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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, toonce-packet.
Writing To You From Eastern Squid Time 08-December-2005
Has this ever happened to you? You go into the bathroom to pee, and once you've finished with that, probably just before you flush, you find yourself momentarily alarmed, thinking Oh my God, there is something horribly wrong with—oh yeah, we had asparagus for dinner. I do it every time. And then I remember. Please know what I'm talking about, otherwise this paragraph is going to make me sound like a lunatic.
Speaking of lunatics...
Killers are usually said by their neighbours to have been quiet. "Oh, he always kept to himself. Never bothered anyone." When the hell are we going to hear about the serial killer who was gregarious, ever-present, and super chatty? You know the guy, always wandering over with his can of Coors, wanting to know what you're working on there in the garage and if you need a hand. He needs a cup of sugar from time to time, asks to borrow your garden clippers, brings over the coupon section of the newspaper for you because he doesn't use them and knows you do because you have that darling hand-painted coupon caddy in the kitchen. He waters his lawn more than anyone else in the neighbourhood, never leaves his trash bins out more than an hour after the trucks have visited, always displays his flag on national holidays, and walks lemons from his tree over to Mrs. Schultz across the street, so she can make that wonderful lemonade of hers when he visits in the evening a few nights a week for their porch swing chats.
No more boring old serial killers who keep to themselves.
Hey, remember that song "Kiss Me" from the 80s by Stephen Tin Tin Duffy? My friend was singing it lightly, and then I started singing it under my breath, and I don't believe I ever paid attention to the lyrics before that moment.
Kiss me with your mouth Your love is better than wine
Kiss me with your... mouth. That's like saying "Lick me with your tongue." Or "finger me with one or more of those projections on your hand." Now, before you get all up in arms and start calling in the nuns, I meant lick as in lick my arm and I meant finger as in indicate me or finger me as a suspect, like in a police lineup when I've done something terribly wrong, such as typing the phrases "lick me" and "finger me" in my family-friendly area here.
(Hi, Mom.)
I went to Amazon.com to pick up a couple of books, and while there I checked to see if An Angel At My Table had been released yet on DVD. If you haven't seen this wonderful film about the life of the ever-lovely New Zealand author Janet Frame, consider renting it sometime. I discovered that the Criterion folks had an offering of that film for $35.99, so I put it in my basket. And then I went back to see when the regular, less expensive DVD release would be available. Here's what Amazon had to say about that.
Availability: This title will be released on December 31, 1969. You may order it now and we will ship it to you when it arrives.
What I'm thinking is that with inflation, assuming this really is 2005, the regularly-priced DVD from 1969 probably costs far more now than the seemingly pricey Criterion release. Therefore, I think it was a wiser decision to buy the thirty-six dollar one. Of course, it is possible that we're back in the '60s again (or still), so the fact that there is some adult subject matter in the film leads me to believe there is no way my mom would let me watch that movie in 1969, since I would be under the age of one. And at that age, I don't think I would even know I had that movie in my collection, or what a collection even was. Listen, I don't want to talk about it anymore.
What else? One night not too long ago when I was in sincere need of sleep and avoiding it for unknown reasons, I was looking at my site stats (because that's what you do when you should be in bed), and on the line where it displays the time zone of a particular visitor, I swear it read "Eastern Squid Time." And I was so close to falling over on the keyboard that the first thing I thought was man, they must live in the middle of the ocean.
I have a mondegreen for you. Mondegreens are misheard song lyrics, and if you feel like it, you can click that link to read about them in a brief article by Gavin Edwards.
This one shows up in the Berlin song "The Metro".
I was on a Paris train I emerged in London rain And you were waiting there Swimming through a pile of cheese.
This is where I have to worry about myself: that song has been around since the '80s and I just realized this error yesterday. Yesterday. Who swims through a pile of cheese, ever? But we're going to find that in a song where some lady who takes a train from Paris to London is greeted by someone who is swimming in cheese? I never questioned this insanity until yesterday. God, I wonder what else needs a closer glance in my life? The someone she met at the train station was swimming through apologies. And rightfully so, for greeting her smelling like cheese.
I am willing to bet that not everyone receives an email with the subject title "can i eat you" (with nothing in the email body). But I got one. So, I wrote back: Sure. Give me directions. Pay for gas? I was kidding, of course. I don't mind paying for gas. I recall reading about a man who would place ads somewhere (the internet, maybe), asking for volunteers wanting to be eaten. Really eaten. And people answered his ads. They would eagerly show up, join him in an hors d'oeuvre of their own arm or whatever, and then he would kill them and really dig in. You know what this means, don't you? Somewhere in the world, two people amicably agreed upon killing and being killed (and eaten), while somewhere else in the world, two people couldn't agree on what colour to paint the dining room.
Some months back, a guy sent me an email to tell me I was a loser. In fact, he told me that as far as losers go, he thinks I take the cake. Which isn't such a bad thing, considering my love of cake. What prompted him to send me that email was something I had written in the Loo:
I like to tear the wings off Kotex maxi pads. I hope that doesn't mean I'm going to grow up to be a serial killer.
What it made me wonder is what's worse? Placing the phrase serial killer in a sentence that contains no horror or ill intent, or calling someone a loser? While he may have had a personal experience with someone being murdered, I have had a personal experience of being called a loser repeatedly by someone I care about. I didn't seek him out and force those two sentences from the Loo on him; he found them and contacted me and called me a loser for something I had written that he personalized. It's crazy how many people are running about, reckless and screwy, lacking the ability to take responsibility for themselves.
There was a bit of drama here a few minutes ago. My cat, Julian, is the Traveling Spazzy Barfer. Similar to the Galloping Gourmet from the popular late '60s television series, save for the fact that Julian doesn't do any cooking on his show. What he does is travel whilst barfing, instead of conveniently staying in one spot where you would find just the one area in need of cleanup. Instead you are treated to several. When we bought this house and chose wood floors over carpet, we figured it would be much easier to clean up hairballs and other assorted goodies. And it is. But Julian will clearly have none of this ease in floor maintenance. He works it so that he pukes on anything he can reach within the time allotment. Moments ago he barfed all over the vacuum. I lack the arrogance to believe he will never puke on my head.
Quote From My World
"I can't seem to ever remember that guy's name. Russell? No, that's not it. Maybe it's Cleveland. I don't think that's it either."
"Is it Cletus? Wait, how'd you go from Russell to Cleveland?"
"By bus."
Thank you to everyone who sent or thought well wishes for my cat Sidney. She is feeling much better. (That is an image of her up there at the top of the page.)
Well, I'm off to salvage what's left of the wig that suffered a fate worse than death when I wore it skydiving last month. And to think, I was going to wear that one to the high school reunion I will never attend. Thanks for reading.
Linda
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