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Would you like a receipt? Or maybe the number of a good chiropractor?

Wednesday, June 19, 2002

I have a new purse.

It’s very cute. It’s a basket really. I’ve always had latent Anne of Green Gables fantasies, I suppose. This one is lined with blue gingham and has a single little leather strap. It’s meant to be carried in a dainty fashion’ there’s no throwing over the shoulder with this little cutie.

I always have little purses. Even my big ass black leather winter purse is fairly small in comparison to the luggage that most women schlep around. I find that if I have a large purse, it just gets full of crap faster and then I’m lugging around a lot of crap all the time. Pishposh. I’m all about streamlining. Besides, it’s not like I’m going on a trek through the Andes or anything. Pretty much, I go into work, I leave work, I go to the grocery store, and then go home. And I leave my purse in the car (I know, I know).

The little basket purse is roughly 2 inches wide, 6 inches long and 6 inches high. Roughly the size of a personal CD player. I don’t carry all that much, really. In it I have: my driver’s license, a credit card, some cash (that all fits in the single little pocket), my key card for work, my asthma inhaler, my Slutty Ho lipstick, my Non-slutty work lipstick, a very small container of loose powder, two packages of Oral Care strips, a very small flat container with some Advil inside, and my car keys. I could fit more into it, but honestly, why. I do regret that my cellphone and my sunglasses do not fit in it when it is zipped, but it hasn’t bothered me terribly much.

I’ve been told that when I have children, this will change. Bah. My mother never carried but a stick of gum in her purse to amuse us. When I started to date Esteban, he’d often give me things to hold or to put in my purse, but I refused and still refuse. I don’t want his receipts in my purse! I don’t keep my OWN receipts in my purse, why would I want his?

I have friends who lug around gigantic grandma purses and they are nary 30 years old. I don’t understand this. Why are you carrying around the world with you? Isn’t that the point of leaving your house, to feel like you’ve actually left? Do you really need six pounds of loose change?

I don’t wear a watch either. When I’m at work, I have a clock on my computer. When I’m at home, I have clocks all over the house, and when I’m in the car, there is a lovely clock on my stereo. Where could I possibly go that they will refuse to tell me what time it is? And if I really get desperate, my cellphone has the time on its display. So there.

I’m not saying that my way is the right way. I’m just saying that it’s better.

Do your back a favor, girls, and get rid of all of that loose change in the bottom of your purse tonight. Your back will thank you. And use it to buy yourself something nice. Like maybe a new car?

If I didn’t have that GD inhaler, I’d be carrying around my crap in a cinnamon Altoids tin, I think. Just duct tape a strap on that bad boy and I’d be all set.

Although I still think that having a cute little burro to carry around all my crap would be nice. Or, as someone suggested a long time ago, maybe a holster. Yeah. A holster would be sweet.

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Bless the little children. Bless them every one.

Tuesday, June 18, 2002

It was a bad day for Operation Hottie.

I ate several cookies. There was a latent package of Girl Scout Cookies lurking where I might stumble upon them. Ok. In the garage. They were in the garage underneath some mail. But still. Insidious little bitches. Also I was too lazy to go for a walk this morning before work. I did manage to haul my butt outside for a minor walk mid-morning, and even managed to con a cube potato to come out with us, even though there wasn’t food involved, but then I shirked my afternoon walk because I just had lost the will to live.

It is so completely dead at work. I never thought I would be complaining, but I feel like shouting ‘Give me your stupid, your morons, your wretched cretins needing to use our software and surf free’ all the while a corporate banner flies behind me and my coworkers hum ‘Right Here Right Now’ or something. Mostly because in my fantasies, there’s always an elaborate sense of showmanship and usually a synchronized swimming routine combined with fireworks somehow.

Also, I think I may have surfed the extent of everything interesting on the Internet. Or everything that I can look at while working without getting fired. I mean, I’m not out there looking for naked pictures of Vern Yip or anything (which, by the way, is one of the top google searches that this site receives).

Oh. And I named my Tivo. His name is Ricky Fitts. Because he shows me all that is beautiful.

Seriously. Last night, as I was crashing, I watched Martha Stewart show me the proper way to fill a window box (in case you’re wondering, dump in special Martha approved soil, fill with expensive pots, and then water with approved Martha water, preferably dew collected from a rare tropical plant and also available at Martha By Mail for $59.99 a gallon in a decorative green depression glass canister). And then, at one point, I said ‘Good night Martha!’ and turned it off, secure in the knowledge that Ricky will keep that episode until I want it no longer and he will also bring me fresh Martha for days to come.

I love Ricky!

I wish my refrigerator could do such things for me. I wish it could only provide me that which I had deigned at a less frantic moment’ for instance, fresh fruits, bread that didn’t kill the plan, and lovely magical diet food that tastes like KFC Original Recipe but without calories.

I endeavor to do 50 crunches tonight while watching whatever Ricky wants to show me tonight. And then sometimes, I read sentences like the one preceding this one and I just can’t freaking believe that came out of my mouth.

Or keyboard, as it were.

Oh, but this was cool. A few days ago, I was talking with my Incredibly Healthy But Still Incredibly Nice So You Can’t Hate Her coworker and mentioned that I could now touch my fingers to the ground when standing with my feet together. So she tried it. And her fingers stopped 6 inches off the ground. And she’s six inches shorter than I am.

So last night, I mentioned it to Mo while at my Drunken Mama’s house. Mo tried it and SHE couldn’t do it either. Mom tried it and she CAN do it, but not all that well. So’ that freaking rocked. Then Mo challenged me to a Crunch-Off because she’s kind of a psycho that way. I told her that she’d totally kick my ass at a crunch off, simply because she’s been crunching for three months, and I’m not even at a week. But then Jonathon countered that Mo looks 32 and I looked like I was 25. And his little friend Zach agreed that Mo looks older than me, because she goes tanning.

And a little child shall lead them.

Note to self: buy Jonathon and Zach a car when they turn 16.

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Life is a house full of big old girly crying and red messed up faces

Monday, June 17, 2002

I watched Life as a House tonight. I still have tears in my eyes.

I never used to cry so much, honestly. I rarely cry now’ really good literature and movies, mostly. Sometimes music can overwhelm me. It bothers Esteban, I think, because he’s so outwardly emotional. It makes for some interesting fights, too, as he gets frustrated by my lack of outward emotion. At some point, some mystical unmeasured or possibly wavering point, I reach my limit and let loose, but until then, I’m pretty much like a Weeble. I wobble, but I never fall over.

I come from a long line of simmering dysfunction. My mother used to use the word ’emotional’ as a sledgehammer, with a sneer in her voice. ‘Weetabix’ you get so emotional!’ And perhaps that speaks to everything, all of the paving stones we’ve laid down to create the winding history of our lives. We sink them into the earth, hiding most of the stone from the surface. They are stable, those pavers. You can’t blow them away.

But more recently, I’ve become a weepy schoolgirl. The English Patient seriously did me in. Actual sobs’not just surreptitious tears’ real full blown weeping. Charlotte’s Web still kills me too. Just the ending, though. The part where Charlotte sounds so tired and Wilbur just doesn’t understand. And maybe that’s what Life as a House really was. They say that there are only six stories in the world and a million variations on them. Perhaps English Patient too, although probably not. I could buy Willem Dafoe as Templeton the Rat, though.

Paul Lynde shares my birthday. Thought I’d drop that little tidbit on you.

So I was brought to full blown bawling by the movie.

Honestly, I view this as a good thing. I think it means that I’m edging up Maslov’s hierarchy of needs or maybe just succumbing to my emotions more. Either way, it’s all good.

I always think about how Silas Marner saved his tears in an oyster shell. The tear is a powerful thing. Biologically similar to that fluid we float around in for 9 months, the fluid that we essentially breathe.

I had a bunch more to say about the psychology of crying and everything but now I’m tired so I’m just going to bed. But I will say this’ crying fucks up my face. A whole lot.

Ok, that was an entry I wrote last night but never posted. Because I’m a slacker tool and I felt like fiddling with it some, but I never did.

Tonight, my drunken mama invited me over for dinner. She had gotten me a birthday cake and wanted me to blow out candles.

That pretty much breaks my heart, especially given what I just wrote about her above.

Mo and I were sitting in the living room while Mom was outside smoking and watching the grill. I remarked that Mom’s jade tree is like 28 years old and is humongous. In fact, it’s one of the few things that survived her colossal Christmas house fire eight years ago. Fifteen years ago, I remember trying to lift that dang thing and I couldn’t, because it was dense like lead.

Mo remarked, ‘That’s because plants just don’t die around here. Mom dotes on them.’

‘Yeah,’ I sniped. ‘They’re like the children she never had.’ Mo cracked up into hysterics.

We’re truly evil children. I know. You don’t have to look at me like that.

But Mom is trying. She made a really splendid meal and I felt sort of bad that I blew off our family’s Fathers Day celebration yesterday because none of us actually have fathers and I just wasn’t in the mood. Apparently, she brought the cake there and it went untouched. That’s so sad, in a MacArthur Park kind of way. So, it was a given that I had to eat cake, despite the fact that it was covered with the dreaded lard frosting. Gah. It may have hermetically sealed my intestines.

Very funny moment: She made Mo put candles on the cake. Mo put eight candles down. I cleared my throat and said, ‘Um, there should be 31 candles.’ And Mo sneered and said ‘Oh, so we can have a big flaming fireball cake?’ And then Mom came by and swatted Mo’s hand and said ‘You put all of those candles on your sisters cake! What do you think you’re doing with only eight candles?’

Bwahahahahaha!

I really shouldn’t take so much glee from seeing Mo get kvetched at, but it was just awesome. Seriously. When you’re not the favorite child, you take what you can get. Although, Mo was feeling a bit put out, as when Jonathon came in the house, he squealed ‘Weeeeetabix!!!’ and ran over for a hug. Apparently, she earns a grunt and a nod from him. Also, I got two lovely cards from both of them, and they made Mo a tad jealous.

Bwahahahahahahaha!

Yep, I know that I’m going to hell to be Satan’s favorite curvy round concubine. But I might as well just enjoy my sins! Cripes.

Here’s hoping Satan likes foreplay.

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Reach out and touch someone… but not in a bad way

Sunday, June 16, 2002

I crossed the threshold yesterday once again.

I called one of my readers.

Ok, first’ backstory.

I’ve been bragging about the $7 t-shirt bonanza and ThatGrrrl wrote to me and asked if it would be asking too terribly much if I could possibly purchase some t-shirts for her and send them to her (let me just interject right now, and say that I only have one nice favor-doing thing in my entire body and she used it up, so sorry if you wanted me to buy you shirts as well, but I’m just going to have to say no. It’s not my fault’ it’s just genetics. Besides, the sale is over anyway.) and she would reimburse me for the cost and shipping. And then her adorable husband, who writes to me occasionally, wrote to me and also asked if I could do HIM a favor and get the shirts because apparently she’d been bemoaning the fact that I practically stole those t-shirts from the store at such low, low prices.

So I agreed. Because I’m that kind of girl. And it wasn’t that big of a deal. After some consternation about colors and size, she sent me her address and I was going to take my camera to the store and take pictures of the colors. But didn’t. Because I’m THAT kind of girl too. A lazy forgetful procrastinating kind of girl. So yesterday, I received an email from her telling me to not bother with the camera because it was the last day for the sale. Oh. Oops. Sorry about that. See’ careless flowerchild mode bites me in the ass sometimes.

So last night, we were supposed to go to a housewarming party for our friend Joe who bought Cheri & Joel’s old house. Which is surreal, because I distinctly remember warming that house once before and I would think that my residual warmth would still be there, but I digress. It was an excuse for a party.

Esteban wanted to be there at the second the party was to start, but I was watching Ghost World and I pshawed his efforts to be on time. At our last shindig, people didn’t start arriving until an hour and a half after the starting time because we know a lot of inconsiderate folks. What is more, the very same inconsiderate folks would be at this party. Hence, there was no way that I would forsake Steve Buscemi to go and sit around waiting for people to show up. Esteban wandered around the house, antsy as all get out because he is On Time Guy, but then settled down in front of the TiVo to watch a saved Star Trek. Finally, after a half hour, I told him to just go without me and I’d follow as soon as the movie ended.

Which it eventually did, leaving me wishing that I had been half as cool when I was 18 as Thora Birch, with her wacky little vintage dresses and combat boots and the way that the background music would beat with each contemplative step she took. And then I hopped into the Monster and sped off to De Pere, which is where the majority of the friend contingent reside and is also my secret place to score wads of $7 t-shirts. My hope was that I would be able to find more colors and styles than at the more popular, larger locations.

Then I spazzed. I was standing in front of the t-shirt display and I realized that I still didn’t know which colors ThatGrrrl wanted, and there were like, three different styles in 12 colors, and I didn’t really want to buy or have her feel obligated to take 27 t-shirts. That meant one thing: call her.

I remembered her full name and the state she lived in but couldn’t remember the city. Thus, I called my cellular company and made them look it up, assuring them that she was the only ThatGrrrl in the state of North Carolina. Which I entirely hoped was true. But I found her and the number. Then I repeated it to myself and the poor fool at the cell place like 42 times so that my early Alzheimer’s disease wouldn’t strike it from my mottled noggin.

Then the weird part. How to start a conversation like that, with someone you’ve only corresponded via email. I took a deep breath and dialed.

Her husband answered. Now, luckily, I have corresponded with him as well, so I didn’t feel like a complete and utter internet freak stalker type person. And he knew what was going down with the entire Operation T-Shirt, so that erased a BIT of the awkwardness.

Just a bit.

‘Hi, um, D, this is (my real name), er’otherwise known as Weetabix?’

People in the store must have thought I was insane.

There was a pause. I cringed. But then he exclaimed, ‘WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEETABIX!!!’

It was such a post-modern moment.

I managed to describe to him the types, styles, and colors available and we ended up with 7 shirts for ThatGrrrl. Whom I always address by the wrong name. Because I’m a spaz.

Oh, and he called me a curvy round sex goddess. And that made me blush like a goofball because it’s one thing to see it in print or say it myself, but it’s another thing to have someone address you as such. Especially when you’re standing in the middle of the Ladies Department, wearing Keds with no socks, khaki cargo shorts, an army green t-shirt, and your hair is in what is supposed to be trendy mussy mode but really looks like you just spent all afternoon watching a movie with your head against the back of a LazyBoy.

This brings my total Diaryland encounters to : Angeline, The Rancho Lesbiano Experience, which included BadSnake, Jake, Deb, JerseyGrrl, and their visitor, Mechaieh. And sort of Chauffi, whom I pleaded with him to call my cell phone and leave a voice mail, because I had had a dream in which his voice sounded like a cross between Darth Vader and Satan and I wanted to make sure that he wasn’t going to eat my eyeballs or something when I go to San Francisco for Journal Con in October.

All in all though, it was very nice to talk to D for the brief time that we did. Diaryland encounters are a weird thing because you usually feel as though you already know the person, in some cases, very well, but it’s as though the volume has been turned up’ or maybe even down, in some cases. (I mean, I’m just a girl’until you get to know me, anyway.) So it’s like talking to a friend you just haven’t been properly introduced too.

We live in both a strange and wonderful time.

(cue swelling music of something by Moby)

And I’m enjoying every minute of it.

Well, until I stumble upon my first freak. Then’ you know’ probably not so much.

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Weetabix plays catch up… or Heinz 57 sauce… or something

Saturday, June 15, 2002

I have been tremendously lax at updating the last few days.

I hope this trend does not continue now that I’m in my thirties.

Yep’. Still perpetuating that little self-preserving bit of denial, thank you very much.

Hmmm’. What has happened since the last update? Lessee’

‘ I ditched Esteban on my birthday to go to the Cute Boy Bar with Joel, Cheri, No Pseudonym Scott, and Eric. We sang karaoke. The karaoke guy kept touching me. It was a little freaky. And he made the entire Cute Boy Bar sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to me, which was very possibly even more traumatic than the accordion recital earlier that day. It is so very fun to be Weetabix sometimes, let me just tell you. Oh, and he told everyone that I was 25. I instantly forgave him for the touching right there. I can be bought so easily.

‘ No Pseudonym Scott got me a Malibu and Diet Coke at the Cute Boy Bar. Just put it down in front of me and said ‘Here. Happy Birthday.’ It’s dangerous the things he knows about me from this diary. He’s evil. EEEEEEVIL. But cute.

&AO8AvwC9AAk-Poor Yorick paid me an incredible compliment. Or rather my eyes. That was sweet.

‘ I bought a new pair of jammies’ purple gingham boxer shorts and a white camisole. We’ll just have to see if they can oust my pink boxer shorts from the Best Jammies Of All Time spot. There might just be some kind of contest.

&AO8AvwC9AAk-Esteban has set up our TiVo. I am in electronics glee. I’ve set it to record every instance of Two Fat Ladies, Martha Stewart, and The Osbournes. Esteban has set it to record Cowboy BeBop and, because he is an UberGeek, Star Trek: The Next Generation. Note to self: must find way to have TiVo delete any episode with Wesley Crusher in it. Sorry, Angeline‘ I just can’t fathom Wil Wheaton in that dorky assed sweater. And I keep thinking about a leech on his testicle.

‘ Update on Operation Hottie: apparently, my gut got used to only eating really healthy crap, because I blew it out on Thursday night with a 16 oz lobster tail (dipped in butter, oh yes it was) AND an 8 oz tenderloin, and then was grossly overfull. And to make matters worse, I had to bring in Birthday Treats to work and because I am constantly engaging in self-destructive behavior, went to a delicious donut establishment, where they propagate the delicious donuts, and purchased three dozen delicious donuts. And promptly ate four throughout the course of the day. Yes. Four. And then got stomach cramps last night while we watched Kate And Leopold. Of course, that might have been my body reacting to Meg Ryan’s hideous haircut, but somehow methinks it was not.

‘ However, despite my severe wayward nutritional bout, my jeans (JEANS!), the ones that I once could just slide on and off my hips without unbuttoning but as of Tuesday could be buttoned and worn quite comfortably. Well, let me just say this’ I wore them again on Friday and I can now just slide them off my ass again. Without unbuttoning them. Without hesitation, I reached for the middle stage of jeans’ the pair that I really like but are considerably smaller than the button flies.

&AO8AvwC9AAk-And they fit.

&AO8AvwC9AAk-Hoooo boy!

‘ We’re going camping for the 4th of July. I’m trembling with anticipation. Did that sound convincing? Or did my utter lack of excitement clue you in?

‘ And for this reason, Esteban says that we cannot go to Summerfest to see Buddy Guy and then the Renaissance Fair the next day. Oh, yes. Now THAT’s a good trade off.

‘ My little voice-recording thing is full of bizarre clips that make no sense anymore. And one of me trying to describe Esteban making gill motions with his hands.

&AO8AvwC9AAk-I don’t get it anymore either.

&AO8AvwC9AAk-Chauffi is Wabi Sabi. And I blathered to him almost incomprehensibly on Friday and now I’m embarrassed. I think it was the triglycerides from all that food on Thursday night. Or maybe I inadvertently snorted some powdered sugar from one of those mickey fickey donuts.

&AO8AvwC9AAk-Mo Pie is my new best friend. And I get to meet her in October when I go to San Francisco to Journal Con. Are you going?

‘ I am refusing to wear socks until it snows again. I’m in flower child slacker mode once more. Gotta love warm weather. Wheee!

Hope you have a spectacular weekend!

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Birthweek makes me saucy

Thursday, June 13, 2002

So today.

First off, how many of you can say that you’ve been serenaded by an accordion on your birthday whilst surrounded by a gaggle of coworkers?

Hmmm?

I’ll bet that number is in the’oh’ twos or threes.

Yeah, so that was a highlight. An accordion. You’ve just got to love the wacksters in Green Bay.

Oh, and Esteban’s gift that induced the Hip Wiggle Of Impending Glee from my normally stoic and reserved husband? A gadgety thingy that you can record your voice and be all Spy Girl and make mp3s with. An incredibly expensive gadgety thing. I’m a bit shocked by how much it actually cost. It’s like holding thirty-five $7 t-shirts in the palm of my hand. But I suppose that the $7 t-shirts don’t have the special value-added geek bonus that thrills Esteban so very much. And the idea there is that I can use that to work on the ten short stories that are floating around in my weary brain, fighting to get a chance at the synapse that goes to my fingers’ when in reality, this diary has got a sumo wrestler’s hold on that bad boy.

So, anyway, I’ve got another mark in the ‘Goofy Little Gadget’ column.

And it’s very pretty. Esteban actually knows me well enough that he considered how pretty it is. It’s a sort of metallic blue. In fact, if I hadn’t rid myself of the Electric Blue manicure last night, I’d be totally color-coordinated.

I haven’t used it yet, other than to make a recording of me saying ‘Oh, it IS recording’. And it’s 10:29 a.m’. no it isn’t’wait&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9-

Yeah. That’s a keeper.

So that was a cool gift. And Chauffi, the little sneaky but devastatingly handsome devil that he is, sent me two books off my wishlist. It’s amazing what kind of incredible friendships one can make through the Internet. We truly live in an incredible time.

I piked at work and took a half-day when I decided that my day would be better spent at the golf range. And then I went to the golf range and decided that I probably should have stayed at work, because I stunk up the place. I even prayed to a higher power to please let me hit one good slam for my birthday, but apparently, one should not bargain with the higher powers’ at least not for a good golf game.

Maybe I can ask the higher powers to take the calories out of the steak I’m going to eat tonight. I mean, what better cause than Operation Hottie?

I was an evil woman yesterday.

Esteban has been especially nice to me after our spout of unpleasantness a few weeks ago. I think he had an epiphany or something. Hence all the flowers. Hence all of the backpeddling. Hence the serious ass kissing.

I’m uncomfortable with it, honestly. I just wanted him to stop acting like an ass. But he has instead transformed into PERFECTMATE which is a bit like living with a Stepford Husband. And it makes me feel really guilty. But then I also succumb to my natural impulses to toy with him.

We were watching a commercial (The frozen blue Mountain Dew commercial, if you really must know’ there’ feel better?) that showed a guy getting his tongue pierced. And Esteban cringed because he is incredibly afraid of needles. Not just a little afraid. He has a serious phobia.

And he also married a very evil woman.

Feeling a bit saucy, I ventured, ‘You should get your tongue pierced, honey.’

Esteban made a face’ oh, it can probably best be described as an impression of Robert DiNero smelling some rancid milk. ‘Are you nuts? Why would I do that?’

I sniffed. ‘I hear it’s very sexual.’

DiNero took a sip of the rancid milk. ‘Are you serious?’

I used my best poker face. ‘Yes, absolutely.’

DiNero faltered, thinking about the actual act of a needle penetrating his tongue. Then gasped ‘Hokay.’

‘You’d get your tongue pierced?’

Barely audible. ‘Uh-huh.’

‘For me?’

His body rigid with stress. ‘Mmmhmmm.’

‘They use a reallllly thick needle.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘And you might lose your sense of taste for a bit.’

‘Yup.’

‘What would you tell your friends?’

‘The reason.’

‘You would tell them that you got a big thick tongue barbell embedded in your tongue so you could pleasure your wife?’

‘Um’. Uh-huh.’

‘Really? So I can call and make an appointment down at the scary tattoo place?’

‘Y-y-y-y-yes.’

‘I love you, honey.’

‘I love you too, baby.’

So guys, that should pretty much confirm your darkest suspicions about how truly evil girls are sometimes.

Yup’ I’m so going to hell.

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Update on Operation Hottie

Wednesday, June 12, 2002

So the exam.

Not so bad, actually. Dr. Perky had taken down all of her dog paraphenalia because apparently they are moving to a larger, grander, more expensive office where the art is being selected for them. Thus, no doggies any longer. I guess I’ll look at modern art splotches and lines at my next visit. I kind of liked the dogs, actually, because they were so goofy.

Dr. Perky is actually an excellent doctor and I’m ever so glad that I found her. I’ve had a rather traumatic past history of that damn pelvic exam, thus I feel rather blessed in that she is so very painless and quick about her task. What is more, she’s funny and actually had me laughing on the table. In stirrups. God, sometimes I don’t even recognize myself.

Oh, and the weighing. I haven’t been weighing myself at home, just relying upon the doctor’s scale, but I knew that something had happened because the jeans are fitting. So I was all sorts of excited to get onto the scale (Who is this person? Does anyone recognize me? Seriously? What the fuck?). The nurse wrote my weight down on the chart (it’s one of those scales that are weird and I can’t read them… all sorts of weird counter balances and whatever) and when we went to the room, I peeked at the number.

According to the number, I had gained. Gained A LOT.

“That’s NOT right! That’s wrong!”

“That’s what the scale said!” She countered.

“I don’t care. I have jeans, I tell you, JEANS! Denim doesn’t lie, sister! You go back there and check it again!”

She pursed her lips and disappeared out of the examing room to check the scale, which was still set to whatever crazy scale logic they were using. Then she came back.

“Oops.. subtract fifty.” She mumbled.

OOPS?!?! I’m sorry, but FUCKING OOPS!?!? That’s not an “oops!”. That’s a “Oh my god, I am so sorry, please let me name my firstborn child after you, even if it is a boy!”

But still… it meant that my grand total of bulbous ass lost: 26 pounds.

My ass is getting decidely less bulbous, actually. My curves are getting a bit more fluid.

I was actually a bit disappointed. I have diet inflation. When I’m doing good, I start picturing very grand results. The better I do, the more weight I envision that I’ve lost. “Wow… I just eschewed that Big Mac and ate some low fat cottage cheese instead… that’s gotta be five pounds right there.” I can talk myself right into size 4 jeans. Not that I WANT to be in size 4 jeans. I mean, I’ve got the body of a farm girl. I’ve got big bones and big childbirthing hips. I’d just be happy if I could walk into Victoria’s Secret and wear something other than their LOTION.

Dr. Perky was very excited about the loss though. And she complimented me on my blue fingernails and even thought that perhaps I had purchased them at a Nail Sweat Shop or something. And then she made a joke that she’ll never be able to grow long fingernails because I probably wouldn’t want her poking around down there with Dragonlady talons…. and she is more right than she knows.

Thus, despite my original shock at the false scale reading and then slight disappointment at only having lost 10 pounds in two months, I was embued with newfound motivation. I went home and ate two cheese sandwiches on whole grain diet bread for dinner and then, while watching The Real World for motivation, I did 25 crunches before my gut muscles cried out for mercy. That was rather pathetic, but it was a start. At one time, I was up to 150 crunches a night. My goal is to get to 100 by next weekend.

And then this morning, I got up at 4 a.m. and went for a walk. And then came home, ate some Special K Red Berries while watching Buffy, then made myself a snack of sliced pineapple, strawberries, and banana to munch on at work.

God. What the heck is up with ME? I HATE people like me. Maybe my system just isn’t accustomed to all of these extra vitamins. Someone needs to start checking my room for an empty pod or something. Maybe Richard Simmons is behind all of this.

If I start trying to convince y’all that plain lettuce tastes good, will someone please come and smack me around with a nice greasy stromboli or something? Because this just isn’t right.

Tomorrow is the beginning of my thirties.

Ok, so really, I turned 30 last year when I had the best birthday ever. But you know how the year 2000 was really the LAST year of the 20th century? And the millenium didn’t start until 2001? Yeah, well, technically, I am still in my twenties.

Weak, isn’t it? But it’s kept me sane for 364 days, so just humor me, ok?

But tomorrow… tomorrow I have to start acting my age. Or something.

In honor of this, I have thrown away the Silly Putty that I keep on my desk at work. It was getting a little iffy anyway.

Don’t panic. Donnie & Marie are staying up. So are my little legion of plastic dinosaurs. I’m not a robot, people!

My thirties are NOT going to be pretty. I can tell already. I’m going to be 31 and I’ve got rock star hair and electric blue fingernails. I’m going to be freebasing Metamucil and hitting on teenage boys by 35. I can just feel it.

Ok. Maybe I’ll take my Silly Putty out of the garbage and just hide it in a drawer. Sniff

Just an fyi: if you’re anxiously awaiting pictures of my rocking red streaks or our Karaokepalooza, never fear… they are coming. The pictures are on my stupid camera and we’re encountering technical difficulties. Please stand by.

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That which strikes fear in even the stoutest female hearts

Monday, June 10, 2002

Oh goodness.

Tomorrow is the most dreaded of days.

My yearly physical exam.

I have actually pushed it back and back and back. I realized that I needed to schedule one in February, but because my perky lovable doctor is so very popular, I couldn’t get in until May, specifically the day before Memorial Day weekend. And then I conveniently forgot all about it.

Oops.

So I called last Friday and said “Um, oopsie, I think I forgot about my appointment… so, um… are we talking about September for the next one or what?” Because I am sly. Sly like a fox.

“Actually, Dr. Perky has an opening for Tuesday afternoon.”

Sly like a fox wearing combat boots, jumping on a pogo stick.

(insert look of anticipated pelvic discomfort here)

I’m just warning you right now, particularly those readers without a matched set of chromosomes (read: you male type things), that this is going to get a little ugly. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Honestly, I don’t know how pregnant women do it, jumping into those stirrups like they were about to run the Kentucky Derby or some such. I mean, KY Jelly gives me hives. Literal hives. The smell of latex makes me hyperventilate.

You guys don’t realize how much you miss out. Seriously. That “turn your head and cough while I fondle your genitals and stick a digit up your bum” thing is NOTHING! NOTHING I TELL YOU!

What is more, I have the David Copperfield of cervixes. It’s always disappearing. And my doctor is doing there, doing freaking play by play as I sit there, mentally shopping in elite little boutiques in Northern Wisconsin, which is my happy place I go to when I’m about to pass out from speculum-induced anxiety. Then she’ll suggest all of these breathing exercises to make my evasive little guy come out of hiding, so there I am, wishing that the Lord God above would strike me dead rather than leave this very lovely woman down there looking at my tuvalee, trying to will this part of my body that I NEVER EVEN THINK ABOUT to stand up and get swabbed within an inch of its life.

My doctor breeds champion black terrier things. I’m not sure what breed of dog it is. Some kind of terrier. Scottish terrier? I’m not sure. Anyway, in her examination rooms, she has pictures of her with her little black dogs, standing at various dog shows, getting their various doggy ribbons and whatnot. And on the ceiling of her exam room is a graph of every registered breed of dog. Thus, as she’s examining my kitty, I’m going through the breeds… “English Bulldog… English Sheepdog… Chihuahua… Doberman… Afghan hound…” And I have this insane urge to be funny while she’s doing this. I’ve made jokes while she’s down there, as if to apologize for the indignity of making her do such things to me.

I’m not even going to talk about speculums. They make me involuntarily convulse.

Good Lord, I cannot imagine what this will be like when I get old enough to need a yearly mammogram. I think I’m going to have to punch someone. Like maybe the person who thought up this entire practice.

I’m not asking for much, here. Maybe a Godiva mint on my little damn paper Kleenex that I get to cover my curvy round nakedness. Or maybe instead of a damn paper Kleenex, they’d give us a pashmina. That we could keep. And when people would admire it, we could say “Oh, this old thing… this is my Pelvic Pashmina.” And maybe you could get a lovely massage and exfoliating seaweed body scrub while you’re already there naked lying on a table. What is more, the doctor should send you flowers the next day. That’s not too much to ask.

You know, I hate to be a harpie bitch…. well… sometimes I hate to be a harpie bitch… sometimes I really enjoy being a harpie bitch, but not at the moment…. but if men were subjected to this entire process, it would be a lot different. There would be no stirrups. There would be no doctor with the scary instrument of deranged duck bills. There would be naked women and football and paid vacations and pork rinds and the whole thing would happen someplace cool. Maybe Vegas. I’m not sure. But I know one thing… it would be ENTIRELY different.

You know, on second though, I wouldn’t mind THAT version of a yearly exam either. I like football. Naked girls and pork rinds, not so much, but you know, I’m flexible. I’m willing to work with the system.

God, being a girl sucks sometimes. The only thing that keeps me going sometimes is the fact that I can cry and get whatever I want.

Oh, piffle. Not really. Stop looking at me like that.

Now I’m just going to hide under my desk for awhile and cringe.

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Their favorite play must be King Leer.

Friday, June 7, 2002

Ok. This has got to stop.

At this moment, 225 Diaryland users list “Shakespear” on their profile as their favorite author.

Shakespear.

Not Shakespeare. Shakespear.

Stop the insanity, people! If you’re going to list something for the pretension value, at least have the common sense to LOOK UP THE PROPER SPELLING OF HIS NAME!

GOD!

It just makes me want to slap someone. Hard. With a dirty pair of Esteban’s underwear. That’s not to be trifled with, either, by the way. They glow in the dark, those skid marks.

I suppose math geeks get perturbed about people not carrying the one or some such. I’m not sure. But seriously.

225 people??!!

If any one of you reading this has Shakespeare spelled incorrectly on your profile, be ashamed. Be very ashamed. And go and fix it, damn it! Go now! Bill would want you to. I want you to. It will make the world a better place.

Actually, if you don’t own at least three separate books containing something by Shakespeare, just take him right off your profile and put V.C. Andrews or Danielle Steele or Robert Jordan or whomever on there. I mean, let’s be honest, shall we?

I haven’t the heart to look up Hemingway. I’m afraid I’ll find a lot of Hemmingways.

Gah.

You know what would be really cool? If food was priced according to caloric content. Thus, boneless skinless chicken breasts would be inexpensive and Little Debbie Snack Cakes would cost like $6 a piece or something. And Diet Coke would be, of course, free.

Just a thought.

McDonald’s would go out of business, however.

So, basically, everyone would be happy.

Esteban is prancing around like a goofball today. You see, he purchased my birthday gift and now can barely contain himself. He’s seriously like a little child with gifts. He keeps trying to taunt me with it. He likes to shake his hips and do a little “You’re going to like your giffffft” song. What is more, at least three times during our relationship, he has accidentally spilled enough information about the gift so that I can figure it out. Because he thinks I have the mental capacity of a five year old. I expect him to spell out what it is, so I don’t figure it out. And sometimes, it feels like we’re living in a hilarious 80’s sitcom, with our neighbor played by the guy who played Larry on “Three’s Company”.

So, much hilarity is ensuing as he attempts to taunt me with the elusive “Thing that plugs in” (because he ONLY buys things that plug in… that is his very nature as a technodweeb) and I look at him with raised eyebrows. Poor boy. He really doesn’t deserve such a cynical beast of a wife. I should work myself into a frenzy to give him some satisfaction, although I know that if I beg, I can make him crack like a giddy walnut.

Not that walnuts are giddy or anything. I’m just writing here, folks, nothing to see… move along.

Oh, major coolness: the $7 t-shirts are now $6!!! I purchased 5 more. I am a little squirrel of fashion. I think this brings my cache of new shirts to 12. I may have a problem. Maybe there’s a 12 step program for this. And maybe they’ll have cool meetings where I can wear my new shirts!

Rawk!

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Haystack vs. Mullet…. next week on pay per view!

Friday, June 7, 2002

Esteban: Wow. Let me see your hair!

Weetabix: It freaked Mo out.

Esteban: Why would it freak your sister out?

Weetabix: Because she said I normally have all subdued hair. She’s never seen my hair all wild.

Esteban: I don’t think that she should be making claims about subdued hair. Hers isn’t exactly avant garde.

Weetabix: No, but she’s just saying that I’m not normally this radical.

Esteban: It looks cool. You look totally cool. Very hip.

Weetabix: I think so!

Esteban: Oh, there IS red in there! Wow. Coppery.

Weetabix: Yeah. Staci wanted blonde… you can tell.

Esteban: No, I can see red too.

Weetabix: Yeah, but it’s a lot of blonde.

Esteban: It’s kind of like a… a… what would you call that?

Weetabix: Rock Star Hair?

Esteban: I was thinking… um…a haystack.

Weetabix: Haystack??!

Esteban: Or calico cat.

Weetabix: (sputtering) I … think… it’s cool!

Esteban: A cool haystack, honey.

Weetabix: Yeah, well… you’ve got a mullet.

Esteban: I. Do. Not. Have. A. Mullet.

Weetabix: Oh, and what is the definition of a mullet?

Esteban: Not. A. Mullet.

Weetabix: Hair longer in the back than the front… what do you think you’ve got going on there, ponytail boy?

Esteban: It is not.

Weetabix: You’re in denial. I’ve always known.

Esteban: You’ve never said anything about it.

Weetabix: It was mutual mullet denial.

Esteban: I don’t care. I do not have a mullet.

Weetabix: I still love you… through sickness and health and flowing mullets.

Esteban: (watching a dorky guy with headphones on, beboping down the street) Heh heh… look at that guy. He is completely dorked out and he’s even wearing a shirt that I always see (Name of Person Withheld due to possible mortification) wearing. Ha ha ha. What a dork.

Weetabix: Mmmmhmmm.

Esteban: You’re thinking that I’m a dork like that, aren’t you?

Weetabix: No honey.

Esteban: Yes you are. You’re sitting there thinking “Pot… this is kettle… you’re black.”

Weetabix: No honey. You’re not that level. You’re an alpha geek. You’re the silverback.

Esteban: I’M A SILVERBACK GEEK!? You wrote that in your diary, didn’t you?

Weetabix: (taken aback) No!

Esteban: It just sounded like something you couldn’t have come up with on the spur of the moment.

Weetabix: You know, these things do actually come from the brain inside my head.

Esteban: I know, but it just… sounded like part of a Weetabix exposition.

Weetabix: Well, I’m definately putting it in there now!

Esteban: Haystack.

Weetabix: Mullet.

Esteban: Mullet lover.

Weetabix: You win.

Esteban: Heh heh… hey… wait a minute!

Weetabix: (giggling)

Esteban: Why do you taunt me so?

Weetabix: Because I’m evil. And because I can.

Esteban: You ARE evil. You’re an evil haystack.

Weetabix: That’s what I’m saying.

I took one of those goofy test thingies. This should be a surprise to NO ONE!

13

I act like I’m 13.
This test was brought to you by James – Part of the David and James phenomenon. Take it here.

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