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Saturday, January 3, 2009


In the last two days I have burned the side of my bangs off while trying to light my cigarette on the stove and cut half of my eyelashes off with a tiny pair of scissors while trying to apply some fake eyelashes. The second incident occurred on New Year's Eve mid-gin and juice, so I don't feel too bad about it. What I do feel stupid about is that after shearing my own eyelashes on one side, I compulsively did the other one, thinking it would be better if it matched. It was not.
Sometimes I feel like maybe I'm a secret unrecognised genius, languishing in the deep intellectual wasteland of Texas. My diaries or paintings will be discovered by my decendents. This was my great-great grandmother, they will say in awe as they edit the award winning documentary about my work.
Then I will do something stupid, like the time I drank bleach water thinking it was regular water. Gulping it down, parched and hungover one morning, it was at least thirty seconds before my brain sounded the alarm. SOMETHING IS HORRIBLY WRONG. I quickly threw up, called Poison Control, made Jeff drink it too in case I was dying
( it was early in our relationship) called my mom and ran around the house keening
" aeeeehhhh! Jeff1 I drank bleach! Aeeehhh!" Then i fell back asleep.
Even dogs are smarter than that.
And then I knew that I am, at best, hovering at only near-genius level intelligence. Because, not only was I the one who filled the container with a cup of bleach and water to soak the night before, but it wasn't even a glass. It was a plastic vase from the thrift store full of the grease that settles onto old tupperware and can somehow never be fully cleaned. Refreshing.
Or the time, again on New years Eve, I decided it would be fun to wax my own legs. having never done it before, I completely covered my legs in wax before pressing the little strip of cloth down and trying to pull it up. Wax was cold by then, and wouldn't come off, even after four or five tries. The more frustrated I got, the more violent my attempts became, until my legs were striped with puffy, sticky welts. So, I had to put tights on, and when my body heat melted them to my legs they made precisely the sound a DJ makes when he rubs the record backwards,which inspired a white rapper to serenade me at the snack table with an impromptu rhyme-" Don't-Don't-Hey lady!-DDDDon't eat that cheese!"

Here is something I find annoying. When you're trying to give your husband a quick New years Eve blow job in the bathroom at a party and someone just HAS to go pee. So they knock, and then knock again 15 seconds later.

That is not helping my process go any faster lady. Just hold it!

And then,later in the night, when you point at her in a drunken stupor across a table full of people and yell, "You ruined my secret bathroom BJ" and she has the nerve to reply,
" Oh what? I guess that's more important than someone needing to go pee?"

Yes, Buzzkill, it is. Here is why. You pee all day long, every day. My husband gets a BJ in a strange bathroom once, maybe twice a year. Since I can't turn myself into an Asian or Penelope Cruz, the only thing I have to offer him in the way of strange is LOCATION. While you're hopping up and down, holding your bladder, I am preserving the very fabric of society--the American Family. If you don't care about our marriage, at least think of the welfare of our child.
Same night-I discovered that the only thing that stands between me and the kind of party guest that stuffs chocolate covered strawberries into her pockets is the amount of alcohol consumed.I remember yelling to Jeff across a crowded room-" HEY! They have Manchego!" I remember licking something and putting it back on the plate. At one point, I reached onto my pocket for a smoke and pulled out a handful of shelled pistachios. In the car I discovered a giant chocolate chip cookie. I only hope the hostess, who was gracious enough to allow me and my wasted friends to maul her baby for at least thirty minutes( "Oh my god, look at her TOES!" I'm sure that didn't get annoying) didn't see me do it.
The hostess, by the way, didn't live at the house we were partying in. It was a co-hosted party, meaning one couple invited all their friends to give BJ's in the bathroom, set off fireworks and steal all of the cookies--to another couple's house. How come that offer is never made to me? Only a lawyer could work this kind of deal.

Attention acquaintances! I will be available to CO-HOST a party at your house anytime. I can provide you with the menu, a list of my favorite beverages and the guest list. Please make sure your house is clean and your yard is free of dog poop
( ours is not--that's why it will be at your house, see?)
I will bring the fireworks.

1 comment:

  1. Hey, who do you think baked the cookies you shoved in your pockets? Supplied the pocket lint adulterated pistachios? Found the only hunk of unpasteurized artisan Manchego in the continental 48? You don't know the pleasures of co-hosting until a firework only slightly less loud than the Trinity tests goes off 5 feet away from you.

    Our baby now refuses to have her toes touched and her first words are likely to be "Sunny scary" spoken in a crying fetal position in the middle of the night.

    In all reality, it was great fun having you as guests. If you really want to show your appreciation please explain the value of strange to my beloved.

    I am now obsessed with trying to figure out what you licked and put back.

    P.S. Chocolate strawberries in your pocket are self-punishing.