Quality Is Overrated
Hi there! Hope you are not looking for something good! Because, I have been a little busy. And apparently, as demonstrated below, I do not have the time for complete sentences. Aren't you psyched?
So basically, here is the short version. And by short version, I mean "now I will go over, in minute detail, the trivial annoyances that have kept me from writing stuff."
It also means, "By the way, I seem to have written this whole thing in the present tense. Seriously, please go read the newspaper. Or a flyer. Or an instruction manual, for God's sake, because this is all I've got and I actually need to get back to work even though it is 11 p.m."
But anyway. Shortish version:
Last week, I go to work, like the little adult I pretend to be. While there, I am informed that I am leaving for Dallas the following day. Dandy.
I catch a 7 a.m. flight to Dallas the next morning. I get to Dallas and I deal with a Crisis, which turns out to be so delightfully crisis-y and compounded that I never actually see my hotel room in Dallas, which allegedly contained (1) a bed, and (2) a shower. Instead, I spend the entire night working in a bitty little office that is quite literally, according to the properties of gravity and physics, too small to contain me, my laptop, and my Delta-approved carry-on bag all at the same time. We take shifts.
It is about sixteen hundred degrees in this office. I am informed that the heat is stuck on high, but that someone is coming to fix it the next day. This does not help me very much.
Also, there is no food. I start chewing on pencils and checking the corners for discarded, hair-covered mints. I am unsuccessful.
The next morning, I arrive at the airport at 5:30 in preparation for my 7 a.m. flight, wearing the same suit that I flew to Dallas in the day before. Only now it is sweatier. In the past 24 hours, I have eaten a total of three peanuts and one half of a slimy, brownish banana that someone located in a breakroom. Everything is closed, and so I prepare to scavenge for unaccompanied children, who I will cook over a spit in a darkened sundries store.
I go through security. I am repeatedly informed, by officious little plastic signs, that I am not allowed to make jokes about bombs. Immediately, all I can think of are a lot of jokes about bombs. There are not very many good jokes about bombs.
I bypass the line of people who are waiting to have their liquids inspected. I feel vaguely superior for having packed no liquids.
Possibly I am a little too cocky about my understanding of the regulations regarding liquids on carry-ons.
Following the x-ray of my bag, I am pulled out of the line, without shoes, and informed that there is a Problem. A very nice man directs me to the holding area for alarming airplane flyers. I have been wearing the same suit for over 30 hours. I smell worse than anybody else, and I am oddly satisfied by that. I plan on using this fact in my defense, as it means that I have obviously not packed any liquid, such as, for example, perfume.
(Or soap, actually. I also have no soap.)
The nice man shakes his head at me. I am informed that I have committed the cardinal offense of bringing lip gloss onto the airplane. Time for beatings.
I am also informed that lip gloss is a regulated item, and is listed on the same page as nunchakus. meat cleavers, and sabers. Also prohibited on this list: cattle prods, throwing stars, and dynamite. I am heartened by the fact that I am reasonably sure that I left my cattle prod at home, but...I mean, you never know! What if I packed it by accident?
Also, in reviewing the list kindly provided by the nice man, all I can think is that this...well, I mean, it's sort of an alarming tableau of kinky. The only way these elements may again be reunited is if they remake Blue Velvet. I think I am funny.
Simultaneously, I think immediately of about fifteen jokes involving lip gloss and bombs. With great effort, I supress.
The nice man starts to go through my bag. I tell him timidly -- as one does when she has no shoes on and her jacket is over there somewhere and so she is in this little camisole shirt thing and she is cold and also possibly a felon -- that I do not wear lip gloss. I am unaware of a lip gloss situation. I am not perpetuating the lip gloss machine! Plus, I do not even own any throwing stars. Basically, what I am saying is, YOU'VE GOT THE WRONG GIRL.
The nice man proceeds to empty the contents of my carry-on. This enables me to see the clean underwear I am not wearing. I sigh.
Nice man sifts through the clothes, and finds my little toiletries bag. He very carefully lifts the bag, as though my lip gloss may detonate at any minute ("Easy, breezy, beautiful, BOOM!"), and sloooooowly unzips the top.
(I am actually all fascinated now, because did someone actually plant lip gloss on my person? That would be...I don't even know. Kind of awesome.)
(I begin imagining a Maybelline Mafia, led by Christy Turlington. They are all armed with eyelash curlers and those white pencils I have no idea what one is supposed to do with. This is sort of pleasing again, and I forget about the underwear problem.)
But I am right smack dab in the middle of the lip gloss problem still, and this is when nice man lets out a little gasp of FOUND IT, and promptly pulls out...a tube of lipstick.
"Lip gloss," he whispers.
"Lipstick," I say. "Which is hard. You know."
He stares, perplexed, at the little tube. And then he opens it, and rolls it on out, and sighs.
"Lipstick!" I say triumphantly, at 6 a.m. and wearing the same suit I have worn for thirty hours. I feel vindicated. I am taking what I can get at this point, and see, I am not a crook, mister nice guy in the vest! I told you I didn't wear lip gloss, you big old non-believer looking out for my well-being!
He continues to stare at the tube. Then he suddenly leans in to me.
"How am I supposed to tell?" he asks in a desperate whisper. "It all looks the same. I've been screening for ten years, but what do I know about makeup? I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT MAKEUP."
"Well, lip gloss is...wetter," I begin, trying to be helpful. But he has other fish to fry.
"And do you know what they have now?" he continues, about two centimeters away from my face. "They have LIQUID EYELINER. PLEASE TELL ME WHY WOMEN NEED LIQUID EYELINER."
"I don't...hi!" I say. "Hi! Actually, can I have my shoes?"
He is not much listening to me.
"Are Prescriptives prescribed?" he demands. "Is that medicine? Because a lady last week told me that Prescriptives makeup was medicine."
I end up spending a good ten minutes with the nice guy in the vest. He has sort of a working knowledge of makeup brands now. I may have made a joke about Wet 'N Wild being an explosive device that magically transported all wearers back to 1985, but fortunately, he overlooked that. Small plastic signs everywhere quivered in horror. And I am officially the lamest little rebel in all of Texas.
Incidentally, I manage to remember that everything is bigger in Texas.
Simultaneously, I opt not to mess with the state.
Probably for these reasons, I am permitted to board the plane. I am sitting in the middle seat of the second-to-last row.
Next to a baby. And I like babies. But this one is mad.
Although I am bone tired, and still have seven zillion more things to do, and have been detained for transporting dangerous cosmetics, I still recognize the fact that I have officially begun living a cliche. I start looking for white people dancing badly/women shopping/men refusing to ask for directions.
The flight attendant, who recognizes me from the previous day, and apparently recognizes the suit -- or smells the desperation coming off of me in waves (smells like feet!) -- offers me a little bottle of vodka from her pocket. It is 7:16 a.m.
The in-flight movie thingy is about Jennifer Anniston's status as a style icon. It involves a lot of pictures of her breasts, plus startling statements about her personal style, such as the time she wore a red dress. "RED HOT!" hollers the little box on the screen. Two minutes later, she is "THE LADY IN RED!" This makes the baby scream. I understand the baby.
I doze off, only to be immediately shaken awake by nice flight attendant with the vodka, who informs me that I am drooling onto the bosoms of the passenger in seat 48F. I am only mildly horrified by this. Passenger in seat 48F, who had explained to me upon take-off that she was "drugged to the gills" and would sleep through the flight, is entirely unconscious, and has not noticed.
I spend a solid ten minutes debating whether it is proper to clean my own drool off of passenger in 48F. I ask myself repeatedly, "What would Jackie O. do?" I finally realize that Jackie O. would not be caught dead in seat 48E.
Watch more of Jennifer Anniston's boobs. A red dress again? What vision!
The baby has a cold. The baby is travelling with his dad. His dad is sleeping. The baby starts sneezing on me. Copiously.
The flight attendant brings me a washcloth, as the entire left side of my body is covered in snot. She wakes the baby's dad and informs him that baby just sneezed up a gallon of sludge. He tells her to mind her own business.
She offers me the vodka again.
I arrive in Atlanta. I pay one hundred million dollars to retrieve my car. I return to the office, smelling like a jock strap and covered in infant snot. I inform my co-workers that I am sexy. They gag reflexively.
I start working, and quickly realize that I cannot find the paperwork I am supposed to have.
I turn my carry-on bag inside out, before realizing that paperwork in question is probably still on the inspection table in the dangerous-flyers section of DFW airport. With a nice guy in a vest.
I see something small and shiny in the bottom of the bag, way over in the corner, half concealed by the stitching. I reach down, wiggle it out, and hold it up in the light.
It is a tube of lip gloss. And it is made by Wet 'N Wild.
Seriously. Where it came from, I do not know. But this is when I decided to go home.
So, now you know where I've been! And clearly, I've been all busy, being a hardcore lip gloss smuggler. They'll never catch me! I'm Wet! 'N I am Wild! I am too wild to spell out the entirety of the word "and." That is pretty damn wild.
I have, actually, done other things as well, including a trip to the mountains with our bestest friends Spam and Cookie (listen, do not blame me for these nicknames, as they were Spam's own creation, and that is only after he was convinced not to refer to his wife as "Turkey," as was apparently the original plan). And we took pictures of leaves there. And we drank some things, and I was sorry I had not collected all those nice little vodka bottles for later.
But unfortunately, I can't go into much detail about all that awesomeness, as I have to do more work now, because I am still busy as all hell. But here are several things I should type before I go back to typing words like "aforementioned" and "heretofore," which are, at this point, dangerously close to becoming part of my regular vocabulary:
1. I have 1,310 emails. I have read about six of them. I swear I will get to it. If it is some sort of email emergency, please just...I don't know. Alert me somehow! Try faxing!
2. Y'all go here and check out the lovely things these talented people are selling for breast cancer awareness month. Each of them is donating some percentage of their sales to breast cancer related charities, and this is obviously very cool. So shop, but feel totally good about it, and everyone wins! Including boobs!
3. I don't actually have a third thing.
Y'all have a good week, and I will try to stop working for a minute and be back with some actual stories about something or other. Until then, nobody mix lip gloss and a cattle prod. Because that sounds a little too wet 'n wild, even for me.
Look! Bad Limerick Wednesday!
Because, why the hell not? Besides all of the obvious reasons, I mean?
I will go ahead and go on record by saying that this will not happen again next Wednesday, because hopefully, I will be less of a freak by then. But, you know. Today, I am just going to revel in my freakitude, and also, impose it on all you nice people. Sorry about that.
I wrote the majority of this limerick this morning, while sitting in traffic, on the back of an envelope, with a half-stub of a pencil. Because I am classy like that. Also, these facts alone pretty much guarantee that the limerick in question is not good. It is, in fact, very not good. But hey -- at least I am not talking about sycamore trees anymore. Now, I've moved on to "There once was a man from Nantucket." Obviously, that is sure to end well. (It rhymes with bucket!)
Anyway. Hello! Have more poetry! And please don't hate me forever.
Why Wednesday's Child Is Full Of Woe
(In Many Painful Verses)
(Special shout-out to I-75; thanks for all this sitting!)
Last night, in what turned out to be
An ode to my stupidity,
I took dachshunds (four)
To the second floor
And decided they’d all sleep with me.
And I did so with no apprehensions
Concerning my bed’s small dimensions.
But I should know well
That the long road to hell
Is paved with my dumb ass intentions.
But of course, I’m an ignorant whore.
And so, at about 1:04,
I quickly awoke
To hear Tasha choke
As she threw up all over the floor.
So, I sprang up from bed right away
And gathered some towels and spray.
I cleaned up the mess
(With minor success)
And once again, I hit the hay.
But then around quarter to three,
I woke up to something sticky.
And though sleeping nearly,
I realized quite clearly:
“That fucking dog threw up on me.”
So sometime between three and four,
(While Boris continued to snore),
I was taking a shower
At an ungodly hour,
And not wanting dogs anymore.
I got back to bed before dawn,
As dew drops were coating the lawn.
But as I settled in,
I realized with chagrin
That now fucking Tasha was gone.
So, filled with a great sense of dread,
I once again got out of bed.
With a reluctant lurch,
I blearily searched,
Like a zombie come back from the dead.
But happily, it wasn’t long
‘Till I found where she’d been all along:
Behind cracked closet door,
She was splayed ‘cross the floor,
And gleefully eating a thong.
Now knowing that my evening fell
Somewhere in the third ring of hell,
I got down on all fours,
To salvage my drawers,
When I suddenly thought: what’s that smell?
For a stench, so horrid and vile;
Like a house blend of hot ass and bile;
Had assaulted my nose,
In the midst of my clothes.
And that’s when I saw the first pile.
According to medical views,
“Diarrhea” is seldom good news.
But problems compound
When its effects are found
Inside of your favorite shoes.
And you would be quite impressed at
The multiple places she’d shat.
It was way more than twice,
But because I am nice,
I’ll spare you the details of that.
But WHILE I was standing there, man,
Miss Tasha was crafting a plan.
And with one sudden twitch,
That little brown bitch
Grabbed my damn panties and ran.
Now, there certainly is a connection
Between diet and doggie digestion.
But I was in such a snit
That I must now admit:
I gave up on the panties in question.
So I crouched there, completely nonplussed,
Scrubbing the floor in disgust,
While one shitty broad
My undies with unrestrained lust.
At long last, after one final sweep,
I could FINALLY go back to sleep.
But the second I rose
I heard something and froze:
My alarm clock was starting to beep.
I won’t make attempts at transcription
Of emotions beyond my description.
But suffice it to say,
I started my day
By having a fucking conniption.
So friends, if you are ever led
To believe I'll take four dogs to bed,
Please run to me quick,
And bring a big stick,
And smack some sense back in my head.
Happy Wednesday, everyone!
Tasha says, "I'll never see/a rose as beautiful as me! Or as likely to throw up on you."
Live, From My Closet: Now, With Extra Humiliation!
People, in the interest of total and complete frustration, I am going to go ahead and post this entry. I have written two other entries, but I have inadvertently deleted them both, and it is getting very very frustrating over here in movable type land. So, I am going against all of my better judgment, and am actually posting A Drunk Entry. I apologize.
Really, this is something which I never do, because my drunk entries are overwhelmingly stupid, although they are also incredibly funny to me at the time I am writing them. But then I wake up the next day and drink a Diet Coke and reread the things, and think, "What the hell? I made a joke about cellphones being small? Is it 1999?" and then I roll my eyes and delete the whole sordid business.
Only this time, I actually kept one, because it continued to be funny to me, and I thought, well, hell. I will keep this for my own amusement. Because at least I will sort of giggle mildly upon rereading. But I won't actually post it, because, I do not post drunk entries, according to a hardline rule that I made up one morning. And lord knows, we can't violate that ironclad rule of blog governance! Heavens no!
But, obviously, that was before I deleted two entries in a row, and before I finally exploded with HOLY SHIT SCREW IT ALL about the entire situation. And now I am thinking along the lines of "Also, screw that ironclad rule thing, too, because since when is the internet bound by rules? Guidelines, people! Advisories! That's all that exists in this brave new world, and I'm going forward with a drunk entry, and we will probably all survive."
And therefore, here you go, y'all. Date: Last Thursday night. Location: Childhood bedroom of parents' home. Parties involved: Dukay, self, and several dogs. And way, way too much wine. And again, I apologize in advance.
Drunk Entry I Can't Believe I Am Posting (Spelling Since Fixed)
So, Dukay and I have had some wine and we are giggling like a couple of miscreants (note to self: Just said "miscreant" in blog entry) (Second note to self: must stop being such dork) (Third note to self: Despite language, and repeated assertions that "I just don't get those kids today, what with their MySpace and their little fucking phones!" must remember that I am not actually sixty-five years old).
Wait. I am off track. Anyway, what's up, Thursday night? We've had some wine.
So, how this happened is, that it is not entirely my fault. See. Because, I went to dinner with a friend, and that was very fun, and then I came home to my parents' house, and Dukay came over here, and then we had some wine with my parents, who are leaving town at dawn tomorrow to go away for a while and I will be dogsitting, and for this reason, I am here again. And y'all, this is all incredibly entertaining to me right now because I am totally in my high school bedroom at this moment, and there are treasures, TREASURES to be found here. Dukay and I are like pirates, and the drawers of my closet are our booty.
Booty! We have found photographs, and old notes, and most spectacularly, my old diary. And, oh, the fun we have had tonight at the expense of my seventeen-year-old self. Apparently, I was mad then! And also quite rhyme-y, and so we've also held an impromptu poetry reading up here, and I am thinking about calling Ziz and reading her lines of my poetic masterpieces, just randomly and without explanation ("You think you know me/ Based on what you see/ But I'm very different/ Sycamore tree.")
I seem to have developed these startling seventeen-year-old talents from an overdose of e.e. cummings, because there is NO capitalization anywhere, but there is also a healthy dash of Wesley Willis mixed in there, in that I just...randomly throw out words, apparently, which seem to bear no relationship to the rest of the poem (example: "sycamore tree"). I suppose this was quite deep and cryptic to me at the time, but now it is making me laugh so hard I am about to die. ("Pontiac! We build excitement!")
(People who do not know who Wesley Willis is: This makes no sense to you at all. It gets better below.)
But..."sycamore tree." Honestly, seventeen-year-old self: what the fuck?
Anyway, so, we are having fun with poetry. And we are having fun at my parents' house, once again, which is where I will probably live for the rest of my life, despite owning a perfectly good house several miles away. And yet, I am again not able to live in that house, because guess what happened this time? Because something is always happening with that house? This time, I came home from work one day and found that, oh. Someone stole my front yard.
Seriously. My front yard was stolen. Someone just took it. I pulled into my driveway, and could not help but notice that what used to be grass was now an enormous, nine-foot deep trench. What used to be solid green was now a bumper crop of Georgia Air and red, gooey mud. Spectacular!
Matters were not assisted by the fact that, taped to my front door, I located a letter from the Department of Public Works, explaining how they had exercised their easement to enter my property and dig the shit out of it, in order to fix the broken water main lying deep beneath my hydrangeas. Delightfully, along the bottom of the page, scribbled in green marker, was a name, a number, and a note. And the note said -- and I am not making this up -- "Call me about this big hole in your yard!"
Which I did. And this is when Mr. Public Works informed me that hey, love you, but going to need to turn off your power, water, and gas to continue searching the area for the missing, miscreant (note to self: just turned eighty!) pipe, because they couldn't much find it yet, and hey, how do you feel about fescue, anyway? It's lush!
About two seconds after I finished reeling from that stack of information, Mr. Public Works then asked me, in all sincerity:
"Now, tell me about your irrigation system."
And I said: "Rain?"
And he said: "HA HA! HA! Seriously. Sprinkler system? Garden hose?"
And I said: "Sometimes Bo pees out there."
And Bo said: "BO PEE IN YARD HOLE."
And he said: "HA! HA...heh -- Oh. Oh. You're serious."
And I said: Oh, screw you and your irrigation system, and just give me fucking fescue. Maybe I don't know what fescue is and frankly, I AM PLANNING ON GOOGLING IT, MISTER. But if you're going to dig to China in my front damn yard, then I want some fucking fescue in return. Or maybe some Chia. I think that is also a kind of grass.
Or possibly I just said: "I guess...fescue."
Anyway. That is why I am here. Because there is a hole in my yard, and various utilities have been turned off so that the city’s diggers will not accidentally be electrocuted or blown up, and can continue excavating the Lost City of Atlanta Suburbs in peace. And Dukay is here also, just because he likes me and stuff. And we are collectively not sober, thanks to the wine that also lives here. But despite the stolen yard and the fact that we are all packed into my bedroom, this evening has been fun, in part because of the poetry, but also because it has prompted Dukay to make us an appetizer platter from food discovered in the kitchen. Which is not a lot of food, because my parents are always traveling, and so their cupboards are all damn Mother Hubbard, but still, he's put together quite a lovely spread. Including various cheeses, crackers, and bologna, which he has carefully rolled for maximum bologna-attractiveness, and when I ate a piece he looked at me in horror and said, "You can't just shove it in your mouth! You need to appreciate the roll!"
Also, I am highly entertained by the fact that Dukay keeps wandering around and picking shit up, because I suppose it is just so mysterious up in this bedroom. He is currently in the bathroom, and I am guessing that he is smelling all the bath salts, because he just hollered out, "WHAT KIND OF FUCKED UP FRUIT DOES THIS SMELL LIKE?" and that is the only logical explanation I can think of for why someone would ask me that question at 1 a.m. Anyway, I'm ignoring him. Hi.
Or, wait. Correction: I was ignoring him, but he has now emerged from closet, wearing a lampshade as a hat, and announced, quite seriously, that "THIS IS THE ONLY LAMPSHADE THAT FITS MY HEAD."
And Bo said: BARK.
Bo does not like it when Dukay wears lampshades on his head. Apparently, this is very threatening to Bo. Now we know.
Anyway, clearly, things are beginning to get a little bit out of hand up here, what with our rolled bologna, fucked up fruit and lampshades, so I am going to leave you with a few lines of poetry before I wrangle one boyfriend and four small, angry, scandalized dogs into the bed and force them all into sleeping. Wish me luck, but in the meantime, do enjoy, and be really, really damn thankful that I seem to have grown out of this:
There’s a thin line
Between love and hate
So I guess I don’t love you
You fucking ingrate.
Wheaties! The breakfast of champions! Y'all have a good day!
Bo just about had it with you, sycamore tree.