That's My Bix!

Hmmm…. no excitement today.

This morning, I had Special K Red or whatever it’s called. It was good. I didn’t even put sugar on it, which was my way of being all hard core. And I’m thinking of going to the Y and getting another membership going… maybe just for summer, but we’ll see.

What is more, Mo mentioned now that she saw me in my jeans (which, by the way, FIT! Did I mention that they FIT!?), she realizes that all of my other pants are all way too baggy and floppy looking and it’s not doing me any favors. So, woe is me, I must buy smaller pants. Smaller pants. Smaller pants. I must buy smaller pants. It’s almost like a little song, non?

I actually had someone tell me yesterday that he would fall in love with me if I wasn’t overweight.

WHAT?!? WHAT?!?!?! Oh, well, then, let me say this…

Phew! That was a close one!

Not that I cared. I mean, I’m very happily married. But WTF? This brings up an interesting issue. I mean, right now, my curvy round goodness acts a bit like an asshole indicator. Something about being a curvilicious girl brings that out in people, I guess. Now, I am not intended on getting to Ashley Judd stage, or even Emme. I’m still going to be a plush kind of girl. I’m still going to be shopping in the plus size stores. It’s who I am. I’m ok with that. The world is not. If I were the MTV notion of a babe, then how would I be able to tell who is an asshole?

And I hate to come off as though I’m all fat grrl power. I’m not always ok with it. Last night, in particular, was a fairly bad evening, because I was so excited to be wearing my jeans and then to have that bomb dropped on me, combined with the skinny bitches at the bar last Saturday, it kind of wore me out. The problem is that I tend to think I look great and then I get reminded that other people might not think so. So it’s a bummer.

God, this is so angsty I can barely stand it. Why do you guys put up with me?

I’m thinking of getting some kind of roxy red streaks put in my hair but I’m nervous about what the pool will do to it. Ward and June’s pool is now up and aching for a little cute Land’s End plus sized tankini action. I swam on Saturday, after going to the golf range with Carissa (and before almost kicking some skinny asses at the retro bar) and apparently, they’re using some kind of kinder gentler chemicals in the pool. It doesn’t smell or taste like chlorine at all, but it did dry out my skin a bit. I’m worried about what that will do with my hair.

Also, in my endeavor to grow my hair longer, it has gotten quite a bit shorter. That’s crazy girl logic for you right there, but it is what it is. If I’m going to grow my hair longer, I’ll have these weird streaky things for a long time and that’s not a great look. And honestly, I’m starting to get a LOT of grey in my hair now. I keep attacking it with the Tweezerman, but eventually, I fear that I will be all Kojak. Which is fine for men. Really. Just not me. I need bangs in a bad way.

At the same time, however, I’m feeling really old. I’m turning 31 next week and it’s really making feel like I’ve wasted my twenties being responsible and thinking out my actions and always going with the route that looks good on paper. I never do anything stupid.

That’s it. I’m getting streaks. It’s either this or have a randy affair with the drummer of a rock band. It’s settled.

Red streaks and smaller pants. The answer to all of the angst in the universe, right there.

I am, at this very minute, writing this entry a tad bit enebriated.

I’m such a bad role model. Seriously. Kids, don’t be like Weetabix. She’s trailer trash and spits on pictures of Jesus.

So Carissa and I went back to the place where I got so completely quashed back in, oh, February or March. I’m too wacked to look up the link. I think it’s an entry titled “Drunken Debauchery a Week late” or something. Go to the older page and find it. I’m not doing all the work!

So we went to the retro bar and I said, “Ok, I’m not going to get poured out of this bar this time. I’m going to be a good girl, and stick with Malibu and Diet Coke.”

You know. The drink of trailer trash princesses everywhere.

And they serve them in these little light up cups that are all glowy and stuff and make you think that perhaps they are magical, perhaps they are embued with a certain kind of mystical thing, instead of coconut flavored rum.

I feel this incredible urge to now say “God, y’all, I am sooooooooo drunk.”

So, we went to the retro bar and then proceeded to have lots and lots of fun. And we bumped into the exact same cast and crew from the previous adventure at this bar, because Carissa knows nearly everyone on the planet and makes friends very easily. And I was all grooving out on the funkadelic tunes. “I think I love You” by the Partridge Family was a good one. I think “Car Wash” was good too. And I called my friend in Madison to find out what track 14 of the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack was… we knew that it was KC and the Sunshine Band, but we couldn’t remember the song title.

Boogie Shoes, just in case you were wondering. So you don’t have to, you know, stumble into the bar bathroom and phone your friend in Madison who has no fucking clue what the hell you’re talking about.

You have no idea how intensely I’m concentrating upon spelling everything correctly right now. There will be no html in this entry because that shit’s just too fucking hard.

My tongue feels very large. Damn Malibu. Damn tasty delicious Malibu in the glowy magical cups.

So, we’re grooving out and singing with all of the rocking tunes and then Carissa notices that two girls across the bar are looking at us with disgust and laughing. And mocking. And when we were doing the hand jive from Grease with, you know, the hand jive song, they were mockingly doing the hand jive. And that shit pissed me right off, because I had thought that the one with short hair was pretty. I then, right there, decided that they were upset because they didn’t like to see a curvy round girl having fun at a pretty person bar. Carissa thought that maybe they didn’t like her new dress that she had just gotten that very day, and, I might add, looked divine and very very cool. That wasn’t it, so I’m going with fat prejudice.

God damn skinny bitches. I hate them now. I hate them all to hell. I hope they get skin cancer and die.

And I might add now that they were so overtly tan that under the black light, they appeared almost like negatives, except that the whites of their eyes glowed and their teeth. It was disturbing, actually. I mean, it’s June 1st and we live in Green Bay Wisconsin. No one believes that you’re that fucking tan from your active outdoorsiness, so just get over yourself.

Bitches.

So, anyway, right then I decided that I wanted to kick their fucking skinny bitch asses.

Yeah. I know. You ought to tremble in fear. You should have seen my wicked mean face that I was making, too. It made Carissa laugh because she was so very afraid.

Or sore afraid. That’s from the Bible, when the shepards looked up at the angel in the chapter of Luke, I think. I don’t know. It’s a good thing that both of my great grandparents are dead now because they’d be very disappointed that the paraochial school education they paid for went so very much to waste. But “sore afraid” sounds much more afraid than “so afraid”, so let’s stick with that, shall we?

Anyway, Carissa then decided that we should leave because I was totally going to kick their skinny asses up and down the block. I was even doing the Karate Kid crane thing to show how serious I was. I mean, I watch Buffy. I know some moves. And whatever I don’t know, I figure that I’ll make up with sheer power. Crush them like little sundried tomatoes.

So we walked out of there and I wanted to just punch the blond one, but Carissa stopped me from doing it because they weren’t worth jail time. But she asked them what they were looking at and the blonde one said “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I walked out ahead because the V-shaped very drunk guy in the lifeguard tank top wanted to dance with me and I was pretty sure that he was going to urp, so I fled. Carissa said that the other snotty chick just looked at her friend like “Well, what are you going to say… you’re busted.” I’m glad I didn’t hear it, or there would have been serious retribution.

Don’t get me wrong… I was built for comfort, not attack. But don’t piss me off when my bloodstream is tainted with the Malibu. Because I’ll trounce your ass.

And then I told Carissa that I loved her. Which is a joke because last time we went to that bar, it ended with me drunkenly telling her that I loved her and she was my best friend. At least I’m honest when I’m drunk.

Anyway. I’m going to bed now. I just wanted to share what complete skank hos those girls were.

Skinny bitches. I hate ’em.

So, I had a brief pissy snit this weekend and posted this overly dramatic bullshit here, all in italics, because that just seemed to make it sound that much more sincere. And then at the end of it, I mentioned that all of that angst just had to be hormonal. It was up for about five hours and then I dumped it because it was so damned whiny and petulant that I could barely stand it.

Guess what I got today?

Yep, that’s right, a spam mail.

No. Seriously. It’s Happy Hour on Estrogen Martinis at Club Weetabix. All you can drink for five days. Snacks include oreos, pretzels, canned frosting, Taco Bell Chili Cheese Buritos (which I’m pretty sure are made by mixing Horme1 chili and Alpo) and loads of body image issues.

The nice thing about the body issues that surface during Happy Hour is that I’m not wearing white pants because they make my ass look gigantic.

Only the girls got that one. Right? Right? Because if you ever think you might be pregnant and you want Happy Hour to begin… just wear white pants. Cranky Uteruses consider it a challenge.

Although, I do have to admit: I haven’t weighed myself since I had pneumonia (during which time I GAINED a pound… I think it was all phlegm though), but my clothes are all getting baggy. The pants I’m wearing today are old and I KNOW that I shrunk them at one point. They’re hanging low and I can gather material. Also, my very cute tank top with the built in bra is now a little too big, whereas it used to give me some nice cleavage action. Maybe I stretched it out, though. One this is for certain, the pair of shorts I wore at my birthday party last year are now far too loose. And that’s a nice feeling.

Starbucks is now out of the picture, by the way. I went through last night for an Iced Chai and Viggo was there. I had some Weezer blasting and for a moment, it made me verklempt thinking of Starbucks Guy. Viggo tried to smile and banter, but it just wasn’t the same. There will always be only one sexy barista boy in khaki Dockers for me. Sorry, Viggo, but you’re a loser, baby, just give me some iced chai.

Esteban banged up his hand attempting to do the dishes again. Again! This time, he slammed his hand on something. What is more (and he told me that I could tell you all this), it’s his ass wiping hand. He’s a right hander, apparently. See, that counfounds me because I’m all ambidextrous, although when I dislocated my right shoulder, I remember suffering some painful reminders in the middle of the night. So… apparently, he’s learning a new trade… left-handed ass wiping.

More sushi today. Tonight is our anniversary, but I’m so freaking tired that I might just want to go to bed. I’m certain that it will disappoint Esteban to no end. He’s promised to read to me from the Big Ass History Book #452 that he’s reading. I think it’s about Neville Chamberlain or something. Or maybe that guy. You know. That guy who did all the stuff.

Yeah, that’s the guy.

I have to do a training class today for people in my old department. I just got back from the store where I purchased a bunch of lovely snacks. They all get to fill out a training evaluation form, so I’m bribing them with lots of sugar and salty snacks. Brownies, pretzels, trail mix, and a gross of Doritos. Me…. I’m having sushi and hard boiled eggs.

Maybe I’ll do for sushi what Jared did for Subway. And maybe they’ll do a Southpark episode on me. That would be just like the damned coolest thing ever.

But not as cool as going on Jackass and going down that big skateboard ramp into the water while Bam and Johnny Knoxville stand by laughing. Because THAT would kick serious ass. Especially if Johnny was naked.

But not that Chris Pontius, who gets nekkid at the drop of a hat. If I see his junk, without the protective fuzzy censor patch, I may just spontaneously bleed from my eye sockets.

I’m just saying.

Dear Chicken Who Laid My Hardboiled Egg,

Good job on that shell. Even after I cracked it into roughly 784 pieces, it still refused to budge. You should be proud. If you’re not already in a McNuggets six pack.

Yours truly
Weetabix

Dear Belle,

I hope that you’re safe, sweetie. Drive carefully.

Hugs,
Weetabix

Dear Chromey;

You’re one sexy thang. Almost as hot as the Verizon Guy. Grrrooowwll.

Seriously.
Weetabix

At work yesterday, my quilting chica Mary (and sometimes she’s my golf chica Mary as well) came up to my desk and said ‘You know, it’s too bad that you aren’t doing a Club Weetabix tonight because I have off tomorrow.’ I replied, ‘I have off on Tuesday, not tomorrow. But I could’.’ And that was it. Once the idea of doing the karaoke thing and also magically turning Thursday into Friday had entered my brain, it was all over. I shot off an email to my team, informing them that I was switching my vacation day, and then rallied the Club Weetabix crew.

After work, I was informed that we would be going back to Ward and June’s for Poolapalooza Part Deux, thus I scuttled (because I am somewhat crablike occasionally) over to their house in the schmancy ‘burb, where I found Esteban and Joel already there. It was all to no avail, as it was far too windy to be wrangling 100 feet long sheets of metal. But I did mention to Ward and June that I would be doing the karaoke thing that evening. June has often mentioned that she’d love to go, but they always have to be in bed by like six o’clock at night or something. They both get up for work insanely early. When I started dating Esteban, sometimes we’d be sitting in his bedroom talking after an evening out and they’d be getting up to go to work. In fact, the first time I ever Ward, he had popped his head into Esteban’s room and was very shocked to find a curvy round sex goddess-in-training sitting there.

Fully clothed. Man, you guys just twist everything, don’t you?

Then I scurried home (because I am alternately somewhat rodent-like), and debated upon what to wear. Esteban had remarked that the honeydew t-shirt and white pants looked as though I should be asking patients to bend over while I take their temperature. And he was right. While it wasn’t entirely apparent to me immediately, the color of the t-shirt WAS sort of reminiscent of hospital scrubs. I whipped that off and then threw on a v-neck retro black/grey t-shirt and my perennial red hooded zippy sweatshirt. Then, on a whim, I tried on that pair of jeans again. They fit. Snugly, but they fit. I tried on the smaller pair of jeans. They fit great, but unfortunately, society has determined that one must actually have one’s jeans zipped. Stages, though. It’s all a series of steps. I didn’t really anticipate even getting into the smaller pair of jeans, so it was all good.

I modeled my snug but buttoned pair of jeans for Esteban. He clapped with glee because he doesn’t often see me in jeans, but they are his uniform of choice and he thinks I look cute in them. Then, I second-guessed them and went back to the white pants. I mean, I already had the dang sport thong on, might as well wear the correct pants.

Then I pranced (because sometimes I’m like a fine thorough-bred pony) out to the car, guzzling a Diet Coke, and began to bust over to the Ass Splinter bar. I had tried to call Belle several times during the day, but no one had been home. I was pretty certain that she’d be at work but I figured that it wouldn’t hurt to swing by her house and see if her car was there.

It was! I sashayed (because sometimes I am like a tall slender drag queen) up her walk and knocked on her door, to be greeted by a morose, yet still beautiful, Belle. ‘Hey, do you want to go to karaoke?’ I asked, gleeful that she had been home. ‘Sure.’ She said and grabbed her purse. It was such a slick and easy maneuver that I felt like I was getting away with something wicked. I love it when a plan comes together.

We hopped into the Monte and Belle told me about how she had been in a funk and also how she had gotten out of work unusually early. It was fate, I tell you! We zipped (because sometimes the Monte is like a pair of jeans which actually FIT) over to the Ass Splinter bar, where they were just setting up.

I explained to Belle about how we are only allowed ONE BOOK PER TABLE by the Nazi of Karaoke, Karaoke Ma. She has, in the past, actually come and forcefully grabbed a second book from my delicate little fingers.

Pretty Penny showed up, planning on braving the karaoke microphones for essentially the first time in a large venue. Then there were three of us, trying to look at one book. It was ridiculous, because there were a stack of five books sitting up there. Then I decided to use a little diplomacy. I approached Karaoke Gal (daughter of Karaoke Ma and actual owner of the Karaoke Thang) and said ‘Do you think I could take a second book to our table? We have several singers and a lot more coming.’ She looked at me like I was insane. ‘Sure!? Why wouldn’t you?’ I replied ‘Well, Ma has actually come up and taken them away from us and yelled at me and made me feel really bad. Ma made me cry.’ Karaoke Gal laughed. ‘You know Ma!’

I did manage to snap a picture of Karaoke Ma while she was otherwise distracted, belting out ‘Sea Cruise’ I believe. Maybe it was ‘North To Alaska’. I’m not totally certain. I was busy bleeding from my ears. Anyway, here it is. See’ I wasn’t exaggerating. She’s scary.

I pirouetted (because sometimes I am like a russian ballet dancer who wants to defect to the United States) over to the stack of books and took a second book. A glorious second karaoke book! Oh frabjous day. I chortled in my joy.

Quilting Chica Mary popped in and then I was called up to sing ‘Gypsy’. When I went up there, Ma got all excited because she thought I was going to sing ‘Dreams’ by Fleetwood Mac. I told her that I’d try it if she’d like, after ‘Gypsy’, but I had never done it before. Karaoke Gal was excited because apparently Ma always wanted her to sing it and then she wouldn’t have to. Which is funny, because Karaoke Gal is somewhat tone deaf and both of the Karaoke Clan like to hog the stage, so with her acting like it was this big chore that she would have to sing made me giggle.

I sang ‘Gypsy’ and then waited while they switched to ‘Dreams’. Looking out at the audience, Ward and June then waved at me.

They don’t know that I’m putting their picture on the internet. I hope they don’t mind. They’re so cute, aren’t they?
(I love you Mom and Dad! Really! Don’t be mad!)

Oh my god. I got all flustered and turned red for some reason. I hadn’t really expected them to show up and suddenly I felt like a little kid at show and tell. Plus, here I was singing a song cold, one that I had never sung to before. Gah. I think I turned scarlet. But I managed.

Later, Joel and Cheri, No Psuedonym Scott, Jason, and Bonita and her husband Ken filtered in. During one somewhat disturbing moment, the first words Scott said to me were ‘So’. Thong?’ and I was completely flustered. It wouldn’t have been so bad that he knew that I occaisionally wear thongs, but to have him know that at that moment, I was indeed wearing a thong’ EEK! I looked at him and said ‘Shut up!’ because I was all embarrassed. That Scott’ he looks all meek and has this entire sweet Lloyd Dobbler thing going on, but then he shows his wicked evil side.

Pure, unadulterated condensed EEEEVIL!

According to Esteban, I have progressed into a complete and utter Buffy geek.

It’s not enough that I literally make plans to ensconce myself on the couch when there’s a new Buffy episode and refuse to even answer the phone while it’s on.

It’s not enough that I was having panic attacks the Tuesday night we were driving home from Atlanta and actually entertained thoughts of renting a hotel room for the night so I’d get to watch it.

It’s not enough that I stood in line for something like three hours for an opportunity to talk to James Marsters for five minutes and actually (swoon) *TOUCH* him.

No. Apparently, I crossed the line when, last night, at the reappearance of a long gone character, I squealed and then made double “rock and roll/sign of the devil” hand signs.

Esteban then made the double “rock and roll” hand signs at me all night. And laughed until tears were flowing down his face.

I should have realized that this was happening. A few weeks ago, I was browsing a used CD store, in the D section. There, I found Depeche Mode’s double CD set 101 and I got a little giddy because I used to have the cassette version of 101 and killed it during my freshman year in college. Then I spotted another double CD set and spoke a phrase I never would have thought would come from my mouth:

“Ooooh…. Neil Diamond!”

Then I felt something trickle down my leg. It was the last remaining bit of coolness fleeing my body.

I can’t help it. “Sweet Caroline” just makes me feel like singing.

When I realized what I had done, I ran crying from the store, hoping that no one had overheard me. Then I shoved a Rob Zombie CD into my player and then drove by some old ladies leaving a church and yelled “Fuck!” really loudly out my window. Then I went home, put on my pleather pants and sneered into the mirror.

Yeah. I’m so cool it hurts.

That’s it. Now there’s nothing preventing me from putting my Spike action figure on my monitor at work. Nothing, I tell you.

I’ve been attempting to rely less upon going out to eat and more upon living out of our pantry. Our pantry has the stock of a small grocery store. At last count, I had 24 cans of Campbell’s soup. I mean, I could take a bath in Chicken & Stars. Not that I would, mind you, because you’ve got to think that those little stars would be like beach sand and get everywhere, including crevices that you didn’t even know that you had. Because with my luck, I’d be at the gynecologist and she’d say “Ooh, what’s this?” and find a damn noodle star someplace. And then I’d become an anecdote at her little gynecologist cocktail parties or something.

Which is probably not what they call them. For some reason, that phrase “gynecologist cocktail party” gives me pause. Really, it’s just the first couple of syllables that throw me all afluster. Mostly because I am occasionally eight years old.

Anyway, due to this, I’ve been making some fairly creative and mostly wonderful meals (aside from the jambalaya, which Esteban stuck his nose up at, but was actually very tasty). Best thing so far, chicken breasts, marinated in margarita mix, jalapenos, and fresh cilantro. Dang, that tasted so good! We ate them with rice pilaf, but I think they would make killer fajitas if you added some grilled veggies and plopped them on a flour tortilla.

I’m starting to exhaust my general oeuvre of recipes, though. I never actually use recipes. I’m a freestyle chef. My dishes are all blank verse poems, with no intended rhyme scheme. I kind of view recipes as being told what to do and then I have authority issues. I start to screw with it, just to be creative. And it’s my way of sticking it to the Man. But I’ve been branching out with recipes this week, and one of my favorite people gave me a recipe for a sauce which requires red wine and tarragon.

I don’t have tarragon. I’m not even certain that I could pick tarragon out of a line up. And I don’t like wine unless it’s the cheap sweet kind of wine that we used to drink in college, like blackberry wine or Lambrusco. My pantry is full of chicken and stars, goldfish crackers, various hot sauces, jam, and Hob Nobs.

Our beverage of choice at Chez Weetabix is Kool-Aid. I mean, what kind of wine does one serve with Pop Tarts? Or goldfish crackers. Are they considered fish? Or cheese? Or bread? Is it a culinary free for all? Do you just take a couple of wines and mix them all together? I haven’t a clue.

I had an entire mini-panic attack the week before our trip to Atlanta. I wanted to bring Deb some wine from Wisconsin, but I have no clue about what constitutes good wine, so I instead brought her some of the stuff that Esteban and I like, which is made (brewed? vinted? again… clueless) in a little town nearby. We like it. But then, we’ve been known to add sugar to cheap wine to make it taste better, so my palette is not to be trusted. And then I visited the Rancho and she served real wine. Adult wine. Wine that probably cost more than $10 a bottle.

I should probably grow up at some point. But I just don’t wanna. I know. I’ll start small, like taking the “Weetabix’s Room… Stay Out!” sign off my bedroom door. And I’m also going to stop writing my weekly love letter to Donnie Osmond. But you’ll take my Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch from me when you pry the box from my cold dead hands!