Spitting Games

I don’t know why this matters to me, but my boyfriend in high school had a mullet, and it’s served as small consolation as I remember and not-so-fondly envision the whole mix tape disaster. Yes, yes, he had a rather long one, and believe me, I’ve asked my mother for some photos, because again: A MULLET. Also known as “hockey hair” around Pennsylvania. Adam, for some reason, maybe because he lived in a cave that had nothing but clothes from Chess King, seems to think that no one had mullets in civilized states. I insist that no no — everyone did, and I maintain they weren’t that unattractive back then. That’s right, I said it: there was a time in my life when I thought mullets were hot. Do with this what you will.

Incidentally, we haven’t put our house on the market yet, because we’re chickens (BAWK!), and because in moments of defeat, I can get very Eeyore about it, because who will buy it? And why, then, should I live my life frantically fretting over whether my water glass left a ring or my Moon Cup is resting on the edge of the sink? (Oh my God, the second I wrote that, I thought, seriously? RESTING ON THE SINK? Um, no. No, I’ve never done that, and I don’t know why I didn’t just correct it, rather than go on this way, but there it is, and no, no I’ve never left my Moon Cup on the sink. I would be divorced.)

Anyway! Onward! Remember how I said work was going to be settling down, all easy-peasy like? Not yet. NOT YET. I am dying here with the not-yettedness yettiness, and the freelance dance when I get home, and I maintain: what’s the point of making money if you can’t even enjoy it, like with a nice beer with someone other than your coworkers? (Beer. Beer is all I could think of? Seriously? Why not Coach handbags? No no, apparently, I miss BEER. And handbags. And maybe kind of clean underwear, but I’m not that picky.)

(I won’t let Adam do laundry ever. I am a control freak about this, ever since my niece turned one of my lambswool sweaters into a Barbie vest.)

Incidentally, and this is in no way related, but that has never, ever stopped me before — did I mention that my brain is mush, like green mushy peas without the butter? — we continue to be plagued by little gray jumping spiders, and in researching them (THEY JUMP), I’ve pretty much freaked myself right the hell out of Dodge. I mean, they aren’t Sundry‘s giant house spiders, but did I mention they jump? THEY JUMP. I killed one this morning by spitting toothpaste on it, and for one fleeting second, terrified myself into thinking that maybe it was about to jump into my mouth on the toothpaste string (I just grossed myself out even more) and JESUS, I’m never brushing my teeth again. (Because I am dead, I have KILLED myself with grossness.)

The whole point of this was to say that I ended up looking up photos of spiders to make sure they weren’t poisonous, and I discovered, for the frillionth time, that I have an irrational fear of touching pictures of insects, like they’re going to come alive and eat my fingers with their giant bugginess.

And with that, I’m off, because the next thing you know, I’ll be talking about the intricacies of Lean Cuisine vs. Weight Watchers meals (Weight Watchers all the way), such is the shallow, shallow depth of my current brain capacity. Also, maybe kind of I cried three times in Kid Nation, especially when Sophia won that stupid gold star, and yes, I’m watching it, and yes, I freaking CRIED.

Happy Thursday to you, and really, I swear, it’s slowing down soon! SOOOOON.

*Snow Patrol.

25 comments September 19th, 2007