May 15th, 2006
I got the letter ‘C’ from Lara, and really, it’s perfect. I mean, there are TONS of ‘c’ words that mean so much to me, and I could have gotten something shitty like ‘X’ or ‘Y’ or worse, ‘Q’! Who knows Q? QUIMBY, RAMONA! Because really, that’s all I know of ‘Q’.
And so, C.
The deal is I need to write about 10 C words and, um, what they mean to me. But not all of these mean anything to me, but they make me think of SOMETHING, other than cats.
Cheese. I love cheese. I miss cheese, with the diet and all, but the thing that saves me is that I like strong flavored cheeses, so, in theory, a little goes a long way. Except, not really. I’d still like nothing more than to eat an entire block of blue cheese (I refuse to spell it ‘bleu’ because HONESTLY, I’m not Pepe Le Pew). And oddly, Weight Watchers, when I was on it, seemed to be totally cool with feta, so today, I got a Greek salad with feta. Feta! Except, seriously, it tasted like goat. I mean, it’s goats milk, but there was something so GOATY about it. Like I was licking a goat head. Or teat. Or WHATEVER. GOAT CHEESE.
I no longer crave cheese.
Cookie . Gimme a cookie. A soft-baked one. Any cookie. COOOOOKIEEEES.
Cunt. I have a long list of words that I hate. Although this is one that is almost universally loathed, I don’t mind it. In fact I use it, and perhaps a little too freely. But my favorite instance of this word was when my former CEO used it to describe yours truly. It was a silly incident really, and it was primarily focused on a mistake that she made with one of our clients, but because she was honestly – and confirmed repeatedly as – mad as a fucking loon, she took it entirely out on me, and it was extraordinarily unpleasant. She was screaming at me like an insane person and just after screaming, “You are an incompetent imbecile. CUNT!” she hung up the phone.
So that was fun. I feel somewhat compelled, for character reference, lest you think that this was remotely my fault, that this is the same woman who screamed, just after the second plane hit the World Trade Center, “THIS IS NOT A FUCKING EMERGENCY. GO BACK TO WORK. ASSHOLES.” [The 'asshole' part was muttered under her breath with the subtlety of an industrial vacuum cleaner.] And, oh, PS, we worked right next to Logan Airport, where the planes CAME FROM and we could see it all going down, and, oh, EVERY SINGLE LAST ONE OF US knew someone killed that day. I left. Ran right fucking smack out of the office, backpack on, crying all the way, and got reprimanded the next day for leaving early. Emergency-schmergency. Cunt, indeed.
Chris O’Donnell. He’s hot, right? On Grey’s Anatomy, he’s HOT. When really, he’s nerdy. Nerdier than most, and married to a kindergarten teacher! A KINDERGARTEN TEACHER! How cute! I love male celebrities who stay with their actual normal wives after becoming famous. But really, is he that famous? Um, no. And this served no purpose except for a ‘C’ that I needed. So, whatevs. Chris O’Donnell. Hot. Vet. Nice.
Creek. Where I come from, they call it a ‘crick,’ not a creek. And some of my best memories growing up were of swimming in the Bushkill Creek in Pennsylvania. Catching toads, crayfish (yes, crayfish, not crawfish. Whatever.) Jumping off of the rope swing. Kids who grew up in an urban environment never get to live these things – never get to understand what it’s like to live that big old Country Time Lemonade commercial and it really is everything you think it is. And it’s why my kids won’t grow up in Southwest Florida, because who needs their legs chomped off by alligators while their about to go swimming? NOBODY.
Cracker. I don’t normally like crackers, but have you had those cheddar cheese Triscuits? Have you? Because MY GOD. The cheddary-ness! The Triscuits! THE CHEESE! SANS GOAT!
Christmas. I want so bad to like Christmas, but I don’t. It’s fraught with expectation, and when you have a fucked up, kind of blended family like mine, it’s hard to really like. Most of the time, I end up running back and forth from family to family, pretending to not have eaten earlier, and ending up STUFFED until I thought I might die from two Christmas dinners. And my mother, though nearly perfect, doesn’t really care about Christmas either (I know! I know!) So it ends up being kind of depressing. I prefer to make my own holidays.
Chamomile. Means nothing to me. I don’t even like the tea. Who wants to drink SHITTY FLOWERS? And, also, another filler! A CHAMOMILE FILLER!
Car. I don’t care about cars. I drive a Honda, and a Honda is the best I will ever get. Because what’s wrong with a Honda? Safe. Clean. Fuel-efficient. Can someone explain the Hummer phenomenon? And Ferraris? And any car that costs beyond what a normal car would cost? Because a Honda! A HONDA! Is really all anyone needs. And I promise you on all that I find holy, if I win the lottery and become fabulously wealthy, the most I’ll buy is a Honda. Maybe a new Honda!
I got nine. I’m out. I’m CLEAR! COLICKY! COLLOIDAL! And also, done. Clap clap!
*The Cure! DOUBLE C! I WIN I WIN!
AND HONESTLY WILL SOMEONE TELL ME IF MEREDITH HAS LOST HER MIND? HAS SHE LOST HER MIND? HOT VETERINARIANS. CHRIS O’DONNELL. SHE HAS LOST HER MOTHERFUCKING MIND.
Entry Filed under: Nuttin'