December 17
 

 

On the Express Train to Hell:

This morning, I pulled out of the driveway and headed towards the corner.  As I got to the light, I noticed one of the many neighborhood Retarded People crossing the street.  (I'm not being cruel when I call them Retarded People.  Indeed, that is what they are.  They all live together in a big swinging apartment complex a few streets away.  God help us, but Nick and I are going immediately to hell for the way we talk about them and the names they've been assigned.  "Look! it's Helmet Guy!!"  "Be careful, Traffic Light Tard!  I might run you over!"  Well, okay, maybe I gave them their nicknames, but he supplies the sound effects)

Anyhow, stopping at the light we saw two Retarded Folks crossing. This wouldn't have been out of the ordinary, but for the fact that one of them was dressed as Santa.  With hat and beard.  I proclaimed: "Behold! It is Mentally Challenged Santa!  Bringing presents to all the good tard boys and girls!"  and we just bust up laughing.  It's so, so very wrong, I know.  We are going immediately to a special place in hell for all of the people who make fun of those who can't defend themselves ("they're so kind and gentle and wouldn't hurt a fly!"  "yes, but they creep me out and scare my dog.")
 

The Purple Suit, or Why Dana Usually Shops Alone:

I forgot to bring up the fact that I had two breakdowns at CC with Nicole.  The first occurred in the Versace outlet.  (Yes, I know.  I don't know what I was thinking.  Yes, they were all very tacky.  No, I didn't buy anything).  We wandered in, and immediately my eyes fall upon the tackiest purple suit I've ever seen.  Of course, I run to it.

"This suit fucking ROCKS! I need it!"   Nicole gives me The Look.    "NO, seriously, how fucking cool is this SUIT?? I'd be a PIMP in it!! I'd be fucking PRINCE in it!!  How much does it cost??"

I find the price tag:  $1,670 (I'm guessing about the 70 part, it was sixteen something)

I drop the sleeve.  "THIS FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT THING COST MORE THAN MY CAR, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!!"

Nicole looks from me, to the suit, to the employee who's stopped folding or hanging her crappy overprices clothes to listen to me, and hightails it out of the store.

We move to the Jones New York Sport outlet.  I see a sweater I like.  Nice color.  Nice design.  Not fussy.  All cotton.  I hunt through a stack and pull out a large.  It's maybe, maybe the size of something you'd put on an 8 year old.  I shriek:

"LOOK AT THIS SHIT!!  LOOK!!!  THIS IS  SUPPOSED TO BE A LARGE!!"

Nicole's laughing so hard, she's dropping stuff.

"A large what??? A LARGE MIDGET??? A LARGE BABY???  And people WONDER WHY I GO THROUGH MOST OF MY LIFE FEELING LIKE A FAT PIG!! THIS IS NOT A LARGE!!!!"

The woman working in the store tried to cut in "Yes, dear, they run a little small.."

"A LITTLE small?  A little?  There is no possible way you can ever tell me that this could even remotely be considered LARGE.  I have NEVER BEEN THAT SMALL.  Are these misprints, or would you really have me believe that this [i hold up a teeny sweater] is a large? "

She smiled indulgently at me, turned on her heel and sped away.  Let me tell you something about this woman.  Judging by her volume, there's no way in hell that she'd have fit into any of the clothes they were selling, so I'd have thought that she'd be a tad more understanding of my hysteria.  Alas, some people just don't believe in getting involved.

Later:

God, what a weird rest of the day. Frenzied phone call from Rob (Dana, to Rob: "Has Julie always been this clumsy? I've spoken to other pregnant women about this, and they didn't fall down quite this often" Nick, to Dana: "Is it normal for someone to fall down like that all the time?") . Nice (but strange, see below) dinner with some friends from Nick's MBA program (point: one of these friends works for the New Haven Coliseum. She informed me that it could be mine, for my BHT&TM 30th Birthday Party Extravaganza for a mere $5,000 dollars. I think it's something to work for, however, I don't know that that's the kind of party I want. I want one where I can hang out with people and drink a beer with every single person there. And I plan on having a lot of people, i.e., all of you, there. Paramedics might need to be standing by. I've already invited Dr. B, so we've got heart attacks covered.)

Dinner would have been fine, but something strange happened: someone who's hurt Nick and I really badly was there. The scene could have been a lot worse than it was. I wouldn't go over to say hello. It was just so weird and made me feeling so creepy and I got all teary eyed and I'm only telling a tiny part of the story and why it was the way it was and who it was that we saw. I'm not too interested in going into family history or fights, but it left us both very shaken and upset. The one good thing that came from the meeting: my nephew, Noah, looks very much like Tina.

 

The Amazon List:

Really, you don't have to buy me anything. I mean this in all sincerity. I'm not posting the correct link because although I'm flattered that people have considered it, (and, in some cases, done it, thank you, Carlos. I adore you!) I don't want anyone to feel that they have to. Or that I'm expecting anything. I'm seriously not. If you really want to get me something, I donno. Make me something. Send me some home brew beer. Draw me a picture. Write me some haiku and mail it. Shut up, Dana.

 

And What are you Doing This Weekend, Dana?

Tomorrow, we need to go get our Christmas tree. And I need to go to the mall. I'm such a freak. I love the mall. Well, no, that's not entirely true. I love SOME malls. I love the mall I'm going to. I hate the mall closest to our house, the fucking Post Ghetto Mall. It's not a happy place. Conversely, Trumball, where I'm going tomorrow, is the king (or at least the prince) amongst shopping emporium in this area. Plus, I don't have to drive on I-95 to get there! I get to take the Meritt, which I like because there's deer. And it makes me feel like I'm having an adventure (the fact that I never, ever get off at the correct exit might have something to do with that. I know how to get there, just not the most direct way.)

I'll tell you what I'm NOT doing. I'm not fucking talking about the house my grandparents may or may not be moving into. I'm just not. I'm not offering any opinion, I'm not giving any advice. I am a blank slate, ready to withstand anything.

 

And Lastly:

To me, this morning:

BS: I hear that the food at the party wasn't as good as in previous years!

Dana: What??? Are you KIDDING?? That food was FANTASTIC!!!

BS: Really? Several people told me that they didn't like it as much as when I was helping out..

Dana: Oh, my god. That food was THE BEST I'VE EVER HAD, practically!

BS: Oh...

Dana: There was a BUBBLING FOUNTAIN OF ALCOHOL! That, plus the Swedish Meatballs...I LOVE Swedish Meatballs. That was the BEST Chri...Holiday party EVER!!

 

yesterday/home/email/tomorrow (or sunday)