I'm doing a tiny temporary expatriation dance

I'm going to be in Canada for 4th of July. I have a history of being in Mexico or Canada for America's birthday. Not that I don't feel lucky for all we have, but there's also this sort of thing:

And, unrelated, I saw this in WeHo (see below) and it's great.:

uh-oh #2

Abba-Zaba should change their slogan to

"ABBA-ZABA: WHAT HAVE I DONE!"

That is, if they have a slogan to change it from. Do they? I guess they're kind of one of those lesser-know candy bars. Never really made it to the Snickers-y* upper echelons of candy bar society, and they haven't for good reason: they are dangerous. Hoodlums! Candy bars that should come with a warning label will never make it that big. Candy bars that look like a warning label will never make it that big.

I just fucked myself up. Twice.

A few months ago, I was at the candy store (7-Eleven) and I got me my first Abba-Zaba in probably 20 years. Don't you kinda wanna wear that vintage wrapper? Captain Beefheart and Tom Waits and the stoner from that movie couldn't be wrong. It started talkin' to me (I hadn't slept the night before). It said all the right nostalgic things to make me give'er a try. And, I remembered they were really good...

but I didn't remember the "good" was made of some cruel, semi-malleable crazy-glue hard stuff they tell you is "taffy". I also didn't remember that back in the day I still had my first set of kid teeth, and I couldn't have given a shit whether they shattered and fell out or not because I had backups on the way and a tooth fairy that paid well. That night I tried it and it hurt me, so I gave it to my friend. (Hush.)

Today, after several weeks of late work nights and more iced blended coffee things slushing through my veins than blood, I was at the candy store (7-Eleven) and Abba-Zaba started sexy-talking again. In a moment of weakness, I bought another one, thinking if I just had a better strategy (started to remember you have to work on it a while before you venture a bite) I could make it happen. I tried it again. With the right method in mind, I cleared the hard-as-a-rock-this-is-definitely-not-taffy phase. I was making progress, and then my teeth got stuck. Bad. Like Briar Rabbit stuck. I nearly cracked my jaw trying to free myself from the tar baby. I tossed it. That jerk! I could picture the after school special where the candy bar (muscle t-shirt, cool bluejeans) would peek out of the trash and be all

"Baby, baby, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. Let's try again, baby. You and me, we can make work. It'll be just like the old times I promise. "

And then Alyssa Milano would whip around, and all teary-eyed but super resolved would tell it

"You've hurt me for the last time. I'm going to go stay with my sister in Poughkeepsie. Its time I..."

Do I really have to finish that? Good, I didn't think so. I also got a chance to write down "Poughkeepsie."

*If I had written "per-Snickers-y" I would have been mad at myself.

-------------------------------

On a seperate but related note, I really have a thing for adorable "B"-heavy words like Abba-Zaba. It's going on the list, maybe. So far:

scuba dive
webisode
filibuster
abacrombie and/or albacore

again

and now my cat throws my clothes in her litter box too.

i learn more from her than anybody else i know.

uh-oh

I'll never learn to not try on celebrity perfumes.























Unforgivable. No shit, Sean John. Now it's stuck to my wrist and I'm dizzy.

Remember when you were little and perfume only smelled one way (like perfume)? There, I've saved your wrist and your afternoon.

I don't feel good.

Also, Puffy, is that wrestling move the best photo ever, you think? Maybe when you're selling to women they want that, and when you're selling your men's cologne, they want a picture featuring you. They can look at your face if that lady's leg gets boring.




















I'm being too harsh. These pictures aren't bad. I'm just bitter because my arm smells like distilled Russian mail order bride. Puffy, you're always right and that's why you own so many things. I mean, you are the Grand-diddy of blasé rap. You made Mase sell records. You made YOU sell records. Wizard! I need to stop with that because I imagine it's been done to death.

Never mind, Puffy. Those photos are great. Your earrings look nice.


or

get up on the down stroke

There's a counting thingy on this that says 19 people have read this page, although nobody knows about it except my friend Mel(anie). Fine. I've seen other people do it, you know, web log (list your favorite bands, tirade, quip, tirade again, tell me about your day, pretty picture, poignant story, tirade, funny picture. Right.) Still, it's going to take a while before I get this. Everybody reads your thoughts and then remarks and you read their thoughts and remark and that's it? Like how conversations used to go but one person at a time? Ok.

So you're probably a stranger. You insist on reading this. You want entertainment. Sure. How about this:

I googled the title of this blog to see if it's been used and this came up. Modern's good:
http://www.answerbag.com/q_view/193477

it sells

Galore!

Here's a pic of my cat, Bootsy.



















Here she is in her Christmas outfit. Ho ho ho, Mr. Claws! Get it? OMG GET IT???!?!

And remember that time you came over and took this pic? Look how she's smiling at you! I think she liiiiikes you!

I don't want to get into this one. Bad memory.

Aw she looks coy in this pic because I put her on the phone with her boyfriend. Look how she's holding the phone! ROFL! I let them chat with eachother every night for 2 1/2 hours because it is flippin' caaayute!


















Did somebody say, "Happy Birfday, Amewica"? Fourth of July outfit! Very patriotic, Bootsy.



















Ah! It's time to go! Sex In the City is on TNT again. So cool no cuss words! Don't worry, I'll post more pix of Bootsy and her adventures every 30 minutes for the rest of your life.

deb

My mother is not into crying, hugging or sympathy (don't worry this is funny. Ok.)

I have only ever seen her get emotional twice. Once, when I was 5, I saw her cry ( not cry-cry like how people do, but a real tear came half way down her face) after we put our cat to sleep. Then there was a time when I was in junior high and she had to get surgery on her herniated belly button. She was nervous and got choked up talking about it the night before. No actual tears, but very close.

So just now was time 3. Our old family dog died this morning. I'm at my folks house still after the morning drama, and a few minutes ago she walked into the room and asked me what I wanted for dinner. I told her we should have turkey in honor of our lost friend's favorite thing. Then with tears kind of in her eyes (!) she said, "Aw, I'll miss him" and walked out of the room. The dog was female.

Love, Manners, Manors, Trophies and Atrophy

I know an interior designer named Bruce and he is gay and it's making me wish I was a fiction writer because I could do so much better than that.

Anyway, I ran into Bruce today. I hadn't seen him in a few years. I think the last time I saw him he was 72 years old and was in the process of having all the flesh that fell off his face during his drinking days sewn back up. Way up. He's done now.

I was never close to the man or anything (neither of us had time), but I enjoyed him. When we did chit-chat, he'd give me southern mother hen advice like don't work. He'd tell me "Oh, sweetie, a lady shouldn't have to do anything. Just find yourself a tycoonie. It's not hard. You've got a nice face. Just brush up on your manners - always remember which fork to use - and you'll be fine."

Bruce's clients were all tycoonies, which made him a bit of a tycoo...I can't keep using that word. Redo: made him a bit wealthy too. He'd bring the tycoonies (sorry) around, and, with his encouragement, they'd make passes at me when their trophy wives weren't with them or were asked to get something from the car. Either those ladies were eating fillet with the salad fork or Bruce gave terrible advice. So these guys who owned Manors with cool names and Empire State Buildings and such would, like, need to touch when they addressed me. They'd aim for my waist with one or both hands, fingers together-thumbs out like asshole lobsters. I don't think they knew what they were doing. Sometimes a lobster hand would clip on to the low part of my blouse that was covering the tat on my hip. I'm sure in their circles inky hips are bad manners. 100 wrong forks. You don't want to do that because it's a work day and I have on my Clark Kent outfit, buddy. At the time I was juggling a few scrappy dudes who played guitar in varying degrees of "eh". I really liked being 25.

When I knew Bruce at 72 he had a 35 year old boyfriend. Before I met the boyfriend, I pictured what this guy's trophy wife would be. Nice pecs and arms; the kind of upper body that made t-shirts look expensive. Maybe a 90's dragon tattoo running down his shoulder with the subsequent, post-millennium whoopsie designs covering it (koi fish, ethnic pattern, name-heart-dagger thingy, water, webs, symbolism) and they'd hug all the muscle clumps the right way. Shaved head! He'd be a strapping young buck with a shaved head = he probably bites the side of his lower lip when he fucks.

But he wasn't at all. He was a willowy, twiggy (trees) babyman with sweet, brown ringlet hair to his cheekbones. Shit. The only thing trophy about this manchild was the 35 part. God he gave good sweetheart eyes. Unfortunately, any chance of Bruce giving sweetheart eyes back was foiled by eyelids marionette-limited by a brow pinned much higher on his forehead than it had ever been in is whole life.

I wondered about the Twig. I mean, his boyfriend's face was falling off but he was super successful. Optimism's best in this situation because I can't be disappointed either way, so I'll just think Bruce was a lovely man and the baby Twig knew it and I didn't because I didn't have time. Then I imagined that maybe when they're making romance, he insisted on always being behind. That way all that skin that was trying to get away from Bruce's face and body would have fallen forward, out of sight, leaving a smooth back for the Twig to pretend. Maybe that's what you do for love. Maybe that's what you do for somebody to set you up with your own business in Montecito. Both if you're lucky.

Probably Related

My cat keeps dragging things into her litter box: a roll of paper towels, a shoe, a plastic bottle, a bikini top...just tossing everything she can or barely can carry right in her crapper. Yesterday I came home to find the whole fucking kitchen rug accordioned in there. I looked at her and I'm like, "I know, right?"