I just perused your comments from the other day, when I said, "I'm so worky. Whatdaya want me to blog about?" Why in heaven's name did I think that'd save me any time? Now I've sat here like an idiot for the last half-hour, and written down your requests and thought about all the shit Ima link to and I'm already exhausted. I'm tore up from the floor up.
I have no idea, actually, if that phrase means "tired." I just kind of wanted to say "tore up from the floor up." I recently re-watched Juno.
Anyway, here are the things you told me to blog about.
Tell us about the Curly Girl method.
No. Go buy the book someone took the time to write. It involves using sulphate-free products, and drying your hair with a t-shirt and not a towel, and not washing it every day. Wait. Here's an unretouched photo of my hair right now, when it looks kind of crappy because I didn't wash it today. I still don't have down the how-to-make-it-look-good-on-day-two thing.
Apparently, along with Curly Girl, I am also a proponent of being Fake Smile Girl.
Tell us something about Ned's childhood.
Here is a story Ned told me, and he was no Albert on Little House, is all I can say to you. Except for his raging morphine addiction.
When Ned was, like, 11, he was inspired by kids in his neighborhood who were collecting money for muscular dystrophy. It was during the Jerry Lewis Labor Day telethon. He got another neighbor kid to go door to door, where they collected a ton of money. He showed it all to his mom, who said, "Should I drive you over to the collection site?" and Ned was all, "What, are you kidding? I'm using this money to buy a model airplane!" He was so excited he'd found a way to get rich quick.
You'll be stunned to hear his mom told him to get in the car right that minute and take that money to the muscular dystrophy collector people immediately. Ned wants you to know, in his defense, it was one of the really cool models that actually fly.
I mean, when he puts it that way...
My family's bowels.
Some of you were more on board with this idea than others of you, who poo-pooed it. BAH!
My POINT is, people in my family seem to touch on their bowels as a topic more than other, normal families. And the stories always seem to be of the "I was walking around like a regular human being when BOOM! all of a sudden I had to go so bad" variety.
I mean, why is there no LEAD-IN with my people? Why can't they get a hint of what's to come like everyone else, maybe head off to the loo in good time? But no. Not my family. And I'd JUST HEARD a story about one of my great-aunts, and how she was with another relative, and had that, "All of a sudden I had to go" story that ended in tragedy, which I will not lay out for you. I will not paint you a picture. But that picture would be brown.
So having just heard this story, not long ago, Marvin needed me to go to the DMV with him to sign some papers. First he took me to lunch, and oh how I enjoyed my lunch. Munch munch munch, I said, devouring some Vietnamese food. Munch munch munch munch.
Then we schlepped on over to the DMV, there, and what I have to tell you may come as a surprise. But there was a line. Yes, there was. At the DMV. "Did you make an appointment?" I asked, but it turns out you can't do that here. You could in LA. So we stood there, Marvin and me, and looked at all the dumb license plates they were selling, and picked out plates for each other (I gave him the one about how much he enjoys fishin' and he picked one out about how I can't get enough of my grandkids).
We were having a fine time, when all of a sudden. I had to go so bad.
"Uh-oh," I said to Marvin. And here's when I knew I was related to my family. Because that's all he needed. Was that two-syllable utterance. As though possibly I'd exhibited this behavior before.
"Can you make it? Do we have to go now?" We'd waited so long, and we were close to the front of the line. "I can try," I said, feeling sort of clammy.
We got to the counter and I could not wait to be done. "Hi," said Marvin to the DMV lady, who cared deeply about everything, you could tell. "We used to be married," he said, making a little circular motion around us. A circle of life. BOOM. "Now we're not, but this car is still in my ex-wife's name..."
I mean, dudes. COULD HE HAVE TOLD HER MORE DETAILS? COULD HE? Do you remember how all my Marvin stories ended in me being irritated? Try feeling irritated AND POOPY.
"Were you wanting to know what went wrong with the marriage?" I asked her, eyeing up the area behind her for a restroom. "Not really," she said, never looking up. What she had on her was a personality.
A few signatures later and Marvin got his car transferred over to him. I should have refused to help out, been one of those hellcat ex-wives, but the part where I was gonna Poughkeepsie all over his passenger seat was revenge enough.
"I'll get you home," said Marvin. "I don't want to do any cleanups on aisle four, if you know what I mean."
I see I've already talked until you feel like you're waiting at the DMV, so I'll pick up more of your requested topics tomorrow. On Saturday. When no one reads me. Won't that be rewarding.
In the meantime, could you please arrange to let me keep the change? For my boyfriend.