Proof

There are a bunch of really angry Disney lovers who have painted me as a vitriolic, Disney-hating crazy who wants to kill anyone who likes processed pork products and/or visits Disney with their screaming children. I guess I angered Disney-lovers with my long-ago disdain for all things theme park, but secretly, my appearance on a Disney-sponsored message board was worth the price of admission, seriously.

I only rarely get hateful or even critical comments or emails, but for some reason, my website has made an ungodly number of appearances on various and sundry Internet message boards. What’s funny is that the original poster never puts it together that I would see what they’ve written, thanks to the wonder of referrer logs, and truthfully, I like it that way. They say exactly what they think, and sometimes – no, most of the time – it’s hilarious, done kindly, and I see their point. I had no idea Disney lovers were so…passionate about Mickey and friends, and that I did indeed offend a large portion of rabid fans with my early summer Disney-snark.

Invariably, when something I write is posted to a board , it is always in the context of a Glamour Don’t. It’s fitting, as I think we can all agree that nowhere here do I pretend to be at all graceful and/or competent in many of the basic things that constitute life. And it never fails to crack me up, what people say in conjunction with something I’ve written or posted. There was a hliarious thread on a popular home decorating network/show website that posted links to pictures of my house (that I posted here some time ago) as a fine example of how decorating can really go awry, and why paint and color should be used more judiciously than what I’d done there. Oh, and they hated my red couches, calling them “gauche.” Unfortunately, I can’t find the link anymore, otherwise I would surely share it with you.

Nothing has been really all that personal, so I find 99% of it amusing, if not downright hysterical. Although that person who posted my full name, date of birth and home address on some angry website? Maybe that wasn’t so nice – especially the part where they tried to incite people to send me bloodied pig feet or something. Not that my date of birth bothers me, oh no! December 27, 1975. Why yes, I am a Christmas Capricorn, and now you can buy me seasonally-appropriate presents. In birthday wrapping paper, please.

Separately, this weekend was incredibly uneventful, which is exactly what we needed after the excitement of last week, and given that A. is still operating on a stress level that is currently breaking tension records along the greater eastern seaboard. There wasn’t a lot of sleeping going on, however, since the cat inexplicably decided to scream, howl and otherwise disturb all beings with their eyes closed as soon as the eyelashes hit the cheeks. Friday night, his desperate, plaintive cries were so pitiful that I ran down the stairs to comfort him as he screamed at the toad torturing him out the front window, but by Saturday night, I was locking the yellmonster deep, deep in the laundry room, screaming, cursing and weeping from exhaustion.

And lastly, I’ve noticed few results from my gym efforts, which, well, my patience is wearing thin, no pun intended. Four or five miles a day, four or five days a week for at least eight weeks, and I weigh…wait for it…exactly the same as I did when I started. Fine – yes, I am no longer winded when I walk up the stairs (shut up), and I kind of feel a difference in my thighs, in that they are no longer rubbing together with enough friction to start forest fires, but still.

Can the gods of weight loss throw me a bone please? I don’t entirely buy the whole “muscle weighs more than fat” thing, really, although if anyone wants to tell me that with any authority, I might be inclined to believe you, and maybe send you a big box of chocolate covered cherries. I’m not subsisting on a diet of celery and lettuce, but I’m not Augustus Gloop-ing my way through the kitchen on a nightly basis either. Whatever.

And all of this – all of this odd little minutiae that makes up the weekend, and I suppose, our lives, adds up to an extraordinary level of frustration that, when matched with The Husband’s stress level, is causing our home to vibrate with bemused discontent.

*Paul Simon

13 comments September 17th, 2006