'hey, it's me, did they forget about me?'

'no, they had to stop off and get your sister-in-law pimple cream. they'll be there any second.' 'i got in 20 minutes ago.' 'oh now don't be such a crab. they'll be there in a sec. [hic]'

bright pink hot pants and bad hair

and as it's week two of writing this from the pleather goodness from the long island railroad, marge wasn't even playing with me when i called home to say i'd be home a little after ten. 'well, your sister-in-law is going to have to pick you up, again. we opened a delightful bottle of red from the tuscan region. we'll save you some.' 'i just kicked it, ma.' 'oh, well, your brother just poured the last, but it's ok, dear, there is plenty of lovely other ones for when you get home.' 'they got married?' 'you know what i mean. [hic]. i never had a metro before. your brother is such a good bartender.' 'cosmo?' 'oh yes, that's what it is. so good. my my. you must ask him to make you one of these when you get home. you'd love them.' 'honey, you're forgetting you raised a fag. of course i know what a cosmo is. we invented them.' 'oh. well then, you people make good drinks.'

and i'm on the train next to chatty kathy and her mother who got on at woodside. kathy is wearing a pair of bright pink hot pants that may, just may, be burning my retinas, for they border on flourescent, but that's merely semantics: that i need a pair of those glasses you wear when welding just to look at her general direction should say enough. i may be getting tan just sitting here. seems she's moving out soon for college or beauty school or something. called her prospective college roommate and found out, as did my whole car, that her dorm room is 8 x 11 (bitch) with beige carpeting. the living room (bitch) is 'marble gray!' and the kitchen has a brown table and four brown chairs. (now i really hate her.) chatty's mother is wearing gold sequence sandles and really needs to touch up her roots. both of them have been gabbing on their light-up cels with the delightful rings for the last thirty or so minutes, and the is-he-or-isn't-he-homeless guy just took off his shoes. i am very ready for a metro and my big, squishy sheepdogs, believe you me.

what a long, strange trip it's been

oh dear readers, what a week it's been...

so, like i said, me doctorb (points if you get that reference) told me to get to the surgeon asap. now, as many of you know, imminence isn't my strong point... i'll get to it when i get to it... and it seems that every surgeon seems to take labor day as her/his week- or two- off in the summer. called the first, second, third, and finally fourth surgeon to whom i was referred, but there was no luck. finally, when i told the fourth one's assistant, this crotchity old hag, that me doc told me to see someone asap, she asked me why i didn't call sooner. (grr...) but 'fit me in between the 12 and 1 so be prompt and be prepared to wait' on tuesday. this gent, as luck would have it, is the vice-chief of surgery at one of the tonier hospitals in new york, so i'm kind of ok waiting for one of the best. and as something has to give, i'm sure he'll be a jerk and will yell at me for not lifting weights correctly. she explained that he does this surgery on thursdays and told me what to expect. i almost started touching myself in the vacant cubefarm office when she told me i'd be out of work for 'at least a week.'

i called my doc to see if a full week delay is ok, thinking my gut is going to explode and that i'll have to do something tragic like limit my red wine intake or give up carbs or something equally as awful, but thankfully not. sadly, however, i cannot run. that's going to hurt for a few weeks. but at least i can drink, that's something.

told ladyboss that 'he does surgery on thursdays, so it's possible i may be out of commission labor day week.' (heh heh heh. i'm smooth.) 'but that's the week the new girl starts.' i just looked at her until she caught herself. 'but whatever you need, you need.' right-o, toots. good save.

in the meantime, tod an i are coexisting peacefully. his existence meant that i had to get one of those old-lady shopping carts to do my laundry. i go to 'fix you good!' hardware on sixth and asked if they have 'you know, those carts. for stuff.' 'why you need that chief? a guy like you ees more strong enough for those piece of craps.'

and twenty-five bucks later, i walk out with a day-glo blue cart. to make matters worse, the bastard broke just as i got it into my flophouse. it has the primary back wheels that are installed well(ish), and two secondary wheels in the front that are held with, who knew, a piece of metal not quite the thickness of the flugelbinder on my shoes. one snap as i walk into the flophouse and i'm jimmy-rigging the thing every time i bring it into, and out of, my building. and into, and out of, my laundromat. (and why is that woman insistent upon saying hello to me now? the 180-degree turn in her demeanor needs to stop. how she found out my name just weirds me out. sort of. 'hiyee jon!' 'my name isn't jon.' 'no to forget last wash at [looks at clock from 1970's] well you hurry up!')

grr.

it's not an alien... i'm kinda pissed about that

i was going to name him tod. the tod bump project of 2005. i mean, it's a bump on my naval, life is bred from the naval, and more specifically ALIEN life i was hoping. but NO. my dumbass doctor (who actually took me on time today... first time in three years) bursted my bubble when he told me that it's a delightful little 'umbilical hernia.' i mean, yes, i'm absolutely thrilled to tears that i get a few doctor sanctioned days away from the cubefarm to be medicated and attended to, that's not in a sanitarium, i mean i couldn't be happier. though it would have been nice to have this circa the fourth o' july, but i'll take labor day. but i really was kind of hoping for an alien.

it doesn't mean the tod bump project of 2005 cannot be fun. i told b. p. about my findings, being all macho, 'it's from weightlifting.' i mean how butch does THAT sound? such a good battle scar, my little gay wuss equivalent of 'got it in 'nam.' but no, he has to dilute it... 'honey, don't sound so badass. you probably got it taking a rough dump. have some more fiber and get over yourself.'

grr.

you'll be kept in the loop, dear readers. surgeon visit tomorrow morning; doctorb wasn't playing today (well he's always making dad-type jokes)... 'you need to see a surgeon immediately. asap today or tomorrow at the absolute, absolute latest.' 'can i lift at lunch?' 'that's not funny, jon.' 'my name isn't jon.' 'and don't 'forget' the copay this time, sport. i'm pretty sure it went up 5 bucks.'

money is no object...

there are certain things, my dears, upon which one cannot afford to skimp, and certain things for which one should never pay full price. and i guess to be fair, certain things that are a combo of both... here goes:

spaghettio's and canned ravioli. yeah, campbell's, i know EXACTLY when franco-american sold out to you. lucky for your enterprising ass you didn't change the recipe, but kindly let your followers know that you'll be increasing the price 25% next time you take over an old favorite. take frito lay brands and it's war. i'm not kidding. i'm not sure how they sell to the discount people, but the store brand is never quite right. spend the money here, kids.

tilex. there is something about this stuff. turns my bathroom from 'how the hell did it get this way, anyway' to 'well hello there, stud. come here often?' in like 10 minutes. the store brand white rose crap cannot hold a candle to you, for it's as effective as using a tissue twice.

orville redenbocker micro popcorn. jiffy time is just nasty. the store crap is 10000 grams of mono-poly-super-saturated fat. you, orville, send me to a buttery tasting, hot and delicious bliss that explodes in my mouth every time...

i need a cigarette.

and in the other extreme...

apple sauce. really, it's just what the name implies. not a religious experience, just jarred dead apples. mott's is a big-ass sham. suckers.

toilet paper. i don't need quilting, perfumes, the exact pantone color of my bathroom, or fifteen plies of cotton on my ass. let's call it what it is.

frozen pizza. i have news for you... gristede's runs supermarkets, not food processing plants... so all that frozen pizza next to ellio's... guess who made it... cellophane instead of shrink wrap... yeah... same nutritional content... hello...

combo of the two... a tribute to joplin...

hmm... let me get back to you on this...

ebay made me do it

the dsl, that is. navigating ebay on dial-up is painful at best. navigating anything on dial-up is painful at best, so ebay drove me to take advantage of the 'limited time! special offer! do it now! now! now!' that my isp runs all the time. it means i won't have to tap into my neighbors' wifi connections. it means i can download software updates. it means i can bank online at home. it's a good, good thing martha.

and speaking of ebay, does anyone else know about this? i mean, they have everything at a fraction of its original worth. they don't have my pens, but i'm confident that it won't be too much longer. nor the patagonia bag, but it's cool. no rush.

ebay: i think i love you.

(don't judge me... i take to things long after everyone else has moved on to greener pastures... i hear they've got movies on disks now. i'm looking into it.)

i've got nothing to show for this weekend

well, unless you count a raging hangover and body aches from the boating. the boating was lovely; who knew that the sister-in-law was such a good water skier. tubing, however, is diabolical. i don't enjoy that. and for some reason my ass cheeks hurt. perhaps it was the bouncing from the boat. maybe i was gang-banged in my sleep, who knows, but as i sit here and write from the pleather comfort of the long island rail road-- deja vu-- i realize that some of the best weekends end with cuddling with the dogs on the couch watching three's company on t. v. land with a hangover.

brought a weeks worth of laundry home- thank you to my l. l. bean bag. if you recall my post a few weeks back about the loveliness that is my local laundromat, it's worth lugging the 25+ pounds of stanky clothing through the village and up to penn station. i felt a bit like a tourist and dared the cops to search my bag. i actually would find it kind of hot for a studly cop to rifle through my unmentionables...

oh and i finally joined the 21st century... i called and signed up for dsl, halleluia, halleluia, halleluia. i guess that counts as my functional duty for this weekend. go me.