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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, toothy.
Return Of The Mutha 27-November-2006
It has officially been a while. Can we pretend I was away filming a movie? Please say yes because I already have a title handy and everything: Lesbian Clown Ladies Who Lunch And Kill And Carry Unforgettable Handbags. Oh, come on, it's a good title. While it sounds like some jacked-up B-movie mess, it's really quite a moving film—ever so shy of maudlin—starring Nicole Kodman (I can explain) and Swoozie Kurtz's formerly unknown half-sister Slotzie Kurtz-Wheeler. It's a stunnin' epic thriller, if you must know, and I directed it with some very special gusto and did it all for love.
Anyway, that's where I've been. The film went straight to video, as all the best do, and can be purchased for the price of a fart and a smile. Please enjoy, and let me know if you think I should carry on with my plans for a black and white claymation sequel.
You know, in the time that I was away from these pages, I discovered a few things about myself and the big world that I would like to share with you now.
I'm certain I made more discoveries, but they escape me at the moment. If I remember more before I saunter away, I'll toss them in like nearly forgotten croutons.
You know what I found on the internet? A woman's hair journal. A journal about her hair and how she's growing it out and whatnot. The whole thing, just hair, hair, hair. Boar bristle brush. Vinegar rinse. Coconut oil. Washing with conditioner. "Washing" without shampoo. Scarf on a windy day. Satin pillowcase—no exceptions. This woman is a hardcore hair coddler and this is her passion. Her journal reads like an English lady's garden diary gone awry.
You wonder what inspires people to do what they do. I'm sure people wonder what the hell gets into my head too. Three or so years ago I decided I wanted to buy some dice. I was cruising eBay for something or other when I happened upon this big fiery orange die. I didn't even know I wanted one (or several) until I saw this one. It was made of some kind of special resin (I honestly don't remember), and the seller made it sound like it was the greatest shit on earth and I'd be a complete idiot for letting someone else buy it. I imagined carrying that larger-than-usual flaming orange die in my pocket, whipping it out at parties. Life would be sweeter, for sure. I had to have it. So, when some unloving bastard swooped in at the last minute and outbid me, I scurried to find another for sale on the Bay of e, which proved fruitless.
And so began my internet search for dice like that one. I don't remember how much time I devoted to it, but if I did, I'd be embarrassed to tell you. That should give you some idea. After finally discovering a site that carried a grand assortment of colours and sizes of glorious, glorious dice, I placed an order for several. Several. And now I am the owner of more dice than any unbelievable lepton could ever possibly require for any reason whatsoever on this earth or beyond. And I don't even know any dice games.
We haven't officially switched on the heater yet here at the villa. The big heater. Central heater? Whatever it's called. Instead I whipped out the ceramic heaters hoping to save a bit of money. (I need more cash for dice.) Those three little Honeywell heaters have been pretty good up 'til now. Today, however, I am a redheaded icicle. You know it's cold when you have to put on a bra. Otherwise you get frostbite of the nipples, leaving your frozen little dears vulnerable to even the slightest brushing of your arm against them, which could cause them to break off and roll away into a corner. Then you'd show up at parties looking totally dejected, and people would say, "Oh my God, what's wrong?" And you, with your pouty, sad face would reply, "I swept up my nipples today." This just illustrates the importance of keeping warm. Tonight I'm firing up the big heater.
The picture at the top features my ultra hot garden clogs and matching pajama pants. Tell me I'm not a garden princess in rusty orange.
You know Winnie the Pooh, right? Well, then you know his catchy namesake song:
Today I was flitting about the house, not very much unlike a sea nymph, cleaning and futzing and such, singing my own version of that tune, which I call Winnie the Slouch. And for some reason every time I reached the world slouch I was thrown into hysterical laughter. Just typing "Winnie the Slouch" gives me more joy than even that one orgasm that made me involuntarily utter "Oh my God in heaven" twice in a language that has yet to be discovered.
Another discovery I made was that this journal is more beneficial than I realized. It's a good creative and emotional outlet, and without it, I've been a bit nuttier than usual. Sort of like a heaping handful of almonds or oily pepitas, but with more nut. So, I look forward to updating more regularly. (Now's your chance to run.)
Quote From My World
"Ice cream is like meat; you're just supposed to have a little."
-spoken by someone whose arm was getting tired of scooping
I have more heartfelt stuff to write, but I'll save that for next time. I just wanted to quickly update because the longer I waited, the bigger it seemed. You know what I mean. Well, I'm off to entertain the pervert I live with. Thanks for reading.
Linda
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Did you know you can buy anti-bacterial pens?
This is, I'm guessing, good for people who like to lick their writing
utensils. Or
sift through poop with them. Who doesn't? If ever you've
purchased one or more of these germ-free beauties, please report to me
immediately. I want to give you a nice warm hug, hand you a Jolly Rancher or a Coffee Nip, put a smudge of dirt
on your clothes and tell you to just live your life.
