. You’re not going to lose weight anyway. You never have before, so just stop trying.

Weetabix: I am proud of my fat self. I don’t want to be a thin girl. I just want to be the curvy girl that I picture myself to be.

Weetabix’s Uterus: You’re just a big fat skinny bitch wannabe. Do you want to be all angular and not have a period? Your husband likes your round butt and your big rack and he’ll hate a skinny chick. Do you WANT to have yellow skin and be all gaunt like Monica on Friends? Do you really want to end up with an Arquette husband? I think the only one left is the drag queen.

Weetabix: He likes me no matter what. I give excellent oral–

Weetabix’s Uterus: WOULD YOU JUST EAT THE DAMN OREO!

Weetabix: Leave me alone!

Weetabix’s Uterus: (kicking and punching, contracting in anger) I. Just. Want. Some. Damn. Sugar!(gasps) You hate me, don’t you? You hate being a girl. You hate makeup and squeezing yourself into binding clothing to look pretty and wearing high heels to have longer legs and nice tight Achilles tendons. You…you… don’t even want to be pregnant!

Weetabix: Ow… owww…. No…. no… that’ s not it. I like being a girl. You just make it really hard sometimes.

Weetabix’s Uterus: You’re a boy. A big messy sexist gay boy. Why don’t you just stuff a sock down your pants so you can have a big tube sock penis. I’ll bet you like sex. Admit it. ADMIT IT!

Weetabix: I do admit it. That’s nothing to be ashamed of. Sex rocks.

Weetabix’s Uterus: Real women don’t like sex. Real Women only have sex to make babies. And why didn’t you get some Krispy Kremes when you were in Milwaukee? Huh? You know how good Krispy Kremes are?! You do this because you hate me. If you got in the car and drove right now, we could have hot steamy warm pillows of love covered in glaze of adoration in 90 minutes! Prove that you’re a real woman and get driving!

Weetabix: I will do nothing of the sort. And I’m working. And I’ve got a headache.

Weetabix’s Uterus: That’s low blood sugar, dumbass. Think of it. A nice big box of Krispy Kremes. And bacon. Slap a couple of strips of bacon between to Krispy Kremes. It would be a sandwich of the Gods. Fuck ambrosia and nectar, bitchtard. Aphrodite ate Krispy Kremes and Hickory Smoked thick cut, chased with 48 ounces of ice cold frothy milk!

Weetabix: Whatever.

Weetabix’s Uterus: And she had a baby. Cupid. That was her baby. Little baby Cupid that has a whole holiday all to himself and he never grew up, just stayed a cute little baby. Now that’s something, right there. She was a real woman. She had a happy fulfilled uterus.

Weetabix: Gah. Leave me alone. Please? I’m begging now.

Weetabix’s Uterus: I want OREOS! (singing) Oreos… oh yes…. O…R…E…O… I could be a better writer with OREOS…. I could be a better woman with OREOS…. I don’t think the filling tastes like lard, oh no!… because there’s nothing better in the world than a little loving from the OREOS!

Weetabix: Seriously. Maybe you should think about seeing someone. Maybe professional help.

Weetabix’s Uterus: Yeah? And just how do you propose that? Go ahead. Make that call. ‘Uh, hello Dr… my Uterus talks to me and I was wondering if you could maybe…” and then he’d be like “Hi I’m Dr. So and So at your cervix!” like Patch Adams or something?

Weetabix: I see your point.

Weetabix’s Uterus: Of course you do. That’s because I make sense. I’m really your most logical organ. Remember that. Try to talk to your pancreas. Just you try it. There’s no talking to that thing. I got stuck sitting next to him at the company Christmas party and it was all just one track with him. It’s all glucose… insulin… glucose…insulin. Man! It took a lot of Malibu and Diet Coke to make that shit sound interesting, let me tell you. And need I even mention that I was the hottest damn organ at that party?

Weetabix: Gah.

Weetabix’s Uterus: Gah. What the fuck does that mean? Gah. It doesn’t even sound like anything. You sound like you have like two brain cells when you say that. Oh. Hey. You know what I was thinking? I mean, besides about how you need to do more crunches at night while watching Martha Stewart. I was thinking that you don’t own nearly enough sweatshirts with pictures of angels or kitties on them. You know, those sweatshirts that have the little fake polo shirt collar already sewn into them, in a lovely coordinating color? And your house needs more doilies and silk flower arrangements. It’s like a feng shui analyst threw up in your house. And why didn’t you buy those distressed low rider, boot cut jeans. They looked cute.

Weetabix: Because the last time I checked, I’m not sixteen years old. And while they did look cute, they were $65 and I hate to spend $65 on jeans that will be out of style next week. What’s up with you? First church lady clothes and then the stylings of GD Mandy Moore.

Weetabix’s Uterus: I’m diverse. I’m a diverse organ.

Weetabix: You’re bipolar.

Weetabix’s Uterus: Same damn thing. Now get driving, bitchtard. There are warm Krispy Kremes on the hoof and if you don’t get going, I’m going to make you think of Chelsea and your dead Grandma and the little starving children in Uganda and the final scene of Life Is a House while you’re doing that training session this week and then you’ll be standing up there, walking twenty people through a bunch of procedures while you’re blubbering like a big skinny bitch wannabe. And don’t think I won’t do it.

Weetabix: No on the Krispy Kremes, but a Special K bar can be arranged. And there’s some popcorn at home. Salty Sweet!

Weetabix’s Uterus: That would be good dipped in that can of chocolate frosting you’ve got sitting there too. Can we watch You’ve Got Mail again?

Weetabix: I just watched that last night.

Weetabix’s Uterus: We can watch it with the commentary this time. I want to see Meg Ryan make that wrinkly little mouth thing when she finds out that NY182 is really Tom Hanks. It makes me all soft and squishy and want to be Meg Ryan and be able to look cute when I cry. You’re never going to be a good writer, you know. Your sad scenes are never quite right. Maybe you could change your last name to Ephron and you’d do better.

Weetabix: I bet other girls don’t have these issues.

Weetabix’s Uterus: I bet they fucking don’t. Kind of makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Still got that number of that shrink handy? Huh, psycho beeyatch?

Happy 70th Birthday Norma!

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Reasons why girls are dumb… part 2

Saturday, August 17, 2002

Gah.

So yesterday.

I had a meeting with one of my new coworkers in my new position. Without going into big details, essentially I will be working with a small team but it will be on a very visible account for the conglomerate, not just our segment of the business. That’s scary. You trip and everyone will see it, but then at the same time, it can be very prestigious. Luckily, I totally think I can kick ass because I kick ass at my job now and it’s melding my current position and the knowledge from my previous position quite nicely. And it means that I’ll likely go to New York.

Oh. And part of my job will involve surfing the web.

YEAH BABY!

Oh, yeah, well, not for fun stuff. Certainly not porn, which might be fun. Although I can see that it would get old’ porn, again? This would be researching products, so it would be almost like shopping.

Then I casually asked, ‘So would all of our brokerages be based out of New York?’ And the answer was that most of them are, but one is based out of San Francisco and another is based out of’.

‘.London.

(insert high pitched girlie excitement scream the likes of which has not left my mouth since I thought I saw Shawn Cassidy when I was 8)

Surfing the Internet and traveling to NYC AND possibly my favorite city in THE WORLD. I already understand their Tube system. I already have the appreciation for the English breakfast. I understand that I need to Look Right. I mind the gap. It’s all good, baby. I can just see myself the first time someone from that brokerage house calls in. I’ll be like ‘You want your password reset? Hmmm’ you know, this is really hard for me to visualize over the phone. I think I’m going to need to see your system in person. Let’s see’ I can be there in fourteen hours.’

ROCK!

My life is so awesome sometimes. I suppose it’s the ying to the pile of dirty dishes in the kitchen sink that can never seem to get washed or the way that my ass frightens young children and people of certain religions.

They think I’m Ganesha, you see.

I’d make that a link but if you haven’t ever heard of that rather obvious reference, you can just as well go to Google and look it up for yourself. And maybe look up a few other things too while you’re at it. Might I suggest that you find out who shot Liberty Valence, who flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest, and what ever did happen to Baby Jane. I’m not the only source of pop culture you have out there you know. Now get to work.

And seriously, let me know if it was Jimmy Stewart’s character or John Wayne’s character who shot Liberty Valance (who, I believe, was played by James Colburn*, forever famous in my mind because he was on the ‘Band on the Run’ album cover. And yes, I did own an album by Wings. Still do, actually. Vinyl. I had a serious crush on Paul McCartney when I was 12. And not the cute lovable Cocker Spaniel-eyed 1963 Paul, either, but rather the feathered hair, undereye circled Linda McCartney-slobbered Paul who was like 40 years old or something. I was realistic. Sure, I would RATHER have had the 1963 Paul, as he was truthfully closer to my age, but I knew that without the luxury of time travel it was not to be. Therefore, I would take the Paul who was old enough to be my daddy. And Linda could live off her lucrative vegetarian meal franchise’.wow’ long interjection!) because I saw this movie in film class when I was a sophomore in college and I bailed most of the way through it to go and chew on the lips of my lead guitarist boyfriend, who lived a block away from the Film Arts building. And now that’s how I pay for it. I still don’t know who shot Liberty Valance.

I suppose I should take my own advice and look it up. But I’m too much of a slacker.

The moral to this story is this, kids: Don’t skip school. And don’t date blonde lead guitarists because chances are, they probably want to wear your clothes and it really sucks when they look better in your little black dress than you do.

Oh my. It’s really evil of me, but it made me laugh and laugh.

Ok, maybe I should explain the lead guitarist. In college, this very cute boy’ well, actually he was 26, so he was probably more of a man’ decided that I was a very cute girl. He liked curvy round kind of girls. This was a huge boost to my ego because I hadn’t yet discovered my inner curvy round sex goddess yet and to have this older, blonde, Mustang-driving HOTTIE thinking that I was all that’ well, it does good things to your self-esteem, let me tell you.

So, he was hot. Yeah. HOT. What is more, the day he decided that he liked me, I looked like absolute schmeng. No makeup, hair in a ponytail, probably a zit or three. He lived above my freshman year roommate Kassandra’s (the beautiful one who looked like a cross between Marilyn Monroe and Madonna) apartment. Leave it to her to live in a house with five guys. So Kassandra tells Guitar Guy that I’m single (I had actually just started dating Esteban back at home, but it was just in the fun stage at that point) and Guitar Guy asks her to call me and find out if I’d be interested. Yeah. In college and still playing the ‘find out if she likes me’ game. Kassandra called me and sent me into a bewildered tizzy. I mean, during my freshman year, I was in a complete boy desert and now in one months time, I had not one but TWO guys expressing interest. It was bizarre!

So we went out on a date, in which he basically took me parking and we drank beer. Very exciting date. He was a good kisser though. Luckily, the Mustang had a stick shift which is a very effective method of birth control and we only kissed.

He was pretty messed up. He then told me about his fingernail fetish. I immediately stopped chewing my fingernails and started painting them. He then broadened his fetish oeuvre and told me about his panty hose fetish and foot fetish. Apparently, he was very turned on by panty hose. Particularly painted toenails wiggling in sheer stockings. I bought a garter belt and started painting my toenails. This was all during the heavy flirtation period. We weren’t ‘going out’. Also, I hadn’t really made a decision about which boy I wanted to be with, Guitar Guy or Esteban. I found out that he was dating someone else too and that pissed me off. Not that he was dating someone else, but that he hadn’t been up front about it and was trying to hide it from me when I had been completely honest about Esteban the entire time. The other girl dumped him and I reluctantly allowed him to worm his way back into my social calendar. My only excuse is that he was a REALLY good kisser. And I had Film Lab every Monday night, where we’d watch a feature length film. I skipped West Side Story, Ran, Do The Right Thing, and some Russian thing because of that boy.

We flirted like that for a while and then it was Halloween. He didn’t have any money for a costume for a party we were going to at the TKE house, I believe. He said that one year, he had borrowed his girlfriend’s clothes and dressed up ‘like a chick’. And he had a pair of pantyhose that his ex-girlfriend had left at his apartment. I said that we could do that again and he could borrow my clothes. He rode his bike to my dorm. I found it a little odd that he was already wearing the pantyhose but I was very na’ve at 19. I dressed him up in my little black dress, a belt, and some pearls.

And then he tented my dress with his chubby.

That’s the thing about dresses. Erections are very hard to disguise. Yeah. That’s all a girl needs. To know that when your boyfriend tells you ‘That’s a nice dress you’re wearing’, he’s thinking that he’d really like to get it off you so he could wear it. He then proceeded to get fresh and it was seriously all Monica Lewinsky/Blue Gap Dress. Except I don’t think Bill was actually wearing the dress at the time of’uh’expulsion.

Have I mentioned that this journal is not meant for readers under the age of 18? Seriously. Go brush your teeth. Don’t forget to floss. I think there’s a Mandy Moore video on TRL right now.

It squicked me out and he knew I was squicked out and felt awkward and left. Removing his pantyhose, he left them in my trash, where I then had to hide them further down in the garbage so that my roommate wouldn’t find them. And need I mention that this involved TOUCHING THEM? No? Well, let me stress that. I had to TOUCH THEM! Well, I think I may have actually used a chopstick.

‘Removing his pantyhose.’ What has this diary come to?

I invited my friend Mary Kaye to come up for the Halloween party so she came up. Guitar Guy had called me and apologized profusely, so I had kind of gotten over my squickiness. I was very openminded. He then promised me that he’d meet us at the party. We both dressed up and went to the party. No Guitar Guy. I called his house and his roommate said he wasn’t home from work yet. Fine. The TKE president started to hit on me but I kept explaining that I was waiting for my boyfriend. I called again and his roommate said he had just left for the party. Still no Guitar Guy. The TKE president asked me for my number. They were giving out prizes based on the number written on the bottom of your beer cup, so I told him ’44’ and walked away. I was so clueless. I could have gone out with Mr. Pre Med, but no, I’m pining away for a lying slacker who worked in a convenience store and was more interested in my girlie accessories than me. (And before I start getting hate mail from pissed off cross dressers, let me clarify that I am not against cross dressing nor was I implying that I wouldn’t date a cross dresser but rather that I think he was more interested in the way that I was a means to an end, rather than being a means to MY curvy round end. And his general attitude was really poor. And he had a really horrible sense of fashion. I mean, if you want to put on women’s clothing, that’s fine, but for God’s sake, you don’t mix stripes and paisley! And he picked a straw hat to wear with the black dress, which was strictly an evening outfit. Puhlease.)

I eventually came to my senses two weeks later (which I discuss in detail at the bottom of this entry) and dumped him properly. The girls in my dorm were aghast. The fat girl dumping the hot lead guitarist of their favorite cover band? It didn’t make sense to them. I only wish that it had stuck the first time. I could never wear that damn dress again.

Ah well. I’m glad that he never got to actually see or touch the naked ‘Bix bodkin.

I really liked that dress.

Gah.

You know, I was gearing up to do a body image rant but damned if Heather Corinna didn’t go and do an incredible job of it already. It’s Here and it’s up for a Diarist Award, so if you dig it or any of the other entries up for a Diarist (there are a couple of Diarylanders up, by the way. I LOVE to see that! You might just find a new favorite read.) and you’ve got a diary, even one that’s inactive but still present on the net, maybe take a moment to vote for something you like.

It stopped raining now, so I’m off to the Farmer’s Market. Hope you have a super weekend!

*Edited to add that I’ve been corrected… Liberty Valance was played by Lee Marvin. I always get him confused with James Colburn, though. I don’t know why. The same way I get Skeet Ulrich and that other guy who looks like Skeet Ulrich confused. Also Vincent D’Onofrio and Jon Favreau. I think they’re the same person. Seriously. Like Andy Kaufmann and Tony Clifton.

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45% Less Filling

Thursday, August 15, 2002

Entirely random:

Nikki McKibbon. I hate her name. She cannot win American Idols (aside from the fact that she’s terribly off key) for that reason.

It reminds me of Kimmie Gibbler from Full House.

Disturbed by my caffeine dependence at the courthouse earlier this week, I have cut back on caffeine. Yesterday, I only had one Diet Coke with lunch.

Today’. Nothing. Nothing but water. Yeah. I can hardly believe it either.

You know, no matter how much water you drink, it still does not contain the caffeine of one freaking Diet Coke. I don’t really know what I expected. I started taking naps in the bathroom because I had to pee so frequently. It’s a good thing that I have a half day tomorrow, or I’d have to bring a pillow. Or a catheter.

I had to go home and change my pants today at lunch. No. I didn’t pee in them. Cripes. My pants were so baggy that I felt like a clown. I kept expecting someone to say ‘Please Hammer Don’t Hurt Em’ and I’d have to break into this wiggy wiggy dance groove to a riff from ‘Superfreak’ or something.

Does anyone get nostalgic for ‘You Can’t Touch This’? Or hasn’t the Overplayed half-life passed for that one yet?

I went home and put on my too small jeans. Yeah. That was a stupid move. No caffeine and I can’t breathe.

Proof that girls are dumb. Right there. In case there was any question in your mind, there it is.

I bought a bike on Sunday. And a gel seat and a helmet and a lock.

I can’t get my ass out of bed to ride the thing.

Esteban and I went to dinner with Roadie Pig and his family, including his son, Codeman and wife Lease. It was really lovely. We went to Los Banditos, which is one of my favorite restaurants in town. I hope they liked it. We had a lovely time. They are so enjoyable and I wished that they lived closer to us. Esteban was his normal verbose self and probably hogged the conversation. I was pretty subdued, due to a lack of caffeine today. Esteban and I had planned on grabbing the check but Roadie was too damned quick and bought us dinner. Such a scoundrel. And then he gave me jam, including two versions of cherry. I think one was his $18 a quart variety. I’m so honored. He knows the way to my heart.

Codeman tod me some disturbing news. Apparently, he set up a link on a school computer to this site with only “Read This” as the icon’s name.

While I’m enormously flattered, let me say this to any teenagers in the Decatur school district who might be reading:

Stop. Your parents would be very upset to know that you were reading this and they might want to kick my ass or something if they read the porn store entry. In general, I use bad words. Probably not as many as you hear in the hallways at school, but seriously, kids, Weetabix is a bad role model. She’s been known to lick pictures of Donnie Osmond. And then there’s the rampant alcohol usage at a certain bar. All very bad. So just stop reading and go watch some PBS. The Frontier House is very good. And wear sunscreen. Not the hivey kind though. I’d recommend Coppertone Waterbabies. And don’t squeeze your zits because you’ll get scars for like, eternity. And when the quarterback promises you that it won’t hurt and he’ll stop right before, don’t believe him. And brush your teeth.

Stop. Hammer Time.

You know what I wish? I wish that Pamie would update every time I pressed the refresh button, so I wouldn’t have to wait for her updates. I’d just sit there, pressing refresh like crazy, like those little monkeys that they award with random pellets and I’d have this entire weird surge of power when I’d think of her chained to her keyboard, writing for me, only FOR ME!!!!

And you know what else I wish? That I had a nice big hot plate of swedish pancakes with lingonberries on them. And a glass of ice cold skim milk.

It’s not getting what you want, it’s getting what you want RIGHT NOW!!!

WTF??

Esteban: Can you look at this thing on my back?

Weetabix: (sleeping, face down into the pillow) Oh, this can’t be good. I’m sleeping.

Esteban: No. Seriously, hon, look.

Weetabix: Where?

Esteban: Where I’m pointing.

Weetabix: I think that’s some skin. Yes. Definitely skin.

Esteban: HERE! It is not. It’s a bump.

Weetabix: It’s a bump of skin. A skin bump. That’s going around. It’s the West Nile Skin Bump. Let me sleep.

Esteban: No. Look.

Weetabix: Ok, come down here.

Esteban: Nevermind.

Weetabix: What? Don’t you want me to look at your bump?

Esteban: If I sit down on the bed, I’ll poop on you.

Weetabix: Bwahahahaha!

Esteban: (trudging off to the bathroom) What? I’m honest.

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I’m a little upset that we didn’t have a Johnny Cochran making snappy rhymes, though

Wednesday, August 14, 2002

So Jury Duty.

I had this elaborate Jury outfit planned. One of my black blazers, my slimline trousers, black flats with no socks, and my brand new sort of snakeskin looking shirt that is also a tad see-through.

You know, to add that little bit of trashy sexuality to the juror’s box. Shake up the legal world, as they’ve not had too much excitement since Marsha Clark ran out of hair to cut off.

I overslept yesterday morning and woke up exactly an hour late. I jumped into the shower and then back out. I don’t even think I got completely wet. Then I realized that I would have to de-lint my pants and search for my left loafer and my black bra since I couldn’t wear just any bra with the snakeskin shirt. Of course, I could just wear a white button down instead but that throws off my entire allure as the Curvy Round Sex Juror. And then it was like 7:21 and I had to be standing in the courthouse, ready to make life or death decisions at precisely 8:00:00 AM or they’d throw my fine round bottom in jail. And we already know that I am completely irresistible to lesbians. I’d lose all of my innocence and naivet’. Well, the five percent I’ve clung to with dear life.

Given the fact that I should have left like ten minutes ago and also the fact that I knew I’d have to walk four blocks from the parking lot to the courthouse, I ditched my entire Jury Chic ensemble this whole Sporty Spice thing with track pants, a $7 t-shirt and my New Balances. I am so trash, it’s not even funny.

I scurried over to the designated parking facility with nary even a concern for my caffeine intake. I mean, hey, this is JURY DUTY right? All frills and free food and stuff? They will have soda for us or at very LEAST some coffee. I could slug through a cup of courthouse joe if I dumped enough sugar and cream into it to pretend that it was a Starbucks Mocha.

Have I mentioned how I have this longing to visit Starbucks Guy in Madison? Must be hormones. Or caffeine withdrawal.

At the last moment, I grabbed a Buffy book (Yes. I know. It’s the equivalent of junk food for the mind and I bought them to read at the pool, so don’t be asking me which brand of luxury automobile I owe the government for my degree in English Lit and I won’t make fun of you for wearing a tank with a shelf bra when you really ought not to or for watching WWF when no one is looking, ok? And don’t even get me started on that John Denver CD you’ve got hidden behind the toilet where you think no one sees it. Hmmm?) and sprinted the several blocks to the courthouse. Well, that horrible sort of not running that girls who don’t like to run do. Basically, I was walking really fast and not breaking into a run because then my boobles would have bobbed up and down and that hurts like a sumbitch when you’ve got talent like mine.

A block from the courthouse, I was met by E, whose name I’m leaving off the journal for reasons which will become obvious. As luck would have it, E was also summoned for jury duty. And judging by the large crowd milling around the locked courthouse, so did most of Green Bay. Yes. Locked courthouse. That mofo wasn’t even open yet! And I broke into an actual SWEAT to get there on time! And neglected feeding the caffeine monkey on my back. I started to swear, a talent I usually save for volleyball, golf, and the Bad Bar. Mofo criminals.

Finally, we were let into the courthouse where we all stood around a hallway. And stood. And stood. The first fifteen through the door had secured spots on a bench, but the other 60 of us were forced to stand. Finally, I noticed another bench on the other side of the hallway and said “Screw this crap, I’m sitting.” E followed suit, as she had worn some strappy sandals and her feet were already killing her.

And need I even tell you that there was no Diet Coke? No soda whatsoever? Not even a spec of caffeine in the building? A bailiff decided to befriend us and told us that it was going to be late getting started because the judge was hearing motions on the trial prior to jury selection. I asked about the proximity of possible Diet Coke. Apparently, there was a machine two floors down, but I wasn’t supposed to leave. I looked at the hallway filled with potential jurors. Some of them had actually fallen asleep in a standing position and drool was starting to edge down their faces. If I didn’t procure some form of caffeine, I would be joining them. It would have inhibited my performance of my civic duty! This was patriotic Diet Coke! He warned me that I wouldn’t be able to bring it into the courtroom, as we could not eat, drink, chew gum, or do any effusive perspiration inside the hallowed halls of justice. I made a break for the elevator, shouting over my shoulder that my chugging talents were legendary. At least at the Bad Bar.

When I returned, no one had moved. E made a break to the Clerk of Courts to get a form she needed for something else. Naturally, right then, they decided to allow the throng of potential jurors to squeeze into the courtroom. I hung back and tried to inhale my Diet Coke in front of the bailiff who eyed me nervously, his fingers poised over his gun, ready to pop a cap in my curvy ass if I attempted to bring illicit food or beverage in. Finally E pops up and we squeeze into the courtroom, scoring the last two open spots on some squished benches.

Then we sat. 75 people sat on 8 benches, trying not to make any noise. I read my Buffy book, hoping that this would be a trial on someone who staked someone, thinking they were a vampire or something and I would be excused. Then the lawyers came in. Holy crap. Our county’s rock star District Attorney was one of them. Wow. This must be a big trial. There was another guy with this long white white blond hair and red red skin, wearing a suit. I figured that he must have been the accused because he looked more like he belonged on the road crew of the Aerosmith tour, but then I saw him talking to the DA so I then realized that he was the defense. The accused must have been the quite, angry looking lady in the Goodwill suit.

Then I recognized one of the guys standing in the back. It was the karaoke guy from the Cute Boy Bar. He was standing there with three girls that he obviously knew and one of them was wiping her eyes. They had to be victims or something.

We sat around in the courtroom with nothing going on for at least 30 minutes. Thirty minutes while I stared at my half-gone Diet Coke, slowly getting warm by the bored heat of 75 bodies crammed into a 20×20 space. I was sitting on a small bench, maybe 8 feet long, and there were seven of us squashed onto that thing, all of us trying not to touch each other. It was like flying coach. The full ten-footer in front of us had eleven people on it, so we felt very fortunate. However, one of the very first benches in the front, a twelve-footer, had only six people on it! Six people! And there was a guy on crutches standing in the back! I instantly hated those mofo’s and hoped that they all were sentenced to something. First Degree Intentional Bench hogging. Something.

Then the Judge came in and we all rose. They then called 24 names and made them all sit up in the juror’s box. E was the second name they called and she took her spot in Chair #2, looking all important and official.

They then read the crime. The defendant had been party to breaking and entering. Ok. Not so bad. But then the Rocking DA read the second count: party to murder. GAH! With one trip to the courthouse, I was suddenly dropped into Law and Freaking Order. Which is appropriate because that damn show has taken over the cable world. I think Sam Waterston is under the table giving blow jobs to Ted Turner or something. I expect to see Jerry Orbach hosting the damn VMA’s next week.

And then they read the dates of the crime and the victim’s name and a flashbulb went off in my brain. The night I met Angeline-Is, we went to Cute Boy Bar and there had been some kind of question about whether or not there would be karaoke because the Karaoke Guy’s father had died ‘or something’.

It was the ‘or something’ apparently.

So, I had an out, because I knew the Karaoke Guy, who was slated to be a witness. I also knew at least two members of the DA’s team. However, I couldn’t leave until I got called into the Bull Pen and could tell them.

They continued to ask all of these questions and the people in the Bull Pen would get excused and they would then be replaced with those of us remaining in the benches. Sadly, no one from my bench got called up, so we sat there, crammed into that little bench like sardines. You’d think that one of us would have moved to a less full bench but I suppose we just didn’t want to draw attention to ourselves.

E kept raising her hand for some of the questions. She knows many members of the police department. She had a cousin who had a drug problem. She had a close friend who was a victim of an assault or in an abusive relationship. But nothing seemed to get her out of the Bull Pen. She was trapped!

We took a break and instead of going with the Bull Pen, E broke away from the pack and ran out with the Benchies so she could hang with me. I downed the rest of my Diet Coke. It was the temperature of fresh urine. We saw a cop that E knew and he knew about the trial. E was bemoaning the fact that she was having a problem getting off the jury. He asked why she didn’t tell the judge that she knew so many cops, but apparently the judge was more interested in having some eye-candy in the jurors box than a fair and impartial trial. E was, by far, the most fetching member of the Bull Pen.

We went back in. I don’t know if E was reprimanded for hanging out with the Benchies or not. They continued to ask more questions. One was ‘Have you ever been arrested?’ and half the Bull Pen raised their hand. Then they went through, one by one, and made them tell the court what they were arrested for. There are a powerful lot of former drunk drivers deciding the fate of that alleged murderer. One poor man will doubtlessly be traumatized for life for having to relay his crime to a room full of his peers.

‘Well, this sounds worse than it is&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9- he began and you already knew that it wasn’t going to be good. Whenever a story begins with a cover, you know it’s a doozie. ‘Well, I was at a Packer game and, you know, this isn’t really like me, but well, I was drinkin’ and it was cold, and you know what happens when you’ve been drinkin’ lots of beer&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9- Many men in the courtroom nodded sympathetically.

‘Regardless, Sir, what were you arrested for?’

‘Ah’m getting there. So, anyway, I tried to use the facilities, but they’re not that great at Lambeau. I hear they’re making them better, though, more of them, so maybe other guys can avoid my fate.’

‘Sir&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9- the judge warned.

‘I was arrested for public urination’ urination in a public place’ he then clarified by using exactly the same words as he had the first time. The courtroom tittered. I think he ended up getting excused for something else, but I think his bravery to withhold his oath to tell the whole truth and respect the judicial system by outing his public urination, that is, urination in a public place, should be lauded. Perhaps the best man for the jury walked out. We will never know.

The questioning went on for what seemed like two weeks. Then they took select jurors out of the room to question them privately. E stayed in the room. She later reported that the juror chairs are extremely uncomfortable. Ha. Try wedging your ass into a bench with six other mouth-breathers!

In the end, I never made it to the Bull Pen. E, however, is still sitting in her uncomfortable chair today. She’s a juror. A juror in a murder case. Gah. Even if I hadn’t known so many people who were involved in the trial, I don’t know that I could have sit in judgment of someone like that. What is more, I almost burst into tears for poor Karaoke Guy who had to find the bludgeoned corpse of his father back in January. The trial started immediately after lunch, after I had gone back to work, but I guess he broke into tears when they replayed his 911 call. My own throat tightened up when I read the news article containing the transcript. I’m far too sympathetic to be a juror, I think.

My Mole Bet with UncleBob has been paid. You can read the two entries here and here. Poor Uncle Bob, the way I played with his life. I feel really evil now. But also gleeful that people actually thought it was a normal UB entry. BAH! Too funny. That was fun, actually. He doesn’t realize what he missed by winning.

Dear Justin Guarini on American Idol,

I was all for you, baby, but I think you think you’ve got this thing all wrapped up. You’re just not all that cool. Yeah, you’re cute. Yeah, you’ve got a good voice and a sexy smile. But you still look like the love child of Sideshow Bob. And your nose is very Michael Jackson-ish. You could cut a tomato with that thing. So a little more modesty. Please.

Sincerely,
Weetabix

P.S. Did you see how Tamyra made your bitch, Paula, cry? Did ya? See. Modesty would look good on you. I’m just saying.

Dear Simon, the British Judge on American Idol,

I would like to offer you a role in my dream episode of the hit television series Buffy The Vampire Slayer. You would play the British vampire, Spike’s older brother or possibly a rogue Watcher from the Council. And you would also look at me longingly from afar and tell me how upset you were to find out that I’m married.

Yeah.

Sincerely,
Weetabix

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