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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, my succotash wish.
Pillow Talk, Perverts, And Other Nuggets You Simply Cannot Live (Properly) Without 18-March-2005
I tried to replace my beloved old, flat pillow last night for the fourth time, but things just didn't work out. The three other pillows purchased in the past to replace the old one were abandoned early on like aging hookers. I have had this pillow since my mom bought it for me when I was 16 and it has sort of become part of my sleeping body. It used to have a twin, which sadly was peed upon by a frightened newly-adopted cat. So now there's just the one.
And I have another pillow: the between-the-knees one which keeps my knees from digging into one other in the night (I usually sleep on my side). Knees sometimes quarrel while you sleep and a pillow is a good referee. The reason I have been looking to replace my head pillow is that it is freakishly old for a pillow, and sadly, not washable. I picture the allergens that must surely be mingling with the stuffing and then I have a good idea where to place the blame for waking up congested as hell. Yesterday the fourth replacement attempt was made.
I brought home one soft queen-size down-alternative washable pillow and one king-size medium. The first one was for the head. My old pillow lifts my head about two-and-a-half inches off the mattress; the new one practically places my head near the top of a tall tree. Who sleeps this way? Never mind the height, the pillow made several attempts to swallow my face like a really bad date. And the between-the-knees one, well, I think it's bigger than I am. My leg was like three or four feet above the bed. Not exactly comfort. These pillows are intrusive. My bed last night felt much more like a crowded bar than a comfortable place to rest. It seemed like there was a third person in bed with us, and apparently I am just not that kind of girl. So after a while of wrestling with these puffy intruders, my very old, flat, probably long-dead pillow was retrieved, and all was (semi) right with my world again.
So, last night in Barnes and Noble some guy was stalking me. I had ventured off by myself in search of the reference section. Seems they moved things around since the last time I visited that part of the joint. I walked down a long aisle leading to a section of chairs, which is where I'm guessing people go to sit and bend and just generally fuck up the new books someone like me would prefer to pay for (when those books still look brand new) and read at home. I stopped at one point to read the section signs and felt something creepy crawl over my skin as the person who had been walking behind me passed. I turned to walk in the opposite direction and felt him turn at the same time, so I looked back and made eye contact until he looked away. He appeared unstable and I didn't want him near me.
Wherever I happened to be, he would show up directly, staring relentlessly. Do weird men forget that women have peripheral vision? Good Lord. He would look away quickly when I met his sketchy eyes. There I stood, allowing this guy to make me nervous, which didn't please me. Normally I am a hellcat when it comes to weird, aggressive men; threaten me in any way and I will rip your dick off your body if I have to. But I've been having this dreadful anxiety lately and it got in the way of my usual, "Back the fuck off!" This anxiety causes me to stammer and stutter when I get upset, which frustrates me to no end. Hey, it's a new feature! And everybody knows new features are fun and useful. Thankfully The Lovely Bea found me, stared the guy down once I told her what the pervert had been up to, and all was (sort of) right with my world yet again. Except that I felt nervous all night after that.
And I kept thinking about the women who might have taken that as a compliment. "Oh, he just thought you were pretty!" Hey, following a woman around a store (or wherever) after she has clearly given you one or more unfriendly glances to let you know she's not enjoying whatever it is you're up to, doesn't paint a healthy picture of just some sweet guy who thinks you're attractive. It scratches out a messed-up image of a nutbar. I have never subscribed to the school of thought which considers any-and-all attention from men desirable. Some of it is just plain negative. And some women actually know they are attractive without having to endure a guy staring down their tops or saying crap like, "Man, I could eat a meal off that ass."
I went to the market to pick up a few things. Why are there packages of air fresheners hanging from clips right in front of the feminine hygiene products? Made me want to tear the wings off all the pads in a frenzy. Instead of calling them pads why don't they just call them submarines and assign each one a crew? The little submarine crew could flit about, dramatically spraying air freshener on and around our vaginas to rid the world of our hideous stench.
Why is Breyer's Spongebob Squarepants ice cream necessary in life? There is so much excessive, useless garbage for sale these days. Stuff you'll never need in a billion years. The other night I saw a watermelon purse. Where does all this rubbish end up after no one buys it? Not that I never buy it. After all, I am the proud owner of a gold monkey-head lamp, so what are you gonna do? (Someone keeps googling "monkey-head lamp" and finding my site. And you can't have mine!)
My sister has been taking my nephew, Superboy, to this little school thing. It's like the lead-up to pre-school. Pre-pre-school, I guess. Only here the parents attend as well. At some point the kids are taken out to a playground where they are supervised by some lady while the parents stay inside to have discussion time, presenting some of their concerns to each other and the instructor. One lady had a particularly alarming concern I'll share with you.
"I'm really worried because I can't get my son to drink Coke."
"Why would you want your child drinking Coke in the first place?" the instructor wanted to know. You don't say something this asinine to a woman who cooks organic meals for her dogs and escape without some interrogation.
"Well, his father really likes it and Mikey (or whatever his name is) just doesn't want anything to do with it, and I don't understand."
"OK, so if your husband loved martinis would you offer them to your son?"
"Oh." Bit of a pause. "No. Ooh, I get it."
I spend a good deal of time wondering about this and that. The other day I wondered if anyone would ever shop in a store called Cheaters. This, for some reason, sent me into hysterics. And I wasn't even hitting the cooking sherry. OK, Cooking Sheri would be the best title for a sequel to that Oscar-caliber film Boxing Helena. Speaking of cooking people, someone looked up "fried arm" on the internet the other day and found my Loo notes. So, of course I got the idea it was the ghost of Jeffrey Dahmer, looking for recipes from beyond.
A few minutes ago some guy drove up and tried to deliver a pizza I didn't order. About fifteen minutes prior he had attempted to deliver it to the guy across the street. Obviously the poor guy's lost. And someone is going to get one cold-ass pizza.
My mom says she has two new not-so-fluffy pillows for me to try. Score! I hope they rock. Maybe they have been infused with magic Mom comfort. I wouldn't doubt it.
Quote From My World
"I'm such a pig."
"You are not a pig. Say something nice."
"I'm a lovely pig."
Well, I'm off to listen to some really dramatic, passionate music and have delusions of grandeur about myself, my life, and everything. I love that. Thanks for reading.
Linda
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