|
© 2004-2008 Linda Escaip
"I may be grumpy, but I like you."
|
The Suns and Moons of the Grumpiest Girl in the Room.
Welcome to my journal, cupcake.
Never Sing For A Maniac (Unless You Have A Good Comeback) 7-Nov-2004 6:31 p.m.
I haven't had a cold in over four years. Until now. The back of my throat looks like I ate hot coal for lunch and maybe washed it down with some rubbing alcohol. I sat on the couch earlier, turned on the TV and ended up watching a movie called Anything But Love, which has another title according to the IMDB: Standard Time. Andrew McCarthy was in it, which was the reason I stayed on that channel. I've liked him since Class.
So, the lead actress and co-writer of this musical movie struck me as a talented woman, but I must talk about her teeth for a minute because, after all, I am the Tooth Dick (that's detective to you, pervert). She has bright red hair and a unique beauty about her that I found refreshing: she doesn't look like everyone else. Her name is Isabel Rose, and she has pale skin and freckles to go along with her red mane. But she did something crazy with her teeth: she apparently dipped them in bleach and left them there for a month or two. She has some good size teeth to begin with, so you can imagine how her teeth, being about a million shades whiter than her skin, sort of demand all your attention when she smiles. I would have enjoyed some coffee stains, I am not kidding. If she were a friend of mine, I'd be constantly inviting her over for coffee, tea, and red wine. I am still wondering what people are doing to their teeth. White teeth would never make me like a person more, just like average-colored or stained teeth would never make me like them less. But that's just me. I also quite enjoy teeth that aren't perfectly aligned. I love Steve Buscemi's teeth. And Cher's original teeth, which I think Patricia Arquette somehow inherited.
I just sneezed on the keyboard. I'm trying not to blow my nose every three minutes because I don't want to end up with one of those headaches that can happen from doing that, and the watery stuff in my nose is making my nose tickle like the dickens. (Not like Charles Dickens, in case you were worried.)
The other day my friend and I were eating Chinese food, and as is customary after eating Chinese food, I cracked open my fortune cookie. It was empty. What does that mean? So, I made up my own damn fortune. Apparently I'm going to win an Oscar and fly successfully to the moon in my homemade tin can rocket. It's the best fortune I've ever received, that's for sure.
I am needed in the kitchen to sample some gingerbread cake. Far be it from me not to be present when I am needed. I'm back. The cake was a hit and I'm just glad I was able to enjoy it while I still have taste buds. Colds are cruel to those little buggers.
I have a couple topics I really want to write about, but I think I'll wait until I feel better. Until then, please allow me to talk about nothing in particular. Screw it; I have to mention this one thing. No, it's gone, flew right over my head taking my award-winning wig with it.
I need to go somewhere with this. I'm going to just choose a topic and hope I can keep up. OK, I opened up a book (which happened to be the dictionary), closed my eyes and pointed to a word. The word my finger landed on was coiffeur, which is French for a male hairdresser. That's what I'm going to write about. Even if I fall off my chair.
I am not certain I have ever had my hair cut by a French male hairdresser. I have a few times had my hair cut by a half-French female non-hairdresser. Does that count? I suddenly feel queer and left out. I have never before said that I feel queer. I'm going to have to insert this into everyday conversation and delight in the looks I'll get. "I'm feeling ever so queer. Can you tell me where I might find the ladies' lavatory?" This is a sentence to say to the most stuck-up employee of any given establishment.
So, I'm guessing one would be likely to stumble upon a French male hairdresser in France, or Montreal. I have never been to either place but would very much like to go. I have been on 6 planes in my life. I wonder when I'll board the seventh. I don't know what else to say about French male hairdressers, other than a certain percentage of them are probably quite lovely fellows. I'm going to make it a goal of sorts to eventually have my hair cut by one of them. I'll let you know when that happens.
I shall now share with you one of my feistiest moments. I was a teenager at the time, as was my sister, and on this particular morning our parents were away somewhere. It was either the weekend or during the summer—I don't remember. The time was a little before nine in the morning when my sister rushed into my room screaming, "Linda! Linda! There's a guy trying to break in through the bathroom window!" I jumped out of bed and ran with her to the bathroom where we saw his silhouette moving about in a menacing fashion. Let's face it, when someone is screwing with your window, it's sinister. I marched to the front door like an army of me and watched this young guy standing on our porch chair, trying to remove the window screen. Colossal anger swelled inside my heart, and I made a fist and banged like a lunatic on the front door, screaming at him to get the fuck away from my house. He looked at the door with an I've-just-crapped-my-pants sort of look, jumped off the chair and started running. I flung open the door and took after him, promising to remove all his parts if he ever came back. He never did.
Now I shall share with you one of my wimpiest moments. Eleventh grade tryouts for Theatre Arts Workshop. I sang "It's Only A Paper Moon" and used this prerecorded music that had a faint melody track. It was recorded for one of the first home karaoke machines and all the recordings for that machine were done that way in case the person attempting to sing them didn't know the melody. After auditions were over, the drama teacher and the choir teacher, who had really similar last names, met with each kid upstairs in the lighting booth to go over their audition. I had been in the class the year before and didn't see a problem getting in again. I climbed the steps when it was my turn and sat where they told me to sit.
The drama teacher said a few nice things. The choir teacher did not. He proceeded to reprimand me for using the ridiculous music I had used—nobody uses music with the melody being played at the same time; that is simply wrong. How dare I use that sort of accompaniment! Am I an idiot? Who the hell do I think I am? I thought of all the other kids, some who sang a cappella, some who sang along to warped tapes of terrible, out of tune piano accompaniment. My head was spinning. The choir teacher looked insane; his eyes were oily and crazed. He was spitting as he talked loudly to me without kindness. The entire class heard the commotion, and no one knew quite what to do with this disturbance. I walked down the steps, crestfallen, tears streaming down my face. It felt as if someone had just chopped off my head and handed it to me. I wish I had said something other than, "I'm sorry." What the holy fuck was I apologizing for? I later learned that he was angry and bitter because I would not join the choir class. He had called me names to other students because I was not interested in taking his class. He retired after that year, a decision that was obviously way overdue.
You should probably know that right before I leave the house, I often decide I look like a freak. It's a form of anxiety or something, like since I'm going to be faced with the possible judgment of others, I don't look good enough to leave the house. I have asked questions like, "do I look like a man?" and "am I the ugliest girl you've ever seen?" and "does this outfit make me look like an asshole?" But the following quote is by far the weirdest thing I have ever said during this strange occurrence. The middle question was posed by the innocent bystander of this insanity.
Quote From My World
"Oh my God, I feel like I look totally Frankenstein-ish."
"What does that mean?"
"Like, heavy, weird eye."
I just got a really big kick out of that all over again. I hope you enjoy my mortifying little confessions. Thanks for reading.
Linda
|
|
