Mind you don’t cut yourself, Mordecai!
Movies movies movies! That’s what lazy rainy days are for — and since we still, still haven’t had a day without rain since mid-July, we been watchin’ movies.
Dialogue between Iain and I has degenerated into quips and quotes from “Batman,” “Raising Arizona,” “Fight Club,” “Boondock Saints,” and others. We can have entire meaningful conversations this way.
M: {conspiratorial} “They say taupe is very soothing.”
I: {congenially} “Shut the fuck up.”
M: {getting angry} “Get your stupid fucking rope.”
I: {veritably pissed off} “Oh, I’ll get my stupid fucking rope!”
M: {forgiving} “That Buford. {smiles} He’s a sly one!”
I: {laughing} “He already knows his ABCs. Hit the deck, boy!”
It’s like our own little language … I know, I know, we’re demented. Shut the fuck up.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I gotta say how much coffee is making me a happy girl today. I’m not much of a coffee drinker, but goddamn, does it take the edge off. I’ve been having evil-monster headaches in the mornings lately — I’m convinced a major aneurism is about to occur — and my inexpertly-made Folgers just knocks it right the hell out.
Plus the smell of coffee percolating reminds me of my mom, my grandma and my aunt sitting around the kitchen, bitching good-naturedly and saying things like “Bulltweety.”
Baby momma drama: JESUS christopher, what a week for drama and trauma in the lives of those I know and love. So much he said, she said, I hate him, I’m not talking to her, he pisses me off, I’m writing her off, he’s dead to me now, etc. etc. etc. Why can’t we all just get along? Please?
It’s so easy. I very rarely fight with my friends — or anybody — so I’m not entirely sure how these huge blowups happen. Could I be missing the drama gene?
Catchin’ the red-eye: Oh, and speaking of hypochondria — I think i have contracted pink-eye. It’s all red and scary-looking. I haven’t been touching dirty little children lately, so it could just be an eyelash, or nicotine overdose, or cancer. Whatever the reason, I’m spending a lot of time leaning backwards over the bathroom sink as Iain pries my eyes open and dumps a bottle of “Extra-sterile!” Walgreens-brand eyedrops into my peeper, with me flailing around and screaming. How did you spend your Saturday night?
Suck it! I’m ‘bout to stick a big, pointy-toed boot in the collective arse of Sprint Corp. Remember that phone I tried out back in May? And returned a week later? I just received my fourth bill, this time for $89.76. Ninety freaking dollars for 11 minutes of cellular hell. And, for the fourth time, I called “Customer Solutions” to ask the kindly representatives to please FOR THE LOVE OF GOD cancel my account and waive the charges they were supposed to waive three months ago. For the fourth time, mind you. Miss Kimberly accessed my account and told me the last person I talked to — who promised, in the vaguely polite southern drawl they all seem to have, to take all charges off — that it never happened. The last rep just whispered sweet nothings in my ear, apparently, hung up and went to lunch without doing a god-damned thing about the $257 that was on my bill last time.
Now, I pride myself on being cool, calm and collected with the wage-slaves who staff these support centers, but yesterday I found myself red-faced and shaking all over as Miss Kimberly told me that she was sincerely sorry, but I would have to pay the bill, nothing she could do, the Retention Department refused to waive the fee. Fuck the Retention Department, is what I wanted to say, but what came out was Let me speak with your manager, in a wavery voice that hovered on homicidal.
She put me on hold for a hundred years, and then came back and said that Congratulations, the manager OK’d the waiving of every charge, no problem, you’ll receive a bill for zero dollars.
At which point I laughed in her invisible face. I have heard this nicety before, I told her, and got her Service Number and the name of the “manager” who approved this. His name is Stanley. Apparently he’s a fucking hotshot like Sting or Madonna or Prince and only goes by one name.
At what point, I wonder, do I stop playing Telephone with fucking Sprint and get my [non-existent] lawyer on their ass?
Closing time. All right — I think this is about all I got for right now. I now have three cups o’ joe in me, and it’s time to clock out and read some more Fitzgerald [just finished “The Great Gatsby again, now starting “This Side of Paradise”]. You gotta love Sundays.
