Of all the people living in this house, I receive more mail than anyone. It's likely because I have been a consumer so much longer than everyone else here, so people with things to sell are always eager to track me down and entice me with nigh unto irresistible offers. Add to that the fact that I order things online, and you'll see mail call for me almost every day.
I also mailed most of my belongings to myself when I moved here. With the amount of stuff I had, it just made more sense than hiring movers to take up a tiny corner of their van and still pay them the equivalent of 700 tricks' fees to haul it for me. The only heart stopper there for me was the one box that, for some reason, took an extra week to get here after everything else arrived. It just happened to contain lots of my old notebooks, and you've all had a peek into how scary that shit can get. I was not at all comfortable with the thought that the box had burst open somewhere and strangers were perusing what are essentially my old diaries. When the package finally arrived, somewhat tattered but intact, I said a silent prayer of thanks to my pagan gods and then stashed the notebooks under my Gumby DVDs. No one will ever think to look there.
The only other bad experience I've had with something being shipped here was a couple of months ago. I will spare you the details, since I know people who want to remain blissfully ignorant about my sex life read this, but I had ordered something of the "adult" variety, and it was being shipped UPS. The weekend after I placed my order, I had occasion to leave town for a few days. As I made my way toward the car with my suitcase in hand, I heard Derek proclaim from the porch, "Hey - there's a package in the yard."
Sure enough, UPS had simply thrown the box over the fence into the back yard. Nice fuckin' move. Again, I won't say exactly what was in the package, but suffice it to say that if the dogs had found the box, torn it open, and begun playing a vicious tug-o-war with the contents, I'd have been more than glad to be out of town while Jess explained its presence to her children. What's the next giant step after awkward? Oh, yeah - mortifying. Luckily, the box was undiscovered by dogs and I was able to scoop it up and throw it in the relative safety of my room before I left. But you can see how that could've been potentially psychologically damaging for all involved.
This week, I received some mail that I was truly not expecting. Nick usually grabs the mail while he's getting ready for work, and then I get a knock on the door just before General Hospital comes on and am presented with my daily allotment of letters, bills, advertisements, and merchandise. When mail call came 'round this time, Nick was smirking in a manner he usually reserves for breast sightings. He handed me a box and announced, "Looks like you got some monkey farts in the mail today."
He was not lying.
It's true: I was sent a box of monkey farts. Before you start assuming I received a case of queefs, let me set the record straight: The monkey farts in question, sent to me by Balulah, are actually banana-scented candles. Yes, they are actually called Monkey Farts. And they are delightful. Did I mention that it was addressed to KTard RumCake?
If there was ever a point to this post, I don't remember what it was. All I know is, my room smells like monkey farts, and there's a cat wearing a cone who needs my attention. Tawk amongst yourselves.
Recorded proof of my stoopidity, and a stolen meme
There's a three-part interview I did with Bloggy this afternoon over at YPS. If I ever start to think I actually sound intelligent when I talk (or that hideous thing that masquerades as my laugh), I can always go listen to these to remind myself not to be so uppity. It was actually supposed to be a four-part interview, but the fourth segment wouldn't save for us. And it had the best part, where I was talking about Saint Bernard poop. Ah, well...another time, perhaps.
I decided today was steal-a-meme day, so I went and snatched one from Jim.
TECH-OLOGY: Number of contacts in your cell phone? 15 (mostly restaurants) - hey, it's a new phone, I'm workin' on it! Number of contacts in your email address book? If I show "all contacts" in gmail, it's more than I have the patience to count right now. What is the wallpaper on your computer?Smidge bowling. What is your screensaver on your computer? Don't use one, but I think if I did, it's set to the hippy dippy swirly lights. Are there naked pictures saved on your computer? Well, yeah - isn't that what computers and digital cameras are designed for? How many landline phones do you have in your home? Two How many televisions are in your home? Six (some serve gaming only) What kitchen appliance do you use the least? Hmmm, there are so many I never use at all. Did I mention I'm not very domesticated? I use the toaster and the microwave, and that's most of my cooking right there. What is the format of the radio station you listen to most? Don't listen to the radio, makes me bleed from the ears.
BI-OLOGY: What do you consider to be your best physical attribute? My sheer brute strength. Are you right handed or left handed? Righty Have you had anything removed from your body? Yes, teeth. Would you like to? Yes. Which of your five senses do you think is keenest? My sense of smell and taste have improved since I quit smoking, but neither is what I would call keen. My eyesight sucks through a coke bottle lens, my hearing has been duly damaged by loud music over the years...guess I have to go with touch. I know a boob when I touch one, by god. When was the last time you had a cavity? Last time I went to the dentist? What is the heaviest item you lift regularly? My thighs.
MISC-OLOGY: If it were possible, would you like to know the day you're going to die? Yeah, why not - then I could say proper goodbyes to the people I love and pop a cap in the ass of anyone who ever annoyed me. That's right - in college I was Ass Poppa Cappa. Word. If you could change your first name, what would you change it to? Hephzibah. How do you express your artistic side?Frosting the monkey Depending on my mood, I write, or compose/play music, or paint, or make deranged little movies with giant, rotating, blue Play-Doh penises. Otherwise, I just pester the cats. What color do you think you look best in? Black. Technically not a color, but fuck it. How long do you think you could last in a medium security prison? As long as I could cower under my bunk. Have you ever swallowed a non-food item by mistake? You had to add the "by mistake" didn't you? Hell, I don't know - probably. I used to drink a lot, you know. If we weren't bound by society's conventions, do you have a relative you would make a pass at? Ew, no. Society doesn't have to enforce the incest taboo on me - that shit makes my skin crawl. No offense to my relatives, many of whom I am sure are quite attractive but not to me. How often do you go to church? Weddings and funerals (though my wedding was not in a church and neither will be my funeral) Have you ever saved someone's life? I don't think so. But, again, I did used to drink a lot. For all I know, I was this drunken do-gooder, saving lives,fixing torn garments, passing out fresh sandwiches. Just hard to say. Has someone ever saved yours? Emotionally, definitely.
DARE-OLOGY: For this last section, if you would do it for less or more money, indicate how much.
Would you walk naked for a half mile down a public street for $100,000? It would have to be more than that to pay for the therapy of everyone who saw me, and for me to have a little bit left over to hide for a while. Would you kiss a member of the same sex for $100? Not if it's Phyllis Diller. Would you allow one of your little fingers to be cut off for $200,000? Make it a half a million - after taxes - and we're talkin'. Would you never blog again for $50,000? It would have to be more in the millions range. Not that I haven't pondered giving up blogging, but if I was told I couldn't do it anymore, you know I'd want to. Would you pose naked in a magazine for $250,000? Only if I could supervise the extensive airbrushing process so I don't look like a midwestern dolphin. Would you drink an entire bottle of hot sauce for $1000? That kind of flaming ass action would require at least $100,000. Would you, without fear of punishment, take a human life for $1,000,000? For the most part, no. But if I got to pick? I can think of a couple of scumbags that no one would ever miss, least of all me. Would you shave your head and get your entire body waxed for $5,000? The entire body wax would be a no brainer, but I'm realllllllly obsessive about having hair on my head. Don't know if I could do it. Would you give up watching television for a year for $25,000? It would have to be more like $250,000, and I'd still have to have insult-by-insult accounts of Project Runway and Top Chef.
Really and truly, I did not write the "end of blogging days" post in an attempt to troll for compliments and emails threatening me with various forms of bodily harm if I stopped writing (including one very specific one that originated from inside this house). But that's exactly what I have received, and I thank each and every one of you for your kindness wrapped in sheer brutality. I just wanted to give fair warning that if you didn't see me for a bit, I hadn't dropped off the face of the earth. Well, not literally.
There's nothing exciting to tell about tonight except for the fact that I'm on my second dose of migquin for the evening, finally smoothing out a little bit from a world-class migraine. Eeyore was helpful with his patented shiatsu cranial massage; either that or he was just stomping the fuck out of my hair...back to you on this when I have more data.
I leave you with a glimpse of my new glasses. Doesn't it look like I should be keeping order with liberal doses of ruler-on-knuckle discipline?
Yes, yes, I remember all the shit I just wrote about not blogging anymore and all that - and I meant it, really I did. But I just got house blogger dibs on something that happened here this weekend, and I would be remiss in my duties (and get pinched down like a bitch) if I did not share it with You, the Internet as a Whole, and it is a dish best served fresh.
Princess #1 spent a few days here last week, Sponge Bob videogaming, making the boys her slaves, and splashing in the giraffe pool. Um, that's a pool that's shaped like a giraffe, not an actual oasis for the leggy tree tonguers. She always has a great time here, though she has a bit of a running "feud" with the dogs. It's not that they ever do anything malicious to her - those dogs love children so much you can see little shades-of-grey hearts coming out their big, sad eyes when they encounter human spawn. But the dogs are huge, and Princess is not. Trouble is, she doesn't just yell at them if they're getting too boisterous for her; she yells if they give her kisses, she yells if they sniff her, she yells when they are several feet away from her and paying attention to something else entirely.
When her mother came to pick her up on Saturday night, though, Princess wanted to go play with the dogs while the adults talked, so she went off to the back yard with toys to throw and easily entertained pooches. We were all keeping an eye on her out there - you know she'd be safe out there with those two huge dogs to protect her, but we all feel better watching her too - and it was soon apparent that Princess wasn't throwing their toys so much as she was taunting them with their toys. She'd toss their soccer ball, then dash and scoop it up before they could get to it; she'd spin round and round with their stuffed squirrel and never release it...it went on for quite some time as we stood around inside.
When Princess came back inside, Jess and Nick headed out for hardware store; sometimes the princesses go a teeny tiny bit ballistic when they realize that they are expected to go home, that mundane place not fit for royalty, and it's a little easier if Jess isn't there for them to pull the old "grab n' cling with all your might" maneuver. So Princess' mom and I sat and talked for a little bit, and Princess decided she wanted to go back and play with the doggies. Her mom told her it would be okay for a minute, but then they would need to go home.
Princess was outside for all of one minute. The next thing we knew, there was a slamming door and the appearance of a sobbing, disheveled five-year-old storming into the room.
Her mom sprang up to see what was wrong. As she was checking for injuries, Princess shouted, "Tho-ho-hose dogs hurt me!"
We asked her what happened.
"Tho-ho-hose dogs knocked me down and hurt me!"
Her mom wasn't coming up with any visible injuries, and both of us were beginning to realize what had really happened out there. "You're not hurt," her mom told her.
Through a fresh outburst of tears, Princess screamed, "I'm bleeding!"
We had to stifle our laughter at that point, because she most certainly was not bleeding. The worst of her injuries was the smudge of dirt on her Hello Kitty shirt.
Then I noticed she was only wearing one Hello Kitty shoe. I was pretty sure I could guess where the other one was.
I headed out the back door and was greeted on the porch by a smiling, triumphant, tail-waggin' Moo, who happened to be holding one Hello Kitty shoe in her mouth. It was completely unharmed and she surrendered it as soon as I held out my hand. Then she and Hermione trotted off together, and I swear if I hadn't been watching, they'd have high-fived each other. Princess gets the big payback.
When I delivered the Moo shoe, we tried to explain to Princess that the dogs just knocked her down and took her shoe because she had been teasing them.
"But I wasn't!" she wailed with the kind of high drama that only a five-year-old can muster with a straight face. "They're just bad dogs! Jessica and Nick should never have gotten those dogs!"
At that point, her mom decided they needed to leave, because she and I were having a hell of a time trying not to just bust out laughing, and that could only have made the ride home more filled with dark clouds and stink eye.
Can't you hear the thunder? Someone stole my watch; I sold a quart of blood and bought a half a pint of scotch
Last night was as close to a religious experience as I get with my clothes on.
Anyone who's been lucky enough to be around me for the last week can tell you I've been like a hyperactive child counting down to Christmas morning. The chance to see Tom Waits perform after so many years has been a real event for me, and I scarcely thought of anything else as the day approached (I'm sure there were those who wished I'd thought even a little bit about bathing). I obsessed over it, I daydreamed about what it would be like; I even had bad dreams about missing the show. When I got to my hotel in Chicago, I called Jess, who asked how many times I'd checked my concert ticket on the ride down. "Six," I readily admitted, with only a small token hint of shame in my voice. Luckily, she understands my need to make sure the fucker didn't vaporize in my purse in the ten minutes since last I looked.
Once I had my room, and realized that the theater was just across the street from the hotel, I was able to let out a huge sigh of relief. I might have been just a little pleased as punch before the show:
Between the lighting in the bathroom and the no-flash camera phone, I look even more bloodless than usual here.
This was such a landmark for me that I actually bought a nice shirt for the occasion:
Not sure how to act in a non-t-shirt shirt. What are these "button" thingies? Sadly, I was too nervous to remember the chaps. On a brighter note, I did remember my pants.
When I bought my ticket, I didn't realize that "first balcony" would require me to walk up four flights of stairs. It took me longer to walk up to my seat than it did to walk from my room to the theater. Note to self: lay off the turkey bacon. On a slightly bizarre note, the fellow who was patting down the men as they entered the venue looked an awful lot like Robert Scorpio from General Hospital:
Once I'd settled into my seat, it occurred to me that this was the first time I'd ever attended a real concert all by myself. It was an odd feeling, not having someone sitting next to me that I could frantically smack on the arm while stage whispering "OHMYGOD, it's so COOL!" Then again, there was the advantage that no one was there to poke fun at me for the tears that unexpectedly spilled out of my eyes when Duke Robillard played his solo in Shore Leave, taking former Waits guitarist Marc Ribot's sneaky, snaky, demented style and adding his own elegant, jazzy touch to make it completely his own*. The interplay between the guitar and vibes during All the World is Green gave me a similar moment.
I'd brought a small notebook in, fully intending to write down the song names, but found myself far too transfixed by the spectacle on stage to even think about stopping to write shit down. Out of respect for the man and the venue (and being a pussy who totally didn't wanna get collared and thrown out of the show), I'd also turned my phone completely off before the show, so I have no pictures or videos to present here. However, you can find a more or less accurate setlist over at Eyeball Kid's place.
At some point in the show, as the drums thumped and the guitar slithered and Waits stomped and shouted and struck completely unnatural poses all around the stage, it dawned on me that I was watching the devil's cabaret. Not some stylized, idealized, pretty-boy devil, nuh unh - I'm talkin' about what the devil would really look like, an ugly working-class guy who, though terribly powerful, still understands that he has a dirty job to do, like a ditch digger with a flaming trident. This is how the devil cuts loose; this is the show the devil would perform if you would grab a cocktail and sit down long enough to see it through.
While it would be true to say the entire show was a high point for me, some of my especially rapturous moments came during Shore Leave, Down in the Hole, 'Til the Money Runs Out (I very nearly typed "'Til the MONKEY Runs Out"...I need a nap), and Whistlin' Past the Graveyard (I saw him perform that song when it was new...I'm an old fucker). Many songs get rearranged for his live performances, and not only sound nothing like the recorded version, but also sound completely unique from his performance of the same song on the last tour. I've seen others grousing about the bluesy arrangements he's given some of his older songs, but personally, I was wallowing in it. If I want to hear a note-for-note recreation of the album, I'll...well, I'll just listen to the album. Plus, how can you have Robillard onstage and not take advantage of the blues power he commands? The oldest song presented was Tom Traubert's Blues, performed during the two-song interlude where Waits on piano and bassist Larry Taylor were the only two present on stage (Tango 'Til They're Sore was the other piano offering).
The band came out for two encores, two songs each, and closed the show with a moving rendition of Time, which I love simply for lyrics like "Well, things are pretty lousy for a calendar girl/The boys just dive right off their cars and splash into the street/And when they're on a roll she pulls a razor from her boot/And a thousand pigeons fall around her feet."
After that, there was just no more to say, and Waits and Company left the stage for good. Two hours after the lights had gone down, the show was over and the nearly 4,000 souls in the audience staggered out like they'd all been collectively struck by a giant bolt of lightning, a mighty streak of light topped with a porkpie hat. As I was wandering through the lobby, I noticed one gent coming down the stairs in a bicycle helmet; I wondered if he was just prepping for the ride home, or if he'd worn it during the show to fend off the assault on his senses.
But then again, there is no helmet strong enough for that.
* yes, anally inclined purists, I am well aware that Marc Ribot did not play any guitar on the recorded version of Shore Leave, nor anywhere on the Swordfishtrombones album. But Robillard definitely tipped his hat to Ribot's peculiar style throughout the night.
There's a good chance I have my head lodged firmly up my ass, or maybe up someone else's ass. I can tell you which I'd rather it be, especially if I get to pick the person who's attached to the ass wherein my head will be residing, sightless but well pleased.
Where was I going with this before I began to riff on asses? Oh, yeah - I had no idea Tom Waits was even staging a mini-tour until Bone Machine tipped me off. I've been bouncing off the walls (possibly of my own ass) since I was able to score a ticket for the Chicago show. Nineteen years since Mr. Waits and I were in the same room together, and maybe he and his pesky li'l restraining order would like to make it twenty or twenty-five years, but here I am, packing a duffel bag for my trek to Chicago, having dreams wherein I forget my ticket and have ten minutes before the show to drive home (in a car my mother-in-law owned about fifteen years ago) and fetch said ticket, and in my dream the venue is in Detroit and I must drive back to Flint for my tickee, and I've somehow also lost the keys to the car, which I can't find as the parking garage winds around and around...
Yeah, I'm a little worked up about this. But I didn't think the anticipation could be any more delicious until I stumbled across a detailed review tonight that dropped a new tidbit on me:
Duke Robillard is Waits' guitarist on this tour. Duke Robillard, he of Roomful of Blues and post-Jimmie Vaughan Fabulous Thunderbirds, and creator of a number of solo albums I listen to constantly, the man who is my favorite guitar player in the world, THAT Duke Robillard will grace the same stage as Tom Waits. If I sound short of breath when I call in my audioblog tomorrow night, you will know why. If I never make it to the audioblog, then you may assume that I have either spontaneously combusted or my heart has exploded from too much delight in one small auditorium.
Must go obsess over my packing list now. At the top of the list? TICKET.
We are the goon squad and we're coming to town, beep beep
Sometimes I wonder if I could sit on a streetcorner, clad in clothes I've picked out myself over the years, and beg for money with a little sign that proclaims me "Fashion Challenged." Don't you think people would take pity on a girl who couldn't find her own size in the women's department and instead went around clad in baggy men's clothing, and found that completely acceptable? Doesn't that count as some sort of handicap? My color matching skills are slightly worse than Helen Keller's, so I always bought everything in solid colors, preferably black. I wouldn't know what looked good on me if it knocked me down, gave me a full-body hickey, and said "I would look fabulous on you."
When I worked at my last job where people had to see me, I was the anti-dress code. When I started with the organization, I'd followed the letter of the law by wearing skirts and such, but I had no idea what to pick and they always looked frumpy on me. And that is a kind and gentle assessment. Balulah once told me that she'd seen me walking around in my skirts and heels before she knew me and thought, "Wow, that girl looks really uncomfortable in a skirt." When I was in my early 20s and still sickeningly skinny, I had a few slutty skirt outfits that were probably not too bad, since sluttiness was the point of the clothing, and I don't think anyone was paying attention to how badly the pieces matched when I was wearing a miniskirt that covered my ass just enough to be legal and showed three miles of leg. But for clothing to be worn someplace other than bars, my picks were disastrous.
Once I had moved jobs within the company a few times, and had gotten into a position with a little bit of clout, I abandoned the skirts altogether. Well, there was a bit of practicality to that, too; it was always possible that I might have to crawl under a desk to see what was what with a computer, or bend into some pretzel shape in the server room to get in between the rack and the wall, and it was just polite of me to be wearing pants so as not to traumatize my co-workers with a peek into the cavern. I could have worn nice pants suits, but I had no idea how to find my fit in the women's department, was convinced it couldn't be done, and so spent my time in black dockers and button-up shirts with some nondescript blazer over top. I gave the suits fits with my attire. One time, when my boss and I had a fairly important meeting with some vendors, and I knew there would be no crawling or bending for the day, I actually took it upon myself to wear a dress and some tall boots. I do not exaggerate when I say that everyone in the building ran up to have a gander at some point during the day, most with a breathless exclamation such as, "So-and-so told me you were wearing a dress and I couldn't believe it - I had to see for myself!" You know when a middle-aged woman in a dress is occasion to come screeching through the halls for visual verification that there's something terribly wrong with that middle-aged woman's daily wardrobe.
Things have changed drastically since my life was graced with a true Fashion Diva. It's not that people haven't tried to give me gentle advice over the years, but I trust her taste as I've trusted none other; because I have taken her suggestions to heart, I've found a whole new world of fashion and clothing options available to me -dare I say it? - in the women's department. I now have at least a dozen pieces of clothing that were intended for a female to wear. Even my bras come from the ladies' section now. No more manssiere for me.
Now, don't think I'm claiming that I could stand on my own two fashionably clad feet when shopping yet, because I'm still largely clueless without my wardrobe advisor by my side. But to my credit, I've started to become acutely aware that some item or other is more than likely on the "You are not wearing that!" list, and that's a huge, chunky-heeled step for me.
The scariest part to me is that I'm starting to have opinions about other people's clothing.
When I first moved here, Bravo was in the middle of its first season of Top Chef. That's not the kind of show I'd ever have picked out to watch for myself, but as I idly watched it the first time, I found myself drawn into the drama of a group of high-maintenance kitcheniers competing for the golden spatula. Each succeeding week, it would be me who would start asking, "When is the new episode of Top Chef on? I can't wait for my fix of competitive, bitchy gay men!" I was told, "Oh, just wait until you see Project Runway." It just didn't seem to me like I could be as invested in a show about high fashion; I may not be the best cook in the world, but I've fixed lots of food, and Top Chef had elements with which I could identify. How could I possibly keep the same level of interest in a show revolving around clothing design? It would be like people speaking a foreign language and showing colors outside my range of sight.
The first episode aired the night I got back from my long trip to Flint and then Grand Haven, so I ordered some Chinese food and collapsed on the couch, happy to watch anything so long as it was on the TV at home. As they wound through a retrospective of the two previous seasons, and an overview of how the new season's group of designers were chosen, I realized somewhere about my second helping of Mongolian beef that the show was actually fascinating to me.
Not all the male designers this season are gay, but most of them are, and that can only mean one thing: catty, catty conversation with lots of drama. They have not disappointed. My money for the most irritating designer was on Malan, a snooty, smarmy, smug boy with a pretty face and a horribly fake British accent. My vote for most out-of-place designer was Bradley, a scruffy fellow who looks so much like the lead singer of the Spin Doctors that it's all I can think about when he's onscreen. Little miss, little miss, little miss can't be wrong...
Really, I could handle the fact that I'd already picked designers to love and hate based on their personalities. What I wasn't ready for was the fact that as they began sending the models down the runway to show off what they'd made that week, things were coming out of my mouth like "Oh, I like that." and "God, that is so fucking ugly!" and "That's really cute."
I see clothes on a TV show and declare them cute. Cute. I decided, all by myself, that clothes on a runway model were cute. And last week, when the designers had to make complimentary outfits for the models and a small dog, I was truly outraged that the judges gushed over Bradley's creation, which consisted of a top that looked like a child's pumpkin costume that was barely pinned together, a totally nondescript skirt, and a simple blue collar for the dog. It was horrid and badly executed and substandard, and even I knew it.
What's happened to me? I'm worried, so worried I may create a new brow furrow before all is said and done. What's next? Sudden idiot savant design talent?
Luckily, that will never happen; my ninth-grade F grade in Home Ec sewing will make sure the world is safe from Bucky's Autumn Assless Chaps Bonanza. Breathe a little easier, folks. I might sketch it, but I'd have to have help to execute my ideas, and no sane person with sewing skills would contribute to that kind of nightmare.
But still, don't try to call me on Wednesday nights; I'll be sprawled on the bed watching Bravo and making declarations of cute.
If I tried to make any concerted effort to write tonight, I'm fairly certain the finished product would resemble the worst aspects of Don Quixote, a novel I love but which digresses more often than not.
So, what the hell - list making here is a lot more fun than list making for the grocery store. Unless I get to write kumquatsor pumpernickel, then it's all worth it.
Things that are tripping my trigger right now
The new Los Lonely Boys' CD, Sacred. It needs to go on my iPod so I hear it more. I think they've nicely avoided the sophomore jinx.
Clerks II. That movie is so wrong, which, of course, made it love at first viewing for me. I just can't stop thinking about the issue of ass to mouth.
GTA: San Andreas. Not sure that having a Playstation in my room is a great idea, but I'm having fun with it. I adore speeding around on a fast motorbike and then jumping off and using a rocket launcher and sniper rifle to destroy an armed roadblock. Who knew you could carry heavy weaponry on a tiny bike?
Sushi. I've got a belly full of it right now, and it's a mighty happy belly. If I could roll around in my own tastebuds, I'd do it this very instant.
Chianti. I may or may not be letting some trip my trigger at this moment. *hic*
Project Runway. How come nobody told me about this shit ages ago? Bravo has the best supply of catty gay men since Oscar Wilde's Boys' Academy. More about this in particular tomorrow. The TV show, I mean; not the Academy.
Things that are pissing me off right now
Ed McMahon hasn't found my house yet. Where's my giant-sized check, biatch?
The fact that my body is 41 years old and acts like it. I'm the baby of the family, dammit, and I'm supposed to be eternally youthful. Hmmmph. Oh, well...at least I still have mental immaturity on my side.
I can't wave a magic wand and make things all better for the people I love. If I find out my only superpower is wearing assless chaps, my ass is gonna be a little chapped.
Things that are making me crack up right now
This adorably absurd creature:
Just be glad I didn't show you the one right before this where he had his face buried in his ass. See? This is a classy joint.