This is a bad day. I tried to call in sick because um, I’m sick, and they told me NO! My other coworker already called in, which is typical seeing as how she takes at least one day off a week, and I have to be here if she calls off. I, on the other hand, haven’t taken a day off since the first week of January. So I’m just sitting here at my desk, crying and trying not to puke on my keyboard. You know, the usual.
I spent a good portion of this evening reading through posts on my super hilarious old blogspot blog.
There were a few chronicling the time in my life that I call “Bright Lights, Cured Meats: The Alywoowho Story,” when I went on a date with a guy I met in a supermarket while I was there selling sausage.
One of these posts refers to him by his email address. When I read it tonight—a year and a half after posting it—I realized that there was a comment from a year ago that I’d never seen, posted by Anonymous. It read:
Hi i met this person years ago and worry about his intentions do you find him to be a stalker?
When he emails you what is his converstion about?
If you have spent time with him how does he behave?
Is he violent?
Oddly? Awkwardly? Troublingly enough, he was sort of stalkerish. Sending me e-mails once every three to six weeks after I kindly told him I didn’t want to see him again—no, not even as “friends” on New Years Eve—for about eight months after our one and only date.
The lesson? Never get involved with a grown man whose e-mail address is at AIM.com.
I am listening to Lena Horne and recalling sitting around the living room at Uncle George’s listening to “The Teddy Bear Picnic” and other music that was probably recorded in a bathtub filled with gin.
“At the end, all that’s left of you are your possessions. Perhaps that’s why I’ve never been able to throw anything away. Perhaps that’s why I hoarded the world: with the hope that when I died, the sum total of my things would suggest a life larger than the one I lived.”—
Garage sales. Pittsburgh. Drawing comics. Reading Anna Karenina. All of these things are in my future. I will be so happy when those stealth cervical cancer ads stop running. The ones that start off with a smile-voice, “What if you move to Miami? What if you get a warmer coat instead?” ”What if you meet a guy?” And then veer off into Scary Disease Storytime: “What if he…gives you HPV? What if you get sick…really sick?” These make me flash back to times I have said things akin to “I hope you have a condom, because I don’t know where you’ve been.” Kids: He doesn’t think that’s as hilarious as you think it is.
In sum, cervical scare tactics are just the worst.
I need to get this tattooed on the back of my hand.
Re. tiny litter obsessives: when we were kids and out walking, my dad used to have us compete against each other in games like "who can pick up the most Coke cans in thirty seconds" and "who can find the most ice-pop wrappers in this field". It took me years to realise these were not really games as traditionally defined.
Oh man. I love this. My dad used to have us count his roadmap collection, which numbered in the thousands. I, too, took a long time learning that this was not normal.
We always considered Heart a really rubbish power to have. I always secretly wanted to be Dr Blight (who was voiced by Meg Ryan! Did not know that.). Maybe I will dress up as her if someone nerdy has a costume party.
One time when I was 8, my mom went to a meeting at my school and I had to go there with her. I spent the 45 minutes that she was inside cleaning up litter from around the duck pond that was out front. Just by myself. For fun.
I thank Captain Planet for a lifetime of hating litterbugs and thinking that I can conquer pollution if I just have enough friends.
Sam Rockwell should be cast in every movie, ever, because I have never seen him give a bad performance, not even in whichever Charlie’s Angels movie he’s in, and I thought he was particularly good in Iron Man 2, like, why even bother with Mickey Rourke, you know? Not really, but seriously, Hollywood, Sam Rockwell. You’ve got something really good on your hands with that guy. Watch him dance.
Also on the last day I worked at the video store I used to work at, the boss I hated the most said “Let’s put on Confessions of Dangerous Mind and see if Sam Rockwell comes in” and I was like “Whatever, dude,” but then Sam Rockwell did come in! And my boss had wandered away, as he was wont to do! So it was just me, watching the movie! And it was sort of embarrassing, until I was like, “My boss wanted to cosmically call you here using one of your own movies,” and Sam Rockwell was like, “Yikes.”
This has been a movie review of Iron Man 2.
I’m having a hard time trying to figure out how to best express my love for Sam Rockwell. The clip of him dancing does a pretty good job.
Once, after Katie saw him in the movie store, I saw him in the airport in Los Angeles. I did not interact with him. But oh lord I wanted to.
Fervorate, thank you for having your birthday on this silly holiday and fully embracing silliness in garb, in movement, in song, and generally in a wave of intoxication the likes of which made us laugh and laugh until we cried, and gasp in horror when you spit those ice cubes at that guy. SO. FUN. I do hope it wasn’t at your expense, and you had a good night out, too. We did get guacamole, after all.
And I want to record this while the memory is still fresh - you had this conversation in a terrible, fantastic southern accent:
F: I had chicken po’ boys, I had steak po’ boys, I had…lamb po’ boys…
A: How many fucking days was you eatin’ po’ boys?
At the end of an extraordinary improvised chant-rap about money, honey. Oh lordy.