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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, angelcrumbs.
Stuff In The Key Of Pink 08-Feb-2005 7:07 a.m.
I have a bit of a beef with Mensa card number 18 from the Mensa Riddles and Conundrums cards I received for my birthday. Seventy-five riddles and conundrums, to be exact. Number 18's riddle was apparently designed to either make you feel like an idiot or it was constructed by an angry Mensa puzzle expert who was getting to the point with Mensa where she was bloody sick and tired of the whole genius bullshit, so decided to throw in something that would inform the person attempting to solve this particular conundrum that Mensa was now just making shit up. Allow me to illustrate.
Well, I guess the expert Mensa puzzle creator wasn't hip to what really happened that day. See, this guy named Kip got a car (a really nice used 1981 Datsun 280ZX) for his 18th birthday, a month before he and his family were leaving for a two-week stay in the south of France, a trip his sister had won in some radio station call-in contest. During that month he gave all of his friends rides in his car, and even let some drive it. Drew Kramer got a little over-zealous in an empty grocery store parking lot the night before Kip's family was to leave for Europe, and drove over a cement planter, which caused the car to go slightly out of alignment. He had been thinking about Cami Butler, the captain of the Spelling Club, who he found to be a total babe. Anyway, he promised to fix it and even cherry it out a little, because he was good that way (or so he said). Drew dropped Kip off at home that evening and took the car back to his place, where he intended to repair it and do some cherrying, and then return the car to Kip's driveway in a few days.
The next morning he got out his Van Halen tapes and took a ride in Kip's car. He had no frigging idea how to realign a vehicle, so he figured he would drive over another planter and see if it would put things back in balance. He drove around town listening to his music. He stopped by the auto store and bought some cheap decals he thought he would affix to the doors or the hood later. He drove over another planter and, as far as he was concerned, it did the trick. Satisfied, he stopped at the park to watch a bunch of teenage girls play softball for a few hours. After the game, he noticed what appeared to be a bag of pot beneath the car, so he got down on the ground and inched his way under the Datsun. Having an extremely thin physique and a freakishly small head made this an easy task. To his delight it was indeed a bag of pot, but sadly, a second after this confirmation, Drew had a brain aneurysm, the poor fellow. The coroner pocketed the dime bag when no one was looking.
Now, I ask you, how is it this explanation escaped the Mensa people? After all, are they not the ones who would know? I think it's safe to say you can't trust a genius when it comes to the details of a mysterious death. I can just hear the conversation that most likely took place down at the Mensa office, or wherever it is they gather for the making of these cards.
"Did you find out why the man died under the car? We need an answer to number 18."
"No, no, I didn't. I was out solving insane and rather pointless math equations while I silently judged all the stupid people."
"Well, damn. We do need an answer, and I haven't the foggiest, since I'm still trying to work out Martha's riddle about the farmer and the three-dollar debt. Do you suppose we could write just any old thing?"
"Yes, of course. They won't know the difference. Make up a story about a mechanic and a faulty jack. No need to check any facts. Martha who? Oh, good lord, the brunette with the great tits? Lovely."
I cleaned out my purse earlier. If you haven't tried that or don't have a purse then you just don't know the joy it brings. I have the cleanest handbag in town, and I'd be willing to bet fat dollars on that. In my wallet I found a business card upon which I had scribbled several notes about a woman I found fascinating a while back. She was seated a few tables away from ours in a restaurant where we were having lunch one afternoon. She was probably in her mid-70s and was ever so perfectly pink. She wore a pink hat with a modest brim atop her head which appeared to sport a crown of white buzz-cut hair. Her shirt, jacket, and pants were all pink, varying in intensity of colour. Flowery pink earrings adorned her ears, complementing the large fluffy pink fabric daisy pinned just beneath her right shoulder. Please understand how much pink was happening there. I wanted to follow her home and see if that pink led to more pink. Maybe the pink went on forever. She chose to contrast her outfit with matching white pumps and handbag, which I thought was a smart choice. In a world where so many people tend to blend in, she sparkled in her pinkness, and I was bewitched and grateful for the pleasure of witnessing it all.
You know, getting back to the subject of purses, I have noticed that no matter how small the purse I choose to carry, I will stuff it with crap until it is far too heavy to maintain a constant ability to carry it without needing assistance. If I could draw, I would sketch for you a picture of what my face probably looks like when I've reached the point of needing a partner in purse-carrying. But screw it, I need my stuff. Earplugs are essential, as is dental floss. Two small flashlights, for when a friend and I are suddenly stranded in the desert (I do picture this), an Olba's Natural Inhaler, small makeup pouch, wallet, small mirror, bandages, alcohol swabs, gum, mints, small notepad, pen, disposable earplugs for others (because I'm a humanitarian—tell your friends), coin purse, tissue pouch, pouch containing small measuring tape and cutting device... You know, that doesn't really sound like all that much crap to me. I just typed out the contents of my purse. A milestone of sorts.
Wouldn't it be great to be able to casually walk outdoors and not have to watch out for thick wads of spit every few feet? What I'm wondering is what the hell goes on inside a man's mouth that he needs to be spitting while he drives, walks, works, whatever. You name it, he's spitting. I have yet to see a woman spit as she walks through a parking lot, or at all for that matter. I wonder what we're missing out on, we women. I might just start spitting and see what happens. Maybe even indoors. I'll keep you posted.
Quote From My World
"Everybody does their best; unless they're one of these psycho killers."
-Mom
Well, I'm off to sit and contemplate the meaning of a breadless existence. I think our pool guy has Tourette's syndrome. He makes these loud, unintelligible sounds. He's also pink and angry, but not the sort of enjoyable pink like the lady I mentioned; more like the sort of pink that worries you. Wow, I just checked, and he is pinker than ever. I hope he's OK. I hope he stops smacking the awning with the net handle. I hope this headache fucks off soon. I hope I win the Oscar for best actress.
Thanks for reading.
Linda
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