u s e y o u r h a n d s

We saw Mr. Show this weekend! Funny, but chintzy. At one point, a character was holding up a sign reading, “I represent slavery.” When the actor pivoted, we could see that whoever lettered the sign had previously fucked up the back of it. Their bad!

At the end of the show, these drunk assholes literally bathed in CK1 lurched up next to me to get in on the standing o. As Bob and David started talking to the crowd, most of whom were screaming “NAPERVILLE!”, these fuckers next to me kept chatting. They shut up when I asked them to “fucking shut up.” If they hadn’t I swear I would have popped them one.

Which brings me to another point. I have serious rage problems. My temper bubbles hotly just barely beneath the surface. It is not fun. Not for my nocturnal teeth grinding or for Phineas who most often experiences my unsolicited wrath. Where does this seething anger come from? Who knows. I never realized I had it, though, due to excessive self-patrolled chemical (read: wine and sweet, sweet opiates) therapy. What now? Do I have to go the yoga/meditation/valerian route? Or should I step up my kickboxing to seven days a week? Phew. Phew. Heh.

Reading Infinite Jest again. Because now, I know which parts to skip and refuse to wade through many of DFW’s ridiculous endnotes. C’mon, what is (!) about? But he is cute and smart and I like him. The DFW. He should write more non-fic.

Princess Superstar this Thurs. at SmartBar. She will kick your ass and rap about it while twirling her platinum hair round her manicured fingers. Sucka.

Watching Season 1 of Buffy. Season 3’s out in Jan.

This is my first blog entry using Movable Type. How lovely. Movable Type? I call it a Movable Feast of fun and excitement.

What’s been going on with the Bee lately? Hrm…. Oh, yeah. I still don’t have a permanent jobbity, but I’ve been bringing home our respective bacon/vegan bacon by working at United Airlines. Can you smell that federal bailout money sizzle?

What else? I’ve been sick here at United for nearly a week. I think I had strep, which I gargled away with peroxide, and now just have a garden variety head cold. I can’t hear! Nobody here seems surprised. It seems that the basement here at United is famed for causing upper-resp infections in newbies. Also, it’s cold. Also, nobody talks to me. But they have a subsidized cafeteria, so I’m crying into my 32 oz. of orange juice for $.89.

Phineas and I have gotten into Buffy, the Vampire Slayer. We really like it, despite Sarah Michelle Prinze, Jr. nee Gellar. It’s very clever and interesting to watch. The whole Buffy-Angel thing creeps me out. He’s over 200 years older than her. What could he see in her? Anyway, it’s a neat show. However, every time Willow comes onto the screen, Phineas gets all goofy. Geez.

My mom sent P-Dawg and I these great Hawaiian shirts. Phineas’ says “Wassup!” Can I get him to take it off? No, brother-man. I cannot. He stinks, but when I complain he says, “Sure, I stink. That’s because when I wear this shirt, I’m the SHIT!!!!”

Reading - In Pharaoh’s Army: Memories of the Lost War by Tobias Wolff. This is the second part of Wolff’s autobiography. His first, This Boy’s Life, is very Stop-Time-esque. Frankly, I get the two books confused. Anyway, Wolff is also my favorite short story writer and pops up from time to time on TAL.

Weighing - 40 lbs less. No more weight loss, due to gym slackage because of cold and ice cream eating, also because of cold. I have priorities.

Eating - This morn, I had a nanner and a cinnaraisin bagel. Total cost? $1.08. Boo-yah!

Writing - More of the children’s story, but I’m also going to start on a short story about going to high school with Gloria Allred, “feminist” lawyer and annoyance extraordinaire.

I like a nice frosty beverage from time to time. To accomplish said frostiness, I crack a few cubety-cubes into a nice glass-glass. Nothin’ puts a nice frost into a beverage like a glass. Pour some nummy soda, like Diet Dr. Pepper or Pepsi One, on top of the cubes and wait for that sweet cracking sound. Drink deeply, young one, of this frosty goodness.

The other day I was preparing my frosty beverage and noticed something. Holy shit! I crack me an ice cube tray just like my mom. I bring my right knee - decidedly the right - to a 90 degree angle to support the tray. Twist and crack. Just like my mom. Just like my crazy mom! I am just like my crazy mom!

But then I calmed down. How many ways can you possibly crack an ice cube tray? There aren’t that many. It’s like sayind, “Hey, I breathe oxygen just like my mom, a crazy person, as well.” Shit, man.

In jobbity news, I’m still working as the office gal in the baking factory. They make some great bread there over at Gonnella Baking. I sniff it while reading book after book. Sometimes I mix it up with a crossword puzzle or two. Wordtoyourmother. Try to type without instinctively hitting the space bar. It will screw with you.

From the Dane Cook CD that bro Robby sent to me: Do not float above me while I am dying in the abyss.

Something is scritching at the back door. I’m imagining a devil-forked mutated rat about the size of a cocker spaniel.

Weight loss: Forty Fucking Two Pounds. Boo-yah!

Food Consumed Yesterday: Home-made low-fat berry cheesecake. It’s not as rich as it should be, but it’s low-fat. You can eat more. I also had a corn/polenta/goat cheese/tomato thing. Polenta is the new black. I also went to Pauline’s with P-Jo. Perhaps I also had a Snickers.

Exercise: Cardio and weights today and yest.