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.