These Conversations Are Recorded For Posterity's Sake.

planximihi: these shoes make my feet smelly.
Villell: most shoes do
planximihi: I'm just desperate for a pedicure, really.
planximihi: but I get one tomorrow night, so woohoo!
planximihi: shit, that means I need to go shopping. Gotta find shoes for the weddings.
Villell: you have shoes for the weddings
Villell: i dispute your claim that you do not have enough shoes
Villell: DISPUTE!
planximihi: Hey, you're supposed to be on MY side!
Villell: true, I am gay
planximihi: sheesh.
Villell: I own many more pair of shoes now that I'm g ay
planximihi: I bet when you were straight you had like three pairs of shoes.
planximihi: Maybe not "straight" but "non-gay".

"Amusing" Is When Your Boyfriend Tells You You're Thinking With Your C***

Villell: how is Clitigation coming?
planximihi: Clitigation hasn't even begun! I've been busy! Work is nuts and also I was having sex!
planximihi: two activities that can be written off as research, I'm sure.

This book is going to be great.

So I'm Not Any Good At This Title Business So Far.

Sue me! sheesh. I was half asleep when I wrote that anyway!

Clearly the worst karmic retribution comes in either the form of a papercut between two fingers (thanks a pantsload, Netflix envelope) or having to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for a meeting at 730am after a night of grand debauchery that didn't land you home until 230 am.

but hey, at least everybody got laid, right? Right-o.

(i am now reminded of a movie that really cemented our early stages of relationshipness, me and Boy--PCU--Remember the band? Named "Everybody Gets Laid"? The best band name ever? It's sick how enjoyable that movie is, and thanks to the wonder that is Comedy Central, it's on tv at least once or twice a week. glory be.)

not really related to anything other than a lingering discomfort from not getting enough sleep (i am not complaining, I swear, because it was totally totally worth it.) but holy crap on a stick, I have got to stop buying these boycut panties, sexy though they may be. If you have ever been naked with me (and many, many many of you have--here is your cue to gasp with shock and amazement!) you know that I am just not the boycut kind of girl, not with the hip-to-waist ratio I'm sporting. nosirree. Operation: Wedgie recommences with this black-lacy-mesh pair I bought last week, following closely on the heels of last night's red-lacy-mesh thong (because honestly, what's an improbably sexy thong for if not a hot threesome with a married woman? right-o indeed!)

I should stop this nonsense-talk about underwear and really get some work done. Or, at the very least, I should stop this nonsense-talk and have some goddamned breakfast, because I can't think of anything else that's going to help me wake up. I totally fell asleep in that meeting, and that's no example for the big man's daughter to set. (did you know we call him the Big Man sometimes? I mean, sure, his girth has expanded somewhat over the last few years, but that's nothing more than a sign of living well, right? We also call him El Dictatore, Senor Talksalot, and on occasion, when we are feeling patriotic, perhaps an "El Presidente" will slip out! Better that than El Guapo, I say. All very appropriate names for a man of his stature, to be sure--no doubt his colleagues would be in awe of our dedicated and subservient loyalty.)

jesus fuck, i'm tired.

ELTIDIM: Now With Fresh, New Titles On Every Entry!

uh...yeah.

A new feature at ELTIDIM: Interview with a Gay Man.

Ferra: Can I ask you some weirdly intimate questions about gayness?

Unnamed Gay Man: sure

F: 1) do you switch-hit, or are you firmly on the pitcher's mound?

UGM: I have done both, i prefer top

F: (and if that isn't a mixed metaphor, I don't know WHAT is)

F: 2) Which is more repulsive to you as a gay man: straight porn or lesbian porn?

UGM: lesbian porn

...

F: Uhh...okay, that's pretty much all the questions I have.

Stay tuned for our next episode: Interview with a Straight Man!

planximihi: I have just discovered a flaw in our plan here.
Villell: what's that
planximihi: It's the concept of REJECTION.
Villell: huh?
planximihi: I do not want to receive rejection letters from publishers telling me I'm uninteresting.
Villell: okay, but, um, you will. Did you know JK Rowling was rejected 10 times before she published the first harry potter?
planximihi: No! No rejection!
Villell: but she's the number one author in the world!
Villell: of all time!
Villell: also, I totally made that up.
planximihi: also, I know! haha.
Villell: turns out it's true! http://www.aworldconnected.org/article.php/303.html
planximihi: brilliant!

Tomorrow I will post a real entry, I promise.

(and if you're wondering why the quality of that photo was so grainy and such, well, that's because phones weren't meant to be cameras, too. That's like making a toaster that doubles as a jackhammer, or inventing electric scissors or something.)

I miss you.

I love that my manfolk keeps a ratchet next to the bed.

Was doing laundry earlier and had a strange moment of deja vu, where everything I put in the washer and/or switched to the dryer was "my" stuff--the sheets I bought for myself when I moved out for the first time, beach towels that I've had forever, a t-shirt that's been floating around since I was 14--and it felt like that same goddamned summer again, only in a bad way. I half-expected to find the bed empty, since it's about that time of year--something about late July's sweltering heat always reminds me of that first apartment. No breeze, stuffing sheets in the freezer for half an hour to make sleep more palatable, some strange boy in the bed next to me before I make him go home...Oh, everything but that last bit.

Have been watching from the office windows this stupid little plane buzz around the sound for the last two days, an irritating strip of propaganda trailing behind it. THE CRANES ARE COMING! it says, leading us to cover our heads in anticipation of aviary fecal bombardment, but we discover today that they've been advertising the arrival of three giant Hanjin cranes for Pier 46. They were brought into the harbor on an enormous barge, completely assembled and greatly resembling a set of linear interpretations of brontesaurii. Dinosaurs gone cubist, something like that.

I can't believe the Port of Seattle paid to advertise these things. Jesse and I speculated about their motives--he claimed that the increase in profit for the port (apparently three supercranes will make a big difference) made the piddly cost of a tiny plane unnoticeable--but why go to those lengths in the first place? Why bother alerting the individual? Massive spectacle, sure--but why? I speculated that it was a big-budget version of an inter-office memo, flying over all of the Port of Seattle facilities to let employees know what was going on.

Either way, we are severely unqualified to answer these questions.

Other things I am unqualified for:
-heart surgeon (i am missing the supposedly important "medical training", I guess)
-geography-bee contestant (helLO, I thought El Salvador was an ISLAND)
-bus driver (uh. I guess maybe the Unsuitable One wasn't so far off base when he said I was the worst driver ever. I couldn't even stay in my lane driving home tonight, but that's because the sun was shining and the music was playing and life was terribly perfect.)
-cocktail waitress (no patience and/or balance)
-bike messenger (not enough tattoos and/or endurance and/or bodily odeur)

things I am far more qualified for:
-singing along with the radio
-being late for work
-figuring out how to stay cool and calm when the weather is ridiculously warm, as it is currently
-writing a book, apparently. Larry the Fifth and his friend Leor agree that it would be a very good idea for me to write a book. But what would I write about! sez I, thinking with great shame about the lousy beginnings of my Nanowrimo novel from last year--clearly commercial fishing and chinese pirates are not the answer to that question. How do I manage to write fiction and not sound completely like myself! sez I. Doesn't matter, sez Larry, doesn't matter what you write about because it'll still be entertaining to him. (at this point in the conversation, my head swelled to gigantic proportions, requiring words like "titanic" and "elephantic" to describe it.)

We'll see. We all know how I am with follow-through (if you didn't know, i am terrible with it, as evidenced by the millions of letters I've started but never finished much less mailed; also evidenced by the mix cds I have laying around, unsent; triply evidenced by the fact that I can hardly finish an entire can of soda.) but doesn't that sound grand? I'd really be a writer then, all published and everything. Instead of having business cards that read: MY NAME HERE, tall person (another note for those who don't know--this is funny because i am actually not that tall, really more of what you'd call "mid-height") they would read MY NAME HERE, real published writer with books in bookstores and everything. you can even get her books at stupidly pedestrian places like barnes & noble, not that you should, you should be supporting your locally-owned literary retailers and/or the public lending library, even if that reduces the number of royalties paid to this writer, here, the one handing you her card.

wouldn't that be grand? writer-chicks are hot, he told me once.

Villell: I think you should post about all the various things you are paranoid over
planximihi: you think I should post about my paranoia?
Villell: yes, it's amusing
Villell: I really find it hilarious when you call out to people on your website.
planximihi: Why, because I'm totally paranoid about the things that d*** c*** is saying about me to all my ex-boyfriends that she's trying to fuck?
planximihi: btw, I find it hilarious that you've picked up my habit of starting sentences with Also.
Villell: heh
Villell: and yes, to your above question.
Villell: classic.

If you wouldn't mind--please tell me who you are, you person from Preston Gates & Ellis? You come here at least once a day, and do your reading, and I have to wonder what is going on.

i've been so incredibly paranoid lately, you'd think I was on drugs. Maybe if I actually TRIED drugs, I'd be less paranoid? who knows.

planximihi: today is so incredibly boring.
planximihi: give me a topic to write about.
Villell: the eiffel tower is on fire!!!!!
planximihi: No, a plausible topic.
Villell: no, i'm serious

Well, what do you know. He was right.

A few more things:

1) Cherries that have been frozen and then unfrozen do not taste so good, and look an awful lot like a ziplog baggie full of giant blood clots.

2) I am totally eating cookies for breakfast.

3) As I was leaving the grocery store last night, I totally got checked out by these two Armenian guys. How do I know they were Armenian? Because one of them grabs my arm and says, "Are you armenian?" No, I say. Not even close. "Because you look like my sister, and we are armenian!" Still not Armenian, I say, and walk to my car with them watching me the whole time. As I pull out, the younger one gives a little wave and I give a little wave in return, at which point he jumps up! waves real big-like! how embarassing! I should stop talking to strangers in parking lots.

Also, what's with people thinking I'm eastern european? I got mistaken for being Russian while I was at the airport (this was during trial, remember). Do I look Russian to you? Or Armenian? sheesh. I thought the cheekbones alone would have given away half my "ethnic heritage" and the fair and blushing skin would do the same for the other half.

4) (as this is number four, I fear i have misstated my intentions--four is more than a few.) I NEED SOME GODDAMNED IDEAS, PEOPLE. I CAN'T TALK ABOUT FREAKY ARMENIAN GUYS EVERY DAY. (that is also a lie, as today is the first day I've spoken of them to you, which is not to say that it is the first time I have had such an experience as mentioned earlier. in truth, we have had a long-standing arrangement, the Armenians and myself, a symbiotic relationship where they provide amusing stories and I provide some rump-shaking in return. it's a good life, but I can't help wondering how long it will last!)

so not punk-rock.

Two things:

First, did I sound a little wistful yesterday when I was talking about trial? Because maybe I am. This is obviously an example of my most masochistic tendencies, as we all know about the suffering that went on during those dark and troubled times--but everything was so exciting! If not exciting then at least dramatic, and in the best way! (by "the best way", I mean "it was hard but the money and the victory totally made up for it")

I can be patient--we have three trials scheduled for November, and I'm sure they'll make me lose my mind--but until then, y'all are going to have to give me some ideas for what to talk about here. I don't think I'd call this writer's block, that's about as likely to happen as my voluntarily taking a vow of silence (answer: not fucking likely), but man, life seems almost...boring now. (famous last words, I'm sure.)

Second...well, it's not important. I was going to be snide and bitchy and badmouth particular individuals who are currently being the flies in my ointment (it's a figurative ointment. I don't actually need any sort of skin salve, thank you.) but why bother? Not worth it, and I've got toast waiting for me.

So then there was the rest of the weekend, the stuff past Saturday and before Monday (i have heard this referred to as the "day of rest"). Let me sum this up for you in one elongated word: laaaaaaaaaazy. No joke--we were in bed until almost 2, being cozy with the pup and eating cereal and...other things...before getting up and heading out, hitting Bed Bath & Beyond for a new shower curtain (thanks to Trace's suggestion) and Williams Sonoma for a cherry pitter (thanks to Loree's suggestion).

(if you are wondering, it's true: I may have completely ruined the idea of eating cherries ever again. it was fun at first, punching the pits out of these gorgeous ripe cherries, but after I while I noticed that the holes left in the fruit looked an awful lot like gunshot wounds on CSI. proved once and for all that I'm not likely to make a very good psychopath, as I felt so very guilty for blasting the hearts out of those poor little darlings. I could almost hear their screams! ...or maybe the heat had gotten to me, who knows. I was, after all, anthropomorphizing fruit.)

Really, that was the extent of our Sunday. Came home from more consuming, puttered around the house in my new sexy panties and a t-shirt, made a cherry clafoutis (what a strange, strange dish, half custard-half biscuit) and barbequed some chicken. Watched (what else) CSI and snorted derisively throughout the episode--it was a season finale or something, and they tried to make everything exciting by adding a high-stakes trial to the storyline...There's just no way that that's going to be decent entertainment for me, not after living through last month's trial. Asbestos litigation may sound boring but really, it's a rollercoaster of excitement.

Really.

I mean, remember when I had to find the lucite box to put the brake shoe in? Now THAT was high-stakes! Remember how late I had to stay up? Remember how many times I almost got the minivan towed? And the sexy backseat adventures! See, our trial had it all: high-speed car chases, brushes with the law, sex appeal, AND a happy ending.

You know, for our huge Fortune 5 client. Not so much for those plaintiff-types, but whatever.

Anyway, now it's Monday and I'm really busy and have twelve meetings to attend. In other news, our next door neighbors put their house up for sale today. NOTE TO YOU KNOW WHO and THE OTHER YOU KNOW WHO: ahem. hint hint. we could be NEIGHBORS.

HOLY CRAP THIS ROCKS LIKE SO MANY ROCKSTAR HURRICANES.

Not to make you jealous, but I totally got a Friendster message from Reggie Watts.

(let's pretend it just came of its own volition, and not because I sent him drooling fanmail once I saw he was in my personal network.)

well. cherries.

i have a feeling i'll never eat another.

update: it appears that every single recipe involving fresh cherries is long and involved. grr.

Sexy Housing Situation Available! (i heart craigslist.)

I feel obliged to tell you that if you've never pitted bing cherries before, watch out. I'm finding it to be a lot like serial killing: stained, bloody, highly addictive.

Now, if only I knew what to do with all of these cherry carcasses. I suppose I'll just freeze them, but then what? hm. I should think ahead next time I plan on purchasing three pounds of tiny bloody fruits.

Somewhat related: Crate & Barrel's cherry juice glasses are sold out until Christmas. Bastards.

irony amuses me (via loree):

what warning label are you?

uh...does anyone have a good recipe for macaroni salad? I want something that resembles my evil grandmother's macaroni salad, but I don't want to have to call her for the recipe, I'll just end up getting a lecture about something or other. She uses multi-colored pasta. there are usually little tiny cubes of cheddar cheese in it, too. onions, which I hate, so I'd be leaving those out...well, I suppose I could try piecing it together.

god, i love summertime.

Our trip to C&B yesterday was entirely too whirl-windy to see everything, as we usually do, so I'm going back today for a set of these. If ever a juice glass embodied my favorite things...

(what a stupid phrase. juice glasses are just juice glasses.)

Also, i need a cherry pitter.

everything looks so shadowed and gray at 6am on a sunday.

ps-oh well.

Home, hot, hard to handle. I'm sure it's not entirely the fault of our gorgeous weather, this restlessness I can't seem to shake, but it can't be helping. It's been a lovely weekend so far, full of lovey-dovey couple-y goodness: a cozy dinner last night, long slow overheated sex this morning followed by breakfast and a not-unexpected trip to (say it with me) Crate & Barrel and/or Storables. Some housework, some yard work, a tiny bit of late-afternoon dozing; a new entertainment unit to house the new home theatre from last weekend--aren't we darling little consumers? Shanghai Garden for dinner, now The Limey making us giggle, and the day is well-rounded and done.

You know how dehydration hits you just so, your brain shrinks and your lips dry and everything seems overexposed? Dizzy when you stand, dizzy while you sit, dizzy through sleep and suddenly the best idea you can possibly have is to pull back, just like the edges of your brain is doing, just like your lips do, pull away and leave behind and run until your lungs are dry.

This is my running.

Let's not call it that, the word running would be misleading. I am not retreating or hiding or leaving behind anything but the toxins, in more ways than one.

(do you want specifics? I've stayed away from the unsuitable one, begun what is sure to be a long and protracted detachment from red, stopped drinking too much too often, made a stronger committment to being a dutiful and loving girlfriend--had enough yet? I'm reducing the number of my shoes that clutter the closet, folding laundry and doing dishes, pulling weeds and smiling in the face of frustration--you should be proud.)

thirsty.

motherfucking fuck. If I can make it through today without killing my brother, it'll be a miracle. He stayed late last night to finish a gigantic copy job and figured "Oh, it's no big deal if I start drinking Corona while I'm working. Even better, I'll pour my beer right into my good sister's new nalgene bottle, because then it looks less like I'm breaking the law right here in this law firm. And then I'll just leave the bottle caps from my Coronas all over her desk, and leave her nalgene bottle stinky and sticky and not at all suitable for drinking out of. That way, when she comes in to work in the morning and fills her bottle with crisp, clean filtered water and bright sparkly ice cubes, all she'll taste is stale watered-down piss beer!"

today has only gone downhill since that.

In other less melancholy news, I have a quick message for all the salesmen who have come across my desk in the last month (well, not THAT kind of coming across my desk. My illustrious stepfather wouldn't approve in the least. Nor would I, to be honest, but I digress):

When you bring your other salesman friend and double-team me (not THAT kind of double-teaming, but close) and shove these copiers down my throat (not THAT kind of shoving of things down throats) and push and pressure and use that "do you know how to tell if it's a 20 amp outlet?" kind of voice, there ain't no way in hell that I'm going to purchase your product.

And then when I call to tell you I went with the guy who bought me lunch and let me tour the showroom, don't try to make me feel bad--accept my thanks for your work and move on. Let's not turn this into something even more ridiculous.

Today marks the end of an era: it is time to buy a new shower curtain. I've been carting the same blue bubbly curtain around since I first moved out of my parents' house four years ago (good christ, it's only been four years? that makes my heart feel tired) and this morning in a pissy moment I accidentally ripped it off the rings. Well, off of one ring.

this event made me inexplicably sad. Perhaps it's everything else that is making me sad and this was just a metaphor.

(if this is true, what a lousy metaphor--unstructured and unrepentant, much like the rest of my life right now. ha! a metaphor for a metaphor. or simile? I could never keep those all straight, and if my mother knew she'd beat me good.)