Debbie Does Drivel

LOOK WHAT I FOUND

OK so I was looking through our Outlook Contact database?
And I was trying to find someone in the "Ls?"
And look what my husband had filed there...

FULL NAME: Debbie Diane Anderson
FILE AS: Lucifericious
JOB TITLE: PAIN IN YOUR ASSNESS
COMPANY: KNOW IT ALL INC.
ADDRESS: 1234 UP MY ASS LANE; DEBOPIA, CA
HOME PH.: 1-800-UTICKLE
BUSINESS PH.: 1-800-UCLEAN1
WEB PAGE: HELL HATH NO FURY.ORG
NOTES: When speaking with Debbie, be sure to start every sentence with I love you and ................
Also, remember to look directly at her shoulder. NEVER focus anywhere near her wrinkles or the back of her legs. Finally, always floss and brush thoroughly. She has the nose of a bloodhound when it comes to dessert and bad breath.

Clearly I must unleash unholy hell right unto my husband to incinerate him and his jokey little typey fingers into tiny flecks of oblivion, never again to disturb my PMS vibe.

I returned from Vegas Friday night.
I was there on a business trip for four days.
I was with a certain man (salesguy) who always makes me feel like I've just rolled around in snake oil.

He's so manipulative.

He talks in half-truths and colors every story with his version of events, so you never know when, and if, he's telling the truth.

It's so icky.

I needed to call my husband a lot to convince myself that there ARE good guys out there.

I heard this person on the phone with no less than three different woman (at least 10 times a day) every day of our trip.
One, he says he wants to commit to, but she's not sexy enough. However, she is responsible enough to FED-EX his blue-tinted Gucci glasses, going-out shirt and belt to his hotel because he forgot it.

Then there's the woman he met online. She is sexy. But not responsible.

Of course there's the trollop he flew out to Vegas for the weekend. She was 20 years younger than him, and kept giving me cool, appraising looks as if to say, "Don't steal my man, harpie" though I repeatedly offered that I was indeed married and also that there was no way in hell, much less Vegas, that I'd ever consider Snake Oil my type.

Pre-Vegas, they'd been on one date. Apparently that was enough time for her to suggest he buy her a $300 outfit at the gift shop. (She needed a new outfit, considering what she wore to dinner.)

The next day, Snake Oil is on the phone convincing UnSexy that he wants a commitment and is ready to settle down. Nevermind that that morning when he called my hotel room to coordinate show departure times, he responded with a gross and unseemly post-coital "mmmmmmm...hmmmmm...mmmm" when I asked how he and minus-20 were doing.

Yikes! He's oily. His behavior awoke latent man-disgust I'd accrued during my dating life. He became every man who lied to me, cheated, told me what I wanted to hear yet never delivered, NEVER helped me move and left women's underwear in their beds. I'm so pissed on behalf of all the single women out there. I almost broke down and told minus-20 trollop his caddish ways, but I'll wait until after she gets that $300 outfit.

I'm telling you: she badly needs it.

Why Can't I be the Skinny Monkey?

Poor Kev.

First, some guy at the gym calls him a skinny monkey, and now my co-worker says he's gaunt.

My best friend thought the latter was hilarious, got drunk and started calling Kev, "The Gaunt One," like he's got the starring role in a Stephen King Dark Towers epic. I riffed on that and labeled Kev "Gaunt-Alf."

Both names have stuck like the evil alliance between Sauron and Saruman.

Now what'll I do with my Skinny Monkey collection? Do they sell Ian McKellan busts on E-Bay?

I did not cry at any of my graduations. I shed minimal tears at my own wedding. Yet my heart breaks at television series finales.
I never saw a full episode of Dawson's Creek while it aired on the WB. I didn't even know the name of the girl who died. I thought it was Michelle.
So why do I park my ever-burgeoning ass on the living couch and spend two hours watching/crying/emoting during the finale?
I banished my husband to the bedroom for his West Wing finale while I watched the end of a show I've NEVER EVER viewed before.
Afterwards, Kev is looking up the 25th amendment on the computer while I tap my foot behind him waiting to log on to check if Dawson's Creek is a real body of water.

I'm going to have to grow a beard and observe a lengthy mourning period when the last Buffy airs next week.

Lately, I've been trying to divine a scientific explanation for my klutziness.

Being hypochondriachal, I've already explored ALS and Parkinson's and hope to rule all neuromuscular diseases out shortly.

Barring an organic cause, I'd really love to hit upon the why of my misguided steps and close encounters of the pointy-table-corner kind.

This week I've acculmulated at least two bruises (which I'm monitoring carefully should an errant blood clot traverse the spindly network of my femural artery and travel directly to the cerebral cortex), and a few scrapes or scratches. Plus a hangnail. The hangnail occurred in a bizarre paper-cutting flesh-eating accident.

I must have a type of narcolepsy where I temporarily black out when my brain has to choose between the option of (a) walking straight into a low-lying coffee table or file cabinet and (b) moving swiftly the hell out of the way.

Once An Editor...

Director, Head Honcho: So did you check that newsletter copy?

Me: Yes, and I did not find anything glaringly error-full.

I bet I gained major professional credibility points with that succinct and descriptive response.

Is This Cheesy? I Hope it's Not Cheesy

I'm walking in the American Cancer Society's Relay for Life. If you feel like donating a dollar (a dollar helps! lots of dollars are good, too...), please click here:
https://www.acsevents.org/faf/donorReg/donorPledge.asp?ievent=21936&lis=0&supId=5783277

ERRR, ARGH

Woe, woe upon the land!
And agony unfolds like a fury flag...
Or something to that effect.
But back to the woe!
It is very woeful woe.
And baleful.
Tuesday nights now taunt like Monday nights.
Empty and devoid of witful, 'nifty' (oh! that reminds me of woeful things!)
malapropistic prose.

And all is quiet in Buffyverse.

Serendipity or Harbinger of Doom?

Awhile back, I wrote about my doomed cheerleading try-outs in grade school.
These fruitless attempts to be cool continue to gnaw at me, even today ("if I were only more flexible and bendy, I would have made that damn squad!" kind of thing).

Well yesterday, I found out that a woman I work with grew up in my home town of Buffalo Grove, Illinois. We kept comparing notes of people we knew, blah, blah, blah, when she tells me that her aunt taught at my grade school.
I naturally asked who this woman was, and she refused to tell me at first because apparently everyone hated her aunt. So, I'm racking my brain and I consider my colleague's last name and soonafter a black black night falls. Slowly, slowly it descended...

"Mrs. Stark?" I yell. "Your aunt was Mrs. Stark?" I gasped for breath. I reeled with shock. I tried to do the splits.

Yes, while speaking with said co-worker, I attempted to touch my crotch to the ground in another fruitless try at once and for all proving to Mrs. Stark, the cheerleading coach, (or her niece as the case may be), that I was indeed motherfucking worthy to make the St. Mary's Bison pom pom squad.

STEP DOWN

I love it when a wannabe, who perceives himself as a higher-up, takes my marketing copy and flim flams it until it's but a shell of the brilliant prose it once was and is now a caucaphony of unclear verbiage, homeless commas and run-on sentences. An add-on delight is when the first line of his crappy copy is "Who Wants it First?"

Who wants it first indeed.
I'll show you from who wants it first.

TOADY TO THE TOAD

I can't believe you.
You bend your words like Yuri Geller's spoons.
Not quite safe here.
When every judgment seems to smack of doom.
And are you joking?
I'm just fine.

Ya know what I'm sayin'...