Debbie Does Drivel

How does one go about becoming a mature adult?
Really, are there steps? Is there a guide?
I'm so not mature and I wonder why. Maybe I'm lazy. Maybe I'm nutso.
Maybe it's my dad's fault.
He taught me that at 45, it's still funny to sing,
"Polly went out to milk the cow, Polly-vouz
Polly went out to milk the cow, Polly-vouz.
She missed the tit and pulled the tail
and all the shit went in the pail
Hinky Dinky Polly-vouz"

Yet, my mom should've counted for something. She repeatedly chided my dad with a stern look and a "Ken!" when he was leading us kids in a poem contest where the nouns, "crap" and "hell" were acceptable rhyming words.

Also, he used to fart at the dinner table and we all (sans Mom) thought it was hilarious.

I think that's what happened. I was taught through repeated conditioning that vulgarities and non-adult-like acts were preferred over mature-type activities...

But crap, Polly, it's sure causing me a hell of a lot of problems now that I'm 33.

It's 4AM and I think our house is haunted.
It'd be newly haunted...perhaps I created a spirit with my angst, or maybe one of us brought one with us from the store or something by accident. Maybe all my Buffy-watching gave birth to something which now lives in my home.
Either way, a coupla weird things have happened this week.

For one, Kevin told me that earlier this week he was awoken by the very strong feeling that something was leaning over him and staring him in the face. He was so shaken by the feeling he checked under all the beds.
The next day, he didn't even want to talk about it beyond giving me a quick synopsis of the experience. He was so freaked out hours later.

Then, I woke up tonight with a pressure on my chest. Being a hypochodriac, I immediately thought "respiratory distress," so I got up and tried to relieve the pressure with ibuprofen and water.
Several minutes later, as I was in the bathroom picking zits to distract myself, there was a LOUD noise which came from the direction of our bedroom. It sounded like a big pile of books falling off a dresser (which is what I thought it was). I went to the bedroom and Kev was on the edge of the bed looking out the window. He thought the sound came from outside. SO, he runs outside with a bat, while I'm certain the threat is from within.

We still don't know what it was, but it was an unmistakable hugely sonic vibration. It's like hearing a car crash and not seeing cars anywhere...

Now, I just thought I heard someone walking in the living room...and Kevin is checking the house...
though I could have imagined that walking sound.

But maybe not...

Just got back from a long weekend with the girls. We went to Palm Springs and stayed in a friend's gorgina condo with its own pool and jacuzzi and Ikea-like home furnishings.
I'm not sure why I'm so fascinated with Girl Time, but it just cracks me up -- especially the contrast b/w how guys would spend their weekends and how us girls spend ours.

First of all, we arrived around 3PM on Friday. About four girls were there already. Three were laying around the pool, and the fourth was making a refreshing group salad in the kitchen (which she later served to us poolside). My friend Wendy and I unloaded our groceries (wine, Absolut Citron, juices, feta cheese, veggies, hummos, pita and other girly food). We put these groceries in the fridge already loaded with 6 other tubs of feta, 10 bushels of veggies, and 3 containers of hummos). Wendy busily looked for a vase with which to place the tulips and lilies the hostess bought to give the condo some ambiance.

Then, we retired to the pool with summery drinks made from a recipe we found online (settled upon after much Google searching for "fun" "fruity" and "frou frou" drinks).

About two hours, ten frou frous, and six manicure/pedicures later, most of us were in the kitchen talking about sex as I made a delightful cucumber/tomato salad which was promptly ignored as we all shoved chips into our mouths.

Then, we ambled to the driveway where our friend Nancy had her Denali pumping out the "Moulin Rouge" soundtrack. We joined her out front in our bikinis and danced with each other for about 45 minutes. After that, the Denali took us to Jack in the Box for bugers, curly fries and two tacos for 99 cents.

Later, it was wine time and more gabbing, as we never even made it out to the clubs.

Next morning: Michelle makes homemade cinnamon buns and brings them to us by the pool as we are spiking our coffee with one of the 18 flavored creamers we brought for the trip.
We hang by the pool reading magazines and talking about clothes for about 6.2 hours, then head to the Marriott Desert Springs pool to drink chi-chis and eat cheese quesadillas, chips/salsa, chicken fingers and mozzarella sticks. Gone are visions of hummos, carrot sticks and broccoli florets, as we all cheerfully proclaim the end of our collective diets.

Around 6PM, it's back to the house for dinner which we eat by candlelight (this time we go healthy with a spa salmon recipe and an asparagus dish...of course, one hour later we're all armed with sticks of butter as we clamor around the leftover cinnamon buns)...

We fall asleep with glasses of wine and two episodes of "Trading Spaces."

The following Sunday morning, it's pool, food, and outlet shopping. I return home at 7PM.

It was fun, but the whole time I keep thinking: If that were a Guys Weekend, it'd be beer and bars, and a return time of 1PM so they could catch the Lakers game. About the ONLY thing we'd have in common would've been the cheese quesadillas, chips/salsa, chicken fingers and mozzarella sticks. Guys would have laughed themselves silly at our idea of a good time...except (I'm sure) for the girl-girl bikini dancing...

Oh Yodeler girl at karaoke bar. You captured my interest.
You, wearing traditional yodel garb with boobs pushed out to about here, braids, and knee socks. You, of the crazy cross-eyed look, singing "99 Red Balloons" completely in German even though the screen had the lyrics in English. At various points, you'd look up at the ceiling, but one eye stayed at ground level and you looked creepy, in a non-threatening, Swiss mountain girl kinda way.

You were drunk and sloppy and you had a strange gait. A little loopy, like one leg wasn't working. I found you intriguing. I think it was because you reminded me of that weird serial killer dwarf in "Don't Look Now" with Donald Sutherland and Julie Christie. But I didn't tell you that, goofy yodeler girl. No, I didn't say a word.

My head hurts. I want to grow herbs. I don't want to write about a client's new office location. I need a place to take my sister tonight that is fun, but not over-whelming. Plus, they need to serve wine.
I'd like to go home, but don't want to get sucked into back-to-back Buffy.
I'm resisting buying items galore on E-Bay. I don't really need this. But, oh, do I want them. Come on! They're red and saucy. Just like me. If I were a bottle of Tabasco. Which I am not. So, see? I don't need those. Ah, the circular logic.
Stream of consciousness is supposed to be good for you. Unless it turns ugly.
I have to go now.