As I said, I'm supposed to be writing. Not like this, present tense blog posts that will focus on getting seconds at the Food Court and buying Rosemary Mint shampoo, but writing-writing. Words that can be read in front of a paying audience, writing.
Next Saturday I'm part of a handful-plus of writers who are going to read with a microphone and on a stage. If you're like me, you're wondering what I could possibly have to read. I'm rich in "and then today at Subway, a customer pronounced the H in Herb. CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT?!" I promised myself I'd shelve any sweat over it until Jan. 1, 2012, at which point I would work myself into a frothy lather of salty freak-out-dom.
The first of the year came and went and I got used to ignoring this date so far away in the future. And so here I sit, a week out, going ... "Fuuuuuu--- I should probably just finish Season One of 'TOWIE' so I can really concentrate."
My nightmare is that I will find no way around reading the story about the time a tampon was lost in my body, when my doctor described women's innards as having "Lots of nooks and crannies."
There are actually two seasons worth of "The Only Way is Essex" on Hulu. For real.
Whenever I watch shows starring super groomed women I start thinking about my eyebrows and the way I am content to let them grow cartoonishly wild. This is exactly how I treat my leg hair, but this tangled mess is actually happening on my face. Its like the opening credits to "Little House on the Prairie" when the youngest Ingalls girl takes a digger while running through a field of unkempt grass and flowers.
I wish I could find a list somewhere the ranks the grooming hierarchy. Like, is this something I'm supposed to care about, or is it just cool if I dip into Shear Katz every six months or so and ask for the weed-whacker treatment? Anyway, that's what I do today. 911 Weed Whacker. I tack on some Rosemary Mint Shampoo and Conditioner because it is another way to hide from writing and, well, it just smells nice.
I'm surprised at how much I like Jessica Simpson's clothing line, especially the shoes. But mostly I'm just craving a hotdog wrapped in pretzel, and here I am and there is the Miller Hill Mall Food Court. They have a new menu item, MINI hotdogs wrapped in pretzels. So popular that the stock is depleted and the cashier gestures to his left where a guy is slicing bite-sized pieces of dough for a new batch.
"They'll be ready in about six minutes," he tells me.
"Six minutes," I say, nod.
"Now. I want you to feel comfortable to wander around a bit, do a little shopping, whatever. They'll be ready when you come back," he says. This is after he explained the dipping sauces in fantastic detail, like a sommelier for things thick and creamy. "Well, we have plain cheese, but we also have a nacho cheese, which has a little bit of bite, but not too much bite, certainly okay for someone who doesn't like things too spicy, Ranch, honey mustard ..."
I'm in Eddie Bauer when a woman asks me where I got my winter coat and I'm able to say for the first time something I've wanted to say forever:
"Target. It's their Converse line."
My first bite of this new delicacy sends half of the hotdog squirting out of the end of the pretzel casing, hitting god-knows-what, hopefully some pussy sucking down a shake from Body by Vi. Eventually I will go back for seconds at this same place, this time opting for pretzel bites without the hot dog weapons.
"Do you need any sauce?" the cashier asks me.
I flash her half a plastic container of nacho sauce.
"I still have some left," I tell her.
Chuck and I have just finished dinner, and we've ordered dessert. A threesome comes into the restaurant and is seated at the table next to us. Like, two feet from us, 33 percent of them sharing bench seating with me.
I know them, they all used to be regulars at the Pio, and they include ... dun-dun-dun ... my Former Landlord's baby mama. We're not, um, close. I'm sure I've been an asshole to her in the past, but it's been years. These days I'm a little fiery about some custody junk that is none of my business but that I have TONS of opinions about anyway.
So: This. Is. Dramatic. I'm not one for hoarding enemies, but now I understand why the universe threw "TOWIE" in front of me this weekend. SOMETHING LIKE THIS HAPPENS ON EVERY EPISODE!
I greet the dudes she's with and she sits in her chair and very deliberately shifts it sideways so her back is to us and immediately begins screaming about how she isn't staying here at this bar, how everything she says is going to end up on the internet and she's going to be hearing about everything that happens all night from My Former Landlord. She grabs her stuff and storms out of the restaurant, dudes trailing, right as I've begun explaining to one of them that the Cheese Steak is delicious.
It was pretty epic. At first it was just uncomfortable. Then it was funny watching her be SO MAD! Then, as we watched them cross the street and charge into the casino, it just became confusing.
"Wait," I said to Chuck. "Why is she mad at me?"
Our plan was to go to JCrew's birthday party, but she texts me as we're finishing dinner and says they are leaving the bar. So we decide to go to the late showing of a play. Then JCrew texts and says that if we can get to the bar in 15 minutes, they will stay.
So now I'm confused. Do we go to the bar or not go to the bar?
She calls me and when I answer I can hear her screaming to her fiance Sea Dawg: "WHO GOES TO DINNER THIS LATE?!"
"People who work nights and sleep until 8 p.m.?" I say to her.
"Oh. Did you hear that?" she asks, cackles devilishly.
"Who goes to the bar that early?" Chuck asks.
She tells me they're on their last drinks and are going to go home. Chuck and I go to the play, which is fantastic and includes a scene with tender puppet lovemaking. During intermission I get a text that says JCrew is still at the bar. So we swing by on the way home and there she is, the little princess, busting a nut with her sister, dancing to the sweet sounds of an 80s cover band.
The band plays one more song and pulls the plug, ignoring her request for "House of Pain" by Faster Pussycat, which is unforgivable, so she sings it herself at the table. Later, JCrew pulls a woman aside and tells the woman is too good for her sleazy boyfriend. "You're smart, you're pretty, you can do better than this dipshit," she says.
In my head I'm writing a Lifetime Original Movie in which JCrew is a vigilante, she has an office in a public restroom. She councils as women re-apply lipstick. Then she's off to the next stop. She storms into a bar wearing a Burberry cape telling women to DO BETTER THAN THIS DIPSHIT!