Don't you hate it when you can't find something because you put it away? Such was the case with my robe this morning. Or "housecoat," as my mother would say. I looked on the rocking chair in my bedroom, in the spare room, in the laundry room...
I had hung it on the hook on the bathroom door, where I am supposed to.
Perhaps you neatniks do not feel me on this. You neatniks can all eat my shorts. If you can find them.
I was riveted to a Lifetime Television for Women movie, as I often am, last night. They are always terrible. Why are they always so terrible? Is there a terrible filter they have to go through? I can never get enough of their terribleness. Perhaps I should write for them, with my diverse use of adjectives.
Lifetime Television for Women movies always have the line "That's ancient history!" at some point. "Maybe you'll see Darren!" "Darren? Oh, Susie. That's ancient history."
You have never once in your entire life said "That's ancient history," have you? I mean, unless you were taking a CLASS in ancient history and let's say your roommate said, "What's this paper?" "That's ancient history."
"What's this giant book with the old bone on the cover?" "Oh, Susie. That's ancient history."
Ancient history. It bugs. They also, in Lifetime Television for Women Movies, always have the line "Yes! No! ...I don't know." Which is another thing you have never said, unless you woke up hung over and your annoying roommate Susie was asking about your bone book at 7 a.m.
Is there just one person whose job it is to write those scripts?
"What do you do?" "I go into the Lifetime Television for Women studios every day and write scripts. I used to have ambition, but that's ancient history."
So last night's story was about a relatively cute woman who fell for a classically handsome and yet somehow unappealing man who seems to enjoy him some hairspray. I know! The whole plot is so unusual to Lifetime Television for Women, isn't it?
At least in this one she didn't return to her quaint hometown, which is small but somehow has a thriving downtown and is filled with interesting and fashionable quirky people. Including one classically handsome but somehow unappealing man with some Salon Selectives going on.
Anyway, I watched it until 10:20 and could not stay awake any longer, so if anyone knows what happens after she shot the duck, please alert me.
I finally, finally, finally have no plans tonight, and I realize having book club last night hardly counts as a "plan," but I had to keep getting up and reading comments from Cosmo's Dad, who didn't even read the book. It was exhausting. Tonight I celebrate my love for you, and also I get to do whatever I please. Other than feed the pets, walk the dogs, iron whatever I'm wearing to work tomorrow and Latisse my eyes. And probably write tomorrow's post.
Crap.
Still! It's like, two whole hours to do whatever I want! I can read a book (what we reading for book club next, y'all? Maybe we can read a book we like next time?), or take a bath or lie listlessly and listen to Pink Floyd as I did in 9th grade. I can call boys and hang up. Except that whole caller ID thing would mess me up. How do 9th-graders stalk boys now?
Oh! Speaking of stalking boys, for some reason this guy I dated for about eight minutes in college just popped into my head the other day. Not literally. And he has a distinct name, because he's Greek. His last name is like Kvlaliklikalikalikalikvik or something. So I looked him up on Facebook and there he was, still cute and leading this picture-perfect life. Seriously, you guys. Perfect job, beautiful wife, two cute kids, a Lab. All the pictures showed him in his gorgeous house, or on a lovely vacation or with smiling friends--you kind of wanted to hurl yourself off a cliff.
Anyway, I emailed him and he was really nice. He totally remembered me, and even remembered me fondly, and the whole point of the story is I thanked his people for the yogurt and have been craving Greek yogurt ever since.
Last night I was at the grocery story getting dog food, which it feels like I do every day, and I passed the yogurt aisle. There was a woman standing there, mesmerized, so I figured I'd get the dog food and get my Greek yogurt on the way back. I was so excited I remembered to get some, because it had been on my MIND, folks.
When I came back? SHE WAS STILL THERE. She had not moved. Seriously, it was like she was in a trance. And she was right in front of the Greek yogurt. I kind of hovered near her, hoping she'd kind of move once someone was near her?
IT WAS LIKE SHE WAS BOLTED TO THE EFFING FLOOR.
Unmoving, she was.
Finally, I stared right at her. I mean, what the finagle? What the flimflam? MOVE YOUR MONEYMAKER, yogurt worshipper. JESUS.
And do you know she glared at me? ME! Like I was the annoying one. Girlfriend had stood at the altar of yogurt for 10 minutes and IIIIIIIIII was the annoying one.
Got my yogurt, though. And heart myself over thanking the old boyfriend and his people for the yogurt. "I see you are still funny," he wrote, from his perfect home.
Yes. And you can see where that got me.
