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This diary entry gets a senior citizen discount

Tuesday, April 23, 2002

Sometimes I get an inferiority complex that this diary isn’t all deep and smoochie and stuff. I mean… boobs and farts. And cootchies, more recently. And the stupid ways I injure myself. Sometimes shopping. That’s this page in a nutshell. A big stinky boob-shaped walnut shell.

I feel as though I should be writing writerly sentiments like “I saw an old man sweeping his front porch, the same way he had swept for forty years. This endless futility mocks me.” But all the pretentiousness weirds me out and makes me stick out my tongue.

“Gah!” has become my favorite word recently. I especially like to invoke the latent snot and mucus in the back of my throat when I saw it, so it sounds as though I’m somewhat choking on whatever crap I’m responding to.

My education in English was money well-spent, don’t you think?

Last week, Mo sent an email to me and several of her friends, begging us to accompany her to see Jimmy Fallon in concert. No one volunteered. Yesterday, the day of the performance, I called her to see who was going with her and she audibly pouted at me into the phone. She wailed. I think she actually wailed. Thus, out of the goodness of my heart, I told her that I would go with her.

Oh, it wasn’t the goodness of my heart. It was guilt. Pure unadulterated guilt for years of various violent pummelings of her small pixie-like body. She was a serious brat and made my childhood years an unmitigated hell world, seconded only to the varieties of dysfunctions inflicted upon us by various adults, don’t get me wrong. She probably whole-heartedly deserved the pummelings. She would taunt me despite the fact that she KNEW that the pummeling would quickly commence. She was a very evil child. But I still have guilt because I think I’m part Jewish.

Thus, I agreed to fork out $22 for my ticket to see Jimmy Fallon do a bunch of material from previous episodes of Saturday Night Live. Mo was ecstatic and thus I envision that at least one pummeling has been expunged from my karmic permanent record.

We went to the auditorium and were escorted to the nosebleed seats on the second balcony. As a testament to exactly how spoiled I am, I have never even seen the second balcony. It smelled vaguely like college kid sweat. We showed our tickets to two old man volunteer ushers and they escorted us to our seats.

And he brushed his hand across my ass. His hairy wrinkly old man hands on my fine supple yet bulbous ass.

Oh my gosh. I totally did not expect that. It must have been an accident. Especially with the slurry of young nubile college girls abounding in fleshy outfits and me in my proper business attire.

Then Mo and I watched as the other old guy usher led a lovely young blonde girl to her seat and his hand casually but very deliberately brushed across not one but both of her perky coed ass cheeks. Mo’s jaw dropped and she said “Dude! Did you see that!” because she often prefaces exclamatory sentences with “dude”, an unfortunate habit with an unfortunate contagious effect. Then I said “Dude! The other usher did the same thing to me!”

It was actually a buffet for dirty old men. Because I think that old people like buffets.

That’s probably why those old guys volunteer. It certainly isn’t to see Jimmy Fallon, who was very funny but not exactly Paul Harvey. Or whoever old men think are funny. I don’t know. I don’t exactly have my finger on the pulse of the Baggy Shorts and Black Socks track, you know.

Oh, and speaking of older folks, I received an invitation to join the AARP the other day. Except that nowhere on the thing did it tell you what AARP stood for. Not one thing. (FYI: It’s the Association for Advacement of Retired Persons, or something like that.) Just “Send us $13.95 for a membership to AARP”.

You’ve got to watch out for these Retired Persons, I think. They’re getting really sneaky. I think it’s all that driving at 20 miles an hour, even on the highway. It’s extra time to concoct their nefarious agendas.

Once, June was talking about little old ladies and she called them “Dandelion Heads”. Being facetious, Esteban said “Why would you call them that?” and June got all flustered and I stepped in and said “Because… one poof and they’re gone.” And that cracked everyone up. I don’t know why. It doesn’t read very funny, but apparently it was.

Later, Esteban wanted to know where I had heard such a funny thing. Because he assumed that I had simply lifted it from a Robin Williams schtick or something. It was one of the most insulting things he’s ever said to me, not because it was so terribly insulting but rather that he automatically didn’t give me any credit. He shies away from anything I do creatively. He does not read this diary. He does not read the stories I write because he doesn’t like that type of literature. He’s not into poetry. Only you, gentle readers, know the true perverse workings of my brain. And isn’t your life that much more now?

Gah. So much for being all deep and pretentious.

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She was a sour girl the day that she met me

Monday, April 22, 2002

It occurs to me that you might be wondering how I burned my tuvalee.

So the weekend.

Esteban and I decided to have a quiet evening at home on Friday night, replete with my new Clerks DVD and ordered in Chinese food. I ordered a shrimp egg roll and some steamed dumplings. Esteban ordered Sweet and Sour Chicken.

I rushed around picking up stuff in the living room. I hate sitting in a messy living room. I can’t relax in clutter. Our food came and we popped the DVD in. Esteban only wanted the fried chicken chunks from his dinner, so I bogarted his steaming hot pint of red sweet and sour sauce to dunk my egg roll into. We bunkered down, looking forward to a lovely evening of slackerdom, happily munching our takeout.

I was holding the sweet and sour sauce and dipping my egg roll into it when all of the sudden, I goofed and spilled some on my hand. Holy shit! It was so hot! I tried to balance the container on my leg (which was stupid) while I reached for the napkin on the table beside me. The container tipped inward and then spilled all over my legs.

Hot. White hot pain. As the sticky sauce seeped through my pants, it burned even worse. I grabbed the container, completely covering my hand with the red sauce. I made a little gasp and Esteban started to say “What’s wrong! What’s wrong? What? What?” I thought that I had told him “I burned myself on your mickey ficky sweet and sour sauce because I am a complete tool!” but instead I was apparently using my superior powers of telepathy. Esteban reports that I made no sounds whatsoever. I merely got up from the recliner and yanked off my pants, including panties. Esteban then saw all of the red and thought that perhaps I was having an embolism or some sort of blood related plague. He was very concerned that I was dropping trou in the living room, in front of the very large window and the front door which was wide open. Fortunately, I wasn’t bare assed in public for very long because I ran into the bathroom to was the red sauce off my hand. It clung like hot glue, continuing to burn as I ran through the house. Esteban followed me and I explained what had happened. Then I sat there with a cold towel on my legs, which had turned a lovely shade of scarlet (due mostly to the color of the sauce, although I did have first degree burns). Later, I stripped fully and attired in my boxer shorts and a purple t-shirt which matched the purple flowers on my boxer shorts (because even in times of crisis, one must still consider matching). Esteban had mostly cleaned up the red splotches throughout the living room and then he started to laugh at me because it was so very strange, seeing me all freaking out. The worst thing about it was that the entire time that I was stripping my soaked scalding pants off, I kept thinking “This is karma. This is all karma for the time that I laughed at the old lady who burned her crotch with McDonald’s coffee and then sued them and now they have the warning label on all the beverage containers which say Warning: This Product May Burn Your Groin. This is dire painful karma.”

So, anyway, that’s how I burned my cooter. Being an evil person. Not because I’m a tool who doesn’t know how to eat a damn shrimp egg roll without somehow damaging their person.

Sadly, this whole thing puts everything into perspective. I thought the ass splinter was the most humiliating injury I could inflict upon myself, but I was so mistaken. It can always get worse.

I spent the evening on the sofa, with an ice pack on my legs, another in my hand (which actually had the most damage, having had prolonged contact with the liquid.) I had first degree burns… basically a really really bad sunburn. I had expected to see blisters, but I lucked out. The amazing thing was that the freaking sweet and sour sauce had been so god awful hot. It must have been nuclear when it left the restaurant.

Needless to say, I no longer craved Chinese food. I ate 12 Oreos for dinner. Oreos never hurt anyone.

Other than searing pain, the evening was lovely. I took a bunch of Advil and then we retired to bed rather early, Esteban bemoaning the fact that the burned netheregions likely meant that it would be awhile before we would be having the Hot Sex. Luckily for him, the burns had more or less subsided by morning, with my hand looking a little angry, but no worse for the wear.

In the morning, we had a huge plan for the day. Esteban wanted to work outside on the yard, mowing and raking and whatnot. My goal was “improvement” and I cared not what. I just wanted to have a sense of completion on something or other, be it laundry, the yard, or the living quarters. We didn’t shower because we felt it was rather stupid to shower to work in the yard. We hopped into the car to get pancakes and then planned on coming right back home to get started. Over the course of breakfast, Esteban determined that his allergies were causing him to feel like horse dung. What is more, he had a bunch of actual job-related work to do that he really should get done. And he wanted to buy a new computer game. Thus, we ended up going to the electronics store, where he picked up an intensely expensive computer game and I countered with an American Beauty DVD and a computer game I had played several years ago but then Esteban loaned someone the CD’s and I never got to finish. We then hopped back into the car, fully intending that we would go home, but then we ended up driving my favorite run down by the Bay. It was lovely outside. Not terribly warm, but sunny and bright and full of springy goodness. When we got to the end of the road, about 7 miles out of town, instead of turning back around and heading toward our obligations, Esteban turned the car northward, toward the tip of Wisconsin’s little thumb, Door County.

“Where are we going?”

“I thought we’d get some cheese.”

“Because there’s no good cheese in Green Bay.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

But when you’ve had brush with cooter life-and-death, you tend to think not about the way that your bedroom should be raked to quell the scatterings of used tissue or perhaps a dirty sock wrangler ought to be called in before there is a calamitous dirty sock stampede. No. You tend to live in the moment. Seize the cheese, as it were. Thus we went to Door County and scurried around, to and fro, stinky and unwashed and with bad breath which we made worse by eating a lot of dairy products. And still warm cheese curds. God. You’ve just got to love so-fresh-they’re-warm cheese curds. If you squint, you can taste the cow and they squeak against your teeth as you chew them. The curds, not the cows.

We also got pickles and chopped cherry jam. What is more, we found the British Store, where they had HobNobs and Mind The Gap t-shirts and… and…

Fuse bars!

Oh laws sakes yes. Fuse bars. Mickey Fickey Cadbury’s Fuse bars. A dense conglomeration of fudge and rice krispie stuff and raisins and peanuts. Yes, I know that I don’t like peanuts but that’s just a testament to how damn good a Fuse bar is. Even peanut haters have to love the Fuse.

When I returned to the states after my stint in London, I had given up ever tasting the Fusey yum yums ever again. I tried not to even think of them for a chocolate-free ache would settle in the pit of my stomach. I love the Fuse and I almost peed my pants when I saw them at the Brit store in Egg Harbor. They cost $1.20 a piece, about four times what they cost in England. I bought three. One was gone before we even rolled out of the parking lot. The other two are being hidden away. I’m thinking of putting them into my safe deposit box.

We then stopped at a most excellent country bar for world famous burgers in Duvall. At 3:30 on a lovely Saturday afternoon, the bar was packed and for good reason. We ate a lot of greasy food and then trucked on home, sated and with increased blood pressure as our systems tried to negotiate the cholesterol.

Once home, we both took much-needed showers. We then ensconced ourselves in the computer room until Phil called and invited us to a local pub. We both shrugged, deciding that actual social events were more desirable than sitting in our underwear, maniacally playing computer games. Thus, we went to the pub and had lots of nice conversations and caught a live band who were frighteningly like the Gin Blossoms, if the Gin Blossoms had an epileptic bass player.

Sunday was further slackerdom. I did manage to do some shopping with my little brother. He accompanied me to the mall after I promised him that we would eat dinner at The Machine Shed. He was even patient when I messed around at the Prescriptives counter for a half hour to buy some disco blue eye shadow. No. Really. It looks good.

Not Rose McGowan good or anything. But it proves to the world that I am not, in fact, a 50-year-old housewife with a prize winning tatertot casserole recipe, despite that I have tatertot thighs and an ass molded by hours of watching Must See TV.

The things we do to maintain our denial.

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That which shall not be named….. Voldecooter.

Sunday, April 21, 2002

Esteban: So’ can I use the word ‘cooter’ now?

Weetabix: Absolutely not.

Esteban: You used it this afternoon. You said ‘I burned my cooter!’

Weetabix: I only said it to make you laugh.

Esteban: It was kind of funny.

Weetabix: See?

Esteban: But I don’t understand why’

Weetabix: Because it’s’

Esteban: Too ‘Dukes of Hazard’?

Weetabix: Exactly. It’s undignified. I mean, you wouldn’t want me to call yours ‘Boss Hawg’ or anything. Or Rosco P. Koltrane.

Esteban: You wouldn’t.

Weetabix:Or ‘Flash&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9- (giggles) No. Of course not. That’s why you can’t use the word ‘cooter’

Esteban: It’s not as bad as cun’

Weetabix: Don’t even say it.

Esteban: I’m just saying.

Weetabix: You’re not allowed to use that word ever.

Esteban: But’

Weetabix: Never.

Esteban: That’s why we need to find another word for it. Something not offensive.

Weetabix: I like ‘kitty’.

Esteban: That’s just as bad as ‘pus&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9-

Weetabix: (interupts) You’re not allowed to use that word either.

Esteban: But vagina is just so’ scientific. So’ insert tab A in slot B.

Weetabix: How about “ragina”?

Esteban: That’s the same thing.

Weetabix: No, it’s cuter. It’s ‘vagina’ as said by’ oh’. Scooby Doo.

Esteban: Just think’ you just used the word ‘Vagina’ and ‘Scooby doo’ in the same sentence.

Weetabix: Yeah’ this is a new low. I like ‘kitty&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9- then it would pervert that entire ‘Hello Kitty’ genre.

Esteban: I’m against having a word which has a double meaning.

Weetabix: Like ‘cock’ or ‘dick’ or ‘rod’ or any host of other ones?

Esteban: Exactly. How about ‘billini’?

Weetabix: That’s a dessert.

Esteban: It is not.

Weetabix: Yes. It’s a dessert. Seriously. I saw Martha Stewart make it once. On Food Network. Now how bad would THAT be’. ‘Martha was working hard on her billini.’

Esteban: No’ I’m saying ‘BILLini’ not ‘blini’. BILL. Eeny.

Weetabix: Oh. Yeah, but it’s still sounds like a dessert. And there are some schools of thought which would agree with that–

Esteban: (ignoring that completely) Although, maybe guys named Bill would find that offensive. It needs to be foreign, I think. Maybe Spanish.

Weetabix: Oh my god. This is like an email conversation I had with a diary reader, about what the various parts of my body would sound like. I told him that I always envisioned my kitty having a French accent.

Esteban: I’m thinking Spanish though.

Weetabix: It’s my kitty, it can be French if it wants to be.

Esteban: How about Tuvalee?

Weetabix: That’s’ very pretty, I guess. Tuvalee. It sounds like a city name.

Esteban: Or ‘gorto’.

Weetabix: Gordo? That’s Spanish for FAT!

Esteban: No no no, gorto. Maybe “vorto”. Although that sounds more masculine.

Weetabix: Yes, it’s definitely describing something that penetrates.

Esteban: ‘Tuvalee’ then.

Weetabix: I don’t know.. it sounds too much like’ tuna.

Esteban: It doesn’t. Or ‘Uganamy’.

Weetabix: That sounds like a dish made with sea urchin and soybeans. You should talk to the people who name the sandwiches at Erbert & Gerberts.

Esteban: Hey’ I think that’s where I heard “Tuvalee”. I think it’s a sandwich.

Weetabix: Is it a tuna sandwich?

Esteban: I don’t’

Weetabix: ‘that tastes like chicken?

Esteban: This is why I married you’because you have the body of a girl with the mind of a guy.

Weetabix: Oh, did I tell you? Badsnake threatened to fly up here and kick my ass and then have sex with me.

Esteban: Oh? THE Badsnake from Atlanta?

Weetabix: Yeah. It made me giggle out loud. It was, of course, contingent upon your permission, though. She’s very respectful that way.

Esteban: Hmmm’ Let me think about that’ let you have sex with a lesbian. What do I get in return?

Weetabix: Get? I don’t know. I thought that was every man’s fantasy? For his wife to get all lesbiany with another woman.

Esteban: Well, it’s not like I would get to watch! I doubt that Bad would want me involved.

Weetabix: Yeah, I kind of doubt that too. I think she works solo.

Esteban: So, I’d need something in return.

Weetabix: What do you want?

Esteban: I get to have a Get Out Of Adultery free card, to be used at some time in the future to have sex with someone of my choosing.

Weetabix: A male someone.

Esteban: No, no, no, a female someone.

Weetabix: That’s not fair! The point of this would be experimentation.

Esteban: No, it is fair. Think of it from my side. There are risks involved. What if you LIKE it? Then I’d be out of luck.

Weetabix: This is all hypothetical.

Esteban: I know, but work with me here. You might like the entire lifestyle, and then you’d be moving to Atlanta to become the 5th Rancho resident, you even got offered a job at your Atlanta branch office, you’d be all set. And you like the radio stations down there. I’d be out of luck. I need some payout for taking such a high risk. But it’s a good deal for you. I think it’s safe to say that I probably wouldn’t get to use my Get Out Of Adultery Free card anyway. I’m offensive, I’m old, and I’m not the hottest guy out there.

Weetabix: I think you’re very cute.

Esteban: You’re my wife. You have to.

Weetabix: My tuvalee thinks so too.

Esteban: See’ it’s catchy, isn’t it?

Weetabix: I’m writing this into my diary. People don’t believe that we really have these conversations.

Esteban: I can’t imagine why.

“I believe you have those conversations, I just don’t believe that you put them on the internet”

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That which shall not be named….. Voldecooter.

Sunday, April 21, 2002

Esteban: So… can I use the word “cooter” now?

Weetabix: Absolutely not.

Esteban: You used it this afternoon. You said “I burned my cooter!”

Weetabix: I only said it to make you laugh.

Esteban: It was kind of funny.

Weetabix: See?

Esteban: But I don’t understand why—

Weetabix: Because it’s…

Esteban: Too “Dukes of Hazard”?

Weetabix: Exactly. It’s undignified. I mean, you wouldn’t want me to call yours “Boss Hawg” or anything. Or Rosco P. Koltrane.

Esteban: You wouldn’t.

Weetabix:Or “Flash”… (giggles) No. Of course not. That’s why you can’t use the word “cooter”

Esteban: It’s not as bad as cun—

Weetabix: Don’t even say it.

Esteban: I’m just saying.

Weetabix: You’re not allowed to use that word ever.

Esteban: But—

Weetabix: Never.

Esteban: That’s why we need to find another word for it. Something not offensive.

Weetabix: I like “kitty”.

Esteban: That’s just as bad as “pus—“

Weetabix: (interupts) You’re not allowed to use that word either.

Esteban: But vagina is just so… scientific. So… insert tab A in slot B.

Weetabix: How about “ragina”?

Esteban: That’s the same thing.

Weetabix: No, it’s cuter. It’s “vagina” as said by… oh…. Scooby Doo.

Esteban: Just think… you just used the word “Vagina” and “Scooby doo” in the same sentence.

Weetabix: Yeah… this is a new low. I like “kitty”… then it would pervert that entire “Hello Kitty” genre.

Esteban: I’m against having a word which has a double meaning.

Weetabix: Like “cock” or “dick” or “rod” or any host of other ones?

Esteban: Exactly. How about “billini”?

Weetabix: That’s a dessert.

Esteban: It is not.

Weetabix: Yes. It’s a dessert. Seriously. I saw Martha Stewart make it once. On Food Network. Now how bad would THAT be…. “Martha was working hard on her billini.”

Esteban: No… I’m saying “BILLini” not “blini”. BILL. Eeny.

Weetabix: Oh. Yeah, but it’s still sounds like a dessert. And there are some schools of thought which would agree with that–

Esteban: (ignoring that completely) Although, maybe guys named Bill would find that offensive. It needs to be foreign, I think. Maybe Spanish.

Weetabix: Oh my god. This is like an email conversation I had with a diary reader, about what the various parts of my body would sound like. I told him that I always envisioned my kitty having a French accent.

Esteban: I’m thinking Spanish though.

Weetabix: It’s my kitty, it can be French if it wants to be.

Esteban: How about Tuvalee?

Weetabix: That’s… very pretty, I guess. Tuvalee. It sounds like a city name.

Esteban: Or “gorto”.

Weetabix: Gordo? That’s Spanish for FAT!

Esteban: No no no, gorto. Maybe “vorto”. Although that sounds more masculine.

Weetabix: Yes, it’s definitely describing something that penetrates.

Esteban: “Tuvalee” then.

Weetabix: I don’t know.. it sounds too much like… tuna.

Esteban: It doesn’t. Or “Uganamy”.

Weetabix: That sounds like a dish made with sea urchin and soybeans. You should talk to the people who name the sandwiches at Erbert & Gerberts.

Esteban: Hey… I think that’s where I heard “Tuvalee”. I think it’s a sandwich.

Weetabix: Is it a tuna sandwich?

Esteban: I don’t…

Weetabix: …that tastes like chicken?

Esteban: This is why I married you…because you have the body of a girl with the mind of a guy.

Weetabix: Oh, did I tell you? Badsnake threatened to fly up here and kick my ass and then have sex with me.

Esteban: Oh? THE Badsnake from Atlanta?

Weetabix: Yeah. It made me giggle out loud. It was, of course, contingent upon your permission, though. She’s very respectful that way.

Esteban: Hmmm… Let me think about that… let you have sex with a lesbian. What do I get in return?

Weetabix: Get? I don’t know. I thought that was every man’s fantasy? For his wife to get all lesbiany with another woman.

Esteban: Well, it’s not like I would get to watch! I doubt that Bad would want me involved.

Weetabix: Yeah, I kind of doubt that too. I think she works solo.

Esteban: So, I’d need something in return.

Weetabix: What do you want?

Esteban: I get to have a Get Out Of Adultery free card, to be used at some time in the future to have sex with someone of my choosing.

Weetabix: A male someone.

Esteban: No, no, no, a female someone.

Weetabix: That’s not fair! The point of this would be experimentation.

Esteban: No, it is fair. Think of it from my side. There are risks involved. What if you LIKE it? Then I’d be out of luck.

Weetabix: This is all hypothetical.

Esteban: I know, but work with me here. You might like the entire lifestyle, and then you’d be moving to Atlanta to become the 5th Rancho resident, you even got offered a job at your Atlanta branch office, you’d be all set. And you like the radio stations down there. I’d be out of luck. I need some payout for taking such a high risk. But it’s a good deal for you. I think it’s safe to say that I probably wouldn’t get to use my Get Out Of Adultery Free card anyway. I’m offensive, I’m old, and I’m not the hottest guy out there.

Weetabix: I think you’re very cute.

Esteban: You’re my wife. You have to.

Weetabix: My tuvalee thinks so too.

Esteban: See… it’s catchy, isn’t it?

Weetabix: I’m writing this into my diary. People don’t believe that we really have these conversations.

Esteban: I can’t imagine why.

“I believe you have those conversations, I just don’t believe that you put them on the internet”

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My half-assed entry of the day

Friday, April 19, 2002

Oh my gosh, I have zero ambition today. Esteban and I had a hysterical pillow talk session last night but I’m feeling too lazy to type it all out and then format all of the bold parts. How pathetic is that? I think all of that html crap last night, uploading the Girl Golf pictures wore me right the heck out. Every time I do that, I remember why I don’t put pictures up that often. It kicks my ass and I’m always terrified that my browser will kill my edit before I’ve saved it. It’s no excuse, but it’s the only one I’ve got. I’m sorry that the pictures are so big, those of you with normal-sized monitors will have to scroll. They looked right on my 20-inch and I don’t have the energy to fix them.

Summer mentality has taken over. I just want to be a hedonist. I think about sex entirely too much. Perhaps I’m finally moving beyond my orally fixated Freudian life stage but that frightens me all the more because the next one is the anal stage. Maybe I’ve skipped ahead to the sexual phase. About bloody time! It makes sense though because I’ve always been a quick learner.

Lately, I’ve been enjoying the beautiful weather by driving in my car with the windows rolled down and the music blaring, singing at the top of my lungs. I do it with a bit of guilt, however, the way you would if you were caught eating a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. I should know better. I shouldn’t allow myself this white trash bliss. But it just feels so good! God help me, I feel as though I am perched at the threshold of a doublewide trailer, one Payless-shod foot hovering above the indoor/outdoor carpeting inside.

I’ve eschewed Starbucks. It’s too warm. I only want Diet Coke now. The boy at McDonald’s told me that my hair looked nice today. That was disturbing. Apparently, it normally looks as though I comb it with a pasta spoon. Or is that a dubious honor? If the gang-tattooed McDonald’s worker thinks that I look pretty, what does that say about me? I have an urge to spackle my eyes with liner and wear a lot of Tommy Hilfiger now, aiight?

I’m a little worried about going back to Starbucks, though. It’s going to get colder again this weekend and you just know that I’ll be wanting a nice steamy Venti Chai. It’s going to be like giving a booty call to your ex-boyfriend or something. I have this entire fear that Surly Girl will make a snarky comment to me. I’m thinking of telling her that I was in another country. I hear that Athens is nice this time of year.

—–Original Message—–
From: Weetabix
Sent: Thursday, April 18, 2002 1:51 PM
To: Esteban
Subject: RE: Hey…

Oh, I’ve bid on some excellent Dave Matthews tickets at Alpine Valley… 20th row. A set of 4 for Labor Day. My max bid is $200. I doubt highly that I will get them, but it would be coolo coolo, non?

—–Original Message—–

From:Esteban
Sent: Thursday, April 18, 2002 2:37 PM
To: Weetabix
Subject: RE: Hey…

1Ph j00 G3T TheM j00 w1ll bE My l33t B4by. +h4t wOULd $O r0cK!

1 LoV3 yOU!

35t3B4n

ps. Here’s the deal. If you don’t use what I can only vaguely understand to be French, I won’t write back in 1337. Deal?

—–Original Message—–
From: Weetabix
Sent: Thursday, April 18, 2002 2:40 PM
To: Esteban
Subject: RE: Hey…

It was the word “cool” with an “o” on the end of it.

Non is indeed french. L053r!

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Does anyone really know what dressing ‘Beau Brumelly’ even means????

Thursday, April 18, 2002

“You’re never fully dressed without a smile” from the musical Annie

Hey, hobo man, hey Dapper Dan,
You both got your style,
but brother,
You’re never fully dressed without a smile!

You’re clothes may be “Beau Brumelly,”
They stand out a mile,
but brother!
You’re never fully dressed without a smile!

Who cares what they’re wearing
On Main Street or Saville Row?
It’s what you wear from ear to ear,
And not from head to toe
(that matters)

So, Senator, so, janitor, so long for awhile,
You’re never fully dressed,
Though you may wear the best,
You’re never fully dressed without a smile.

Because if I have to have it stuck in my head, YOU DO TOO!

I’m a cruel Diaryland mistress. I know.

Esteban and I always have a song stuck in our head. It’s one of those things that we never realized about each other until just recently. Now we play a little game with each other. One of us will ask: “What song right now?” and the other answers. If you can infect the other person with your song, you win and then the game is over. It’s a little game, not very complex but totally sadistic. We enjoy it. Every now and then, we stalemate. For instance, he had “Iko Iko” stuck in his head and I had the theme song from the early 90’s commercial “Mr. Bucket” (“I’m Mister Bucket… the balls pop out of my mouth… I’m Mister Bucket!”). Then we even tried singing the songs to each other, trying to force it. Didn’t help. We were both puzzled, uncertain what this new power struggle meant to our relationship and slept fitfully that night, each dreaming to the soundtrack of our songs. Such are the little dramas in our lives.

I like having the songs from musicals in my head, but it’s usually never the GOOD songs from the musicals. No. It’s the horrifyingly annoying songs. I get the Ethel Merman version of “There’s No Business Like Show Business” quite often. Or that damn Jellicle song from Cats. Blech.

I once read a hypothesis about smart people…. wait, not that I’m saying that I’m intelligent or anything.. this isn’t a big bragfest, I want to make that quite clear right now… that said that an intelligent brain is always thinking. It needs to grind on something, the way beavers need to chew or their teeth will grow into their skulls and kill them. And sometimes, in order to function, it sullies itself in order to concentrate upon the task at hand. If I’m not outright singing the song to myself, I never really notice the songs, honestly. I couldn’t tell you what the LAST song was. I suspect something from Cabaret. I know that I had “Wilkommen” stuck in my head yesterday morning as I was putting gas in my car. I know this because I was making up words to go with the song, words about how damn sexy Alan Cumming is and how I’d like to dance around in silk bloomers and garter belt for him.

Sometimes I think I share too much.

A little back story on the “Mr. Bucket” song: One of the reasons I fell madly forever deeply in love with Esteban was due to the Mr. Bucket song.

Once upon a time, I was living with a psycho roommate from hell and had a mofo ear infection. If you’ve never had a mofo ear infection, you probably don’t realize what misery that is but trust me, it’s nasty. It has your complete and full attention. It feels exactly as though you’ve got a red hot dagger being driven into the side of your head. And I was a poor college student with no medical insurance and only a part time job making pizzas and shredding pound after pound of mozzarella cheese for paltry wages, so I was hoping that it would go away on its own. Thus, I was feeling poorly so Esteban sang me the “Mr. Bucket” song, in a perfect imitation of Mr. Bucket’s snuffy congested voice. And it made me smile. And that little thing locked him in my heart forever.

God, that’s so sappy, but who knows? If he hadn’t sung me the “Mr. Bucket” song, I might have broken up with him a few months later when we moved in together and the computer store he was working for was purchased by someone and he was fired and replaced with someone who was paid half as much. And he became a raging asshole for about six months. Six months of hell. So if it weren’t for “Mr. Bucket”, I might have broken up with him and then who knows what would have happened.

But I didn’t. And there it is. Thank you, Milton Bradley.

“I had a song stuck in my head, but now it’s all Annie, thank you very much!”

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Worst words in golf: Still your shot

Tuesday, April 16, 2002

I didn’t update yesterday.

Did you miss me?

It was for the best, really. I did nothing Monday. I think I stared into space. Monday did not exist. It was so boring that it barely registers a blip on the radar. I might have gone to work at some point. I don’t know.

But yesterday….

Oh my.

The weather has been lovely. No. Beyond lovely. It has been fucking gorgeous. And wonder of wonders, I actually have had a halfday of vacation scheduled for months and months.

And gorgeous weather mixed with a half day of vacation means only one thing:

Girl Golf.

I love Girl Golf. Girl Golf rocks. I talked Pretty Penny, Carissa and Mary (my quilting chica) into playing hooky from work and we all went golfing. In April. In Wisconsin. And it was 90 degrees. It was unbelievable.

I took some digital pictures, but I will need to download them off the camera tonight and upload them to Diaryland. But I’ll post some of them. Promise.

Considering that I had a really off summer last year and this was the first outing of the season, I actually didn’t do all that badly. I had some truly Tiger Woods hits. I love it when you make really good contact with the ball and it makes that pretty sound. Chick! Just like that. Chick! And then you watch it sail through the air and land far far away. Oh it’s just so grand.

And for a little while, you are completely focused and there are no house payments or messy homes or cat urine saturated living room rugs, there is just you and a lovely pink ball, your Lady Vipers and a water hazard. You just have to get the ball in the hole. That’s your job. You don’t have to land any multimillion dollar accounts. You don’t have to make anyone’s crazy network configuration work for them. You don’t have to apologize for a problem that isn’t your fault, a problem that you had never even heard of until that very minute. You just have to get the ball in the hole. That’s all. You’ve just got to love that.

Of course, it helps that the Girl Golf mentality is to have fun and look cute and drink alcohol while driving little lawnmower engine powered golf carts. And have side bets (“I’ll give you five bucks if you hit that goose” “I’ll give you ten bucks if you hit those golfers“) and lots of laughter. We had carts with little roofs on them, the kind where I always hit my damn head because I’m too tall and I forget that it’s there. I predicted that I would hit my head 9 times (one for each hole), so Mary kept score. Only hit my head twice though. Operant conditioning really works. B.F. Skinner would be so proud.


Carissa… Girl Golfer Extraordinaire. (She’d normally have scores of men offering to carry her golf bag for her, but she’s far too humble to allow that. She’s still got the rock star attitude with those shades, though)


Me, Pretty Penny and Carissa, showing off our luverly purple golf paraphanalia. It was a very windy day. I don’t normally sport a comb over. Really.

I white trashed it out though. I stopped at a liquor store and purchased hip flasks of Malibu and Bacardi White and stowed them in my golf bag. Need I even tell you that the Malibu is gone and there is a healthy dent in the Bacardi. I don’t know why I never thought of that before. Carissa and I don’t like beer and we will actually pick which golf courses we go to by what they serve on their drink cart. It was fortuitous that I did bootleg because this course didn’t even have the drink cart out yet, thus we were drinking sodas out of a machine.


Nice fake tan, huh? See that Diet Pepsi bottle? 50% Malibu. Yep. I’m not proud, people. If this picture showed my Monte Carlo in the background, the People for Good Taste and Proper Breeding Society would confiscate all of my expensive department store makeup. I just pretended that the streaks were a rare skin cancer. That way, I could be all tragic and beautiful. Yeah. I know I wasn’t kidding anyone.


Teeing off of Hole 3, my lucky pink golf ball saves me from a bunker. I’d like to see Tiger Woods play that thing where it lies. Cripes.

Penny got one over par on several holes, which was very nice, considering that we all suck. No, Mary doesn’t suck. Mary’s good. She’s lucky that we like her so much otherwise we wouldn’t let her golf with us.


Mary and Penny negotiate the putting. I hate putting. Don’t they make it look so easy?


Carissa managed to sink a 20 foot putt and also had some exceptional hits.

By the seventh hole, however, I was getting tipsy and only hit grounders. There is a strange dynamic to my drinking and golfing. I actually get better once I’ve had a drink. But once a mystical alcohol quotient has been reached, my golfing ability plummets like J.Lo’s fashion sense. The trick is to maintain a consumption rate where I stay relaxed but not too relaxed. When I pass that point, I no longer care anymore. I just want to sit in the cart and drink. By Hole 9, I didn’t care. I wanted to hoot at the cute boys but alas, there were none to be had. The cutest boy was the bartender and he had a strange lazy eye thing going on.

My officially recorded score was 53 for 9 holes, but on Hole 4, I had 3 strokes and then I twisted my ankle and sat out, so I would have had at least two more strokes there. Also, on Hole 9, I lost track of my strokes, thus the officially recorded number of strokes for that was “MF”, which stood for “MoFo”. Technically, my score was 53 plus MoFo. I still putt like shit.


Dude… friends don’t let friends golf drunk! Or take pictures!Be a friend. Be a designated digital photographer. This has been a public service announcement.

And even the worst day golfing is better than the best day at work. Except for the time I got stung by a hornet on the palm of my hand in midswing while teeing off. That sucked. But, all in all, it was an excellent afternoon.

I then headed home to get ready to take my mom to Cabaret, but it was weird. I really just wanted to lie on the sofa and watch golf and take a nap. That’s my perfect golf experience. There is a delicious restfulness to be had after a good golf session. It might be the drinking, it might be the fresh air, or maybe just the physical activity but it always makes me drowsy. I prepped in a completely languid state, oblivious to any time constraints whatsoever.

I picked up my mom. She told me that my hair looked messy. I explained that it was supposed to look like that. In truth, I just didn’t care. I had little clipped curls framing my face and I think it looked nice. She then went on and on about how her neighbors were seen at Target, being led out in handcuffs. I just nodded, resisting the urge to remind her that I’ve never met her neighbors and don’t care if they are thieves or not.

Golf: it’s my Prozac.

We got to the preforming arts center and parked. Immediately, my mother spotted not one but two women who had “copied” her outfit of a simple black dress and tasteful leopard-print scarf. She declared “How rude!”. I wanted to ask her if she had expected them to call her and confer with her fashion choice, but I had the Golf Zen going on, so again I refrained. Note to self: golf before spending long periods of time with my zany relatives. On the bright side, she did not feel compelled to tell me about her nipples.

(shudder)

The show was lovely. Lots of raunchy fun. The Emcee had red glitter on his nipples and you’ve just got to love that. The girl who played Sally Bowles didn’t have the greatest voice, but it was passable. The only thing I disliked was that every other song, these two old people were singing to each other. I mean, it wasn’t a problem that they were old, it’s just that it got really boring. I wanted eye candy, not a balding 50 year old man singing love songs to a short dumpy German woman. Every. Fifteen. Minutes. God, it got on my nerves. The last time they started to sing to each other, I almost got up and went to the bathroom. During intermission, I told my mother that it was ticking me off, and another woman overheard and said “You just don’t like them because they’re old.” I told her nicely that that wasn’t it, but I don’t think she believes me. It’s just that I paid $50 to see dancing prostitutes in their underwear and stockings with runs in them, and dang it, I don’t want to spend half the show watching Herr Schulz and Frau Scheider sing about how old and decrepit they are and how much they like mickey fickey pineapple, even though it gives them gas! I like the song about the menage a trois! I like the glittery nipples boy! Give me innuendo! Give me girls pumping their pelvis’!

I really don’t require that much to make me happy. Seriously. I have simple needs. Just some raunch sex and possibly freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.

Dear Pink,

I don’t want to like you. I haven’t liked you since that abortion called “Lady Marmalade” came out and you tried to get into a screech-off with Christina Aguilera at the end. But you’re growing on me. Like a brightly dressed very sturdy fungus.

Sincerely,
Weetabix

Dear Sandra Bullock,

I was willing to believe that you were a single mother with a heart of gold. I accepted you as a slightly clumsy and inept subway worker who lies about her relationship with a man in a coma. I was even able to suspend disbelief when you were a witch with your witch-fu sister Nicole Kidman, even though you killed Luka from ER. But a serial killer profiler? Uh-uh. Nope. Can’t do it. Go back to driving that speeding bus or something. Cripes.

Seriously.
Weetabix

Dear Butcher Shop With the Excellent Bratwurst By My House,

The big brats I purchased on Saturday were very tasty. Thank you. My future cardiologist thanks you as well.

However, you might want to change that sign out front, the one that reads “Ho-Made Sausage”. I keep envisioning Penelope Cruz and Mariah Carey making bratwurst. That skeeves me right out.

Thank you
Weetabix

Dear Mariah Carey,

Those high notes? It sounds like you’re trying to talk to dolphins.

And you’re still a slutty ho. But you make a dang fine bratwurst.

Sincerely,
Weetabix

Dear Malibu rum,

I don’t care if you’re the drink of college sorority girls everywhere. I don’t care if you taste like suntan lotion in my Diet Coke. I just don’t care.

You make golfing fun. That’s all I’m saying.

Yours Truly,
Weetabix

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Attack of the killer rose bush

Monday, April 15, 2002

Bah! What a weekend. I’m all sore and whiny.

Saturday was very possibly one of those days which go on and on and on forever. They are rare those days. I’ve only had a handful in my life. One was a Friday during my sophomore year of college… the Friday before Memorial Day weekend, actually, when I went to a student government conference in Phoenix. It began in a Comfort Inn in Milwaukee, near the airport. Esteban and I munched on the “continental breakfast” and then hoped into the limo service which brought us to the airport. Why the limo was available at 4:00 a.m. in the morning was beyond me. Then I had another breakfast with Esteban and one of my college friends in the airport before said college friend and I hopped a plane to take us to Memphis. We were served a third breakfast on the plane. There, we tooled around the Memphis airport for a bit, looking for some truly tacky Elvis memorabilia (I ended up with a pack of Elvis playing cards, which Mary Kaye later stole). We then hopped a second plane, where we were served ANOTHER breakfast, to Phoenix. There, we hooked up with other students from my school and checked into our ASU dorms and met my roommate, a lovely girl from Utah. The windows wouldn’t open in our dorm. It was 400 degrees outside. I took a shower and went to a Communications Coordinator meeting (that was my official title and the reason I got to fly and attend the conference for free), then went to lunch with my delegation. We then had some more meetings, including one in a courtyard, under an orange tree where I saw my first ever cockroach. Then we were bussed to a large water park, where we had some strange opening ceremonies and then played in the water. I remember plucking my swimsuit out of my anal cleft several times after going down a waterslide I termed The Grundy Maker. We then were bussed back to the ASU campus and went to some kind of informal get-together in the stadium, after which we climbed up a mountainy thing and looked at the stars. Longest day of my life.

So Saturday, I woke up fairly early. Esteban and I drove through Starbucks (When our barrista greeted us with her cheery smile, Esteban snarked “Did you know THAT one too?” He is embarrassed by the fact that Surly Girl will make small talk with me. He relishes his consumer anonymity.) and then he went into the office for some more of his 70 hour workweek. I went for a beautiful drive around town, trying to decide what I wanted to do with my day. I stopped at the butcher and picked up some excellent bratwurst for dinner, as the weather was inducive to grilling. I also went to the craft store in search of the perfect dragonfly stamp for my card project. Was not satisfied. I may have to suck it up and get a non-perfect dragonfly stamp.

Then I ended up running through a deli and getting a hummus hoagie and then returning home to play The Sims, which was fairly short-lived. My mom and Jonathon stopped by. I had offered Jonathon cash in exchange for raking my yard. Mom was there to supervise and be his “helper”. I cleaned the Monte while Jonathon raked half-heartedly. Mom then helped me attack our front bush, which is threatening to take over our house. Unfortunately, I am totally allergic to the bush and what is more, it stinks like cat pee. Thus, I attacked it with leather gloves and a two foot long clipper thing. I managed to take away two wheelbarrow loads of bush, but it hardly looks as though I’ve touched the thing. The red welts on my arms prove otherwise, however.

We then attacked the wild rose bush in the backyard. Hence the soreness and the whining. This thing is incredible. I’ve left it alone for the last two summers because it frightens me but it has shot out and created two sub-bushes in my spice bed. What is more, Esteban tried to kill the thing last fall, but never actually removed any of the cut branches, thus it was filled with dead thorny branches, as well as the live thorny branches which seemed to have a mind of their own. I hacked until one of the branches speared my breast. Then Mom hacked away, unwilling to back down from its spikey branches. At one point, I took a wheelbarrow load out to the road and one of the canes swirled around her legs. She swore it was going for her crotch. That’s my mom. Thinking the rosebush was trying to rape her. I do have to admit, though, it is a particularly angry plant, but I doubt it has latent sexual desires. It’s just not fully realizing its inner sprout.

Then my mother started on the nipple talk.

Oh Lordy.

First she quizzed me on how her bra looked, which I had to admit, it looked very nice. Everything was where it was supposed to be. Then she dropped “Well, I have to be careful because I have such huge…” and then she swallowed and lowered her voice into a sotto whisper “…nipples.”

I think I visibly paled and broke into a clammy sweat.

Are you there, God? It’s me, Weetabix. If I live to be one hundred and four, I will still not have lived long enough to forget about my mother’s nipples. I never need to hear that come out of her mouth ever again. Deal? I’ll be good. I promise.

She then continued, “When I’m working at the restaurant, they point out if it’s even the slightest bit chilly. And

my customers probably think that they’re turning me on.”

Normally, I would have made a sarcastic remark and asked if it affected the quality of tips she receives, but I was too busy being afflicted with hysterical deafness. But then I realized that I am so my mother’s daughter. This entire diary is one big expose into my views on breasts and poo.

Thankfully, at that point, Jonathon walked by so Mom ceased the nipple talk. I bundled up the sexually frustrated rose bush clippings and brought them to the side of the road, to a mantra of “No means no!”.

They left and I hopped into the car to get some Diet Coke. I ended up doing the week’s grocery shopping, including getting the stuff for dinner to go with the excellent bratwurst. I then came home, cleaned out the refrigerator, grilled the brats, put them in a beer/butter solution (yeah, not the healthiest food… pork stuffed into intestines, grilled for the nitrates and then soaked in butter…. yummm!) and proceeded to play The Sims until Esteban finally came home from work. We then watched Boob Raider while Esteban did our taxes and I checked his figurin’. And I did my nails.

That was Saturday. It was quite full. Martha Stewart would have been proud, although she would have wanted me to age some terra cotta pots or grow my own wood to make drawer separators or something. But I’m quite satisfied.

Sunday was more or less the reverse. I played the Sims. I took a shower. I did manage to go shopping in Appleton, scoring two new delightful bras and a Clerks DVD. The Body Shop was out of stripper-scented Body Butter. I may be forced to use up my remaining nut-scented stuff. (pout) Then I came home and watched French Kiss which is adorable, but then, with Meg Ryan in it, how could it be anything but adorable? But it made me sad because I want to live in a vineyard in Cannes too. And it also made me crave some wine I tried in London. Wine which I do not know the name. But it was good.

Being that I am my mother’s daughter, I feel compelled to tell you that my new bras are just delightful. Currently, I’m wearing the taupe one under a white t-shirt (this is a pseudo-Meg Ryan look in homage to French Kiss last night) and it really does the job quite well. I’ve got this whole Marine Corp “Front and Center” hoisting thing going on and I feel like doing a little shimmy.

I don’t, though. Mostly because I am at work. But it’s easier to be a curvy round sex goddess when one has the proper accessories. That’s all I’m saying.

Tomorrow is going to be a rather fun day. It is roughly 75 degrees, when just last week I was wearing my winter coat, thus I feel all excited and bubbly about the weather. What is more, Carissa, Pretty Penny and I are going to play hooky in the afternoon and cavort on a golf course, where there will be much drinking of wine coolers and looking very cute. Because that’s all that really matters. If given the choice between being an excellent golfer and looking cute, I’d pick cute any day of the week. Priorities, people, priorities. And did I mention that not one, not two, but all three of us have purple golf bags? Yes. It is so. Be in awe.

I may have to take my digital camera so you have visuals. If anything, my pink putter needs to be lauded for the fine piece of action and wonder that it is. Fear my putter. Love it but fear it, oh yes.

I do anyway. I’m really an awful putter.

Have a super week!

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On a very special episode of Weetabix… Weet realizes she’s an asshole

Friday, April 12, 2002

Busy day.

I had off today because I was the West Coast girl all week and worked until 7:00. Dang people in California.

Last night, a slew of us went to karaoke at the Ass Splinter bar. I wore my Ass Splinter Pearls along with my Scully suit, thus was karmically protected from harm. Or at least I like to think I was. There was a bunch of wackiness. Phil showed up. I talked Joel into doing ‘This is How You Remind Me’ and it was the version which apparently plays in the Twilight Zone because it was surreal and wrong, and I felt very bad that I had insisted that Joel sing it. And then we reprised our stint as the Fully Clothed Ladies and did ‘If I had $1,000,000’, which shows just how wonderful of a guy Joel is, especially since I had just inflicted him with Bad Karaoke. I’m certain that got him just a little closer to heaven.

When I left the bar, it was 60 degrees. I drove home fast with The Cure playing loudly and frantically. I wanted to drive my favorite run down by the Bay, but I was too sleepy, so I just went home. I did open the window on my side of the bed, though, and slept lovely wonderful spring breeze sleep and woke to birds singing.

I woke up, watched Martha Stewart, ate a bagel, did some laundry, then attacked my dining room. The dining room has become a catch all for all of the junk in the house. It’s kind of like the kidney/liver combo of our home. The cats eat and poop in there as well, because Chelsea is too decrepit to make it down the stairs to the basement, thus it always smells like the funk. We don’t eat in there. It’s a dark dingy little troll hole of a room. I had only meant to put away the ironing board, honestly, but somehow that turned into a full-blown overhaul until I got wheezy from the dust. The majority of the room has been tamed, however, and I feel an inordinate amount of pride for having accomplished that all before noon. Some days, I’ve only got ‘Take Shower’ and ‘Stare blankly Into Space’ done by noon.

I had a moment of weakness and buzzed through McDonald’s. I ordered a Big Mac meal (the shame!!!) and waited, anxious for some yummy piping hot French fries and bubbly Diet Coke nectar of the gods. They handed me the bag and .07 seconds later, my hand was grabbing for some fries.

They were cold. Cold and woody.

Now, the old Weetabix would have shrugged, muttered some choice curses and slugged through a bunch of cold and woody fries. But I never even considered that an option. I wasn’t going to eat cold fries and I wanted hot fries! These fries were not fit for human consumption! I circled McDonald’s and got into the drive thru again. In retrospect, I should have parked and walked in but in my holier-than-thou-minimum-wage-employee mood, it didn’t occur to me.

I waited. And waited. Finally, I got up to the speaker and told them that my fries were cold. The boy told me to pull up to the second window and they would ‘deal with’ me.

Hokay.

While I waited to approach the window, I looked again at the bag. There was a large oil slick down the side. WTF? The fries weren’t hot. I mean, I could understand a bit of oil slick if the fries had been hot but the lard used to fry those little artery cloggers had likely congealed on their cold little bodies. I peered deeper into the bag and found that the oil slick was due to the fact that the Big Mac was only half in the container and one of the all beef patties was pressed up against the bag.

Yummy.

I got up to the window and finally the girl came and asked what size the fries were that I wanted replaced. I said ‘No, you’re replacing the entire meal because the Big Mac was apparently assembled via Salad Shooter’ She said nothing and took the bag from my hands. Five minutes later, she returned with a greaseless bag and handed it to me. ‘The fries are hot’ you can check.’

Apparently, the minions of McDonald’s are accustomed to blind allegiance to Lord Ronald. She was obviously unnerved by my reluctance to bend over and get my bung crammed with McCheese.

Yeah, I don’t know what that metaphor meant either, but still.

Anyway, I’m taking this as an important step in my recovery from addiction. I’m not going to be their bitch anymore. I’m going to be the one kicking their ass, pressing my spike heels into their tender flesh, screaming, ‘Say my name, McBitch! Say it!!’

I’m willing to bet that someone spit on my Big Mac, though.

Mo requested a favor.

It seems that she wanted to visit Mafia Grandma tonight. M.G. sent Abby an Easter basket and Mo knew that if she didn’t call or do something to thank her, in M.G.’s eyes it would be a sin worse than kicking puppies. It would get written down into M.G.’s big book of grievances, written in indelible ink. My mother is still paying for the time that she asked M.G. to pick up my birthday cake for my fifth birthday party and M.G. got into a car accident on the way to the bakery.

You see, if you keep long grudges, it’s a way of being immortal because you can never die.

Thus, Mo wanted some Mafia Grandma buffer and she figured that if she brought me along, she wouldn’t have to take the full brunt of M.G.’s ire. And, she admitted, she was a little afraid.

So I said I would. But then I had to buy her a lemon merangue pie because I had no child to bring her. That’s what we childless do. We have to be creative and offer substitutes. Thus, for $6.75, I had a substitute grandchild.

Mo is a bit upset for reasons other than Mafia Grandma. It seems that Steve from Blues Clues is leaving at the end of the month. Steve is Mo’s pretend boyfriend. Much like children, she is soothed by his green top and big wooden pencil. She wants to do naughty things with him in his thinking chair. I think she wants the lesson on good touching and bad touching.

‘And his replacement’ Joe’it’s supposed to be his cousin or something’ he’s not even cuuuuuuuuuuuuute!’ she bemoaned over the phone.

I hear that Sponge Bob Square Pants is always looking for some action, Mo.

So we went over to M.G.’s house. She was very pleased about the pie. She tried to feed it back to us. Then she told us about the problems she’s having with her dead cats.

She’s one of those cat ladies, you see.

But not any cats’ big expensive snooty Persian cats. At one point, she had something like thirteen. Her house perpetually smells of cat urine and there are always long white clumps of cat hair on everything. Her daughter, Aunt Drusilla, forbade her from acquiring more cats, but then came the awful task of waiting for her existing cats to die. She’s down to four, but she’s acquired a yippy little snitty dog somewhere in the process. She had a scare with her youngest cat recently and she was telling us that her primary fear was that she’d have the cat put to sleep and then it would be too cold to bury her. (The youngest cat turned out to be fine, by the way.) What is more, she has six dead cats buried in her backyard and she’s beginning to forget which cat is where. She didn’t mark them, apparently. During the entire conversation, as she told us of her dead cat quandary, Mo and I could only make goofy faces at each other and try not to laugh at the absurdity. Mo suggested that M.G. could have put the cat in the freezer. I commented that I’d always be worried that my ice cream would pick up a funny taste, reminiscent of Fresh Step. M.G. just made a face.

At least when I’m in hell, I’ll have Mo there to keep me company.

Esteban, Markus, and I went to visit Kim V and her husband God and their new child. During this visit, God played a video of last summer’s Renaissance faire adventure. There was a short clip of us dressed in our Ren clothes and I made two rather disturbing realizations in rapid succession. First, it was rather scary to see how ginormous my gut was. I mean, it’s still ginormous, but less than last summer. The thing that scares me is that last summer, I didn’t seem to think it was that ginormous. Maybe it was the shorts I was wearing in part of the video. I don’t know. Yuck. The second thing was that I am one annoying pain in the ass. At one point, I said something that I distinctly remember thinking was very funny, but it came off like so egotistical and bitchy I can hardly stand it. (I believe it went something along the lines of ‘I feel like I’m a haughty noble and you’re all my peasants or something.’) I said ‘Oh my god!’ and Esteban said ‘I know’ aren’t you embarrassing?’ which has been something that he’s said in the past’ that things come out of my mouth and I say them with such a straight face and monotone expression that it’s hard to tell that I’m kidding. And I had to agree with him. I am one uncouth mofo. So I said ‘I never realized that I’m a complete bitch’. And no one argued with me. That’s a friend, baby. They like me anyway. It’s amazing.

Anyway, that’s all. Have a great weekend. And I mean that in a good way. Really.

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She’s not even Catholic

Thursday, April 11, 2002

It’s spring! It’s spring! It’s spring!!!

This morning, a subtle threshold was crossed.

I walked outside this morning to get something out of my car. In my bare feet and wearing only a pale yellow t-shirt and my flowered boxer shorts which look like actual clothing. And I did not die of frostbite, even though it was nary 5:30 a.m.

It was 50 degrees outside, people.

This is a turning point. My brain is rolling over into slacker mode. Something about nice weather does this to me. I think it’s the freedom of being able to anything you feel like without fear of dying due to the extremities. Oh sure, not a lot of people die from the frigid ass-biting cold weather, but it can happen. Midwesterners hold a lot of pride in that fact. Look at us, not freezing to death! I think they’re secretly certain that the Floridians and other Southern folk would possibly run naked into a tempestuous icy flowage or possibly fall asleep in a snow bank and get eviscerated by a snowplough. I’m certain we’re not giving y’all enough credit though. It’s not me. It’s them.

But as soon as the weather goes soft and mellow, my good little ant persona takes a hike and it’s the hedonistic grasshopper all over the place. My clothing gets more casual. I stop wearing socks. My hippy sandals come out of the closet. I start going to work with wet ‘just out of the shower’ hair. I stop planning for anything. Need to go outside? Just go! Don’t worry about a coat! Don’t worry about shoes! If you slip and hit your head, getting amnesia and forget what a house is, you won’t freeze to death! Not for months and months! Whoooooo!

Anyway, it’s all good. That’s what I’m saying.

My mom has this nun doll that she’s had since she was a little girl. I remember it distinctly, as it always sat on her dresser, next to her perfume bottles and jewelry box. Because she’d spray her perfume there, the doll took on a strange conglomeration of scents, flowery and dusty and somehow ancient. It wasn’t a doll that we could play with because she was so old, but she wasn’t really a doll that we WANTED to play with either. Despite the fact that she was in rather good condition, she had no legs. And apparently, her head was somehow supposed to be attached to her legs, through her body via a string or rubber band which had long ago disintegrated, so if you picked her up, her head either tilted at a horrible angle or fell off completely.

It was very dang freaky.

And her eyes were the kind that blinked, so you’d pick her up and her head would snap back and her eyes would fly open, as though shocked by such rough treatment, before falling completely backwards and then dropping, usually behind the dresser.

I used to call her Sister Marie Antoinette. I was pretty clever for an 8 year old, if I do say so myself.

I was slightly fascinated by her, though because she was very ornate. Her dress had numerous pleats and folds and there was a delicate little black rosary around her waist. But she still freaked me out.

So I’ve been watching for another version of this doll to no avail. There are heap loads of nun dolls out there, but none (nun’ oops’ I’m so very bad) that looked like Sister Marie Antoinette.

I found one today. I sent Mo the link while I was on the phone and when she saw the picture, she said “Oh my god!” It was Sister Marie Antoinette’s twin. But neither of us was certain about what looked to be a plastic detail around the neck and habit. I bid on it a few times, but then figured that I’d better clarify before getting into serious cash for the doll. Thus, I called Mom and asked her about her nun.

It was a strange convo, though:

Weetabix: Hi Mom… you know that nun doll you have?

Weetabix’s Mom: Which one?

Weetabix: The nun doll. The doll which looks like a nun.

Weetabix’s Mom: I know Weetabix… which ONE???

Weetabix: You have more than one nun doll?

Weetabix’s Mom: Yes, I bought another one at a second hand store.

Weetabix: Oh, does it look like your doll?

Weetabix’s Mom: No, not really, I thought I could use her legs, though.

Weetabix: You have a parts nun? You bought a nun for parts?

Weetabix’s Mom: Yeah….?

Weetabix: Oh that’s so sick and twisted. Does your doll have a plastic wimple?

Weetabix’s Mom: A plastic what? Their bodies are plastic… but they’re not anatomically correct, I don’t think it would be right to give a nun doll nipples.

Weetabix:Not Nipple… wimple… the white thing around her neck.

Weetabix’s Mom: Her hat is plasticy… wait, which nun doll? The one without legs? Or the one that looks like a hooker in a nun outfit?

Weetabix: Is that the parts nun?

Weetabix’s Mom: She’s a whole nun, Weetabix…. wait… I found a nun leg.

Weetabix: Ack.. It’s like a serial killer of nuns is living at your house.

Weetabix’s Mom: (gasp) Don’t you even say such things, Weetabix!

Weetabix: Oh Mom.

Weetabix’s Mom: Here’s another leg….oh that can’t be right… I have two left legs.

Weetabix: How many nuns are you hiding in that closet?

Weetabix’s Mom: It doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s a nun leg. It might be another leg.

Weetabix: Perhaps a bishop?

Weetabix’s Mom: Oh don’t be silly. I don’t have any bishop dolls.

Anyway, as it turns out, she doesn’t want a third nun doll, even one which is exactly the spitting image of Sister Marie Antoinette, because her doll is special and another doll is just another doll. Thus, I didn’t continue bidding on Sister Heada Tached (I think I’ve lost the nun naming talent I once had).

Besides, I had this weird image of the doll, legs missing, on cement blocks parked in front of my mother’s house.

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