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© 2004-2008 Linda Escaip
"I may be grumpy, but I like you."
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The Suns and Moons of the Grumpiest Girl in the Room.
Welcome to my journal, Sasquatch.
I'm Too Sexy For My Wig 19-Dec-2004 4:06 p.m. & 20-Dec-2004 4:12 p.m.
Yeah, so, I don't have a topic. Is that OK? I'm just going to prattle on like some old biddy who's just shined her one remaining tooth and wants to show it off. Here we go.
I should really go out tonight. My hair looks really fucking good. That almost never happens, so I like to savour it when it does occur and share the gloriousness with the world. I thought for sure the spellchecker was going to blow a fuse over the word gloriousness, but apparently it's an authentic word. Who knew? I thought I was bordering on groundbreaking (like all those Showtime series and original movies) by expanding upon an already perfectly good word like glory, and look here, I wasn't groundbreaking at all. Before I am finished with this entry, I fully intend to break some ground. You'll notice, because I'll post signs and stuff.
My neighb (that is the new official way to say neighbour if you want to be regarded as cool), the one I mentioned in this entry who dragged that huge tree branch way out into the street, is actually outside doing some yard work. He has raked himself a nice pile of leaves; I mean, it's a hell of a pile. And now he's picking up the leaves with these two midget-sized devices that resemble rakes and putting the leaves in his bin. But he keeps taking breaks, and the breaks are quite humourous because he looks like he's just loitering on his own lawn.
My lovely friend sent us some homemade peanut brittle and fudge, and I'll be damned if I'm not going to eat the whole thing in under 48 hours. My hair still looks really fuckin' good. What is up with that? I don't want this magic to end.
I am officially falling asleep at the keyboard, which is significantly less dangerous than falling asleep at the wheel. I recommend the former, but only if you have a padded keyboard. The latter is definitely not a good idea.
Yes, I have frozen to death, and you may pay your respects by singing early Barbra Streisand tunes in my memory. Preferably "Stoney End." Yes, definitely that. 'Cause I never wanted to go. Oh, Mama, let me start all o-o-ver... If you don't know the song, right about now you're thinking, what exactly is wrong with this woman? Does she need assistance? Yes, I do. But that is beside the point.
I was just noticing how much I love our cute IKEA lamp, the shapely white glass one with the holes that let out small white dots of light. It's festive. It's making me want to go to bed, but what isn't? Festive lamps can actually double as sleeping aids.
This is what happens when exhaustion has taken over where your sane, well-rested self left off. This is what happens when you insist you must update your journal even if you are in need of a three-day nap. I do all of this for you, you know. Every last word—all for you.
Hi! It's the next day. Thankfully, I got some sleep, but I'm warning you, I'm sleepy again. Madness may ensue.
The fudge is gone, I made sure of that. Far be it from me to leave fudge unattended. There is some peanut brittle left, and I will probably eat that. For dinner. I'm just kidding; we're having cake.
It is so wintery outside. The trees are naked, the sky is a powdery gray. (The spellchecker had a field day with wintery.) I am a total winter pig; I love everything about it. Except my Velcro fingers. That's right, darlings, when the weather changes to a nippy chill, this girl develops Velcro fingers. That's where the pads of your fingers have little bits of dry skin that get caught on stuff like sweaters and silk. A few days ago I was The Fabric Snagger. If I'd been wearing nylon hose, it would have all been over, no kidding. Good thing I don't wear them. The Velcro fingers really put a dent in my reputation as Old Softy Paws.
I so want Don Ho of "Tiny Bubbles" fame to cut an album and title it "Don Ho Gone Mad." Don, if you're reading—please?
Earlier I had the wonderfully whimsical 1974 hit "Midnight At The Oasis" by Maria Muldaur flitting around in my head. "Midnight at the oasis... put your candle away." Other people's lyrics are simply not safe in my head. My brain processes them into complete lunacy. Funbuns informed me that the lyric is "put your camel to bed," which, if you ask me, is way more insane than "put your candle away." Nobody has to tuck in a camel for the evening, but candles cannot put themselves away. Having trouble understanding this information? See page 453 of the handbook.
My chamomile tea is cold. I've had about 47 cups of that delicious shit today. I took a break from my lovely stash of organic chamomile and was drinking this chai tea concoction I lovingly renamed Zit Tea on account of the plethora of zits that were popping up on my forehead. Rude. And the package does not include a proper warning of this calamity. I ditched it and went back to my old standard, and things are back to normal, whatever that is.
I'm just sitting here nodding off, like an old gentleman. In an email the other day, I called my new guy friend "sister." He took it well. It slipped out and I decided to leave it in. It is nice to know there are some men left in the world who won't fall apart when you call them sister. Some guys would probably slug you. Speaking of guys, what's with the new thing they're calling women? Ma? What the hell? I guess it's better than bitch, though. It must be a shortened version of the ever popular "mama" from the 70s. I was too young to have anyone call me mama back then, but it bugged me nonetheless. I was not then, nor am I now, your mother.
My dreams are changing: they are becoming more positive, which is weird yet nice. I periodically have this dream where I am traveling by car or bicycle on a freeway, which often leads to a mountain road or some other road. Sometimes I am alone, sometimes I am accompanied by my mom. I/we get lost every time, and I panic trying to find my way back. At some point there is a crossroads, and inevitably I choose the wrong direction and end up all screwy. The other night when I dreamed this, my mom was with me, and we made our way effortlessly to Arizona. I remember the freeway being more of a long stretch of road as opposed to off ramp after off ramp. And when we ventured back, all I had was a small Post-It note with two brief sentences-worth of directions written by my dad. No sweating, no panic. I got us home without a hitch, instead of being lost in an unfamiliar place like in the other dreams. Very significant, I'd say. I think it means I'm going to win an Oscar. It's good to read too much into things: it puts hair in your mouth.
Quote From My World
"Wanna see a picture of me eating a cracker in the woods? You can pass if you like." -Wondy
Has anyone else ever seen the movie Happy Times? What the hell happened toward the end? It just went terribly wrong, and in my opinion that is the worst movie ending I have ever encountered? The very best being Buffalo '66. I love that ending more than Madonna loves pretending she's English.
I have never met a Bea Arthur impersonator, but I would like to. I heard that back in the days of Maude Vegas was swarming with them. I am enjoying that visual.
You missed it, probably because I forgot to put up the posters, but I was utterly groundbreaking a moment ago. See if you can find just where that took place.
Well, I'm off to fall over, hopefully on a soft surface. Thanks for reading.
Linda
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