The Way Things Are



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Last nightís big steaming dook
2006-01-27, 10:51 a.m.

Wednesday night, I worked until 6:45, and some of that time, I was actually doing some real work, not just fucking around. I got home, after (1) forgetting what exit to take to get to the late DHL pick-up box, not because I havenít used it in a while, but because some giant brain fart took up the space in my head that used to store that information, and I just panicked a little and forgot, and (2) missing my exit on the interstate to get home because I was zoned right the hell out and all of a sudden, there was my exit and I was in the left-hand lane, and oops, gotta take the next one and circle back around.

IÖanyway, where was I? Oh, I got home about 7:45, despite a couple of instances of driving around the back roads to get back to where I was supposed to be. I like working late on Wednesday nights because I can listen to ďThis American LifeĒ in the car on NPR. I might have a tiny crush on that Ira guy from Chicago that does that show, but I refuse to find a picture of him on the internet because heíll end up being decidedly NOT adorable, and it will ruin the whole thing for me. Unless he is, in which case, Ira, call me.

And thatís really all I have to report. Oh, I know you THINK itís all glamour and excitement and shoes and cosmopolitans and boyfriends and shopping and fabulousity around here, but itís not. Itís things like making a to-do list as long as my arm, cleaning out my email inbox, and then getting kind of lost twice on the way home.

And when I got home? It wasnít eating a fantastic meal for two (since LG spends his Wednesdays with dad giving DW and me lots of alone time), and a glass of wine and hot sex on the dining room table, which by the way, I disapprove of heartily because itís unsanitary and unhygienic and thatís where we feed our child and guests. GROSS. No, it was microwaved leftovers (pulled pork. SNORT!) on the dining table we DONíT have sex on whilst reading the newspaper, with DW sitting next to me demonstrating his newfound horrific habit of chewing with his mouth open (Why, God? WHY? Why now?), and then bedtime at 9:00 with hot chocolate and The Big-Ass Book of Sídookie for me. Ice water and channel surfing for him. I was so tired, I was falling asleep with my eyes open, trying to finish what was billed as a ďlight and easyĒ puzzle, but in reality kicked my ass a bit. But I finally got it, head nodding off, consciousness blinking off like I was losing my signal from outer space, and then LIGHTS OUT.

I woke up yesterday morning with a sinus headache, which makes me kind of mad because I bought myself one oí them nose kettles. You know, the little kettle thing that you put the salt water solution in, and you wash your sinuses each morning to get out the pollen and mushrooms and hobbits? I would have hoped that this treatment would shrink the swollen sinus tissues that give me these headaches that (1) hurt and (2) sap the energy right out of my withered middle-aged body, but no. I shudder to think what kind of allergy probs Iíd be having if I didnít flush it all out with the nose kettle.

Iím still waiting for something REALLY interesting to come out of my nose, and as soon as it does, you can be sure Iíll take a picture of it and post it here for you. Sometimes I think my sinus cavities are where the missing socks go when they are whirled out of the dryer and into another dimension. And sometimes I just think thereís mildew in there.

(I donít think nose kettle is what they are really called, but they should be. Nose kettle! I donít canít get enough of that.)

Itís cedar season, and I got a fevah. I got a fevah, and the only prescription is MORE. NOSE. KETTLE.

The only thing that distinguished last night from the night before was that I have gotten to where I look forward to watching TV on Thursday nights, just like back in the 80s. And really, CSI and Earle are the things I watch to stay awake and alert long enough to be able to stay up all the way until 8:30 to watch The Office. Last nightís big steaming dook in Michaelís office wasnít as funny as when he burned his foot on his Gary Coleman Grill, cooking bacon in bed, but itíll do, pig. Itíll do.

Tonight, I hope to go out in public, eat a meal that has been prepared and served by somebody other than me, and have a beer or two in a public place, served to me (and possibly spit in) by a bartendress who HATES MY FUCKING GUTS because, God, Iím such a judgmental bitch, whilst surrounded by the small-town barflies I know and love.

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