Dear Diary,
The Hawaiian shirts are out in full force today at Company V. And the shorts, oh God the shorts. It being Friday, we are allowed to wear shorts. And let me tell you, people do. It's like they're just dying to wear shorts. I don't understand this. Even I look bad in shorts.
I want to give you a list of my current boyfriends.
* Martin O'Malley (always)
* Johnny Damon (of the Red Sox. He is brave for being the only long-haired bearded man in baseball. He don't give a fuck. And he is a stone cold, caveman hottie.)
* John Kerry's 2 sons (they just joined the list last night)
* John Edwards (pretty cute except for the bad hair and the fat wife)
Hmmm. Three politicians on my list. I'm not sure I like that. I'll have to expand my search for boyfriends. I won't look to entertainment; that's so tired. Yeah, Jude Law is hot. So what? That's what he gets paid for. It's more impressive for a baseball player to be hot. You don't have to be hot to play baseball. Was that a Prince song?
Love,
Fluffy
30.7.04
26.7.04
16.7.04
Light a Handmade Scented Floating Candle for Martha
Friends,
Martha Stewart was sentenced to five months in prison today. Let's take a moment to reflect on her.
Martha, my idol, my muse. I don't care about your lying or your finances. I only care about your magazine, without which I wouldn't know what tealights are, or how to properly care for my wicker furniture. I wouldn't have experienced the satisfaction of making my own wrapping paper, and I would have NO IDEA what you're really supposed to do with felt. I would never have discovered kosher salt. I wouldn't have started collecting milk glass. I would still be saying "garage sale" instead of the obviously more civilized "tag sale". I would still be using salted butter like a barbarian. Most of all, I shudder to think what my wedding would have been like without your tasteful guidance. Dear God, to think I almost carried colored flowers like some carnival freak. Thanks to you, I went with classic white.
So Martha, I will make those colored floating candles from your July issue. I'll bust out the crayola to color that parrafin in complementary shades of rose, yellow, and peach. I'll buy those fancy muffin tins for the molds. And I will float them in crystal bowls and light them for you, in hopes that your appeal process is successful and you don't have to spend one minute in jail.
Your devoted priestess,
Fluffy
Martha Stewart was sentenced to five months in prison today. Let's take a moment to reflect on her.
Martha, my idol, my muse. I don't care about your lying or your finances. I only care about your magazine, without which I wouldn't know what tealights are, or how to properly care for my wicker furniture. I wouldn't have experienced the satisfaction of making my own wrapping paper, and I would have NO IDEA what you're really supposed to do with felt. I would never have discovered kosher salt. I wouldn't have started collecting milk glass. I would still be saying "garage sale" instead of the obviously more civilized "tag sale". I would still be using salted butter like a barbarian. Most of all, I shudder to think what my wedding would have been like without your tasteful guidance. Dear God, to think I almost carried colored flowers like some carnival freak. Thanks to you, I went with classic white.
So Martha, I will make those colored floating candles from your July issue. I'll bust out the crayola to color that parrafin in complementary shades of rose, yellow, and peach. I'll buy those fancy muffin tins for the molds. And I will float them in crystal bowls and light them for you, in hopes that your appeal process is successful and you don't have to spend one minute in jail.
Your devoted priestess,
Fluffy
15.7.04
Frozen veggies for me, thanks
Dear Diary,
This afternoon I went to the farmers market near my office. The farmers market should be called "the large gathering of people who walk too slow and don't watch where they're going." I've made an art of maneuvering around the stalled fat suburbanites like they're orange driving cones. Don't eff with me at the farmers market. I make a beeline for the tomoatoes and basil and them I am outta there.
I think farmers markets should be equipped with a moving sidewalk that makes a loop of the vendors. You pick out your salad greens and it's on to the farmers cheese. If you miss something, too bad. Then there would be no lingering, no picking up things and sniffing them, no standing RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE of the street with your baby stroller and chatting with Patty, the mommy-and-me swim teacher.
I don't think I'm going to go to the farmers market anymore, Diary. It's kind of harshing my mellow. Did I mention the dirty college kids playing Arlo Guthrie songs for money right in the middle of the market? Like, really, really loud? It was a problem.
Love, Fluffy
This afternoon I went to the farmers market near my office. The farmers market should be called "the large gathering of people who walk too slow and don't watch where they're going." I've made an art of maneuvering around the stalled fat suburbanites like they're orange driving cones. Don't eff with me at the farmers market. I make a beeline for the tomoatoes and basil and them I am outta there.
I think farmers markets should be equipped with a moving sidewalk that makes a loop of the vendors. You pick out your salad greens and it's on to the farmers cheese. If you miss something, too bad. Then there would be no lingering, no picking up things and sniffing them, no standing RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE of the street with your baby stroller and chatting with Patty, the mommy-and-me swim teacher.
I don't think I'm going to go to the farmers market anymore, Diary. It's kind of harshing my mellow. Did I mention the dirty college kids playing Arlo Guthrie songs for money right in the middle of the market? Like, really, really loud? It was a problem.
Love, Fluffy
13.7.04
Watch me.
Dear Diary,
I've been on the Danskin website all morning. I'm going to buy pink ballet slippers and a pink leotard, and the BHE can't stop me from leaping to and fro around the house. Oh, to be an anorexic ballerina must be divine!
My neighbor, (who the BHE insists hates us because I said pussy or dildo or something on our front porch) now also thinks I'm crazy. On my way out, he was in his front yard and I was trying to get our cat inside. I was calling to the cat, "Old Man, come on inside. It's going to be hot today." Old Man blinked at me indifferently, so I threw my hands up and said, "OK, it's your funeral" and walked to my car. But when I looked back, I realized that my neighbor couldn't see Old Man from where he was standing. He was just staring at the crazy lady across the street who is yelling at an imaginary old man.
So now the word on the street is not ONLY am I a potty mouth and a drunk, but also insane.
Love, Fluffy
I've been on the Danskin website all morning. I'm going to buy pink ballet slippers and a pink leotard, and the BHE can't stop me from leaping to and fro around the house. Oh, to be an anorexic ballerina must be divine!
My neighbor, (who the BHE insists hates us because I said pussy or dildo or something on our front porch) now also thinks I'm crazy. On my way out, he was in his front yard and I was trying to get our cat inside. I was calling to the cat, "Old Man, come on inside. It's going to be hot today." Old Man blinked at me indifferently, so I threw my hands up and said, "OK, it's your funeral" and walked to my car. But when I looked back, I realized that my neighbor couldn't see Old Man from where he was standing. He was just staring at the crazy lady across the street who is yelling at an imaginary old man.
So now the word on the street is not ONLY am I a potty mouth and a drunk, but also insane.
Love, Fluffy
12.7.04
Keep it down, please!
Dear Diary,
This weekend the BHE and I were perfectly anti-social. Well, we did run into friends when we went for a post-tapas drink (it's nearly impossible for one to be anonymous when eating tapas on perhaps the most popular sidewalk in all of City B).
Speaking of tapas, here's a tip: Just because the adorable waitress at a tapas restaurant has dark hair, olive skin, and a slight accent, do NOT assume she is from Spain. She is, in fact, from Germany and you will look like an uncultured idiot for asking her if she is from Spain. To my credit, she mentioned that she had just moved to this country. I thought: She must be from Spain. She's working in a tapas joint. She probably likes tapas. And she can pronounce everything correctly, like flan.
Anyway, the point is that I didn't actually need the post-tapas cocktail because we had shared a bottle with our morsels and before that, I had imbibed half a bottle of pinot grigio during what shall now be remembered as my "Afternoon of Poor Wifely Behavior". Read on.
Earlier that day, the BHE went to the yard and worked feverishliy clearing out yard debris. I stayed inside and made lemonade (as a good wife should). Then I felt guilty for all the work he was doing, so I told him I was going to go clean the bathtub. But instead, I grabbed a bottle of wine and a glass and headed upstairs to watch a movie. All the while the poor BHE was working in the yard. But then he started mowing, and after my 3rd glass I gazed out the window at him and thought, "I wish he'd keep it down out there."
I got busted when the BHE came in to take a shower in our dirty tub. But hey, I made lemonade.
This weekend the BHE and I were perfectly anti-social. Well, we did run into friends when we went for a post-tapas drink (it's nearly impossible for one to be anonymous when eating tapas on perhaps the most popular sidewalk in all of City B).
Speaking of tapas, here's a tip: Just because the adorable waitress at a tapas restaurant has dark hair, olive skin, and a slight accent, do NOT assume she is from Spain. She is, in fact, from Germany and you will look like an uncultured idiot for asking her if she is from Spain. To my credit, she mentioned that she had just moved to this country. I thought: She must be from Spain. She's working in a tapas joint. She probably likes tapas. And she can pronounce everything correctly, like flan.
Anyway, the point is that I didn't actually need the post-tapas cocktail because we had shared a bottle with our morsels and before that, I had imbibed half a bottle of pinot grigio during what shall now be remembered as my "Afternoon of Poor Wifely Behavior". Read on.
Earlier that day, the BHE went to the yard and worked feverishliy clearing out yard debris. I stayed inside and made lemonade (as a good wife should). Then I felt guilty for all the work he was doing, so I told him I was going to go clean the bathtub. But instead, I grabbed a bottle of wine and a glass and headed upstairs to watch a movie. All the while the poor BHE was working in the yard. But then he started mowing, and after my 3rd glass I gazed out the window at him and thought, "I wish he'd keep it down out there."
I got busted when the BHE came in to take a shower in our dirty tub. But hey, I made lemonade.
9.7.04
South Beach Nothin'
Dear Diary,
Last week I went to the doctor for a "check up" (I really just wanted him to refill my Xanax, tee hee!) Anyway, talk about invasive. The guy is like 60 and he's ALWAYS trying to be my gynecologist. I'm like, no thank you, I have a lesbian gynecologist who I'm quite pleased with so stop trying to give me a pap smear, you pervert.
Anyway, he asks me all about birth control, and am I trying to get pregnant. I say no (like it's his business) so he's like, there are lots of new options for birth control, blah blah. THEN (and I just about fainted here) he whips out this rubber ring from a drawer, one of these new-fangled birth control contraptions, and starts playing with it and describing how I would insert it, and how I can take it out while I'm "making love" and how most men say they can't feel it. Blech! I think I need a new doctor. Did I mention the totally unnecessary breast exam he gave me when I first went to him?
I think there was a point to this story. Ah yes; I got weighed and I've gained SEVEN pounds since my wedding. So of course I immediately went on South Beach, until I realized you're not supposed to DRINK. Are you kidding me? That sounds like a pretty shitty diet. So what's a girl to do?
Love, Fluffy
Last week I went to the doctor for a "check up" (I really just wanted him to refill my Xanax, tee hee!) Anyway, talk about invasive. The guy is like 60 and he's ALWAYS trying to be my gynecologist. I'm like, no thank you, I have a lesbian gynecologist who I'm quite pleased with so stop trying to give me a pap smear, you pervert.
Anyway, he asks me all about birth control, and am I trying to get pregnant. I say no (like it's his business) so he's like, there are lots of new options for birth control, blah blah. THEN (and I just about fainted here) he whips out this rubber ring from a drawer, one of these new-fangled birth control contraptions, and starts playing with it and describing how I would insert it, and how I can take it out while I'm "making love" and how most men say they can't feel it. Blech! I think I need a new doctor. Did I mention the totally unnecessary breast exam he gave me when I first went to him?
I think there was a point to this story. Ah yes; I got weighed and I've gained SEVEN pounds since my wedding. So of course I immediately went on South Beach, until I realized you're not supposed to DRINK. Are you kidding me? That sounds like a pretty shitty diet. So what's a girl to do?
Love, Fluffy
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