|
My Profile
Gift from Hil Part 2 - 2014-12-30
|
2:15 p.m. - 2011-04-14
"Last night at the dance my little brother paid a buck to see your underwear." Today's quote is apropos of nothing in this entry, it just makes me laugh. Well I guess it has some distant connection, at least in my demented brain. Last night I watched Kevin Smith's 'Dogma' and the reason Jay and Silent Bob had gone to Illinois was Silent Bob's obsession with John Hughes movies. And how once they found Shermer, Illinois not only would Silent Bob be in Hughes heaven, Jay planned to become the town's premiere (and only) ganja dealer. That Shermer is a fictional place never occurred to either of them. I remember Alex and his college buddies thought they were terribly hip and indie cool because they loved Kevin Smith movies. Something that always made me laugh because actually Kevin Smith movies have zero indie cred whatsoever. Far from being snottily obscure and mean as true indie cinema is, Kevin Smith movies are sweet. Okay, outrageously obscene, but still sweet. Kevin Smith is a romantic. And geeky. And damn proud of being both. Anybody who loves the early hits of The Jackson Five as much as he does cannot lay claim to any kind of cool. Which is why I love Kevin Smith movies. I, too, am a romantic geek with huge fan love for all the cheesy pop culture stuff he adores. If I get all the references and riffs then you know it's as mainstream lame as it gets. You are speaking to a former member of The Josie and The Pussycats Fan Club after all. While I'm on the topic of lame pop culture, I'm still trying to wrap my head around the knowledge that Mick is obsessed with Lady Gaga. And Katy Perry. And Ke$ha. At least he's dead gone on their music. All that dance-y bouncy girl bop. Mick says those jaunty dance anthems about being true to oneself and social equality make him happy. I dig that. You know how some people clean the house the day before the merry maid comes? I was outside this morning tidying up the gardens because Saturday I'm interviewing a lawn mowing landscape kid. One of Mick's former students, Jer is starting up his own lawn care business. Hope we can come to terms as it would be a win-win. Jer gets a steady client on his nascent roster and I no longer have to fret about Mick having a stroke out there in the heat mowing our nearly vertical yard. Mick is thinking that Jer will just mow, but I'm hoping to negotiate some other things like edging and weeding into the deal. I'll be the first to admit to absolutely slacking off with the garden stuff for the last couple years. Decompressing from a lifetime of stressed out involuntary knee-jerk servitude and anxious proving of my worth, the first years we were here I was a loon with the snipping and planting and weeding and all the rest of that rot. Then Mick made the scene and finally got it through to me that I do NOT have to work myself half to death just to be allowed to exist, I did a 180 and became a bum. Shit outside went wild. Weeds, that hideous Mile-A-Minute vine, blackberry cane, and poison ivy ran riot over the yard and I didn't care. Now, of course, the whole place is a wilderness of crap plants and overgrown in the extreme. Hopefully Jer can be talked into at least helping with getting the worst of the clutter cleaned up. De-thatch, grub up the garbage growth, chop back the jungle so I can get in there and do the easier, happier bits like flowers and veggies. Mick already made a huge dent in things by clearing out the blackberry bramble in the veggie patch and then last weekend roto-tilled the soil into submission. I promised tomatoes and a few other goodies in return. I got goofy with the front gardens this morning and was appalled by how flabby I am. Gym or no gym, doing all that raking and pulling kicked my ass. The mosquitoes didn't help matters. I'm all lumpy with bites and welts. Soooo attractive, and here just when I'd started to come to terms with being a droopy hag. Adding a couple dozen oozing knobs to my carcass was a really nice touch. Sure, they're temporary but jeeze. In other self-d�cor news, my faboo haircut is grown out and shaggy already. Gotta hit the mall and Hot Topic to get a RAW� bleach kit and put in some highlights before I go back from a trim. When the hell will my hair go grey already? I'm 48 fricken years old! My Da had wonderful silver fox hair before he was 35. As did all of his brothers and sisters (though the latter colored theirs to cover it). Okay fine. I got that side of the family's gapped front teeth, huge hooters, and green cat's eyes, but did I get that pretty silver hair? Oh no. Not me. I got some exogamous gadje DNA throwback to who knows when of shit brown. Stubborn shit brown. Lifeless dull turd mess that doesn't budge a whit without the application of scalp searing 40% peroxide in lethal doses for an entire afternoon before the color deigns to lift even a lick spittle. Crud. I'd blame my Chanel maternal grandmother who when she died at 88 had just one dramatic streak of white in the front, but her hair had always been and still was a gorgeous auburn. In the genetic hair lottery I absolutely came up a crapper. I know, I know, there's way worse things than lousy hair. And even with the shitty hair I got to live the first few decades of my life in Pretty Town (though I didn't know it) so who am I to complain, but the real troubles in my life right now are SO big and SO bad that kvetching about hair and a weedy yard makes me feel saner and kind of normal. Thanks to the ex the yard might be moot before the year's out anyway and while I am dealing with that horrible mess in 3-D, here in my blog it's nice to gloss over that heartbreak. Kind of ignoring the broken spine in favor of bitching about a chipped fingernail.
|
