That's My Bix!

So. My weekend.

Gah. This entry is going to make my hand cramp. I can tell already.

It started normal enough. I went home and hung out with my homies. And by ‘homies’, I mean Tilly and several hundred dirty socks. I basically went even further into slacker mode. I wasn’t certain when Penny and Carissa would be done with their afternoon plans (girl golfing, without me because I had to work. They suck.). I got ready, deciding upon my smaller jeans, which now fit (Go Operation Hottie Go!) and an acid green $7 t-shirt from last year. Which is now way too big. Note to self: shrink that. And of course, I had to pair that with matching acid green undies and bra. Because I’m a girl and I can.

I had to find some batteries for my Evil Battery Sucking Camera. On Friday morning, there was a lovely misty haze and I was going to take my camera on my walk and take some pictures of our neighborhood, but my Evil Battery Sucking Camera came up limp. I went to the local mass merchandiser, figuring I’d also see if they had any more $7 t-shirts (It’s a sickness, I tell you! Someone stop me before I run out of clothing storage space). They did. I scored three new white t-shirts, now marked down to $5.96. You can never have too many blindingly white t-shirts.
I also found a replacement pair of white sneakers, as my sneakers from last year are beginning to look a tad dingy. I did not, however find a lithium battery and relegated myself to disappointment with some damn AA’s. Gah.

I went back home and proceeded to idle away the hours. I hate that time. I looked really cute and I’m much like a cut orchid, especially on a 95 degree summer night while wearing jeans. My hair gets droopy. My t-shirt gets wrinkly and limp. My makeup can melt. It’s a lot harder to be a girl than people give us credit for. Because we hadn’t made plans for dinner, I ate a Luna bar and promptly proceeded to get melted fake chocolate-whatever-it-was on my acid green t-shirt. Great.
I quickly replaced it with a big wet spot where I half-heartedly tried to eradicate the fake chocolate. I can’t be left alone to stay pretty. It just doesn’t work out. If I were locked in a small room with only four bare white walls, I will exit the room, covered in bat guano or possibly lardy chocolate frosting. It’s just not fair.

Finally, Carissa and Penny arrived, giggling and very excited. Penny was our escort, in her Monte which is the sporty strumpet red sister to my chaste nun’s apprentice white Monte.
Carissa, having always been the designated driver on previous jaunts to Harry’s, heretofore known as The Bad Bar, was noticeably excited. And yes, that is a Green Bay Packer blimp hanging in Penny’s car window. I don’t get it either.

We drove the short distance to The Bad Bar and I literally ran a chubby sort of undignified run into the bar because I was so very excited to be there.

I think I may have been channeling my drunken mama and all of the drunken elements of my family tree. Seriously. I was having an out of body experience, I think. I cannot be accountable for the actions beyond this point. None whatsoever. Nada. Remember that when you read the rest of this.

I just saw people’ MEN’ dancing on the very scary window ledge and sweet retro tunes pumping from the steamy door that I absolutely lost control. Notice the man very much enjoying the sight of the curvy round sex goddess actually CHARGING the bar, much like a rhinoceros toward’whatever it is that rhinoceroses really enjoy. Perhaps a lovely sale at the rhinoceros Nordstrom or something. Ok, forget that metaphor and let’s just move on.

We made our way to the back portion of the bar. Carissa immediately recognized someone she knew, because wherever she goes, she knows someone. She was in Brownies with them in second grade. She used to date their cousin. They had asked her for directions to a restaurant in 1986. Whatever. It’s one of her many talents. This lady had been at a Tupperware party she attended 8 months ago. I’m not even making that up either. It’s scary to watch her weave her strange RainMan-esque recognition game sometimes. I will not be surprised if she ever recognizes someone who was in the next crib from her at the hospital when she was born. Then Carissa proceeded to make up for lost time and drink from not one, but two, TWO glowy magical lighty-up cups. And yes, in case you’re wondering, that IS Malibu and Diet Coke in them. Both of them.

Apparently, they were forging iron in the back bar of The Bad Bar because it was roughly 213 degrees in there. Not a dry heat, either, but rather a sweaty humid Man Aura kind of heat. Like a Men’sLocker room. Men who engage in pro-wrestling. With pigs. Very hot pigs.

Penny noticed that I did not seem to be enjoying myself to my normal amount of hilarity, and promptly purchased me a Blind Russian, which I chugged immediately, because it had, nestled betwixt the lovely alcohols, glorious cubes of ice. Oh ice! The love that is ice.

I bemoaned my choice to look cute rather than be comfortable. Penny then offered to run me home, as I live not terribly far from the bar, so that I could change. Penny rocks. We left Carissa at the bar because at that very moment, we bumped into Jasmine and her friend, Chad.

We ran back to my house, where I was then forced to make a quick change out of my jeans and into my white shorts. Whoops, back up. Neon green panties are not the best friends of white shorts. With many apologies to Penny for the state of my house, including a horrifying realization that she had used my bathroom, which looked as though the Incredible Wrestling Pigs had used it to make crazy pig loving while stripping their soft cuddly boxer shorts and $7 t-shirts with lust normally reserved for members of the priesthood. Gah. I’m so very bad at being an adult sometimes.

We returned to the bar and found that Carissa had found another of her long lost bosom friends. This one was a very attractive older fox, introduced to me as ‘Tyler’s Dad’. Or maybe he had a real name, but I’m not sure. He was a hottie. And he danced with me at the bar while Penny and Carissa danced on the scary window ledge, their asses in the window facing onto Broadway. I swore to myself that I would not be seen shaking my curvy groove thang in that window, much like a smoked side of pork.

And then I had another drink. And then the Beatles Twist And Shout came on and I felt myself channeling Ferris Bueller and hopped up onto the ledge. I twisted. I shouted. I worked it. And it was a good thing.

I don’t know myself any more.

And that’s when Carissa turned to me and said, ‘Do you know who the hottest person in this bar is?’ And I said, ‘Who?’ to which she replied ‘You!’. Damn straight. Even with my shirt which was far too large, I was dang hot. And it was a good thing that I did match my bra to my t-shirt as apparently the crew neck tee is far more revealing than I had thought originally. And I think that guy standing behind us thinks that we’re taking his picture or something. It looks like he’s doing something nasty back there, though.

Then I was dancing and alternately leaning on the Magical Wall of Support. Carissa and I would turn to look at each other from time to time and say ‘Bad BAR!’ It was. It was a very bad bar that makes us do very bad things. That bar slaps my ass and makes me call it Daddy.

Carissa also spotted Buzz the bartender, the one who had been wearing the red velvet pants the last time we visited The Bad Bar. The one I said was swishy because of said red velvet pants. Seen without his Pants of Swish, he was far more heterosexual. Carissa decided that she had an enormous crush on him, rivaling her affection for Jon Bon Jovi.
She explained that I must get a picture of Buzz for her and then she proceeded to block my very first attempt by doing her impression of Belinda Carlisle. Harry’s Rule Of Alcohol Engagement: Amount of Alcohol Imbibed is in direct proportion to the incidences of Arm Flailing. Carissa proved this theorem quite soundly. She’s going to write a paper, I think.

I did explain to Buzz that I write a web diary and his velvet pants were lauded to the electronic world. He was nonplussed. I then explained that I needed to take a photo of him for my diary page. Then he decided that I was a stalker. Or a freak with a camera and a big wet spot on her shirt.

The bar was getting quite crowded. Mo showed up. In some strange manner of drunken greeting, I walked up to her while she was dancing on the windowsill and pinched her ass, running away giggling. She yelled out ‘You pinched my ass, loser. You’re not that sneaky! I see you giggling!’ Ok. I wouldn’t make a very good spy once they started with the vodka and tasty beverages. She was wearing a rather revealing outfit. Apparently, I made some kind of comment about her breasts. And she replied that she was wearing a water bra. And then Carissa grabbed her boob and said ‘Penny! Feel this! It’s water!’ Bah! Poor Mo. All of this groping and not a man among us.

I perched upon a leopard-print barstool because I was no longer able to stand unless I was dancing. There were strange drunken dynamics at work. A linebacker-esque guy walked by a few times, wearing a white banker shirt and burgundy suspenders with matching tie. By that time, I was calling everyone ‘Baby’, so I said ‘Ooh, those are nice suspenders, baby. I think I just felt a surge of estrogen.’ He smiled, because hey, he thought he was getting picked up and leaned in to say something to me, something which sounded like ‘Motor homes are where I ripe banana Marv Albert’. And he smelled good, so I said, ‘Baby, you smell good!’ And he smiled. And proceeded to subtly stroke my leg as he then continued upon his way. He then passed me like fourteen times in the next half hour, each time surripitously getting more and more fresh. Of course, I was oblivious. Finally, I slurred to our lovely sober Penny ‘Baby, I think Suspenders Guy is feeling me up!’ The next time he passed, his hand grazed along my inner thighs. Penny declared ‘Oh my goodness, yes he was!’ Confirmed in my suspicions, I then proceeded to brag to Mo, who had only at that point been felt up by females.

She didn’t believe me.

That’s my sister, ladies and gentlemen. Luckily I had a witness, and Penny confirmed that I am, indeed, attractive to men wearing suspenders and far too much Polo. Finally, I asked him why he kept passing us and he replied that he wanted to keep getting close to me. Or maybe he said he wanted to show his clothes to me. Or maybe it was that I looked like Glenn Close eating Brie. I dunno.

And need I tell you that I was the coolest person in the bar? No. I don’t think I need to tell you that. And most likely the only person in the bar wearing a lime green bra. They had a game at one point, Harry’s Wheel of Misfortune or something like that. Anyway, you could win a body shot off a bartender of your choice, or a t-shirt or what have you. One girl spun and it landed on ‘Remove One Undergarment’ which she did and the bartender promptly tied it upon his head. I would have been pissed. My bras are expensive. It’s not like they’re boxed Playtex bras or anything. Not to mention the floppage. The girls need support! Her boyfriend later almost went all Jerry Springer on the bartender until he returned her bra. Damn right. He probably paid for the thing and knew how expensive they are. I’m just saying.

Because Carissa is utterly obsessed with Buzz and apparently offered him sexual relief, to which he replied, ‘You’re married, aren’t you?’ And Carissa, being a truthful kind of person, answered in the affirmative. Buzz then expounded that only married women think he is hot. That’s because he is hot. But then, I’m married, so what do I know? He apparently had some kind of magical principle to him which prevented anyone from taking a reasonable picture. I tried taking pictures of his behind, and it didn’t really work out all that well. Finally, I did manage to get a successful picture of him talking to Carissa while Penny looks on.

Notice the presence of the Magical Glowy Cups. And also notice the presence of Carissa’s flailing arms. I’m just saying.

‘I’m just saying’ became the catch phrase of the night, by the way. Later, I used my little recording device to record our drunken babbling and I’m a bit embarrassed by just how much we said it. I may never say that again. I’m just saying.

This is where things get fuzzy though. I switched to Diet Coke after spending a good five minutes with my face down on the leopard print barstool, which was mercifully cool and still, as opposed to the rest of the room that was warm and spinny. They played the ‘Tootsie Roll’ song again, which perked me right up. I then spilled most of my Diet Coke onto my shirt and announced to the world that I was lactating aspartame. The hottie known as ‘Tyler’s Dad’ disappeared and apparently went to a nearby similar retro bar nearby.

The People In Charge (whoever that was’ drunk people are like sheep’ it might have been the Suspenders Man giving orders. Like I said’ fuzzy.) decided we would go there as well. Thus, we said goodbye to The Bad Bar and wandered down to the other retro bar, heretofore known as The Retro Meat Market. This was like The Bad Bar in theory, the theory being that they were playing retro tunes and had some psychedelic daisies plastered here and there, but it was filled with beautiful people and then boys checked you out as soon as you walked in. It didn’t have the fraternity party atmosphere like The Bad Bar. It was as though you took The Bad Bar, with its I’m Ok You’re OK/Let’s Just Have Some Fun vibe and set it down in a Calvin Klein perfume commercial. Everyone was too pretty to be having fun. I hated it. Carissa immediately disappeared, presumably off with Tyler’s Dad. Mo scammed me into buying her a beer, so I bought myself a beer as well, which just goes to show how inebriated I really was. Then Penny and Carissa decided that they wanted to go, which was fine with me, so I gave my beer to Jasmine’s friend Chad. To his credit, he didn’t worry about girl cooties and drank my Miller with relish. And mustard. Ok, I’ll stop hauling out that joke. I promise.

We skittered out to the car with a peal of giggles with the intent of going to Taco Bell and getting chili cheese burritos. But then we went to a porn shop. And that story will have to wait, because my hand is all crampy and crazy. I’m just saying. Besides, I also have to get clearance from some of the key players. But it’s hysterical. Censorship sucks.

Oh, and here’s a picture of Penny’s retro ‘Jem and The Holograms’ shoes. She’s outrageous. Truly, truly outrageous.

Stacy: So what are we doing today?

Weetabix: Cut! Cut! Cut!

Stacy: And brows?

Weetabix: Hooo yeah. Get the weed whacker.

Stacy: Oh, they’re not that bad.

Weetabix: I’ve been trying.

Stacy: We’ll open them up. We’ll yank them off and everything will be all pretty.

Weetabix: Cat woman eyebrows. Love that.

Stacy: Your color still looks good.

Weetabix: The red really faded–

Stacy: Red is the hardest color to maintain.

Weetabix: –but it’s totally my fault. I’ve been spending a lot of time in the pool.

Stacy: You guys have a pool? I don’t remember a pool in your backyard.

Weetabix: Esteban’s parents.

Stacy: Pool’s are harsh. All that chloriney yuck.

Weetabix: Actually, they use some science fiction stuff in there. Copper sulfate or something. It’s not harsh at all. It’s almost like sea water. Two weeks ago, I was swimming and I didn’t even do my hair after. I just went out like that. That’s because my haircut rocks.

Stacy: There’s not a lot of people who could do that. Just go out after swimming.

Weetabix: Well, it worked. I probably shouldn’t have, but it worked. I didn’t care. I’m a slacker.

Stacy: But it’s supposed to be mussed. Mussed and tussed.

Weetabix: It rocks. You did such a good job. It seems like the less I do, the better it looks.

Stacy: Did you see the movie Shallow Hal?

Weetabix: I did. This weekend.

Stacy: What did you think?

Weetabix: Well, I think they ended it admirably. I didn’t know how they were going to end it. I’m writing a story that deals with some of those issues and I don’t know how I’m going to end it without getting pissed at one of the characters.

Stacy: I didn’t think I was going to like that movie but I really did.

Weetabix: Some of the jokes were a bit… stupid, actually.

Stacy: But it was slapstick.

Weetabix: Yeah.

Stacy: And they were exaggerating. She was supposed to be like… three hundred pounds? And the things that they had her do were things that wouldn’t happen to a three hundred pound person. Like tilt an entire car. Or break the steel chair.

Weetabix: I know that. You know that. But I worry sometimes that it just encourages the stereotype, you know? Like that episode of The Simpsons where Homer gains weight until he weighs 300 pounds so that he doesn’t have to go to work and can collect disability and wear caftans and stuff. Hullo? 300 pounds? Like, people will think that 300 pound people need to be cut out of their houses or something.

Stacy: But the end! When he is making out with Helga and the mom is like… can you please let Helga return to the kitchen? He had decided that it didn’t matter if she was even this older woman, he still would love her, but then when he saw her, he said “You’re beautiful!” and meant it.

Weetabix: Yeah. They did a very good job with the ending. I was really impressed with Gwyneth’s acting ability… the way she carried herself.

Stacy: Yeah, I noticed that she’d kind of edge around things and stuff.

Weetabix: Exactly. She did an admirable job with that.

Stacy: I think people were offended when she’d said things like “I didn’t realize how horrible it was to be overweight and considered unnattractive, because I’ve always been thin and beautiful.” I wasn’t. It’s true. She’s always been thin and considered attractive. She was honestly shocked. I think that the only people who were upset with her were the thin wealthy women who make a hobby of being offended.

Weetabix: Skinny bitches.

Stacy: What?

Weetabix: Never mind. Yeah, I know what you’re saying. In her own little fashion model, saggy boobie way, she was being very deep. I actually like Gwyneth. She’s diverse, for a beautiful WASPy chick who was Brad Pitt’s and Ben Affleck’s chew toy.

Stacy: Bah! You crack me up! Tilt your head up. High chin.

Weetabix: (tilting) I liked her in Shakespeare in Love. The Royal Tennenbaums was great too.

Stacy: I didn’t see that. You know… though… I don’t like my arms and stuff.

Weetabix: Me either. I hate my upper arms

Stacy: (jiggling her arm) I call this “Hello Maude!” arms. You know, “Helllooooooooooo! Maude!!!(waving emphatically)

Weetabix: It’s a granny wattle.

Stacy: I never wear sleeveless anything.

Weetabix: Me either. That’s why I get bad tans normally. They stop here. Do not pass go. Do not collect any pigment past this point.

Stacy: But maternity clothes are so hard to find. And I decided screw it. I’m fricking hot! I’m wearing the sleeveless.

Weetabix: We’re just sensitive to it, though. No one else probably notices it.

Stacy: I know! Scott’s like “You look so CUTE!!” when I wear my sleeveless shirts.

Weetabix: You are cute! You’re the only one seeing your arm uncomfortableness, though. I’ve never noticed your upper arms. I’m too busy hating my own arms.

Stacy: See? And I’ve never noticed yours either. Actually, yours look really good.

Weetabix: I’ve been doing these tricep exercises at my desk while I’m on the phone. I look like a goober, but it seems to help.

Stacy: You’re so tan too!

Weetabix: Pool.

Stacy: That’s right. You know, the blonde still looks good though, and even though the red faded you can still see it.

Weetabix: Yeah. The blonde maintained.

Stacy: It didn’t turn green. When I was a kid, for a summer I had green hair because we went to the pool the entire summer.

Weetabix: Is that what made you all punk girly?

Stacy: (laughs) Maybe! Oh, and after we watched that movie, Scott was like “Hey, look at my beautiful big woman!” Like he was so proud. Actually, he is proud. In general. He’s so sweet.

Weetabix: He should be proud. You are a beautiful woman.

Stacy: Thanks! He’s so funny. He won’t let me beat myself up either. He gets really upset when he hears that. Does Esteban do that? Does he get upset when you beat yourself up?

Weetabix: I very rarely do, but sometimes it sneaks out. I was just talking on the phone with my friend Jake, about how everyone thought I was doing my hot college professor and how ridiculous that was. And Jake asked why that would be so hard to imagine. And I said that David Blaine, Street Magician, dated Fiona Apple and not Camryn Manheim.

Stacy: That’s because he wasn’t man enough for Camryn.

Weetabix: Maybe. Maybe she wouldn’t have him. I thought it was because Camryn would snap him like a twig betwixt her thighs. Anyway, my professor wasn’t slight like David Blaine Comma Street Magician. He was very manly and he had very blue eyes. He was sexah.

Stacy: SEXAY!!!!!!!

Weetabix: And Jake told me that I sell myself short. Which I do. He’s right. Only sometimes though. Sometimes I work it. He caught me in the right mood. Or wrong one, maybe.

Stacy: Is that what you were doing in the car outside? On the phone?

Weetabix: Yeah. I was early.

Stacy: I was wondering what you were doing out there, with the lights on.

Weetabix: It’s raining.

Stacy: It is. It’s raining hard. Oh my gosh! But he’s right. We sell ourselves short. Scoot down a bit.

Weetabix: (scooting) It’s like we feel like we need to apologize for not being society’s idea of beautiful.

Stacy: I feel that way all the time. But Scott is constantly telling me that. I know Esteban does too. Mo was saying “Weetabix is so lucky because Esteban is so completely head over heels in love with her.”

Weetabix: Mo says that?

Stacy: Yup.

Weetabix: Is that breaching hair stylist confidentiality, that you tell me what Mo says about me and Esteban?

Stacy: Only the good stuff.

Weetabix: Yeah. There must not be much of that!

Stacy: She’s your older sister, right?

Weetabix: Nooooooo! No. She’s younger. I’m your age remember? We’re both 31. Mo’s like 26 or something.

Stacy: For some reason, I keep thinking that Mo is my age and you’re like 25.

Weetabix: You ROCK!

Stacy: Don’t tell her that.

Weetabix: She knows it. Everyone thinks she’s my older sister. At my birthday party this year, Jonathon said that he thought Mo looked 31 and I looked 24.

Stacy: And he’s how old?

Weetabix: 12.

Stacy: So he’s too young to know that he shouldn’t say such things.

Weetabix: It’s weird because when I was a teenager, everyone thought I looked so much older than my actual age. And now they say I look younger.

Stacy: You act younger. Mo acts older. You’re a big kid.

Weetabix: I am 12 years old.

Stacy: I’m 14.

Weetabix: 14 and pregnant.

Stacy: I’m a movie of the week!

Weetabix: On Lifetime.

Stacy: God, I hate that channel.

Weetabix: Me too.

Stacy: (giggles) I used to beat myself up more. Remember my friend Shauna? She’s like a size 18 or something. I mean, she can still fit into Old Navy clothes. They go up to a size 20, I think, but their 20s are really like… 14s or something. I can’t pull that off.

Weetabix: I can’t either. Like, some day I hope to walk into Victoria’s Secret and wear something other than lotion.

Stacy: BAH! That’s hilarious. Exactly! EXACTLY! I’m so going to steal that line. But seriously, they have slippers there too.

Weetabix: (giggles) Yes, and don’t forget robes, which we could wear as long as you didn’t close it or cross your arms or anything.

Stacy: Yeah, and rip the armpits out.

Weetabix: That’s the Secret. The Secret is that only half the women out there can wear their clothes.

Stacy: Well, Shauna I think can wear their extra larges. And she’s two sizes smaller than me. And she’d always tell me, like she was trying to motivate me, “Stacy… we’ve got a serious problem. We’ve got to do something about it. We’re freakishly large. People look at us and they are repulsed.”

Weetabix: THAT’S SO NOT TRUE!

Stacy: I know. But that’s what she’d say.

Weetabix: How boring would the world be if it was only populated with Gwyneths?

Stacy: Right. And she was saying this to motivate me, but really it was insulting. I mean, she was two sizes smaller than me, right? So what was she thinking of me? Like she was the baby freak and I was the mama freak?

Weetabix: And what does that make me? Gargantuan freak?

Stacy: Or the super freak?

Weetabix: SUPERFREAK!

Stacy: OH MY GOD!

Weetabix: Yes! I am so the superfreak! (singing)She’s a very sexy girl… from her head down to her toenails!

Stacy: (laughing) Ok, superfreak, ready for the waxing?

Weetabix: GAH! I’m never ready for that.

Stacy: I know. I know. It sucks.

Weetabix: I took Advil before I came here, so it wouldn’t hurt as much.

Stacy: That’s smart. Oh Advil! I could use an Advil.

Weetabix: Do you want me to get you some?

Stacy: No, I can’t do ibuprofen because of the baby. Only Tylenol, which doesn’t really do anything.

Weetabix: Oh, that bites. I don’t know what I’d do without Advil.

Stacy: I know. I used to use it pretty much all the time. Now I can’t.

Weetabix: I don’t know what I’d do if I were pregnant. I’d have to give up all my vices.

Stacy: Yeah, I know. No smoking, no drinking, no caffeine, no good medications, no hot baths, nothing.

Weetabix: No caffeine! The horror. OUCH!

Stacy: I know, that one was a little sticky. But we all get it done. Everyone. I have blonde hair and I still do my lip and eyebrows.

Weetabix: I think my dad was really Groucho Marx.

Stacy: I wondered why you always carry around that horn.

Weetabix: That’s Harpo, I think. Or Zeppo? Ouch! DAYAM!!!

Stacy: Sorry. Can you tell that I’m not doing the bad ones under your arch until the end?

Weetabix: And I thought that maybe I had kept up with the tweezers so well that I didn’t need it there.

Stacy: Wishful thinking. Almost done.

Weetabix: I’m fine.

Stacy: You’re gripping the chair!

Weetabix: Yeah, ok, well, it’s a conditioned response.

Stacy: I do that too. I can’t stand it.

Weetabix: I don’t know how you do it to yourself.

Stacy: Oh, I don’t. I wax myself, but then I make someone else pull it off for me.

Weetabix: Freak!

Stacy: Superfreak!

Weetabix: She’s a very freaky girl… from her eyebrows to her bare lip! And she never pulls her own strips off because she’s such a freaking wuss.

Stacy: Bah! Oh, speaking of wusses, do you have those pincher bugs right now?

Weetabix: Oh… earwigs?

Stacy: Yeah! Actually, I call them pinch ass bugs. The other day, I was describing them to my mom in front of Georgie and I spelled it. I said “Pincher A-S-S” bugs, and then Georgie thought about it for a second and said “Pincher Butt Bugs! Hehehe” She figured it out in her head, but she knew that it was a bad word. We’re going to have to be more careful. Anyway, we’ve got them in the house.

Weetabix: It’s because it’s been so dry. They come in through the drains in the basement and stuff.

Stacy: Yeah. They’re gross.

Weetabix: They’re quickly becoming one of my least favorite bugs. My most despised bug is a June Bug, but I think they hold the second spot.

Stacy: I hate June Bugs. But those pincher butt bugs… they look like cockroaches mixed with crabs.

Weetabix: I think they’re related to the cockroach. They’re getting into our house too, mostly through the window fan in the computer room. The other day I was on the computer and then I got up to go to the bathroom. When I was about to flush, I saw an earwig in the toilet, and I was all freaked, like “Was that already there, or did it ride in with me?”

Stacy: AAAAH!!!! (snorting and laughing)

Other Stylist: Are you ok?

Stacy: She’s a very silly girl.

Weetabix: She’s a mama freak.

lighter fluid We finally got the tree planted last night. Eric, he of spermy swimming ability, stopped over and helped Esteban dig the hole. He was a great help. Scotty Boom Boom was held late at work because he is 26 and all Type A personality, therefore didn’t join us until we were at the pizza joint. He feels bad, but we understand and I fully intend to tap that guilt to the best of my ability. Esteban halted Eric’s attempts at desodding the area I marked for the landscaping bed because it was after 7 o’clock at that point and he didn’t want half a bed sitting there for a week.

All of the boys will be attending the annual ‘Men’s Camping Weekend’ this weekend. As you might have gathered from their creative name, this is a weekend in which many men drive hundreds of miles to ‘camp’ on someone’s brother’s lawn and drink. You’re not allowed to attend with more than one X chromosome. Apparently, the presence of women would incite rampant bathing or fewer incidences of crotch adjustment. Or whatever they do. Maybe sit around naked and beat on drums made from their preserved foreskins or something. Gah. I just made myself gag, thinking about some of them naked.

This weekend, historically, has been fraught with’oh’ not disaster necessarily. Let’s just say bad judgments. And it is no surprise.

I have been Camping With Men. I have been the only female Camping With Men. Not on Men’s Camping Weekend, mind you, just before the Men in question started finding mates. Camping With Men makes the only female an automatic den mother. Perhaps I should have come equip with badges, but no, instead I figured ‘Badgees? We don’t need no steenking badgees!’ At one point, I gave two of them a job to scrub the potatoes, wrap them in foil, put them into a cast iron Dutch oven and start a couple of coals on fire, and then place the coals around and on top of the Dutch oven, to slowly cook the potatoes. No biggie. They dutifully washed and wrapped the potatoes and put them in to the pot. However, they overstuffed the pot two inches too full, leaving the lid setting on top of a mountain of potatoes. Then, they decided that instead of starting a bunch of coals on fire and then moving them around and on top of the pot, they could make a more artful and therefore efficient coal structure if they put the briquettes around and on top of the pot and THEN lit them on fire. With lighter fluid. You know, directly onto the food that we were going to later eat. I watched them silently, like a patient mother, only saying stop when one was unstopping the can of lighter fluid and the other was searching for his lighter. That was the day that I learned that two boys will do very stupid things if they both agree upon it. I still remember the sheepish guilty look upon their faces.

I mean, I don’t mean to take the high road here. I am the same woman who once told two tent neophytes that setting up a new tent in the dark would be no problem because, hey, we had flashlights, right? The same woman who forgot to pack PANTS for a camping trip when the average temperature ranged in the low forties.

Thus, I can only imagine Men’s Camping Weekend. They get to pee wherever they want, on anything they want. They make homemade potato guns and shoot things over the lake. They blow up watermelons. They stupidly throw fireworks into campfires. There is usually a theme of some kind. A few years ago, they made a bonfire so large that it could be seen from space.

And with so much free floating testosterone, fire, Deepwoods OFF with Deet, and fermented grains, you can imagine that things degrade to Cro-Magnon level fairly quickly. Last year, there was apparently a skirmish. Las Vegas odds are that something more intense will develop this year.

I warned Esteban to not get into a brawl. He’s large and menacing, but has the heart of a pussy cat. Most of the guys going up are role-playing gamers, but there are a few ‘good old boys’ in the mix. And my experience is that the ‘good old boys’ are a bit more seasoned in the ‘shit stomping’ arena than the role-playing gamers. I tried to explain to him that the Mullet Nascar Set isn’t going to wait around for him to roll die-8 to find out if he gets to punch him or not. Esteban pshawed me. I took a high moral stance and told him that I didn’t want him to get hurt. Of course, this was in front of Eric and Scott, which was probably the same as having his mother remind him to wear clean underwear.

Then I declared, ‘You don’t see me getting into fights. I’ve never been in a fight in my life.’

Eric piped up. ‘Ahem’ .skinny bitches.’

Then I blushed and sputtered, ‘Yeah, but’ but’ I knew going in that I would win. I don’t get into a situation that is questionable. I would have flattened them. Both of them. As long as they weren’t wearing rings or something.’

Scotty Boom Boom, my favorite friend, agreed. ‘Yeah, Weetabix doesn’t go writing checks her ass can’t cash.’

I nodded. ‘Damn right. My ass has two forms of identification for that shit.’

The boys then degraded into an entire discussion about using the picture of Scotty Boom Boom’s ass on one’s drivers license and yanking down trou when pulled over by the police.

Because, you know, they’re boys.

My plans for the weekend are fairly minimal. I have laid the smack down and stated that Esteban will finish his dish duties or I shall become very grumpy indeed. Kim V, Cheri and the always adorable Kim V Baby, plan to go to Milwaukee on Saturday morning to attend the Renaissance Faire.

While I was walking this morning with the Lovely Carissa and Pretty Penny, though, a slight kink fell into that plan. It seems that the three of us will be free this Friday night. And I, being the hip hip wiggly temptress that I am, suggested that we go to the bar.

The Bad Retro Bar. The Bar of Drunken Weetabix Badness.

It actually incited me to shout ‘Dooooood! Dooood!’ with excitement, as only the prospect of Malibu and sweaty barstool dancing can do.

Lord help us. I can just see it now. Kim V knocking on my door at 7 a.m. on Saturday morning and me crawling from my nest on the sofa, where I had fallen four hours earlier, to greet her, my makeup still on, my hair smelling like smoke, sticky colorful candy necklace marks all over my body, telling her in a hoarse-from-shout-singing-to-the-Partridge-Family voice ‘Go on without me. I’ll meet you down there in a few hours. Or something.’ It’s probably good that I’m not a single woman and Esteban is such a stable law-abiding kind of guy. I’d be having keggers every weekend and making out with the drummer from the Love Monkeys.

Sometimes I think God made me a curvy round kind of girl to keep me from being evil. And sometimes I think His plan isn’t working out so well.

I am, at this very moment, avoiding housework.

I hate that term. Housework. Having a house IS work. They don’t tell you that shit when you’re signing eight million pieces of paper and giving you a free pen. Nope. They won’t tell you about how the weeds grow up in the cracks of the driveway and no one in their right mind will believe that it’s a new form of driveway art and didn’t you see Martha do a segment on Wednesday’s show? They don’t tell you about the gutters that need to be cleaned out and how your neighbor’s tree shits leaves into it every fall and spinner seeds into it every spring and somehow those seeds and leaves turn into this black slimey goo that might just be sentient or possibly the black oil stuff from The X-Files. And they don’t tell you about how freaking earwigs will take over your basement and hold your entire delicate washables collection hostage until you bring them many damp sponges that they may use for earwig condos.

Right now, I should be tidying up the bedroom. I think I might need a rake. It’s embarrassing. The corners where the wastebaskets reside are just sloping mounds of Kleenex and empty Dasani bottles. Maybe I should get bigger wastebaskets. Or empty them more than once a season.

It’s not my fault. Well, it is. It’s my fault that I refuse to measure my life and self-worth by how clean my house is or how small my ass is. Sure, I’m engaging in some body modification but it’s not because I think I’m any less worthy than a thin girl. There’s a different motivation there.

And honestly, I’m worth a clean bedroom. I’m going to hire a cleaning service, but first I must get the house reasonable. I’m not low enough to say ‘Hi, nice to meet you, thanks for coming by to clean. Here’s our ski slope of used Kleenex and the shower where the shower gnomes leave me messages using hair.’ Thus, guilty pre-cleaning.

It’s 93 degrees out today and perfect. Not terribly humid. Just perfect. Esteban and I stopped at the Snooty Deli this morning for breakfast. He had vetoed my plea for pancakes and countered with Vegetarian $8 Sandwich. Probably one of the few things I’d give up pancakes for. Then we went over to Ward and June’s house to frolic for a few hours in the pool, sipping strawberry margaritas. The pool is honestly the biggest housework offender. Esteban uses it regularly as a distraction whenever I begin to voice discontent with the state of the home.

Is it wrong that I’ve begun to fantasize about moving to a very small home in the country? Alone? No pets. No one to clean up after. No clutter. I actually have the furnishings even picked out. It would be very simple, much like the cover of Living or Real Simple. Lots of old tables with layers of white and pastel paint showing through. White curtains. Everything white. Maybe a hammock outside. And the finest electronics and broadband. It’s my fantasy, I can be as eclectic as I want to be. It’s probably a bad thing that I don’t imagine Esteban there, but honestly, he’s so messy and I never see him anyway. Maybe he could be there, but there would be a stipulation that it is my goofy country house and he would not be allowed to litter. In reality, I’d need him to set up my home theatre system anyway. Wires make me hyperventillate.

We swam for a while, and then Esteban left for his weekly dork diversion with the guys. I swam for a bit more, but I was wearing my annoying suit and felt like my boobs were falling out every time I swam laps underwater. I left about a half hour later, citing housework, then drove out on the country roads, windows open, singing along with Republica and Salt N Pepa, until my hair dried from the hot wind. I wanted to just keep driving, wanted to go up to Door County where the sweet cherries are in season and score a lovely quart of reddish black summer-tasting mouth orgasms, but house guilt prevailed. It was a tough choice. Touch and go for about ten minutes, especially when ‘Dreams’ by the Cranberries came on. That song should be played at the beginning of every road trip. It just smacks of driving fast through waving fields toward blue stretches of unbroken sky.

By the way’ ‘Push It’ is one of the best songs ever. Honestly. Oooh baby BABY! Buh Baby BABY! You come and give me a kiss. Bettuh make it fast or else I’m gonna get pissed. It just doesn’t get more profound than that, now does it?

I had this entire plan to write an entry about the night that I met Esteban. This weekend is the 12th anniversary of that night, but it seems to be too much effort. Summer slackerdom. That’s what it’s all about. Don’t be listening to that Hokey Pokey shit’ they don’t know a damned thing.

Gah. I should go clean. GD housework.

---

You know, you can almost set a clock by my bitching about the housework. Every 28 days. It’s amazing how that works. Bah.

This morning, I was standing in the shower…. wait, I just lost half of you, didn’t I? Fantasizing about the hot curvy Weetabix bodkin all luscious and wet and slippery with Dove Extra Sensitive Non-Hivey Body Wash. Well, just stop it. Seriously. Walk it off. In reality, I get into the shower approximately 1.4 minutes after my alarm goes off and usually there are some pillow wrinkles in my face and I still have drool on my chin. In fact, I might even be still somewhat asleep. Combine that with my Maresy Doats And Goatsy Doats and Weetabix is Hivey look and the Eye Pouches of Uglification, I’m truly the epitome of “She’s got a good personality”.

But back to the story: This morning, I was standing in the shower, staring at the wall and saw some random hair clinging to the shower enclosure. What is more… the hair was in the form of the letters “F” “U” and what could have possibly been the letter “C”.

Are the shower gnomes sending me a message? It doesn’t seem to be a good one. I have this strange feeling that by next Monday I’m going to see a finished message, something like “Fucking Clean the shower, bitch!”

Right after that, apropos of nothing, I wondered whatever happened to Holly Hobby. And then I got this vision of her in stiletto heels and a gingham mini dress, turning tricks out on the prairie.

Half-awake shower thoughts make Baby Jesus cry.

---

And speaking of disgusting body detritus… Subway’s new low fat Honey Mustard sauce looks disturbingly like semen.

I dropped some on my rack yesterday, because, you know, the big one I was working hard and fast on was so large I could barely get my mouth around it, yeah baby! But seriously… it looked just like spooge. Tasty spooge, but spooge nonetheless. And then that realization made me have a horrible lascivious mind picture of smiling Jared with those freaky weaky lips of his. (shudder) He smiles at me from my nightmares.

So, um, anyway… I’m having Subway again for lunch today. Because, you know, that’s just the kind of girl I am.

See what you all started thinking that dirty stuff about me in the shower? It’s all your fault.

---

I’m gearing up for an Uber Shopping trip to my favorite mall in the world. There’s a Torrid store opening on July 31st. I’ve had that date written on my calendar since April. I know. It’s all very sad, but I want me some cute chubby punk girl clothes, ok? And I think that Prescriptives needs more of my money, as does Restoration Hardware, Pottery Barn, and possibly J.Jill. God, I’m getting absolutely giddy with the prospects. Esteban is going down for GenCon in early August and staying in the Hilton with his gaggle of geeks. He claims that there will be no room for me to crash overnight, but I may just get my own room elsewhere, possibly near Mayfair. I’m all empowered now that I’ve registered for JournalCon which will be my first solo vacation since I went to New York when I was 18 to visit Mike Flaherty and the crew at Sassy.

A trip to Milwaukee means something else too: a trip to the Hootchie Mama store for cheapass rock and roll clothes. My rock star jacket continues to get rave reviews. It sneers at my cashmere sweater, though, and threatens to trash my bedroom and flush the sheets down the toilet. I think it knocked up my tailored navy shirt dress too. It’s sobbing in the back corner of the closet and all of my shoes are whispering. The Scully Suit is valiantly defending its honor and also given the rock star jacket surly looks.

Oh, this is cool… Roadie and fam are going to visit Green Bay and if their itinerary isn’t too packed, I may have another episode of “Touched By A Diarylander”. I’m stoked. I’ve made the rather dubious recommendation that he try the restaurant where my drunken mama occasionally works. It’s dubious because it’s a very excellent restaurant, however, I’m always on pins and needles whenever she meets anyone I know. Like, what if she made a pass at Roadie? Or Codeman? Oh god. At first I had the thought that we’d meet them for dinner there, but now I’m sweating, because if Esteban and I were with them, she’d be all smiley and telling them stories and weirdness, although Roadie and my mom are both consummate gardeners and canners so they would have that to talk about. Then maybe she wouldn’t mention the time she went out with the offense from the Chicago Bears or something.

I’m 31 years old and I still want my mom to drop me off two blocks away from school. Gah.