The Way Things Are



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Shit stirring up and flinging around.
2006-06-08, 4:09 p.m.

You guys, thanks for hanging in with me through all the tears, the paranoia, the worry, the editing, THE LEARNING CURVE, and God, I forgot where I was going with this. Ahem.

You know how sometimes people decide to go passworded because there’s all kinds of shit stirring up and flinging around, and so you’re supposed to email them and ask for the password and that way the bad people they don’t like can’t come in and cause trouble? Have you ever done that? I have.

I am kind of thinking that folks might orchestrate that kind of maneuver just to bolster (which rearranged, spells “lobster”) their shaky egos, because DAMN did a lot of y’all respond to Jane My Hero’s notify and ask me for the password.

(Does this make you want to whisper sotto voce behind the camera “the password is…lobster” like it does me?)

Anyway, your little bread crumb trail on the internet can be found, and when it is found, there’s a picture up there of you flaring your nostrils into the camera.

What?

I’ll have to really limit myself to making fun of people w ho know about this here place.

You. And YOU. And especially you.

****

So let’s see. Let’s review the topics that are safe for discussion around here, and we’ll get this party started. And by tomorrow, the passwording should be a thang of the past.

1. Sex. I have no fear of continuing to talk about sex. Good sex, bad sex, fast sex, and frustratingly slow sex. It’s all good. Well, it’s all good for discussing.

2. Poop. Always! Poop is always a good topic for me. I don’t talk about it in the obsessed manner that some people do; I feel that I talk about it on a one-to-one basis with you. Kind of “Oh! You, too? Corn? Really?”

3. There is no 3.

4. What the hell do I talk about here? I think it’s just sex and poop. That kind of sucks for YOU and frankly, I’m worried about you.

5. I do talk about Mr. S (you know who) quite a bit, and now I’m not saying this just because I believe he may find me here someday, but he’s being pretty cooperating and responsive lately. That’s a good thing. So shout out and HOLLA! Go on with your bad cooperative and responsive self.

6. Oh! Shopping. We do talk about shopping quite a bit. Here’s what I got my mom for her birthday: two of my very favorite t-shirts from Target, a pair of white cropped pants from Steinmart, and a really cute purse from Steinmart that has some stripage in it that coincidentally matches the colors in the two t-shirts. I’m crafty, and I’m just your type, aren’t I?

7. Last but not least, DW. Let’s talk about him for a moment, shall we?

Ever since I started trying to work “smell ya later!” into my conversations, he has been dredging up the remnants of his high school lexicon, as well. Added to “smell ya later!”, which I say to him every morning as we head our separate ways to work, are the word “cliggas”, and the addition of “-age” to the end of just about every noun or gerund, which, as you know, is a verb USED as a noun.

Do you know what cliggas are? I didn’t, either. Apparently, this was a made-up word that somebody at his high school started using to refer to balls, lo these many years ago in 1980. As in “you just hit me right in the cliggas.” Or “you’ve got my cliggas rolling.”

And you know about “-age” – you KNOW you do – because you used it yourself many, many times in the 80s. “I need some drinkage.” “Nice boobage.” “We’re having much grillage for dinner.”

That’s what’s going on at home. That’s what we do. Is this normal? Is this how other married heterosexual people act? I don’t know why I threw in that heterosexual thing there. Just in case you were wondering, or in case it makes a difference, I guess.

****

I talk about my skin a lot here, too, don’t I? Well brace yourselfs. Here it comes again. But as with everything I have to provide you with a long, rambling back story with many long sentences and extraneous words.

OK, you know Lori, and if you don’t, please do go see her and read her and encourage her to FREAKING UPDATE a little more often because her shit reads just like a book. And if you’re really nice to her, she’ll give you the linkage to her old blog, Mean Baby, and you will read that over an entire weekend, and when you’re not reading it, you will wistfully wish that you could get back to your novel about that lady that was an art teacher, and then you’ll realize DOH! that was Lori’s blog, not a novel.

But anyway, she mentioned in Mean Baby that she had ordered the Philosophy line of skin care stuff, and I was intrigued, so I got online with Philosophy and I ordered the acne kit. And THEN I emailed Lori and asked her if her Philosophy stuff had really worked, and she said not really, but the damage was done. I had already ordered it.

I’m liking it, though. It has no benzoyl peroxide, which I find I just can’t tolerate as it makes my skin both broken out AND red and itchy and hivey, and so far, so good. Lori, I felt a little silly that I ran right out to the internet and bought it before checking with you, so I didn’t, um, ::cough::anyway.

The second thing I want to tell you about my skin is that DW and Don and I attended a baseball game the other day in a town close to the coast, and we were out in the blazing, frigging sun from 2:00 until 5:00, and I roasted myself. NOT SMART. My left shoulder burned for days afterward, and now it doesn’t burn anymore because it is COOKED and DEAD.

I’m peeling, and it’s not that light flaky kind of peeling. It’s the deep, leaving-behind-pink-skin kind of peel. The I’m-a-stupid-white-fool kind of peel. It’s an annual-mole-inspection kind of peel.

See?

My cell phone and email are togethah again, and what do I take pictures of? The horror. The horror.

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