:: Wednesday, December 31, 2003 ::
The Last Post of the Year:: Tuesday, December 30, 2003 ::
AND I STOLE IT!
Because my damnslut muse is on vacation, from fridayfive.org...
1. What was your biggest accomplishment this year?
Obviously I'm going to say the media coverage of SCU (God, I love you so hard, HFS!), but to be specific it's having The Daily Star call us "cheeky". Also all the idiot journalists who wanted SCU merchandise, even though that was clearly a joke. C.L.A.S.S.I.C.
2. What was your biggest disappointment?
Not winning the lottery. Duh.
3. What do you hope the new year brings?
I'd like to move to a house that isn't 200+ years old, maybe even something with an actual yard.
4. Will you be making any New Year's resolutions? If yes, what will they be?
Well clearly I'm not going to buy any feminine hygiene products marked "super" again. I've remembered why that's such a bad idea.
5. What are your plans for New Year's Eve?
Speaksy. Rum. Uncle Ralph's chocolate chip brownies. Pajamas.
So, pretty much my strategy for 2003...and 4.
Thanks to all of you for a most excellent year! *Clink* to the new one!
Much love,
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 3:42 PM [+] ::
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Ah. Now I Get It...:: Monday, December 29, 2003 ::
As some of you know, one of my majors in college was creative writing. It did not, however, count; you see, I spent all my time writing this maudlin poetry about absofuckinglutely nothing. It would never have occurred to me to write something like this - or, in fact, like anything else I've written in the past year.
Oh, we had some good times. The only class I remember very well was the one where I was drunk a lot of the time. The professor made us do these "creativity exercises", in which you pulled a random item (like a piece of chalk or some rope) out of a bucket and took twenty minutes to write about it. Creatively. Of course.
What can one say about chalk if one is not plastered?
Not much.
So that was good.
But mostly I wrote about how very hard it was to be me, captain of the dance team, locked away in a sorority house with marble floors where I studied my way to an A- GPA (with, really, very little studying to be done because I am an excellent test-taker) and watched 90210 every week with 88 of my closest friends. I guess I thought "artists" were supposed to suffer for their art, and bad hair days would just have to count.
It took nearly a decade of not writing a word, followed by a year of writing every day, for me to realize the truth: it is not the life, but the art that makes you suffer.
Welcome to my Pit of Self-Loathing and Anxiety over the fact that it is now 8:28pm EST and I'm just now getting around to blogging. About nothing.
Eh. Seinfeld did it.
Cheers!
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 8:33 PM [+] ::
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JLaF Redux: Menstrual Juliet's Big Transparent Menstrual Shopping Bag:: Sunday, December 28, 2003 ::
The day started with a handful of Advil in my coat pocket and a very bad vibe.
Oh, yes.
It seems all that sleeping in has reset my body's cycle. Imagine my dismay.
So, I spent the first forty-five minutes of my lunch hour driving around the countryside with the seat heater cranked up in a sort of giant heating pad kind of way.
Then it was on to CVS for an emergency supply run, which is where I picked up Marlin Perkins and a Mutual of Omaha whispered voiceover:
Here we find the female of the species stalking her prey. Watch as she appears to ignore her target; her eyes flit over the shelves seemingly at random as she picks up a pink hair bow, waits a few seconds, then puts it back in favor of a black one. She does not look directly at her target, but it is ever within her sight as she formulates her final plan of attack. When she believes her plan to be complete and the aisle clear, she abandons the hair accessories and quietly backs into the section she needs, turning toward it only at the very last second.
With the precision taught by her forebears, the female rips her packages from the shelves and dashes for the relative safety of the register.
But there is a problem: a line of elderly males has formed at the only counter available, which is staffed by a young male. There appear to be no other females in the entire store. The female retreats, her face a mixture of uncertainty and fear. She shifts one package under her arm and slips back toward the aisle to hide her spoils behind a rack of Barney DVD's and a Duracell display. And there she waits.
And waits.
And waits.
And while she waits, she thinks about the meaning of the word "super" and hopes it does not communicate a judgment regarding her moral fiber. It certainly does not mean "wonderful".
At last, when the register is clear, she approaches it with some trepidation; while the senior tour has ended, the male at the counter remains. The female presents her spoils:
One package of ultra-thin maxis with wings
One package of Tampax Pearls, regular
One package of Tampax Pearls, super
One tube of anti-perspirant
"I'm having a bad day," she quips to the blushing male, who dutifully, silently loads the items into a white plastic bag. The female, having finally succeeded in her quest, bolts for her car.
Where she is presented with a new dilemma: the bag is almost transparent, and any passersby in the company parking lot will surely be able to see the items through it during the afternoon.
A frantic search of the immediate interior of the car yields an umbrella. The female attempts to use it to cover the bag, thereby ensuring her purchases will not be seen. However, the umbrella repeatedly slides off the slick plastic, back to the floor of the car. The female is discouraged and once again besieged by panic. She flips the seat heater to "high" and dry-swallows a handful of Advil.
At last, a solution presents itself in the form of a blue Wal-Mart bag she finds under the driver's seat. By double-bagging the items AND covering the lot with her umbrella she is somewhat assured that her terrible secret will not be discovered.
SHE HAS HER PERIOD!
This has been Marlin Perkins for Mutual of Omaha; actual filming was conducted by my assistant Jim due to the extremely dangerous nature of this assignment.
I swear, the whole time this was going on I was thinking, I WROTE THE MANIFESTO ON THIS! I WILL NOT BE ASHAMED! I WILL NOT LET MY READERS DOWN!
Fuck that. This was mortifying.
And you ask yourselves, why didn't she buy out the store of mops and cleaners and dog food to hide her real mission? BECAUSE OF YOU PEOPLE! I promised I would be bold, and I challenged you to be bold, so how could I turn into a mass of crampy hypocrisy in the face of danger?
IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT!!!
Wait.
IT'S ALL BEST BUY'S FAULT!!!
Wow. I actually feel a lot better now.
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 10:26 PM [+] ::
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I'm BACK!:: Thursday, December 25, 2003 ::
Not that you would have noticed I was gone, but still.
Note to reader: go back up your important files RIGHT NOW. I'll wait.
Done? Good. Because I'd hate for you to suffer the uncertainty and general confusion caused by a massive hard drive failure and potential loss of everything you've ever written, created, saved or generally liked, including your links.
I would also hate to see you go into a Best Buy store for ANY REASON UNDER THE SUN. On their suggestion we purchased a $200 batch of software that, had they not been money-grubbing fuckwits, we could have gotten free by calling Microsoft. Found that out after calling to see if we could return said software because by that point we could hardly get the D drive open to use it. Random tech said, aw, I'm really sorry the guy told you to buy that. He lead you WRONG.
But you still can't have your money back.
So I'm going to go to Best Buy later and personally tell every single customer in the computer section that this store will fuck you in every possible way, every chance they get, and they'd be far better off going to their cousin Ernie's house and taking their chances with bootleg software and homemade computers with thrift store salvaged parts.
Really.
Even if Ernie does pick his nose the whole time like he did when you were kids.
Fortunately for me we were able to salvage a lot, and had other things backed up elsewhere. Otherwise I'd either be sans computer altogether due to violence, or scraping up bail money after being thrown out of Best Buy, also due to violence.
Pepper spray would have been a good gift.
Anyway, hope your adventures this holiday have been less stressful than mine! Although if Ernie was doing his thang too close to the dessert table I hope you had the good sense to steer clear of the cookies. People like that NEVER use the tongs.
Hugs!
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 2:07 PM [+] ::
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"No wonder I'm afraid of the 'It's a Small World' ride at Disney." - Speaksy:: Tuesday, December 23, 2003 ::
Merry Christmas, and welcome to my recap of World Idol 2003! I am so far out of practice at this that by the end of the two hours, that garish 80s video-feel actually seemed normal. I should probably find something else to watch for a bit to reset myself or something, but there just isn't time. In fifteen minutes the memory of this hellation will self-destruct.
Please, oh please.
But before it does, let's meet Ant & Dec! I was calling them Dant until Speaksy came in and asked if I was watching LOTR - again.
So, Hobbits with Seven Shades of Brown Between Them it is.
Eleven contestants. Eleven judges. Extreme hair fuck. And a flip-off to my homeland. (Word to H7SBBT: If we start riots over our favorite sports teams, what makes you think we'll be sweet about digs on our nation? Just sayin'.)
SING, dammit!
01 - Germany's Alexander - Maniac
This man narrowly beat out Daniel the she-boy, so obviously he's going to wear wrist bands and sequins. It's probably a law or something. And that flash crap behind him is interfering with my buzz.
Oh, right: I'm drinking! I've learned a lot over the last year about my tolerance for bad singing. So, beer.
02 - Australia's Guy (no, really, that's his name) - Wonderful World
Next week on MTV's Celebrity Death Match: Corey Clark v. Louis Armstrong! Dude, rub some Vicks on that. Nasal is sooo last year.
03 - Canada's Ryan - He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother
IT'S CHER! It IS! I swear! If you close your eyes and hold your nose, he's a dead ringer, I'm telling you! Well, maybe Cher possessed by the spirit of Carmen Rasmussen, which brings harm to everyone.
Blame Canada.
04 - Holland's Jamai - Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word
Well, learn to say it well clone boy. Apparently I am not the boyband fetishist I thought I was, or else I might have halfway enjoyed this trip down Mediocrity Way.
Where's that Maniac kid? I miss him!
05 - South Africa's Heinz - I Don't Want to Miss a Thing
Well, he's very pretty, but I couldn't help reminiscing a little about getting felt up on the dance floor at the junior prom the year the committee sold frozen cabbage to pay for the band.
I think I'll stop drinking now.
06 - Poland's Alex - I Don't Know How to Love Him
NOOOOO!!!! How the hell did SALLY get in??? And why is she wearing moon boots? MY EYES!!!
Five seconds to impact... four... three... two... PFFT! Beer. I know I said I wouldn't, but come on.
07 - The Arabic Diana - noclueintheuniverse
This chick has a beautiful voice but I have no idea if she's sharp or flat or what. This song is making me think about resurrecting my dream of being a contortionist, though...
I dug it.
08 - Our very own Kelly Clarkson - Natural Woman
Glad to see they've surgically removed her hand from her stomach, but the gangsta look has got to go. Still, she's ours, and she's wonderful!
Brief interlude to check out the five worst auditions, just to remind everyone that no matter what the contest is Americans always score the top spot. Course.
09 - Belgium's Peter - The Yeah Song
Been there, done that about a thousand times today on satellite radio. Next.
10 - UK's Will - Light My Fire
I'm sure the flames in the background were not intended to be funny, but good God they were! Fortunately they served as a marvelous distraction for how downright creepy this whole thing was. Ick to the Mickey Mouse Club situation.
Why? Because somebody had to win Pop Idol last year.
11 - Norway's Curt - Beautiful Day
Yet again, we already have that voice with a prettier bow on top. Peter and Curt should get some Best Buy gift cards to stock up on what's been done so they can find some new kind of "real" to be.
In summary, wow. I'm kinda mean! I guess since we don't have the benefit of months and months of these kids' personalities to make us like them we have to judge them purely on what we saw here tonight. You know, more like real life and less like real TV? And here's my upshot: Kelly.
But I can't vote for her. So: Diana.
Because who the hell knows if it was all that good or not, but at least we know she's unique.
Have a wonderful evening everyone! Cheers!
Juliet
Speaksy: So who won?
Me: We won't know...
Speaksy: Ever?
:: happy hour begins at 10:45 PM [+] ::
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Things to do on your Holiday Vacation:: Monday, December 22, 2003 ::
1. Set your alarm clock, the one with a four-minute snooze, for 6:45am. Set your other alarm, the one with an eight-minute snooze, for 7. Play "slap left, slap left, slap right," until 9am. Wonder why your alarm clocks never last very long.
2. Run out of Equal packets and rummage around in your junk drawer, without your glasses/contacts, for any old packets you may have thrown in there over the last decade. Briefly ponder the nature of the dust at the bottom of the drawer before settling on a crushed-up candy cane of uncertain vintage.
3. Watch any of the three LOTR movies more than twice in one sitting.
4. Lose your car keys.
5. Ask someone to tell you the story of Christmas, including the following elements: Jon Voight, the city of Cleveland, spurs and turkeys.
I've only been on vacation one day, and look at all I've accomplished! I'm sure if you put your mind to it you'll be able to fulfill all the aforementioned requirements for the perfect holiday before the new year rings. I'll check up on your progress in a few days.
Until then, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanza and just general merriment all around!
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 11:40 PM [+] ::
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I seeeee yooouuuu:: Saturday, December 20, 2003 ::
"I'm all out of love, I'm so lost without you!!!"
Let me tell you, this Air Supply CD is WAY worse than Britney.
So my shoeless, pajama'd self is rolling on the floor over the activities of her visitors today. You know I get all sorts of fun referrals from google/yahoo/about.com searches, but today's cache was a veritable wonderland of fucking off at work.
I love it.
totally+faboo
If you have to ask, you aren't.
rock+band+whitestrips
I have this pants-peeing vision of those dancing California raisins from the 80s wearing KISS wigs and peddling Crest products.
Rock. On.
lap+dancing+is+uncleanness
I'm pretty sure the Amish aren't supposed to surf the internet, yet there she is in her bonnet feeding dollar bills into one of those mall access stations. I wonder if the guy searching just+completely+fucking+insane was at the terminal next to hers, and if so, which one gawked at the other longer.
Oh, wait - "I'm reaching for you, are you feeling it, too?" God, this song tears me up. Sigh!
Anyway.
julia+damato+boobs
Why won't you die?
But I have saved my favorite for last. I can only imagine this guy sitting in his pod at the prairie dog farm, eyes darting frantically around his workspace to ensure his privacy (while the HR chick spies on him from afar anyway, stupid guy):
metrosexual+pantyhose+pumps
Yes. As creepy as that sounds, I'm not too upset that there are men out there who are willing to undergo the traditionally female torture of control tops on stilts.
Ah, the week before Christmas. Is ANYBODY outside of retail really accomplishing anything this week? God I hope not - I love following you guys around while you're trying to be all stealthy! Teehee!
Cheers!
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 5:41 PM [+] ::
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The New Rules:: Thursday, December 18, 2003 ::
Straight off, I have to tell you that I'm listening to Britney Spears again. At this point we all just need to agree that it's a character flaw and move on.
After five hours of shopping this morning I've made a discovery: it's not the crowds that cause the problems - it's the amateurs that make me want to rip out my eyelashes one at a time.
So.
Rule #1: Remember your Brownie training and be prepared. Before you get in the car you should have a detailed plan. Know what you're buying for whom and where. If you need to browse, I know you have a computer with internet access because you're here. Use it.
Rule #2: Sitting in the lot with your turn signal on hoping it will pressure Grandma into finding her car faster screws everybody else in that aisle. If the mall is packed and you know it, it's fair to do a drive-by for that front row spot, but if you don't see it on the first pass take the slot in the north forty. Trust me - by the time Grandma has mosied out, loaded her car, turned on the heater, adjusted her mirrors, buckled her seatbelt, found Rosemary Clooney on the radio, put the Buick in gear and played, "You go," "No, you go," with you via her rearview mirror you could have been done with your first store.
Rule #3: Coats stay in the car. Coats are bulky and awkward. If you're wearing one you're knocking shit off shelves and blocking traffic. If you carry one you lose the ability to double fist purchases. I swear you will not die of hypothermia between the north forty and the door at Penney's.
Corollary to Rule #3: Children are coats. Don't leave them in the car, though.
Second Corollary to Rule #3: Live weight=good. Dead=bad. Having a second person along to carry packages, act as a lookout or stand in the mother of all lines for you while you finish shopping can be a wondrous thing. However, if all he's doing is clogging the aisle and bitching, drop him off at a bar and pick his happy-drunk ass up when you're done shopping so he can carry everything into the house.
Rule #4: Price checks are for off-line or off-season. You've gathered your gear and made it to the front of the line; now there's a dispute over the cost of your spoils. DO NOT hold up the fourteen seriously pissed off professionals behind you by waiting for a manager to show up. You can either remove yourself from the line and find help away from the register, or cough up the extra couple of bucks. Being Scroogy will get you get beaten with plastic hangers from menswear.
Rule #5: Never stop moving. If you need to take stock, file a receipt, cross something off your list or call Mom on your cell phone to find out what size your great-aunt Matilda wears, do it on a bench or in the car. Do not do it at the register. Do not do it in the aisle. Do not do it in the Nemo section at Toys R Us. Such activities warrant serious retaliation, so don't be surprised if the professionals do more than cluck at you, if you know what I mean.
There really can be peace on earth, you know; all we need to do is learn to follow the rules. When in doubt, listen to that little voice of self-preservation SCREAMING in your head.
That's me.
And I, like Santa, have elves. Except mine will follow you around the mall with hatchets.
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 11:12 PM [+] ::
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Clap your hands if you believe!:: Wednesday, December 17, 2003 ::
It was pink, soft, warm and on sale. It took Speaksy all of five minutes to find and purchase it, mostly navigational time with me coaching him via cell phone through the Ralph Lauren and Clinique landmines in his path.
It took five seconds for it to start shedding.
I adore angora sweaters but they should come with little vacuum cleaners or something, because wherever I went today I felt like Tinkerbell with her swirly bits of fairy dust floating about her head.
It was just a little bit disorienting.
Unfortunately I do not have Tink's magical abilities; instead of starting my holiday vacation this afternoon I'll have to wait until someone other than me gets his shit together tomorrow, tentatively slated for "sometime before 11:30" because his office Christmas party starts at that time.
Wouldn't want to put you out, there, buddy.
It's not really his fault, but that doesn't make me want to punch him any less.
I shouldn't feel so bad though. Anytime I have a day off and try to watch television there's a news bulletin pre-empting every channel on Earth. Today it was Lee Boyd Malvo's verdict cutting into my twice-a-year Oprah time. When I was in eighth grade and in a skiing accident - meaning I couldn't go to school but wasn't so sick my mother wouldn't let me watch TV - the space shuttle blew up.
I should just stick to blogging.
Have a great Friday, everyone! If you're home watching TV just be glad that I'm not - and clap your hands once, just in case I need help de-linting my office.
Hugs!
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 11:22 PM [+] ::
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Sorry, Y'all:: Tuesday, December 16, 2003 ::
I'm off partying tonight - Happy Anniversary, Speaksy! Thank you for nine amazing years of marriage - let's make it 50 more!
Love you!
J
:: happy hour begins at 7:19 PM [+] ::
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Jingle Jingle Jingle Jingle:: Monday, December 15, 2003 ::
I haven't been much in the Christmas spirit this year; I spend much of my shopping time courting mall rage (what's with these window shoppers, anyway? Get your damn lists together ahead of time, people) and can't stand to hear Christmas music. It just feels too early. (Tune in next week for: How I Spent the Night Before Christmas at the Mall.)
So when I finally got the spark o' the season this morning I wanted to decorate everything! My office, outside my office, the house, the car...even the blog! I had grand plans for adding some Christmas lights to my Girl graphic over there, just a little something for kicks, but my vision soon grew: since her dress is really just a triangle, why not make it into a Christmas tree?
Approximately ten seconds later I realized any attempts to decorate her would end up looking less festive and more like the video box cover for Jerry Springer's Girls Gone Wild 57: Have a BDSM Holiday! - gone horribly wrong.
*sigh* You never think your child will be the life of the party until you see the tape of her flashing boys for beads on Bourbon Street.
But I digress.
We used to decorate for the holidays. We even have an artificial tree in the basement somewhere! But pet ownership has done things to our old traditions; a decorated Christmas tree is really just a cat Gymboree, and there's always tinsel hanging out of somebody's butt.
Now there's a Santa snapshot for you.
In any case, my moment of insanity has passed. I've decided not to hang mistletoe in the office after all (though it would have been fun running the pool on how long it would take Management to tear it down), and you won't see me sporting my light-up Rudolph sweater to the post office. You, however, are free to do just that.
And when I see you, I'll smile.
As long as you aren't window shopping.
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 9:10 PM [+] ::
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View from the Window in the Kitchen Door:: Thursday, December 11, 2003 ::
Lay off the Goddamn snow globe, people.
We have this neighbor we like to call Gus. This morning I watched Gus slide and wade his way along the snow-blitzed back walk, carrying his shovel and a large drink from Burger King.
Gus grew up in the Midwest just a few miles from where I went to elementary school, yet somehow he failed to learn some things about snow that the rest of us carry around in our genes. I would like to share these things with you now, so that your children and your children’s children will know how to live in the world.
Gus is on his own.
First: shovel – for to work.
If wintry precipitation falls on pavement someone has to clear it off. If it falls on pavement belonging to you, it’s your job to clear it. If you would rather pay someone else to do it, that counts, but if you’re too cheap to dole out a few of your closely-hoarded dollar bills don’t expect to leave safely until spring.
This seems fairly self-explanatory, except perhaps to Gus (see aforementioned a.m. trudging in lieu of removal). The rule also demands a corollary: shoveling should be done outside.
Last year during some random blizzard Gus decided he needed to leave the house for the purposes of hunting a Whopper with cheese. Unfortunately, his progress was stunted by the snow drifted against his back screen door. So Gus, in his wisdom and working against imminent starvation, pushed his arm through the screen and reached for the shovel standing just outside. Then, with one arm reaching outside through the hole and the other hanging onto the door, he scraped at the drift with the edge of the shovel. Sadly, in his calorie-deprived fog, he failed to realize some of the snow was kicking back into the house and wetting the linoleum floor.
Bam.
Shook the whole house.
And broke the screen door.
Second: luge is for professionals.
Take, for example, a particularly wintry night a few years ago and the two-story set of stairs Gus had built to his upstairs deck (in violation of so many city codes I can’t believe the weight of his cat hasn’t brought it down). I saw his shadow and heard a thump, and the next thing I knew Gus streaked past me, sliding feet-first all the way down the stairs on his ass while cans of beer flew through the night like popping corn. A few seconds later, Gus sprawled into the snow with a grunt amid his half-buried paraphernalia: an empty Bud box, several bulging cans and two navy Adidas flip flops.
From out of the darkness a small voice drifted: “Owww. I spilled my beers.”
Then, silent as Santa, Gus gathered them up and trudged off into the night.
Third: your Nissan is only all-powerful on television.
A four-wheel-drive X-Terra cannot always climb the mountain of snow drifted against it, as Gus discovered last winter. But, as he pointed out to his neighbors, he had to get him some food. So Gus pulled on his gloves and picked up his shovel…and then just stomped back and forth behind his truck to tamp down the snow.
While carrying the shovel.
His brilliance, however, was revealed as mere pretense when he proceeded to dry-dock the truck on the snow bank behind it. At some point that afternoon each of the four wheels spun off the ground.
It took half the neighborhood and more than two hours to dig him out.
The entire time, Gus, trapped inside the truck, lamented the fact that Burger King had already stopped serving breakfast.
Perhaps I should give more attention to the Burger King aspect of winter hazards, but I think I’ll save that for another day. Until then, just remember: Pop Tarts are just as good, and there’s probably a 7-Eleven within walking distance of your house.
If, you know, you’re going to ignore the laws of nature.
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 5:16 PM [+] ::
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Snapshot of a Happy Marriage Several Years In:: Wednesday, December 10, 2003 ::
Open with Josh Groban's When You Say You Love Me wafting through a darkened room.
Cue tears.
Female rises to join Male on the loveseat for a tender moment. Male thinks, I hope to God she doesn't smell that.
Female walks into a green fog and attempts to ignore it, a charitable but futile endeavor resulting in a frantic waving of arms to dissipate the cloud. The male giggles.
But the female is determined. She leans over her love for a kiss.
Neither male nor female is sure from whose mouth that fuzz originated.
Fuzz eliminated, begin kissing in earnest.
Enter dog.
Commence leg-humping.
And everybody laughs until they cry.
Cut to male and female, happily singing along to the theme song from The Nanny.
Now that's romantic.
********
I don't know if I've mentioned it, but I've added a "Now hear this..." section to my sidebar. I've been changing the song periodically to fit my mood; just click the link to listen in.
Tonight: My Confession by Josh Groban off his new CD, Closer. I bought it to console myself after a dismal afternoon at the mall.
It worked.
Hugs!
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 9:23 PM [+] ::
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Kisses, Always:: Tuesday, December 09, 2003 ::
Kissing. Sometimes because I wanted to, sometimes just because I could. Sometimes to build something and sometimes to put something down. Often my lips were soft with unspoken promises but rarely did those promises last, because along with each kiss came euphoria, and stars, and I'd fly apart like so much dandelion fluff caught in a sudden storm and I'd laugh at the impermanence of it all.
Then one summer night, a boy kissed me and I felt myself fly back together, the pieces of me snicking into place all at once, and the euphoria was different. It was finding my feet on the ground for the first time. It was sharing a vision of light and greatness and future. It was knowing I didn't need to come apart to find that higher place because my reach was longer, limitless, entwined with his.
Ten years ago tonight that boy asked me to marry him. That night, as every night since, I said yes.
And I will always say yes.
I love you, Speaksy.
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 10:30 PM [+] ::
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It Has Its Own Shadow:: Monday, December 08, 2003 ::
Stage 1: Denial, Shock and Isolation
No way. No way. I am 31 years old! I used my trusty Clinique Spot Healing Gel all weekend!
No, you know what this is? It’s a mosquito bite. I realize it snowed, like, a foot this weekend but I saw a fly at work today so not everything is dead. Seriously, mosquitoes survived the dinosaurs. They’re resilient little suckers.
Plus, if I just turn my chin a little I can’t see it anyway. It’s all the way over on the side of my cheek. Nobody’s going to notice that, right?
Stage 2: Anger
NO FUCKING WAY! I swear, this thing had better go down NOW or I’m gonna… Well, I don’t know exactly what but IT’S GOING TO BE BAD!
What’s the point of all these creams and cleansers if I get a ZIT?!? I fork over half my paycheck for good skin, dammit! I’m taking all this shit back – what a crock! I might as well start buying cellulite cream off infomercials for as well as this crap works! (On a side note, contrary to common wisdom “Nad’s” has nothing to do with reproductive organs and everything to do with midnight drinking games.)
GAH! Every single Cosmo issue in the history of time says not to touch it, but how can I NOT give in to the temptation that is stabbing the fucker with a safety pin? Those Cosmo people don’t know ANYTHING! They probably never even had a blackhead, much less a cosmic disturbance like my clone over here! FUCK!
Stage 3: Bargaining
Okay, look. I promise I’ll start drinking more water. I promise I won’t prop my cheek on my hand anymore. I promise I won’t mock women who wear white pumps or tailgate those Oldsmobile Nazis on the Geezerstrasse anymore.
Strike that.
No, add that back. Just…c’mon, please? Please go down?
Please?
Stage 4: Depression
Where did I go wrong? I mean, seriously, I do everything I’m supposed to do! I can’t go to work like this. I can’t even look in the mirror now. All I see is this giant…thing taking over the left side of my face.
They say you start losing your looks in your 30s. I never thought that was true, but maybe the women I know are just exceptionally gifted in the aging department.
I’m going to die with this pimple on my face. When people go to pay their respects at my coffin they’re going to cluck and shake their heads and poke it and say, “Oh, that’s so sad.”
Man.
Stage 5: Acceptance
Barbie Sparkle Spackle, courtesy of Lancome.
Which doesn’t really conceal anything, by the way, but it’s a $12 tube of moral support from my sisters in dermatological distress.
We shall overcome.
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 9:20 PM [+] ::
...
To whomever decided to move my dream from Borders to the Home Depot paint aisle and stuck Cher in it:: Saturday, December 06, 2003 ::
You think you're funny, but you're not.
Harem Performance Potion
Because this dream thing is going to end one of two ways: either I'm going to die from lack of sleep, or Brad's gonna molest me on the floor at Home Depot (or Borders or Wal-Mart or wherever you decide to send me next - and I'm going to find out who you are, don't think I won't).
Renowned as the herb of increase, fenugreek is used not only to increase cash reserves and prosperity (I love this book) - a famed harem remedy, an infusion of fenugreek was used by women to enhance their busts (niiiiice) and by men to improve their sexual function.
There you go.
1. Place two teaspoons of fenugreek seeds in a cup and cover with a cup of boiling water.
2. Steep for five minutes, then add a slice of lemon and honey to taste. Try orange blossom or manuka honey for an additional aphrodisiac boost!
Okay, so this sounds suspiciously like tea and we all know how I feel about that. But surely this happy potion can't be harmed by a shot of vodka, right? And anyway, the main problem here is going to be getting Brad to drink the tea.
Bradley Whitford, you drink that damn tea right now or I'm gonna come out there and take you out back behind the woodshed!
So, either way, really.
Juliet
PS - In case you were wondering, this spell came from Judika Illes' book, Emergency Magic. And look, Ma! No urine!
:: happy hour begins at 6:19 PM [+] ::
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Crushed:: Friday, December 05, 2003 ::
All right, so I tried to sleep, I really did, but along with my usual insomnia there's a new kid in town: a recurring dream about Bradley Whitford.
And by recurring, I mean this happens pretty much every night and sometimes makes multiple appearances, one after the other.
I need your help. See, I've told this dream to a couple of people lately on the wives' tale that once you tell someone about a dream, you won't ever have it again. So far that hasn't worked out, so now I'm machine-gunning the dream into cyberspace. Maybe this is a magic dream that takes an especially large number of people to hear it before it goes away, I don't know, but I'm getting desperate.
Okay, so I'm at Borders in the art history section (yeah, I don't know either). I'm flipping through some random book, and right next to me Brad is standing on one of those slick footstools (which is stupid anyway because I think he's pretty tall). I pretend to ignore him - right, eh? - until he reaches for something on the top shelf. Just as he's about to pull the book down, he loses his balance and falls on me, taking me to the carpet right along with him. Somehow I end up kneeling next to him as he lies on his back breathless and stunned. A crowd gathers, and because I'm that kind of girl I tell them he's okay, and that Jack Nicholson is over in the classic video section. They run off in a herd, and Brad asks me if I really saw Jack Nicholson. No, I didn't, I say, but there's a drag queen over there who's doing a great Liza. Brad's laughter wakes me up.
I'm pretty sure I'd be okay with this dream if we kept laughing and then went for coffee or something equally benign, or especially if he started undressing me right there in the art history section. I could even hang if the whole thing morphed into some Marilyn Manson-esque musical featuring the Smurfette Dancers and a kickline with the cast from Life with Bonnie.
It's the waking up part to which I strongly object.
So please, dear reader, for the love of God, read this entry a few times. Print it out and read it again. Make copies and give them to all your friends. Start a chain email and tell your friends if they don't send it to twenty people within twenty seconds, they and their friends and everyone they (collectively) ever met will die.
I NEED TO SLEEP! If I don't get some shuteye soon I'm going to start hallucinating and end up spending every lunch hour at Borders, waiting for Bradley Whitford to show up and launch himself at me, and the fact that I've even thought of that possibility should scare the crap out of you.
Unh!
J
:: happy hour begins at 2:47 AM [+] ::
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Donner, Party of 2:: Thursday, December 04, 2003 ::
Oops. I think I shook that snow globe a little too hard the other day. Sorry about that.
Fortunately Speaksy found a 7-Eleven open this morning so I had some Equal to go in my totally awesome 5-lb bag of Dunkin' Donuts coffee. Also in the pro column is the second 5-lb bag of Dunkin' Donuts coffee in the cupboard.
I'd hate to see me in a blizzard without one.
Question: If the almanac is always right - and it always is - why hire meteorologists at all?
Just something to think about over the weekend. A little puzzle, if you will.
Hugs!
Juliet, who in her mind is looking totally faboo in some hot pink snow pants
:: happy hour begins at 8:40 PM [+] ::
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Let Me Speak!:: Wednesday, December 03, 2003 ::
So we know I'm not big on the shutting-up aspect of living in a civilized society. I'm also not much with the patience.
So, instead of waiting for fame and fortune to grant me special privileges I've decided to take them on my own.
I have my own Juliet Speaks t-shirt now.
And you can, too.
I have opened an online store at cafepress.com/julietspeaks. The original plan was to have something offline that somehow linked me to my cyberlife, something I could treasure in years to come when I'm still stuck in that office across from the conference room. Really, I was looking for an unhealthy escape into DelusionLand, but whatever.
Then, I made the girl logo and I thought, I know her. I AM her! And I'll bet a lot of you are, too; we may look innocent and patient, but inside we're thinking SHUT THE HELL UP ALREADY! LET ME SPEAK!
So here's your chance to put others on notice: we have something to say, and we're going to say it because we are intelligent and witty and can kill you with our magic tiaras!
Well, maybe not that last part.
Again, I originally made these t-shirts, mouse pads, journals, stickers and coffee mugs for myself so I won't be offended if nobody ever orders a thing. But all proceeds ($1 on stickers, $2 on everything else) will be put toward keeping this blog ad-free, and will help me pay for my new julietspeaks home page (coming soon). And maybe, one day I'll be walking through an airport in some random city and I'll see you with your Juliet Speaks "gear" and women all over the world will rejoice that we have found each other at last.
Okay, so maybe not that either, but a girl's gotta have a dream. :)
Hugs!
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 6:27 PM [+] ::
...
And Christmas Comes Early for Jo and MLTS
He wasn't naked and he didn't wear a big red bow, but I don't think Jo and MLTS minded too much. For whether nude, bundled down in a blue snowsuit with fuzzy bunnies on it or simply sitting around at a book signing, he is still the Great Simon Cowell.
And he is every bit the sweetheart we all knew him to be.
MLTS received a full-bodied hug before proclaiming herself on the threshold of fainting and making her escape. Jo got the full "you are the one and only woman in the world" eye-treatment and his signature on a Simon Cowell University diploma (for which I will forever be grateful!). They both had a wonderful time.
And we all got jealous and were excited for them at exactly the same time. Congratulations, girls!
For those of us without the tingle of Simon's touch lingering on our skin, here's a little holiday cheer to keep us warm, or at least a little giggly. Turn up your speakers and watch out for exploding snowmen, a snowball fight, violence with a shovel, falling bird shit and an indelicate sneeze. Then use your mouse to shake it up.
Have a great night, all! Talk to you tomorrow!
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 8:35 PM [+] ::
...
Go, Jo! Go, Jo!:: Tuesday, December 02, 2003 ::
We're all counting on you to represent us to The Great One at his book signing today! Have fun, and for God's sake KISS HIM!
:: happy hour begins at 8:26 AM [+] ::
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Run, Forrest! RUN!:: Monday, December 01, 2003 ::
Late last night, maybe early this morning, I woke up at nature's urging and felt my way to the bathroom. I turned on the light, pried my eyes open at my sudden blindness, took care of things and flipped the switch back off.
And froze.
Did you ever have one of those moments when you were a kid, when you were in the basement all alone, just getting ready to come back up the stairs, and fear suddenly seized your heart? You pumped your little legs as hard as you could, the adrenaline burning in your muscles and pushing you up faster and faster until you reached the door at the top of the stairs? And when you finally burst into the light of the hallway you slammed that basement door behind you, shutting out whatever Amityville Horror-inspired nightmare you believe wallowed down there and would keep chasing you to your death?
Let's just say I relived that particular childhood scene at 31 years old, standing in my pajamas in my own bathroom in my own pitch-black house.
Suddenly all I could think about were all the people who might have died in this house, since it's older than God and a lot draftier than your garden-variety 1960's tract house. Surely a lot of people got the plague in here. Surely many of them died. Definitely all of them are pissed.
And still here.
So for a split second I debated turning all the lights back on, then took off at a run for the bed. Don't look back, Juliet! It's behind you! They're all behind you! Go, go, go! Faster, you idiot! I told you not to eat all those Hershey's kisses before! GO!
I went. I blindly wove around assorted furniture and cats and launched myself on the bed. Pets and pillows burst into the air like shrapnel, but I didn't care - I was safe! Speaksy would protect me!
Okay, so Speaksy didn't even wake up, but still. For some reason, in the dead of night when there were malevolent spirits chasing me through the dark hallways of my potentionally-demon-infested home, I thought Speaksy could beat them back for me.
I still think that.
I also think I may leave a night light on this evening because, well, damn if I didn't hurt myself seven kinds of ways on my panicked midnight ride. I seriously think I may have sprained something in my left foot, but I'll be damned if I'll go to the doctor for that. He'll ask how I did it, and I am not telling him this.
Nuh-uh. This one goes to my grave with me. Well, and you. And whomever I choose to haunt when this life is over...
Sweet dreams, everyone! HA!
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 11:33 PM [+] ::
...
Happy freakin' Monday.
6:47am. Oh my God no.
8:05am Can't log into my computer.
8:10am Convince miracle-worker IT person to reset my passwords.
8:11am Log in and find my entire computer has been wiped/crashed/killed/something very bad, as evidenced by the absence of my beloved Josh log in message and the fact that the damned thing is trying to reinstall...Windows.
Enter IT person #2. Find out everyone on the network was "moved" to a new server over the holiday weekend.
Guess who didn't go along.
Hear snotty-ass sound akin to hehHEH!hehHEH!hehHEH! emanating from my shell o'Dell and resign myself to the fact that my technical issues have at last followed me to work.
Pick up IT guru #3.
Am partially reinstated after several restarts, triggering multiple listenings to aforementioned log in message and separate beloved Josh log out message in front of persons with potentially sensitive ears.
Putter until 12:30, at which point I finally gain access to my email, and that's a woohoo! and a boohiss! all rolled into one, let me tell you.
So I go to lunch.
And they forget my brownie.
*sigh*
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 5:46 PM [+] ::
...
