saint-louise's Diaryland Diary
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Event horizon.
John and I went out for drinks with a good friend last weekend. We took in the local dive-bar color, and had a few surreal conversations with an, um�interesting individual about the difference between mohawks and fauxhawks.
At first, it seemed like there might even be a bar fight about it. This was amusing to me, and I didn�t feel completely up to �taking sides.� First of all, I�m curious about the concept of altering one�s appearance to provoke controversy as opposed to doing so merely because one considers it to be comfortable and attractive, but I refuse to care enough to actually come to words or blows about it. Second of all, I was drunk, so almost everything was amusing. And third, there are currently four children under the age of ten in my neighborhood who have mohawks � sides shaved to the skin, middle standing straight up in the air. Therefore, it seems that the limits of �extreme� self-expression have recently settled into cocktail small-talk along the lines of: �Did you see Buffy�s new nipple piercings? How early nineties is that?� More and more often, it seems that some people tweak their appearances just to look at each other out of the corner of their eyes to see what kind of reaction they will get. �Am I �cool�? Score! Am I �stupid�? Guess I�ll go back to the way I was, then.�
I�m sorry; I couldn�t find the shock and awe in this before, and I certainly can�t now.
Anyway, in between these conversations last Saturday, my friend admonished me about not writing consistently anymore. She told me to stop being an ass, quit making excuses, and write. Otherwise, I was selling out to The Man, and I should be ashamed, ASHAMED, of myself. How could I set such a pathetic example for my child? What was I thinking, letting my aspirations go to waste? Fie, bitch. FIE.
Or�perhaps something a little more diplomatic. BUT I GOT THE MESSAGE, OKAY?
(Thanks for the pep talk, my dear and wise friend.)
So here�s an entry! FanTAStic! But it�s going to have to be just a quick update on recent events, since I seem to be incapable of completing my previously scheduled entry in a timely manner. (Don�t worry � I still plan to post it. It just seems that re-living the years spent trying to get the pull-cord on my brain to actually start the engine is a little more draining and humiliating that I had anticipated.)
Event #1:
I got a new car. Finally. After ten years of stubbornly dealing with the various, bizarre ways that my previous car had found to inconvenience me, I gave in. I�m such a pushover.
But look! See! I have cup holders now! Feel the excitement! Revel in my simplicity!
Event #2:
John got a dog. She is a six-month-old Border Collie and Chocolate Lab mix that he adopted from a no-kill animal shelter. He opted to keep the name she came with � Holly � instead of taking my advice to rename her Yaz Pistachio. I don�t understand his thinking, but it is his dog. And maybe he�s just thinking of how cruel her peers might be during her teen years. What a tender-hearted lad.
Holly has been the cause of a few life adjustments, not the least of which involve the losses of three bras, one pair of boots, and MY PRESCRIPTION EYEGLASSES to her gaping maw. Now, when I�m missing a piece of my property, I search for it (or its remnants) in one of two places:
A) On top of bookcases or shelves high enough that Holly can�t reach, where I have had the foresight to place things that I don�t want utterly destroyed: bills, magazines I haven�t read, car keys, cloth napkins, wine glasses, coasters (she has eaten all but two of an entire set), hand bags, power cords, jewelry, the remote control, etc. This makes for an interesting home decorating effect, for sure.
B) In the waste products that Holly deposits.
Missing a bra, Louise? Oh, look! See the scraps of material and the mangled underwire surrounded by pools of bile! Could that be what you�re looking for?
Why, yes. Yes, it is. Thank you, Holly, for at least leaving us a clue to solve The Mystery of the Vanishing Undergarments!
And just because I know you�re all curious: Yes, I toss my underwear around John�s house with reckless abandon. I am so totally at fault in this scenario, it makes my sainted mother, my innocent daughter, kittens, nuns, and Jesus WEEP in sorrow for my lack of discretion.
Holly has also allowed me to introduce exciting, new phrases into my everyday speech, such as:
�How the hell are we going to get these pieces of dried rawhide out of the rug?�
And:
�QUIT LICKING THE GODDAMNED TOILET.�
And:
�Taylor, I wish you�d stop letting the dog chew on your head.�
So that�s fun.
Event #3:
Work. And lots of it. Kick ass, right?
Event #4:
I recently had the flu. And god almighty, I was sick. Sicker than I can remember being in quite a few years. I didn�t want to move. I didn�t want to think. I didn�t want to be conscious. Unfortunately, this particular kind of flu demanded that I not lie down to rest, but that I instead be in constant close proximity to a toilet. Like, on it. Or, if the situation required, with my head in it, and the dog sticking her nose into my ear before backing to the doorway and giving me a look like, �Where are the bits of cloth and underwire? You aren�t doing it right!�
In closing, if you aren�t jealous of my life RIGHT THIS INSTANT, then I just don�t know what else to do to force you to like me. Maybe if I get a mohawk? You just let me know.
11:31 a.m. - 2005-06-10
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