Sunday, July 25, 2004

a list of things i may tell you about:

eddy's birthday party-
wherein i only drank 2 martinis but ate three orders of crab and cream cheese wontons, then waxed philosophic to eddy's chagrin about the fact that he is old enough to be my father.

the annual erotic party at david and trish's-
wherein i wore a dress made out of bubble wrap and had a drunk woman grab my breasts with a death grip in order to pop the bubbles there.  they had already been popped, big surprise, but she didn't seem to notice and cackled loudly in my face as she realized she was grabbing another woman's boobies. 

wherein chris and matthew played dj and fielded requests from drunk people wearing expensive pvc/latex cat suits in various states of undress to play eighties music, when, as we all know, eighties music and an erotic party are not a match made in heaven. 

wherein my sister was talking to a guy named randy until he started to trace over her neck with his index finger, like in some cheesy porn movie, and breathed in her ear that all he wanted to do was to kiss her neck and she said, "okay, you're done." and walked away.

wherein our host david wore only a fishnet body stocking, a pair of high heels, and a mask.

my weekend in bend to visit my friend carl-
wherein he informed me that my exhusband(and his best friend) was getting remarried, with the intent to start a family like, right away.

wherein i took this information and simmered it in four martinis and some bad squid and then had to be piggybacked out of the bar early to avoid a drunken public breakdown.

wherein i had the best eggs benedict the next morning, eaten sheepishly with a pitcher of water.

Thursday, July 08, 2004

printing out everything i have written since the year of our lord 2001 is starting to take its toll. my i-mac was one of the first off the line, teal and self-contained, so much so that it only has a cd-rom drive. no disk drive or exterior help of any kind. i have not hooked it up to the internet. and so my i-mac and i are adrift on this lonely raft with no provisions and i am thinking about eating it. or maybe just throwing it overboard so i don't have to watch it staring at me with that eerie teal glow anymore.

i have all these rough drafts of stories and final drafts and lists of ideas and a journal blah blah, and there is no way to transfer the information to any other os. so i am printing out a copy of everything on my hard drive, scanning it, and then filing it in a real live folder that coincides with a virtual folder in my runty teal box. when chris builds me a new computer, i will have to make a decision about whether or not i should RETYPE all of that crap into the new machine, or if i should just let most of it go and re-enter, say, only the good stuff or what.

so far, the only thing worth reading in my journal was that i referred to a friend of my ex-husband as having a "chum-bucket personality." that's it. three years of forcing myself to record the minutiae in my life and that's indeed all that it is. excrutiating minutiae. there's no way to make any of it interesting although there's maybe a brief flash of interest in that chum-bucket remark. but how can you use that more than once? you can't really.

but so anyway, i'm only into about hour three of this tedious process and i'm bored out of my mind, filing activity nonwithstanding. so i pull the plug and crawl into bed with my bill bryson book and fur pillow and almost immediately begin to drool and make asthmatic snorkling sounds as i dream of tossing the computer with all of the crap inside over the side of my raft.