Debbie Does Drivel

I got mad at my husband and bought a new car yesterday.
More later.
(If my hands aren't bloody stumps from warding off his bitch slaps.)

OK, so this evening while working out on our office treadmill, I improvised ways to keep things fresh.
Meaning I mouthed the words to TLC's brilliant 1994 CD as I jumped up and down, skipped, and ran askew like a freak.
Remember that "Friends" episode when Phoebe jogged in that jerky, spastic manner because it reminded her of being a kid and made it funner to jog?
Yeah, you know.
It was cool working out this way and making myself laugh as I watched my reflection in the plate glass window that stands in front of the treadmill and faces the side of my office building.
The side where people gather to smoke, talk, and hang out.
You know, that side where you later realize your antics were viewed by thousands through the window that at night is as transparent as saran wrap.
Yeah, you know.

First, the mailman sees my boob during aerobics and now this.

Wine Tasting

Large leathery limo
Baked brie in bread

Ass-almond champagne
Puke on the bed

Sister so sick
Hair held back

Cram down a cracker
Hope to not hack

Before bile and vomit
With wine on the brain

Ditch digital camera
On tasting train

Slur and scavada
Toot Tippi's horn

Big birthday bashing
Fun? Fuck, I'm torn

We've been in this house 3.5 years, got along well with the landlords, never had any problems, and still the house owner saw fit to serve us with a legal document delivered by her son asking us to vacate the premises in 60 days.

The son is moving in, and his mom sent him to do her dirty work.
I don't mind the son moving in...family comes first...but not too long ago I asked her to give us plenty of notice if we needed to move. Kevin has a business out of this address, rents are high and we want enough time to find something, and we have the motorhome (34-ft. albatross) to deal with.

Still, though she gave us 60 days, she's known for some time the son would be moving in...can't you count on anybody to tell the truth and do what they say they're going to do?

My husband is one of the few people I know who does what he says.

And there's a chance he's leaving me...
last night he divorced me, giving me $888 and a handwritten note asking me not to contact him. His lawyer (our friend Mike) also held a town meeting parading Kev around to tell the ladies he's now available. Plus, when I chased him through the theater, he disappeared in makeup. Oh! And oh! He is now living in San Francisco (apparently so am I) and rearranges our furniture when he's not busy frequenting the pub down the street.
Dream Kevin sucks.

Well, when I thought of writing a screenplay where all of the world's mysteries were solved, this isn't what I had in mind.

Please don't tell me there's a Key West colony made up of old Bermuda-Triangled airline pilots and boat captains laughing their asses off.

I know I tend to be glass half-full, especially since this is a nice review...but I have a lot of sex.

Oh yes, I bought a car.
It's boring and practical.
It's a Honda Accord.

My next domicile better be an eclectic melange of Craftsman and campy, with a simple elegance.
I have a lot of style points to make up.

Who's the biggest, largest pain in my freakin' ass?
If you're not my husband, don't bother answering.

Book Club + Red Wine =
Trying in vain to remember who wrote that young adult novel where Julia, the evil twin, tried to overtake her sweet sister's life one hijinked-filled summer.

Pretty damn sure it was Lois Duncan.

Look, honey: we're not going to find a place close to an uncrowded freeway nexus, that also has a 20-plus-foot garage, a jacuzzi tub with all the attachments, where we can keep the same phone number, and is a house under $1,500/month.
I could possibly lose my mind over this.
You might lose more.

Charming drunk over.
Stinking blitzed commence.

Dear Debbie from 12 Hours Ago:
They call the wine Vampire.
Of course it's gonna bite your ass.

So I'm always striving for a stylish plus creative look in my everyday fashion.
I'd like to look all artisty and eclectic (Honda Accord nonwithstanding) daily, but usually the most I can hope for are knee-length boots and dark red lipstick (the latter dissolving into curdy pinkish bits by midday).
Imagine my surprise then, when at yesterday's caroling party, while wearing a hastily-thrown-together jeans 'n black sweater ensemble, the purported drummer from Spinal Tap asked for my phone number after telling me he liked my funky outfit.
He also asked for my name like 12 times (I mean e-lev-en).
He was soused.
Explaining his complete ignorance of my husband to my left...
But still: he obviously knows a finely dressed fellow creative when he sees one.

Maybe This Job Isn't So Bad After All

I recently received two e-mails with the following subject lines:
Lori's Little Hot Tub Dump Truck
and
The Mr. Gasket Party Machine

Both are bona fide work-related.
Diamonds among the rough, people.

Extremeous Christmas

Christmas with my family:
"When are you going to be here?"
"Soon! Would you stop asking me?"
"What's soon? Remember last year?"
"Shut up! Then I won't some at all!"
"OK, sorry. But still try to make it on time."
"Errrghhh. You people drive me crazy! Merry damn Christmas, everyfreakingbody."
"Would everyone just be quiet? We're trying to evoke the Christmas spirit here!"
"Bring some of that Christmas spirit over here! Shaken, not stirred!"
"Did anyone remember to bring the gift tags?"
"I thought you were supposed to!"
"No, you!"
"You!"
"This is nuts. By the way, when does your brother get here?"
"He'll be late."
"I won't be late! And I'm still on the phone you imbecile!"

Christmas with Kevin's Family:
"When will you be here?"
"Around 5."
"Great, just checking."

Kevin's Comments on the Two Christmases:
"Did you hear that uncomfortable 30-second silence at my family's dinner table?
That'd never happen with your family."