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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, pumpkincrumbs.
They Call Me Cayenne Pepper Pants 12-October-2005 2:44 a.m.
Hi. It's the middle of the night and I should be in bed. I am tired as hell. Here I sit with a glass of water and my Trader Joe's spearmint lip balm, holding my kyanite, which for some reason I am able to hold and still manage to type. I am just sleepy enough to think that sounds perverted. This could be a rather poor attempt to seduce you.
I am leaving for Canada soon enough. There are approximately thirty-two million things I have to do before that day, and forty-seven thousand items to purchase. I am more than certain at this late hour that I need the $18 bottle of non-toxic nail polish I mentioned however many entries back, so that the lovely people of Canada will enjoy my subtly-coloured fingernails. I think I'm just really excited to go after not going anywhere all these years. I want to feel beautiful. I bought warm soft pink gloves.
And some new bras. There was a poster of some blonde brassiere-clad model in that section. Her teeth were so blindingly white they scorched holes in my retinas. I told her to fuck off as I walked past, feeling my way as I went so as not to bump into anything in my new blindness. Sometimes there is no controlling one's language in matters such as these—certain acts of profanity must be committed. Especially in a world where normal, healthy tooth colour has been replaced by something unnatural.
Wow, I really am tired. I lifted one of the wood slats to peer out the window because I thought I heard something, and the lamp on the table reflected on the window glass giving the illusion that the lamp was setting on the sidewalk on the other side of the street. The first thing I thought was Oh, there's the lamp across the street. And then I wondered briefly how it got there. At this point I should probably pour myself a drink and write important letters.
I was looking for something in the toolbox the other day, and after happening upon this giant screw I actually said out loud to no one, "Wow, that's the mother of all screws," because this needed to be uttered into the atmosphere, to venture forth into the unknown and live forever. Sound goes on forever, you know. I learned that in Biology. That's sort of sad now that I think of it. Somewhere there is the sound of me repeating some rather unfortunate words aimed at myself. I wonder how many times I have said I'm ugly? Or worthless? Or stupid? How many times have I called myself a loser? Jesus. Countless. We spit words out like watermelon seeds and think they mean nothing. But words can shape a whole life.
I have been giving myself permission to be free of this fucky illness. It seems to be having an agreeable effect on me. I'm sprouting tentacles. And the pain is not screaming in my face like some bratty, demanding dramabitch. It's still there but it is quieter inside my body at the moment, with the exception of the old Bakelite radio I have shoved up my butt.
Martha Stewart made me type that.
I don't feel like spilling the contents of my heart right now. It's all jumbled at the moment anyway. So, what can I tell you? I love inside pockets. I love them so much it's stupid. When I had my very first jacket with those inside beauties, I would put my little hands inside my coat to touch the pockets, sometimes stuffing them into those heavenly pockets with quiet jubilation. I am a million years older now and still get just as happy to see those secret pockets that can hold a variety of very secret objects. My new warm black vest has an inside pocket. I think I squealed when I saw it.
A few entries back I mentioned that the battery cover broke on my new Canon Powershot A95 digital camera. It just wouldn't open. My mom and I took a 45 minute drive down to an authorized service center to have it repaired so I wouldn't have to mail it to the service center across the country, only to discover there was nothing wrong with it. I just didn't know how to open the fucker. So, if you've Googled something about your A95 battery cover not opening and have found your way here, before you panic and throw it in the trash or mail it off to Canon's service center in Illinois, hold the camera upside-down so that the words on the battery cover ("Batt. Open") are facing you. Move the lever to the right and slide the cover toward you. It won't just open on its own like it did when there were no batteries inserted; you have to slide it.
Hey, I can't be the only one who's going to think it's broken when it doesn't just open easily. Please don't let me be the only one...
It's that time again. Here are a few noteworthy things people were looking for on the internet that brought them here. Enjoy.
attaching tracks to your hair I've heard this can keep the train from derailing in some cases, but it's plenty painful once the train's in motion.
my boobs smell I found myself somewhat concerned for this person's dilemma, not having smelly boobs myself and therefore never having to try to figure out a solution. I asked my friend what the hell could make a boob smell and she said, "Underneath." And then I remembered that some women have big boobs—so big in fact that stuff can be tucked underneath them and carried in this fashion, very much like secret pockets. And maybe that secret area can get to smelling. I don't know. My friend could carry one or two of those heavy, vintage Swingline metal staplers under each breast, so I'm guessing she knows what she's talking about. I think anyone with boob smell would be likely to find some lovely talc-free powder useful. Good luck to you.
What year did Lifesaver's Candy come out? The year after Ellen did.
how did the "question mark" get its shape? A fishing trip gone strangely awry.
the yard spoon bathroom To me this sounds like some pompous British home improvement magazine published by Eleanor Yard and Minerva Spoon, England's foremost home improvement mavens. Personally, I love the Yard-Spoon service porch.
body odor smells like crap Well, sometimes crap smells like boob.
spider on my face reading Spiders are big readers. Was he reading his own little book or peering at yours? If it's the latter, what were you reading at the time? Should you want to avoid opportunistic reading spiders, read Oprah's magazine.
is helen mirren sexy Yes.
sexy part of the body of womens boobs Eh?
highway to hell tub This goes hand-in-hand with the "Hells Bells" pedestal sink.
how do I stop cats from crapping on my lawn Dig up your lawn. Now they'll just be crapping on your dirt, so no worries.
huge boobs crush children - film at eleven.
boobs so big it hurts your head Hey, that secret pocket area underneath is for staplers and wallets and keys and stuff. Don't put your head in there.
tits fall out Sometimes they do. Not mine, however, thanks to Velcro. But I have a tracking device just in case.
Quote From My World
"So few people shut the fuck up long enough to know what they really like or want or even care about."
-The Lovely Bea
Well, I'm off to rock my own Casbah. I'll have to remember to close the curtains this time. Thanks for reading.
Linda
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