Yesterday, I left two packages - in priority mail boxes, clearly marked with the recipient's address and my own - at my front door. I had scheduled a pickup online with USPS.com.
At 8pm, they were still in front of my house.
Perplexed, I retrieved the two boxes and went inside to schedule another delivery.
Neighbor: Oh good! You still have your packages!
Me: Excuse me?
Neighbor: Your packages! The Postlady tried to take them yesterday.
Neighbor: I told her not to!
Me: [sets down packages at the front door] I want her to take them.
Neighbor: But they're yours!
Me: That I'm sending. To someone else.
Neighbor: You try to do someone a favor...
Now re-read the above with the following in mind:
This neighbor works.
At the post office.
Tomorrow night marks the EIGHTEENTH BetheMarriage LIVE! (On Ice!).
Which means we're legal.
Excuse me while I take a ten-second break from the forty-seven-hundred pages I have to write today (although if I hit my target, I will be halfway through Crappy First Draft tm) and discuss my plans for the future.
When I was growing up, I took ballet. I loved ballet. However, when you're a C-cup in the third grade, a future as a ballerina just isn't in the cards. And eight years old is probably too young to join a burlesque troupe. I was crushed. It was the first time that I learned that no matter how hard you fight it, some things aren't meant to be. Anything is not possible.
Thankfully, I had my entire adolescence to get used to this notion. The shark-infested waters of junior high and high school social hierarchies will do that to a girl. (Also see: unrequited crushes, mean girls, personal melodrama, teenage hormones, etc.)
This crushing resentment tracked me down and stalked me throughout college, while I sat back and observed everyone else who seemed to be having a good time. Did they have no inner voice? Did they simply not care? Was pounding a bottle of Jaeger every night and hopping on the nearest fratboy the path to the liberated ego? My permascowl, unplucked eyebrows and penchant for wearing all black only attracted gay renfest art students, so I didn't have an opportunity to try. (Not that I would. But. Well, Y'know.)
But I got over it, and in my twenties (and now, more than halfway through my 30s), I've figured out how to play to my strengths. Where am I heading with this? My future plans was to end up next to a pool with a turban and a martini. Not only does this seem well within my reach, being a crazy drunk old lady seems a role I was born to play.
Too busy off curing cancer and abolishing puppykicking factories to watch Saturday night's show in its entirety? Then sit back and relax, 'cause I've trimmed the fat to the best meaty bits.
And yes, you heard that right: we're having our first BetheMarriage challenge: film yourself going into a bar (and ACTUAL bar) and order a tonic-n-gin. We dare you. Send your videos to slackmistress [at] gmail!
Last night, before bed:
Will: [noticing that I'm still reading The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Klay] I can't read how you do.
Me: How's that?
Will: In short bursts. I have to sit down for a couple of hours. Y'know, plan.
Me: The only time I have to read is before bed. And not reading is not an option.
Will: If I was a Caveman, I wouldn't read. I wouldn't paint on the walls of my cave, either. I'd do nothing.
Me: [half-listening]: Mmmhmm.
Will: Or I'd do something cool, like invite the wheel. Or discover fire!
He sits back in bed as only a man smug with the knowledge that if he had been born millions of years earlier, he could have discovered fire can be. I put my book down.
Me: Honey, you wouldn't have discovered fire.
Will: Yes, I would have!
Me: No, you wouldn't. You would have been left on a rock to die because you were a preemie. You would have been eaten by wolves.
Will: You're a jerk.
Me: I'm just telling the truth.
Will: Then you know what? I'm gonna discover fire, then put it out, then throw myself off a cliff! So you'll KNOW there was fire, but you won't be able to figure it out yourself! Whaddya think of that?!
Me: So in your dream scenario, the one that you can have anything happen? The one you get to fantasize and make up and control every little last bit?
Me: It ends with you throwing yourself off a cliff out of spite.
Will: I hate you.
(In happier times, before he threw himself off a cliff.)
According to Jenny the Bloggess, today is Blog Action Day. Jenny's tackled the issue of Amputee Porn For All, and I don't think I can add more to her well-reasoned argument except to say that my husband has long been a proponent of porn for the less fortunate.
But today, I'm going to take my own stand, and start my own coalition. It's called Citizens Against Inaccurate IDs. Or CAII!!!!!!!!!!!! for short. Because that's what Ninjas sound like before they rend the flesh from your bones. (Those are Ninjas, right?)
I recently had the misfortune of having to renew my Driver's License at the DMV. The last time I had to do this it was 2002; my body was about 30 pounds thinner and my bank account was 30 pounds heavier. I thought that life didn't get better than that. Until I stood in line waiting to get my picture taken.
A Mentally Retarded Gentleman struck up a conversation with me. I'm always thankful when people start conversations with me in public, as I have a tendency to talk to myself, forgetting that I'm not at home in an oversized t-shirt and a pair of torn panties tippy-tapping at the keyboard talking out character voices and plot points while silently wondering where that last pair of sweatpants went. (Answer: they disintegrated.)
But here I was out in public at the DMV, although still sans pants (I was wearing a skirt as I had already ventured out, so I might as well make a day of it.) In fact, I was wearing a skirt, a pair of motorcycle boots, and my bright green Lucky Charms "Magically Delicious" t-shirt and someone thought I looked pleasant enough to talk to. I turned and smiled and he told me that he was here to get his ID taken. I responded that I was here to get my Drivers' License photo. We crept up, person by person, toward the front.
Right before I was called forward to get my photo taken, the my Partner in DMV Conversation Crime looked me up and down and said
I bet you are Magically Delicious.
And then he smiled.
I blinked once, twice, and realized I had just gotten sexually harassed by a Mentally Retarded Guy.
My license came out looking like this:
Last week, I went to the DMV. Yesterday, I got this in the mail:
You know what's wrong with this picture?
It's better than I look on a daily basis.
When I get pulled over, stuffed in my too-tight coffee-stained jeans 'cause I'm too poor and stubborn to buy new ones, a faded and ripped Aqua Teen Hunger Force T-shirt, my greasy hair piled on top of my head and my glasses askew from hitting myself in the eye with the straw from my iced coffee, I'm going to be arrested for stealing that nice Nina Bargiel's pink Mini Cooper and Driver's License. As I'm hauled off to LA County Women's Correctional Facility, I will scream wildly but I'm the slackmistress! and people will shake their heads sadly and murmur that woman would never get hit on by a Mentally Retarded Gentleman.
When I get out of prison, I will end up having to do fake Amputee Porn to pay my bills. Thankfully, Jenny's got me covered.
When it comes to global poverty - a subject that I know little about (not because I don't care, mind you, but because I prefer to work on issues closer to home where I can see my direct influence, because I am selfish and petty and oh yeah, I like dogs) one of my favorite organizations is Heifer International. Find out what they do here. Around the holidays, I have been known for getting people cows and pigs and sheep because honestly, a water buffalo is way more awesome and how many soap-filled gift baskets can one person get?
I was not one of them.
I woke up Friday morning a little dehydrated, declared that we needed some sort of greasy breakfast concoction (which ended up being a breakfast sandwich from Starbucks) and then we were on the road to Vegas. Which leads me to believe one of two things:
1. Champagne runs through my veins.
photo by Dan Spisak
2. I should probably take a break from treating alcohol as a food group.
Photo by Summer.
Speaking of photos...
Will and I are going to be in need of someone of the somewhat professional or fabulous amateur variety to take our photos for the Hot Blogger Calendar. What's the upside? You get to meet us! Wait, that might be a downside. Mmmkay, you get your photo, avec credit of course, in a calendar that's been burning up the blogosphere.
It's not a couples' photo (nor is it a naked one, although I'm only speaking for me) but I've got an idea for a similar theme (Detectives, anyone?) I've got more information, but that can be discussed via email (see that link up on the left that says "email me?" Click that.) We need it done in the next 4-5 weeks, so time is most definitely not on our side.
If you're a stylist or a makeup or hair person and are dying to practice on someone, we could use one of those, too. Although the only thing we've got to offer is our undying love and gratitude, and that's about as useful to you as a government bailout.