What the EFF? I pay $275 to get that thing out of here, although in all fairness, my dermatologist HAS rendered that portion of my head motionless, and warned me getting "the deep wrinkle" out would take some time. That's what she called that Panama Canal. My "deep wrinkle." I hate everything.
Whitman was all, "Look at MINE! I have a forehead wrinkle!" but it's more like a barely there manly crease. And he's, like, 72. He's a much older man, Dick Whatima.
Oh my god. I just noticed I typed "Whitman" as "Whatima," which, HOW? How did I do that? I am typing you and also texting Hulk, is my problem, and why do I have so many male friends? What a tramp. He's redecorating Hulkette's room. Naturally he stampeded to my text because I am so good at decorating. Please see my concrete floor.
Anyway. What I keep meaning to tell you, in case you didn't tune in yesterday, was that June 7 was the anniversary of not only my first date with Dick Whatima, but my first date back out here in the stupid universe as a single person. Although technically I am STILL not a single person and could this be taking longer? The court date is June 25. Supposedly a judge will say, "Oh god yes. Grant those two pixies a divorce. OUT you two pixies go, through the door or out the window."
I really need to stop watching It's a Wonderful Life all the time.
I wore the very same ensemble to my last-night date with Whatima (who needs to get over it?) as I did a year ago. A year ago I went to--who knows? Banana Republic? Ann Taylor?--some store--and grabbed a salesperson by her arm parts. "I'm going on my first date since Clinton was in office. Please help me look cute." The best part of the outfit was the giant fish I dangled at my feet. Oh, and the phallus near my head. Last year I did not have on a Mr. Rogers cardigan, but it's been COLD. What the HELL, SOUTH? South in JUNE? So to speak.
"Isn't this so much better than last year?" I asked Whitman, who similarly had just gotten back out there on our big first date of aught '11. "We're so not nervous," I said, shoving nachos down my gullet.
I know "aught '11" makes no sense. I kind of wanted to say "aught."
"What the hell's the difference between a spark and mojo?"
"I don't know. Austin Powers?"
Whitwoman makes a ton of sense.
The only bad part of the evening was that his mom is in the hospital, and he had to go see her. She felt dizzy day before yesterday and hasn't gotten any better, and they admitted her. You know how I feel about Dick Whitey's mom. He seemed to think everything's gonna be okay, but I said, "You know, maybe this would have been the evening we finally liked each other. We'd have blown off the people we actually DO like and finally gotten together. Tell your mom she's a total cock blocker."
What I like about Dick Whitman's mom is she will think that's hilarious, once the term "cock blocker" is explaned to her. I remember the first time I met her, and we were discussing some boy I used to date, who even knows which one, and she said, "I've been reading about him on your blog, honey. He seems like kind of a dick."
And that? Is the moment I fell passionately in love with DW's mom.
So, my point is, everyone please send good wishes to Whitman's cockblocking mom. Our birthdays (we share a birthday) are coming right up and I want to have a dual celebration with her that I was hoping involved Tijuana. So she needs to get better fast.
Anyway. So there it was. A whole year of being back out here, dating, and generally it's been okay, even though nothing has worked out, really. I mean, did I expect it to? I just GOT here. I had to have a stupid year of fitting the glass slipper, right? Which was really kind of a dirty euphemism.
At any rate, I'm glad I got to usher in this new era with The Whit, as he has turned out to be a good friend. I mean, ushering it in with Usher might have been hotter. I hear Usher is super into forehead wrinkles.