Dead Girls Don’t Dance

My precious darling just ripped out the carpet in this room to put in wood flooring. Wonderful! Having carpet in Florida is unbelievably stupid unless you are fond of mildew. However, his timing sucked, because it interfered with MY plans for the day.

On Saturdays, he normally sleeps in, and then spends a good deal of the afternoon hanging out at his buddy Steve’s house. I’m not exactly sure what guys think they mean by “hanging out,” but as far as I can tell, it means sitting around gossiping like old ladies, only they drink beer and watch sports while they gossip, to make it seem more manly.

Anyway, keeping his usual schedule in mind, I had purchased hair dye, a bikini wax kit, a shiny new manicure set and some yummy-smelling bubble bath with the intention of having a do-it-yourself spa day after he left for his male bonding session.

I got up early and puttered around for a while–did a little laundry and tidied the house up a bit, all the while humming contentedly to myself as I anticipated my afternoon of (much needed) self pampering and beautification. Manicure, pedicure, facial, the whole nine yards, plus a bottle of red wine (also much needed) and Miles Davis on the stereo… what could be more blissful?

Then the madman woke up and immediately commenced a construction project. Have you tried to give yourself a bikini wax with somebody sporadically running a circular saw in the next room?

No?

Well, neither have I, and I’m not going to. I have enough problems without being startled by a sudden loud noise and accidentally clogging my vagina with hot wax.

It’s bad enough that I had green glop all over my face when he unexpectedly returned from Home Depot. He said he was going to the store. I thought he was going to the corner store for cigarettes. When he didn’t come back in ten minutes, I assumed he had gone straight from the store to his buddies’ house.

He came back with construction materials, and started ripping things to bits, and nailing in the wood flooring, occasionally shouting at me for assistance. So much for my spa day.

And at the end of it all, he had the nerve to tell me I looked like hell.

Note: this was originally written Sunday, January 20, on actual paper, with a pen. I just now deciphered it and typed it up.

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I saw Tim Burton’s movie version of Sweeney Todd today and LOVED LOVED LOVED it. Granted, I have yet to see a Tim Burton film that I didn’t enjoy, and am slowly collecting them all on DVD, but I particularly liked this one.

The movie stayed reasonably true to the original Sondheim show (although I’m sure some theatre purist will argue that point passionately) and I was pleasantly surprised at how well Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham-Carter pulled off the singing. I went into the theater somewhat apprehensive, but they did WAY better than I expected, meaning that they are not brilliant vocalists, but it was enjoyable, and in a movie format, it actually makes the characters seem a bit more realistic.

Sweeney looks rather like a cross between Edward Scissorhands and the bride of Frankenstein in this film, but it works, and Johnny Depp made this brooding, vengeful character thoroughly believable. His performance reminded me of someone, it bugged me for the first twenty minutes of the movie, and I just now put my finger on it. Christopher Walken. He didn’t really act or sound like Walken, mind you, but for his spoken lines he used a similar understated delivery with a mad gleam in his eyes… and it was really creepy.

Helena Bonham-Carter was quirky and delightful, as usual, and apparently did her own hair, lol.

And the whole movie just looked wonderful. Gloomy and dismal most of the time, of course, but that’s my idea of wonderful. The mostly monochrome color scheme served a purpose; when throats start getting cut, the crimson of blood fountaining everywhere is all the more shocking. It’s the brightest color on the screen, and your eyes get fixed on it, willingly or not.

And of course, a lot of the movie is funny. Sick, twisted, dark funny, but funny nonetheless. If you’re the sort of person who is capable of snickering at murder and cannibalism, anyway. Which I am.

So is William, the dear old friend I went to the movies with. We hadn’t seen each other in months, and we both have men in our lives who don’t like musicals, so we went to a matinee together. Afterwards, we ate an excessive lunch, during which we dissected the movie, gossiped and caught up in general. I had a nice day, for a change. Thanks, Will.

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There are many indignities to being poor; having to use public transportation not the least. When the city bus I ride to get to work comes late or not at all, I wish I had my own car again. I am used to being late, rain-soaked, and/or furious when I get wherever I’m trying to go… but nearly being run down by an Avon lady (or at any rate, a woman in a car covered with huge Avon decals) is just a BIT MUCH, THANK YOU.

The Avon “lady” in question stopped just short of my right kneecap and cursed me out because I happened to be walking across the street when SHE wanted to make a left turn. Yes, folks, she cussed ME for legally walking across the street on my designated traffic signal, because she just couldn’t wait another precious 10 seconds for HER green arrow.

I hope there is a special place in hell for people like that. That stupid, impatient bitch came within inches of maiming or killing me, and she told me that if I had no business walking and I should get a job.

I blankety blanking well HAVE a job, thank you. I was on my way home from work when that stupid cow tried to kill me for not having a car. Grow UP, people. This is REAL LIFE, not Death Race 2000! You do not get points for killing pedestrians.

I’m sorry. This post isn’t very funny. The TITLE is kinda funny, but I’m just angry. And now the amazing MMORPG addict just got home and wants me off the computer. Good night, Gracie.

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Ah, the New Year. A time to get really drunk, reflect on the past and wonder “What the HELL was I thinking?” Many people also resolve to change their ways. I don’t care to make life decisions while drunk or suffering from a pounding hangover, so I wait a few days into the new year before I even attempt to think about it.

I’ve thought about it, and all I could come up with was the same stupid shit everybody else makes resolutions about. Lose that last stubborn ten pounds, quit smoking, pay off my credit cards… yeah, right. The chances of me actually succeeding at any of those is about the same as my chances of growing giant butterfly wings and flying to Sri Lanka for the rest of the winter, which I why I usually don’t make resolutions. Besides, those resolutions are just boring.

But today, I paid Cookiebitch a visit. Now, THAT lady knows how to make a New Year’s resolution. She only made resolutions she believes she can actually keep, and I intend to adopt a few of her resolutions for my own. This one in particular:

When people piss me off, I will think carefully about what I say before I respond. This way I can be much more eloquent and original about how I tell them to go fuck themselves.

I’m inspired! I shall also make resolutions I can keep. Here goes:

* I will be more vigilant about dying my hair. I started getting grey hair when I was 16, and it’s the only thing keeping me from looking over ten years younger than my actual age. In fact, I’m likely to start dying it unnatural colours… again. I’m tired of trying to look normal, because it simply isn’t fooling anybody.

* I will stop apologizing for being vain. There is absolutely nothing wrong with wanting to look and smell good, unless it’s the driving force of your personality (or lack thereof). I am not stupid or shallow, and shouldn’t be judged as such just because I wear makeup and underarm deoderant. The next time some stinky, hairy-legged pseudointellectual with bad skin, frumpy clothes, and chewed-off fingernails starts lecturing me on the evils of “society’s standards of beauty,” I will point out every way in which she is failing to meet those standards. If her feelings are hurt, that will mean she secretly agrees with those evil standards, and I win.

* I will buy more clothes and shoes. The last few years, I haven’t been buying myself any new pretties except to replace worn-out items. Granted, that’s because I’m perpetually broke, and have been living uncomfortably within my means, but if I’m still broke after several years of frugal living, obviously being frugal isn’t doing me a bit of good, and I might as well stop dressing like a bag lady.

* I will be nicer to Renfield. He’s the oldest of my cats, and I love the silly, useless, spoiled rotten creature to the point of irrationality. He’s a chubby, gentle, affectionate idiot, looks rather like a big, grey teddy bear, and at the venerable (for a cat) age of sixteen, he’s starting to get slow and creaky. I really shouldn’t tease him. It might be difficult, though; for some reason, he has always been bugfuck terrified of the rattly noise a plastic bag makes when shaken, and it’s JUST FUNNY to watch him scramble away with his tail all poofed out.

* From now on, I’m gonna raise hell at the “Ten Items Or Less, No Checks” express checkout line at the grocery store when some jackass who can’t read and/or count gets in front of me with 34 items. Or when some old lady spends 17 minutes fumbling around in her purse to write a check for eight prescriptions and an economy-size package of Metamucil because she doesn’t realize that “Ten Items Or Less, No Checks” is not an either/or statement.

Happy Frickin New Year.

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I don’t have kids. I don’t want kids. BUT I don’t HATE kids. I actually rather like them, because they tend to be very honest, which frequently causes them to say things that are (unintentionally) funny.

Nevertheless, I just don’t want them anywhere near me unless they are impeccably clean and on their best behavior. And as far I’m concerned, good behavior means doing kid stuff in a designated kid area, or sitting completely motionless and silent, unless they are directly spoken to, or are on fire from an adult accidentally flicking a cigarette butt on them. Sorry folks, but that’s how I was raised.

Aside from that, here are my three reasons to not have children:

1. Children are horribly expensive. They need food, clothing, shelter, medical care, and education. Hell, I don’t make enough money to obtain all of these things just for myself. I just can’t afford to take proper care of a baby, even if I wanted one. Not without going on welfare, anyway, and I’d rather die.
2. Children are the second most annoying thing in the universe. The MOST annoying thing in the universe is dumbass parents who think it’s acceptable to allow their ill-mannered, snot-dripping spawn to run loose and/or scream in movie theaters and restaurants.
3. Human babies, unlike puppies, cannot be conveniently given away if you suddenly realise at 2AM that you simply don’t want to take care of this adorable but demanding little beast that is yowling and crying and depriving you of sleep.

I know this sounds very nasty and selfish, but I honestly think it’s best for me to not even try to do the baby thing.

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I couldn’t get out of bed this morning.

Well, I did, eventually, but it took an astonishing long time, partly because only the LEFT SIDE of my back punked out on me, and I was terrified. I knew four days ago that I had a pulled muscle in my lower back, but I just did my yoga routine to stretch it out so it wouldn’t hurt so much, and kept on going. It seems that was not really a good idea.

This morning, after my day off, which was misspent mostly shopping, performing miscellaneous household tasks, and crocheting a sweater, I woke up damn near paralyzed. I could move, but it hurt so much I didn’t want to.

This has never happened to me before, and because it was 6:30 AM and I was still drowsy and stupid, I was thinking

HEART ATTACK! STROKE! BLOOD CLOT! My house is a mess, and I’m dying in ugly pajamas! What will the paramedics think?

After I managed to crawl out of bed, limp to the bathroom, and insert my contact lenses (which was SHOCKINGLY difficult), I called in to work, in tears, to say I couldn’t make it. I lucked out. My boss not only understood, but dropped by with muscle relaxers and advice. He’s already been in this situation. He would prefer to have me stay home and rest, because apparently he rather seriously messed up his OWN back by bulldogging through a minor injury.

That actually makes business sense, because if I just grit my teeth and keep going, my back will only get worse, and that would eventually incapacitate me and render me partially disabled and pretty much useless for a longer period of time. Additionally, gritting my teeth gives me a smashing bitch-kitty of a headache, which makes me cranky and unpleasant.

Well, MORE cranky and unpleasant than usual, anyway.

At any rate, I’m going to stop here, because typing one-handed probably isn’t doing me any good.

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A minor household disaster occurs while I am waiting for my ride to work, and a persistent telemarketer calls:

[phone rings] “Hello?”

“May I speak to Janice?”

“No, you may not.” [click]

… 45 seconds later

[phone rings] “Hello.”

“Is Janice in?” same voice from previous call

“Yes, she is, but her cat just barfed on the couch and she doesn’t want to talk to anybody she doesn’t know.”

[click]

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So much for growing my poor fingernails back out, I’m cooking again. It doesn’t really matter, I suppose. Long, elegant fingernails are prone to get muck wedged underneath them when you’re cooking, anyway, and that’s not only unsanitary, but no longer particularly elegant. Quite the opposite, in fact. I won’t go into the details.

All I know right now is that I want a chef coat and chef pants. Riding the bus home from work wearing sweaty, food-stained jeans and t-shirt makes me look like a dumpster-diving, homeless mental patient. If I must look like a mental patient (and I frequently do), I’d rather look like an amusingly eccentric nutjob, instead of the icky kind that has loud conversations with an invisible giant devil bunny while they urinate on the azaleas in front of the county courthouse.

That’s it. I’ve had it. I’m going to start tinting my grey hair purple, instead of matching it to my alleged natural hair color. Crazy homeless people generally don’t have the money or facilities to dye their hair weird colors. If people are going to look at me askance in public, I would prefer that they have a good reason.

Besides, purple is my favorite color, and I’m forty. I can have purple streaks in my hair if I damn well please. So there.

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This site was down last night. It’s not as if I’m losing money or anything, but it’s still frustrating. I use Frihost, which I think is the best free web hosting community available (250mb space, 10gb data transfer/month), but free is free. The wonderful people who run Frihost have other things to do, such as go to college, study, work, eat and socialize. Hell, they might even sleep occasionally. And computers do weird things and stop working properly, on a regular basis, for no obvious reason. My DSL went down yesterday morning, also for no apparent reason. I guess yesterday just wasn’t my day for the internet.

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So, who else gained five pounds yesterday? I spent most of the evening drifting in and out of a turkey-induced coma, which caused me to goof repeatedly while attempting to sew together the pieces of an afghan that I crocheted months ago. Not exactly the best way to work off an excess 2200 calories. I need to live on soup and salad for days to make up for it… turkey soup, of course.

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