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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.
I have moved. - 1.03.2005
Obviously, a work in progress. - 12.27.2004
Happy holidays! - 12.24.2004
Listen, I am not a complete dick, it's not like I want Joe to die alone surrounded by cats or something. - 12.23.2004
Plus I am convinced my butt is extra big when it's upside down. - 12.22.2004
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