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03.25.2002 - 12:49 p.m.

Monday (bloody Monday)
Let's just say, theoretically, that you are a 28 year old woman who decided to dye some Easter eggs last night with your husband. Having last done this sort of zany activity when you were 9 or so, you figure that with your adult skills and matured creativity, the eggs will turn out hauntingly beautiful, rich in color and pattern. Rivaling those crappy Faberge things.

Well, you would be wrong, buster. Dead wrong. Now there is dye all over my kitchen counters (made of some evil material whose only purpose in life is to suck up anything that touches it), and the first three fingers on my left hand are apparently permanently stained with a lovely mix of yellow/green/blue/red that looks exactly like frostbite at the gangrenous stage. AND we made the sorriest-looking batch of eggs you ever saw. They look like the product of a Let's Remember Our Motor Skills! activity down at the old folks' home.

I'll say this for the whole egg-dyeing orgy, though. It was something to do that distracted us from watching the slow motion train wreck that is the Oscars.

I HATE watching the Oscars. I rarely agree with the movie picks, I am bored silly by the billions of random awards like "Technical Editing: Best Caterer", I hate with a passion both Billy Crystal and Whoopie Goldberg. But the worst part, the absolute worst, is watching someone make a total fool out of themselves by giving an acceptance speech that lasts longer than Roots, stumbling their lines, engaging in robotic 'banter' with the co-presenter, etc. I get really squirmy and embarrassed for them until I finally have to change the goddamn channel because it's TOO STRESSFUL.

It's stupid. I know. I also get the same way when I watch ice skating, because I worry they're going to fall, and they've been training their whole life, and everybody's watching, oh, and I just know it's going to happen any.second.now, and aarrrrgggggggh change it change it.

:::

I learned something about myself on Saturday, while we drove around with our realtor and looked at approximately eighty billion houses. I am a dirty SLUT, giving myself willy-nilly to any house that flirts with me. Remember the one I was totally going out with last weekend? Well, we broke up so I could have hot monkey love with this new place near Lake Sammamish.

Actually we did end up abandoning the pursuit of the place we liked so much, because of various problems it had. And we did see a new house that was almost perfect. It's really close to the lake, so close you could imagine moseying down there in the summer and playing in the water. You could see the water from the windows. It was in a chichi neighborhood where all the other places are mansions. Beautiful yard, gorgeous new floors/appliances etc. The problem? It was really, really small. Small like about the size of our current apartment.

Man, we chewed on that. Thought about the concept of space and how much we really needed. I mean, that house had everything going for it, except for the fact that it was sized for people who really like sitting in one place and never buying anything.

So, the hunt rages on. Our agent is dutifully sending us wads of listings to plow through. Our brains are basically dedicated as such: 95% house-related, 3% basic bodily functions such as inhaling, 2% misc.

:::

Oh! The other very exciting thing that happened this weekend was that I found a great-fitting new pair of jeans. Sound the alarms, stop the presses! Do you have any idea what a difficult achievement this is? How monumental in scope, how rare in occurrence? I was in the Gap dressing room, with a stupified-by-boredom JB waiting nearby, when I tried them on. A beam of light shot down from the ceiling, I heard an angelic chorus - BOOOOWAAAAAAAA - and I rotated slowly before the mirror in a shocked, breath-held fervor. My god, the jeans weren't squishing my belly into a rubbery bulge, weren't busily crawling up the crack of my ass, weren't qualifying me to be displayed on this site, weren't gripping my hips like boa constrictors. For once, they didn't have a tag saying "Made By Satan".

It was…it was a Kleenex moment.


go back ::: forward

03.22.2002 - Lo, the suckage hath been great.
03.21.2002 - You struggle to arrange the fabric over yourself so as to retain a semblance of dignity, but it is useless.
03.20.2002 -
When the hell would I need to back up like this anyway? Like if a fucking rhino was charging my car?

0 comments so far.

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