...And Then Everything Went Horribly, Horribly Wrong

So does anyone have an opinion on this table? I realized that I need rectangular in the dining room instead of round. I have lost the ability to make decisions. It disappeared yesterday along with my slippers. Seriously, where the fuck are they? I'm looking everywhere...this is a small house...wood floors...they're freakin red for gawd's sake...

Yesterday I also came dangerously close to developing an enormous crush on the Puppy. He called me last night while he was out with friends - yes, a night apart - I can't believe it, either. And it was "that call." That silly, giddy, high school call where you know the boy is going to either ask you out or tell you - drunkenly - that he has a crush on you. I was just beside myself afterward, and went to work thinking, "Awww...Puppy."

It took an entire afternoon and two strong talking-downs from friends S and NYC D to snap me out of it. Yeesh. Tonight his son is at his place, and the Puppy is devastatingly sick. His cough sounds like a death rattle and the kid keeps saying "Bless you" every time the hacking begins, even though the Pup has instructed him that bless yous are for sneezes. I think the kid is afraid for his father's life. You should hear it.

Oh, and I have been struggling with my Internet radio again. I dialed in Queens of the Stone Age and now it keeps throwing me all this cheesy, growling metal where the first word of every band's song is "Woooooooooooooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh!" It's like being trapped in a Gwar video. I can't hack it. Found a lovely band called The 6ths as an antidote. Anyone heard of them? They're like a cross between Siouxsie Sioux and Xanadu, the movie. It's genius. Like listening to sparkles. Sparkly, mind-numbing goodness. Ahhh...

And I suppose I'm still on the bitterness tip, despite the brightness of The 6ths. I got behind a minivan (my favorite) that had this bumpersticker: "God bless everyone on Earth. No exceptions." It made me throw up a little in my mouth.

So now the big question...should I have another beer? I already had one. I'm home alone. I'm exhausted. I'm looking down at a fat little pug, laid on his side with his legs straight out in front of him...and he's snoring. This must be a hint at what it feels like to have kids. I just feel like there is nothing cuter on the planet...and I hope he doesn't wake up.

Perfect.

So, New Year's Eve! I have no plans. Other than an epically fun drunk I got on in Telluride NYE 2000, and last year's humiliating (but saucy) champagne-fueled making out with L in front of a dozen people assembled for what they thought would be a low-key party, I haven't been out in a bar for NYE since 1994. I have always had a boyfriend (or a husband) who joins me in wanting to stay in and hump. Whee! The last two years with the EH have been like that - we got an organically raised filet, a good bottle of Cabernet, lit candles and spent the entire night in our pajamas. If the EH had been more of a conversationalist those evenings would have been picture perfect. And why is it that people who are bland always think they're the life of the party?

The Puppy is going to his friend's party. They play poker. He keeps asking me what I'm doing - and the answer is still this: Nada. I kind of want him to ask me along, but on the other hand, I totally don't! It would just be awkward, I suppose. What if he hit on some skank and spent 11:58-12:-02 making out with her? It's not right that I'm even thinking that.

He mentioned moving to Portland today. Not fair - that has been my plan for well over a year. And I felt sad. (That also needed a talking down from S and NYC D.) I would miss the Puppy.

Please, if there is a Higher Power, he/she will not let me fall for the Pup. He is a work in progress and I don't need to be around for the progression, since there will surely be some evil backtracking. Plus he doesn't like fat chicks, and that is sooooooooo my body right now. Haven't been to the gym in two weeks since I got the creeping crud, and I feel like Anna Nicole before the Trimspa - plump, boozed up and completely insane.

It ain't pretty.

So I haven't blogged since Wednesday b/c in the move on Thursday, I dropped my monitor. Oh yes. My beautiful 17-inch flat-screen month-old monitor. And now it just says "no signal" and times out. And I have so much to share! I'm once again at my parents' house, blogging on my dad's rickety old PC. I will have to remedy this situation stat.

In other news, I found my Special Purpose. (And I mean this in a Steve Martin in "The Jerk" way, after he boinks the biker chick and calls home to announce that he found his special purpose, and not in the "Special Porpoise" way that K found when searching for a gift that her boyfriend could buy her. She turned up a gold ankle bracelet ... with a dolphin charm. Oof.)

Anyhoo, My Special Purpose is to be a Lap. I adopted a pug on Friday and his main reason for living, apparently, is to lie in my lap and nod off. Now, this is sublime and adorable, but I am so ADD at home that I tend to get up a lot and putter around... it's not the best situation for a dog who A) needs lap and B) if he can't get lap, needs to be hovering around my ankles as he tries to predict where I'll go next. It has only been a couple of days and he seems pretty mellow otherwise. Today I left him at home alone and won't check back on him until after work. Poor little guy!

We were trying to think of a name for him since his given name is "Little Bit." That sounds to me like an AKC name...or a name for a horse...or your favorite S&M gadget. My mom suggested "Tino" - as in Rudolph Valentino, the world's greatest lover. The Puppy suggested "Pugly" - he could have done so much better. I keep calling him "Monkey," and he seems to respond to it. But on Sunday the Puppy and I (and the yet-to-be-named-lap-bogarting pug) watched "The Hebrew Hammer" on the comedy channel. I was starting to feel a name, a real old-man Yiddish accent thing was a-brewin as I looked down (into my lap) at said pug and noticed an eye booger. I wiped it off with a Kleenex and the Puppy said, "That's so perfect - you have to treat that dog like an Alzheimer's patient." And that's when it hit me: "Morty."

Now I'm thinking not so much ... but at the moment, Morty was genius.

And it's just fabbo to be in the house again! It feels like My Space, and there are no emotional traces of the EH. It's almost surreal how natural and happy it is to be back. Not a note of ennui... it's all purely good feelings. Nice, that.

And I hope y'all had a lovely Hanukkah/Christmas/Kwanzaa/Festivus. I spent mine with my parents... and the Puppy! Yep, he met Ma & Pa. My mother was completely charmed. "He's adorable," she growled in her (as I hear it) Harvey Fierstein voice. My father was more reticent. He capitulated this: "He seems like a good guy," and then snuck in the zinger: "He's not exactly introverted."

Later that night the Puppy brought his cousin over and we hit a dank dive bar. Yes, on Christmas. It was spectacular. The bar slowly filled with two kinds of people: the ones who need a little booze after spending too much QT with their relatives, and the ones who want to drink until they black out, just for the holidays. We had a blast. I shot pool and played darts - things I haven't done in years. And though my billiards game is rusty I did win one of the three dart games. I need to bone up on the Bar Arts. Or maybe not.

And - this part is shameful - I watched "Drive Me Crazy" (Sabrina the Teenage Witch and dreamy Adrian Grenier) last night...and got all sappy and sad when AG kissed those teenaged girls. I watched his lips and felt myself get all jumbly inside b/c there is no romance in my life. I need Man Lips - STAT! And though I love my time with the Pup, I know that as long as we hang out as much as we do (Daily) I'm not going to be able to do anything about it.

Sadly, I would totally make out with the Puppy if he was willing, but despite our initial infatuation with one another there is nothing even mildly romantic between us now. And let's face it - I like a guy with a childlike/playful streak, but I also need him to keep a clean house. I am too old and too tired to let somebody's dirty dishes get my goat. Messiness kills the romance, fo shiz. No girl wants to experience a night of warm monkey love and then wake up to a pile of laundry and dirty dishes on the dresser. (And if she does, she belongs on Springer, and god help her.)

And guys - seriously - if there's one easy, painless thing you can do to keep your women happy, it's doing the dishes. No stacking them on coffee tables, no soaking them overnight, no leaving them in the sink when the dishwasher is just inches away. Please. To create lasting harmony in your home, simply clean up after yourself when you have finished eating. Dirty dishes on their own are benign, but unbeknownst to you, dirty dishes can often communicate this message: "I don't care." And that message - given the right situation - might lead your woman down an emotional path that I guarantee you don't want her to take.

You'll thank me for this later. Trust me.

ps: Do I seem crabby lately? More ornery than usual? I haven't had nookie since October. I think it's beginning to affect my attitude. Shaka.

but first: Buy this album. It's good stuff. Trust me.

So tomorrow I move. Despite my late start - and my creeping crud - I managed to get out to buy some boxes (thanks, Dad!) and spent the better part of today packing. It's simply staggering how much stuff I've been able to accumulate in such a small space. My apartment is only about 900 SF, and I have boxes and boxes...and boxes and boxes...of knickknacks and whatnot, two large wardrobe boxes of my "hot" and "cool" clothes (because we don't have seasons in this shit-ass burg - only "Hot" and "Not So Hot") and a large coffin-like suitcase full of shoes, which has previously been used to stump customs at various international airports. And cabbies, too. The mofucker is BIG.

I am going to have to medicate myself tonight in order to get some sleep, I'm afraid. We're talking a Vicoden-and-beer dinner to knock out the excitement that is driving my sick body forward. With momentum. Hey - I "have a lot to offer," but I'm not perfect. Sometimes Mama needs a little help making one day become the next. Eh.

Saw the Puppy twice already today - he stopped by while I was packing. He likes to use me as a home base. This is what I'm discovering: I have morphed from romantic interest (waaay back when) to friend to confidante. I haven't had a friendship this intimate since Bimbelina and I shared an apartment in college. (The main difference now is that the Puppy is the only one getting laid.)

And I believe that if I don't get some lovin by Q2 2005, my nuna will just dry up and fall out from disuse. What a waste!

ps: I am in need of a vintage (50s-era) dining room table and chairs. I need! I need! And none of that "retro re-do" diner crap. What a shitstick that is. Faking vintage furniture is just not right. But it's all over the internet - you can tell the worst offenders by their close proximity to "coca-cola bistro sets." Yeesh.

pps: L is going to stop by in a few minutes with an Ambien for me. Bless her little Hessian heart! (She is totally working that "I care about you...roomie" angle. I won't bend, dammit! I will not bend...)

1. It's 1:20 a.m. and I can't sleep because I drank too much green tea this afternoon in a (failed) attempt to become well.

2. I looked in my bathroom mirror and instead of my own reflection, I was treated to Doug Henning's. (I have to do something about this haircut, or else cover the mirrors like they do when somebody dies.)

3. Since I am so fargin sick (stuffy head, fever, can't get no rest, beeyotch, and general malaise-iness) I have to call in to work tomorrow. But since 99% of the office is on vacation, it not only A) looks bad, but B) I'll likely have to call in to the president of the fucking company.

4. The EH called today...turns out that he is moving into the condo after all, but only after spending a month in Ye Olde Guest House. He asked me if he could leave a few things at the house in the interim...THE LARGEST PIECES OF FURNITURE KNOWN TO MAN. A gigantic L-shaped desk and a huge craptacular home depot cabinet - both in the second bedroom.

Not wanting to sound petty - I am almost there, I yam I yam - I told him he could leave them, but he had to put them outside. DAMN IF THOSE FARGIN THINGS WILL BE IN MY HOUSE WHEN I MOVE IN, but a big part of me knows that those fargin things will be in my house when I move in!!!

He also asked if he could leave his dishes and glasses behind. Now, these are the dishes and glasses we got when we got married and they have been ensconced in the cabinets since we moved into the house. Who wants to bet that when I get there tomorrow, they will still be in the cabinets? huh? huh?

And he also asked me - well, asked the cable company when I called them about switching the name on the account - if he could HOUSE HIS EMAIL ADDRESS on my account until he's condo-fied. Turns out that they cancelled his account, so the motherfucker calls me tonight to see if I'll call them to get it turned back on!!! Not even close.

One more thing: the last time I was at the house I noticed that the washer and dryer were filthy. Covered in a black muck. I asked him today if he'd clean it off, and he goes, "That's not my muck - that's two years of dirt, Alisa," to which I responded, "No, those were clean as long as I used them." He parried again and I had to be like "please clean them off, EH. THROW ME A FUCKING BONE, HERE."

Help me ... is this really my life? I am so tired of talking about it - it's getting embarrassing, really. I am an intelligent, driven, bad-ass person, and I apparently married a pussy. He told me Sunday, "You're tough sometimes, Alisa, and it's hard to be on your business end." Hey - fucktoy - WE'RE GETTING A DIVORCE. And though it's a fairly easy divorce, compared to most, I don't want to be all sweetness and light because you keep asking me for money!

Yep. The EH thinks we'll come out of this "best friends" and we'll skip to the farmer's market together to get the ingredients for egg salad. Every Sunday! I'm going to ask him - after I've given him $8,000 and filed for divorce - to not speak to me ever again. Just fuck off.

Is that wrong?

Eh, who cares. It feels good just to think about it. I'm no saint.

5. I can't believe that I didn't mention this sooner: Hessian-Humping L (she of the sordid Friday night oh so long ago...well...Thanksgiving) asked if she could BE MY ROOMMATE. My first reaction was "oh my god, No," but I know she's sensitive right now so I tried to stave her off with "I'm getting my floors done and I just got a new dog." But ultimately, the answer is no.

I like living alone. My house is small. The second bedroom is the one with the doggie door. And dammit, I'm not even in that place yet and I feel like someone has designs on it...and me.

It's irrational, yes, but I believe that the onslaught of "taking things from Alisa" is why I wound up sick like this (physically - not mentally - watch it...waaaatch it...) in the first place. The house is MY Valhalla, babe, MY Secret Garden. It's my fucking hospital AND I'm the English patient. Not for you! Nein! Nein!

And with that, I bid you goodnight.

My beloved NYC D is turning into a snob. Last week he wrote about getting his glasses fixed…they have to be sent to France. Today I told him about my new pug and got this in return: “Until we get a country house, I'm so glad we don't have to deal with pets.”

I am throwing up a little in my mouth.

I blame his wife.

We also decided to take a hiatus on the phone sex. I think I ruined it for him by admitting that Starbucks turns me off. Executive or not, that is not a row that I cannot "ho." I have standards, people.

In other news, I'm one day closer to moving into the house, and all I've done so far is put my best oyster sauce in a little brown bag. To protect it during the move, natch. I don't think it's anything but sheer laziness - and the wild call of the Puppy - that is keeping me from my task. I really want to move! Here's one more reason - this evening I came home and climbed the second flight of stairs to the blood-curdling cries of the downstairs neighbor's small child being - what? - skinned? I can only imagine. Seconds later the wife/girlfriend comes banging out the front door - with another girl - and apparently escaping the sordid scene that is her Tuesday night. Muy Bien Times! (If anyone recalls, the downstairs neighbor is the perpetrator of the weekend Boom Boom Bass Party. I will miss that, ho ho!)

One day closer to pug, too. And I just got a note from someone at www.lunchboxing.com. I threw in a name for their "Name Our Adopted Pug" contest - small world, right? - and now they want to run a contest to name my pug. Nobody likes Jimmy James except S. God knows my mom didn't like it. She was like, "That name sucks, honey." (I always picture my mother speaking with a really droll drag queen's voice, btw, and my brother paints her in more of a Linda Richman light, so there you go. Poor my mom - she is a lovely human being and not deserving of our mockery. Oh well.) btw: Check out the pug-naming contest: http://www.lunchboxing.com/feat_paws23.shtml

What else? What else? Still scarred by "One Night in China"? Dude...me too. If you click on the photo it blows up big...and can someone please confirm if that girl is a hermaphrodite or what?!? One of the pics seems to show a penis-like addendum coming out of her, um, stuff.

Also: talked to Liz last night (http://allhopeisnotlost.blogspot.com/) about our inability to realize when guys are hitting on us. (I can't tell unless there is a tongue down my throat, a hand on my breast and a neon sign behind his head flashing the words "I really like you!" Oh yes, it's that bad.) We also discussed how we are way hotter than we realize because we transcend mere good-lookingness and have moved into "way more to offer."

Help me. Moving into "having more to offer" mode means I am officially not hot stuff.

Not hot stuff. that's just another reason why I let the Puppy dictate how and where I spend my time. I saw him twice last night and again this afternoon/tonight, and he asked me back for manana. He's cooking dinner. How can I resist? Liz says we're "codependent." Hm.

But tomorrow night could be a real kicker if I spend it on my own. My friend Denver D is in town. She is totally self-absorbed - but also not the sharpest knife in the block - so her self-aggrandizement is more painful than the average narcissist's "I'm so fantabulous" speeches. She blows into town once or twice a year and expects everyone to drop everything and rush to her super-shiny super-fun happy-smile-times side. This time, dammit, I'm going to Just Say No! Especially since I already put in my time in '04 - it was during the summer at a punk-poseur bar. The kind of bar where they're like "We're so punk! We've got The Clash on the jukebox!" but the patrons are mostly fat chicks with tattoos and smallish dudes who drink Red Stripe and talk about high school.

Not so much.

YO - BIMBO - WHAT? YOU'RE IN TOWN TWO DAYS AND NO CALL? WHAT AM I - CHOPPED LIVER? DON'T MAKE ME GO JACKIE MASON ON YOUR ASS!

btw: I have no idea what that means.

xoxo

Yep - true dat. It's off my driveway and, well, who fuckin gives a shite where it is now! All I know is that it's gee-oh-en-ee gone! Adios, Lezmobile! Adios, EH! Hola little casa with all my stuff in it...and my new pug!

I suppose it's weird to say "new" about a dog. Especially since he's 5 years old. He's from the Arizona Pug Rescue (look them up!) and he is a beautiful dog. Sweet as pie. Intelligent for a pug. (the Puppy asked, "How can you tell?" Basically he's a smartie b/c he knows his own name and can find the dog door without slamming head-first into a plate-glass window.) He took to me right away, and we spent about half an hour getting to know one another. (MY GAWD that sounds like such a red flag, doesn't it?) When I left he had that sad shmoopy face - his little jowls were all frowny. Oh man, it was a long goodbye! But the good news is that they'll deliver him to me on Friday! I cannot wait.

I'm eating a mint chocolate chip Tofutti Cutie right now. These things are genius. Go out and buy yourself a case. You'll thank me.

So the EH called me Sunday to have a conversation with me that I am not yet ready to repeat in print. I can talk about it, but it's too ridiculous (or as my friend K says, "Ridonkulous" - and yes, that's a donkey in there - dumb as an ass, etc.) to type the fuck out. So stay tuned.

In other news, I am moving on Thursday but so far haven't as much as packed a box and it's Monday night. Oops.

And I had lunch with Just Joe today and mailed off my last two xmas gifts - to Bimbelina (welcome back to the States, btw - call me, beeyotch!) and NYC D. Soon to be of Starbucks. Ick. Anyhoo, Just Joe and I had a salad - a very light salad - and mocked the Cougars coming in and out of the place we had lunch. Good times. And since the Puppy got back from his ski trip extraordinaire this morning he not only called 4 times, but got me to come over before my Pug Interface ... and again afterward. I supplied him with dinner - Philly cheesesteaks procured on the ride back - and he made me watch that painful movie where Jennifer Jason Leigh does a terrible Dorothy Parker.

So now it's just me, the Tofutti Cutie, and thoughts of my pug. BTW: his name is "Little Bit." That is so changing. Stat. I am going to call him "Jimmy James," from the Beastie Boys song of the same name off "Check Your Head."

So there.

I have no response to this.

This is what I'm getting the Puppy for xmas. If you remember, it's the same wallet Samuel Jackson carried as Julian in Pulp Fiction. LOVE THIS.

Oh, and again with the tv...just heard over my shoulder that there is now an Antonio Banderas fragrance for men. Too sexy! Too sexy! Jeezus, people. What is wrong with this world?

So last night sucked, as predicted. L and I went to Ye Olde English Pub to "celebrate" the EH's graduation from college. At 31 years old. With a teaching degree. We got there at 7:30 and the only people there for his "party" were the lesbian folksingers. I couldn't believe that one of them was back in town - she left about a month ago to shack up with a big ol' bulldyke - and the first thing I said was "I can't wait for you to move that fuckin' motorhome." Ah, good times! So it was all awkward & stuff - especially since I had told the "good" one off last week over a minor event. (When you're friends for 15 years, your first tiff is pretty awkward.) Anyhoo, we had no choice but to forgive & forget ASAP since the EH was nowhere in sight.

Apparently the girls had looked for him all over the bar - not the world's biggest place - and even checked in the men's room. Plus, he's 6'6 and difficult to miss, if you know what I mean. But they were like "he's not here" and so L and I parked it and ordered ourselves a round.

Half an hour passes, and still no EH, so I called him. I swear to gawd he said, "I'm at home with my dad and stepmother. We're in the dining room." I said, "Well, we're at the bar when you're ready," to which he said, "Okay." Another 10, 15 passes...still no EH. Then his friend P rolls in (who is also L's Estranged Husband) and asks "Where's EH?" and we all respond "he's not here" and P goes, "Yes he is. He's in the dining room." Whaaaaaaaaaaaaa?!? So we all get up and wander into the next room - which had been checked by the lesbians for the EH's large presence - and lo and behold, there was EH, sitting with his back to the door. A genius move if you're expecting friends. (What? Like his dad and stepmother would recognize us? They don't know any of us except for me and I haven't seen them in two years. Please, EH, wise the fuck up.)

Ugh.

When we all finished standing around the table - in an awkward attempt to choose a seat that didn't involve sitting next to one of our respective exes, the EH said, "I thought nobody loved me" and we said "you dumbass, we were in the next room and you knew it. Why didn't you come out after we called you?" FOUR PEOPLE thought the EH was the one who should have come out since he knew we were there. Of course, the EH thought we should have come in. Ridiculous! His dad had to be like "kids, let's not fight." Classic.

So we all stared at each other and tried to smile for the EH...picture this: 4 couples at one table, and 3 of the couples are not only broken up, but uncomfortable around each other. IT WAS HELLISH. I would have given my left boob for a table full of self-aggrandizing Pi Phis - anything would be better than the freakshow gathering we made.

L and I went back into the bar for a smoke - just to break the tension - and P followed us. Then, next thing we know the lesbian folksingers are leaving - goodbye! Bye! Then the dad and stepmother leave - and then EH lumbers back to our bar table and sits down AND SAYS NOTHING. And once again, it was up to me to instigate conversation. Um, yeah. Not so much. I was like, "So, how do you feel, Graduate?" It was pathetic. Nobody could maintain eye contact much less converse beyond a two-to-three sentence exchange. So finally L starts going, "I am beat. I had such a rough week. Alisa, are you tired?" "Yeah, I'm really tired, do you want to go?"

And so that was that. We were there a total of an hour and it felt like it lasted a year. We left the EH and P alone in the bar, and we picked up a six-pack and headed back to my continental apartment to listen to music (I put on Queens of the Stone Age and The Flaming Lips because L is a Hessian at heart) and we dished about boys.

It was genius. In a good way.

I also found out that due to the inordinate amount of booze she drank that gruesome Friday night, she had blacked out and honestly remembered NOTHING from about 2 a.m. on. HORRIFYING.

...why are so many of my friends textbook binge alcoholics? Hm...I wonder...

For one moment I rescinded my solemn vow and I called the Puppy first – I NEVER call him – he always calls me – and I asked about going to the Swizzle Inn. I needed a barstool and a stiff drink. He said he was too tired. Then he called back 5 minutes later and said “be there in 10.”

Anyhoo, we went to the Swiz and he was in this mood where he wanted to talk big picture about his life and his kid and relationships and his future. He was going on and on about how he has a black heart and he ruins relationships and how things don’t work out long-term between men and women…it was really something. I didn’t even talk about myself – he was on a roll. (The next morning – after calling me twice by 8:30 a.m. – he told me that usually he drinks alone when he’s in that kind of mood – oof.)

But that night I found out that I made his Christmas list. I felt so flattered, but then he mocked me about something so it totally made me laugh and ruined the moment. He’s good like that – keeping it on the friendship tip – he throws me something warm and wonderful and then hits me with a joke.

So after three drinks (our limit) he says “you have to follow me home” and I said no, but he said he’d throw a tantrum, so I obliged him. Once we got to his place he said “you have to come in” and of course I did. Then we proceeded to listen to music for another 2 hours…and then I went home around 11.

The weirdest part about his Swizzle speech was that he gave it once before – about two weeks after we first met. We met Superbowl Sunday at his cousin’s house, and we hit it off right away. I heard from his cousin that he “totally loved me” and would want to see me if I was single and since I liked him so much, I tried unsuccessfully to set him up with a friend of mine – they didn’t hit it off, but the Puppy and I spent the entire night talking only to each other, and then staying up late after the EH had gone to bed. We were naughty. But it was nice. The next Monday, he called me at work and invited me to lunch. It turned into a liquid lunch where he told me he talked to his uncle about me, and said he decided that he would have to wait until my divorce to “see” me – didn’t want to get involved with a married girl. That lunch was followed by three months of occasionally getting drunk and making out and then semi-regretting it. And that was topped off by this one night where the speech was tailored specifically to me. Wednesday night was more of a generalization.

The thing is that now, since we’ve clearly established that we’re Just Friends, I didn’t know if Wednesday night’s rerun was for my benefit, or if I just had the strange luck to be there when he needed to get all that kind of “life overview” stuff off his chest.

And the little shite can be so endearing – I swear I wanted to wrap my arms around him and just squeeze about 50 times during all of this. At one point we talked about our friendship and I told him that I gave him a second chance because he's really a good person – despite what he thinks – and that he doesn't give himself enough credit. I said, “We wouldn’t be sitting here now if you were a piece of shit.” (I am so warm when I wanna be, huh?) I told him he'd miss me much more than I would miss him if we were to part again, to which he agreed. And I said, "don't make it heavy - just entertain me" and he goes "that's what I am - I'm your clown" and hung his head. Oh my GAWD, it was so nuts!!!

Help me.

If this kid isn’t in love with me then I have no idea what’s going on.

Thankfully, he's skiing this weekend, so both of us have a breather. I'm going to the EH's graduation party tonight with L - we're hitting a leather gay bar afterward for karaoke. Just because our lives can't get any weirder. And manana it's off to an xmas party held by my friend Chadley, whose friends are all married meatheads who play ice hockey. I am not really looking forward to either of these events.

Meanwhile, I was going to hit the gym and the post office and the shoe repair shop (I walk violently, I think, since I keep knocking the little black rubber parts off my spike heels) but instead this guy I work with suggested that the group have our 4:00 meeting over margaritas. Sigh...twist it, people...twist my arm. Damn you...damn...damn...damn!

This note is posted in the bathroom of my favorite Vietnamese restaurant:

"Please Please!
Don't put waste paper in toilet!
Thank a lot of!"

Suzanne was on HSN this weekend - Just Joe and I caught a bit of it last night. It was heaven. She is looking "even younger than ever" according to her insane fan squad, and she inspired me to put together a Cougar Primer - with examples from her very own home-shopping collection - that you can use to create your own special Cougar Look! (It's just like Lucky magazine, but without the good taste and the little stickers that say "Yes!") To acquire the Cougar look, you must have the ultimate Cougar accessory - the leather strap with sparkly things! Ooh, glitter! And it's practical, too, cuz it's also a watch! And you will need it to keep track of what time your kids get home, because they're always so embarrassed when Mommy rolls in late...with some Hawaiian-shirted 56-year-old who got her liquored up at Barcelona and wears his sunglasses at night... Much better to get home before the kids. That way you can leave them a 20 for a pizza and lock your bedroom door!

Do not leave the house unless you are appropriately booted, Cougars! This pair has the hint of S&M that says "I'm easy" and the soupcon of pleather that says "I'm also a cheap date." The spike heel is just high enough...to step over that pool of vomit that your manicurist left after her third white russian. She shouldn't drink on an empty stomach - she's not 45 anymore, you know! Bon Appetit!

Now, the prerequisite low-rise hoochie jeans. So no more shopping at Charlotte Russe and pretending it's for your daughter! This slimming pair is just low enough to distract that dude's attention away from your freakishly stretched face and down to your, um, "good parts."

Ah, the bolero leather jacket. A Cougar must-have for those late-summer nights when your tube top is tight and the girls are hanging out, but your pits are cold.

I'm not talking your garden-variety barista here. I'm talking about up in corporate, where you drink their poison all day and let your mind absorb their messaging. My friend X, who has been a fascinating and saucetacular phone sex partner nigh the last year is going to work for Starbucks. So - yeah, yeah, I did this while I was married (I never claimed to be "innocent," just "over it") but he's married too. He's just as randy and inappropriate as me. It happens. So there.

Anyhoo, I was all about our unconsummated fantasies. But now...Starbucks??? I can't handle it. He may as well work for Wal-Mart, says S. I suggested that he'd sleep better at night if he started clubbing baby seals... Starbucks... oof.

I grew up in Seattle and witnessed the Starbucking of that great city, and now it's - well, you know - everywhere. Their demon beans stinking up the place. Even where I work now they have giant coffeemakers that serve Starbucks all day long. Go go go! And on my drive to work I pass FOUR of them. Plus there's another one down the street in another direction. And OMG, the last time I went to NYC they were literally on every corner. You could actually stand on a corner in the middle of Manhattan and see a Starbucks down every street.

I cannot be a party to that. My libido will not respond! I am wondering how I'm going to salvage our friendship once his email address becomes X@starbucks.com.

Speaking of friendships gone strange, I received this email message today from my libidinous friend L. It is in regard to my question, "do you still see the Hessian?" which I asked b/c she wants to see his band play Friday night. And it reads:

"...I think I am in total lust with (the Hesh). I hardly even know him. I just want to fuck the shit out of him. ... He is not even my type. ... I want a relationship with him but just nothing heavy - just purely physical. Sex day and night! ... I think he is sooo adorable."

I LOVE THAT LETTER. I love that this girl is out there and horny as fuck for a blondish heavy metal drummer!!! I did try to give her the voice of reason. I said it - I did - I said, "Maybe you are moving into stalking territory by going to his show," and I also said, "Let this progress naturally. And slowly. You have nothing but time." And some other things...you know, all that advice that you never want to take yourself but sounds oh so good coming out of your oh so wise piehole.

And you know what? I hope she does get the chance to fuck the shit out of the Hessian. I hope she gets to fuck the shit out of whomever she damn well pleases - whenever she wants. I want this for her because I am too chicken to have it for myself! Ha ha.

Today NYC D was trying to convince me to get off my sofa, away from the Puppy, and out and about to mix and mingle. He suggested - I shite you not - taking some classes, or joining a club or some sort. I was like, "You are so retarded."

The only class I would consider taking for any reason - or to meet men, for that matter - would be mixology, and frankly I've got that down pretty well. Maybe a Thai cooking class. Maybe. Ah, perhaps it's true, perhaps I do need to branch out since I'm not going to even get a New Year's peck if I'm parked on my couch, but I'm barely past the "let's get divorced" part of the program - we haven't even begun to fill out the paperwork - and somehow it would seem dishonest and creepshow to meet someone "viable" and bring them into this chaotic mess I call my life.

Now, I like my life, don't get me wrong. But how do you explain things like the phone sex, the Puppy, the fridge that contains nothing but cottage cheese and Miller Lite? (Sometimes it has wine and booze, and recently, a six-pack of Pete's Cream Ale, though I prefer Genessee.)

Anyhoo, S says that my experience has "ruined marriage" for her, and I didn't try to change her mind. After all, that’s my plan – to ruin it for everyone. It’s so much better to live in sin. It’s not like people behave any differently once they’re married…it just makes it a whole lot harder to break up.

But not getting married doesn’t mean your man shouldn’t give you a honkin piece of jewelry. In fact, he should give you something huge and icy just for letting him off the hook.

Remember that.

Oh, shaka! The Puppy just called to tell me that the "Good-Time Island" episode of Strangers with Candy is on. Adios!

I think it's time to rename my blog. I was thinking of calling it "My Puppy and Me." All I seem to do is report on when I saw him and what we did. It's getting demented. If anyone is reading this, please let me know - through comments, natch - which direction this should go. Frankly, I see the Puppy every day (twice today, and he might be back a third time for dinner and "Elf"), and even I'm getting bored with the daily update. I mean, it's fantastic on my end - the kid keeps me in stitches and it's a mutual admiration society nonpareil...but still.

Here are your options, fair readers! Fellow masochists!
1. More blogging about the Puppy
2. More blogging about my insane EH (who now says the whole motor home thing was just "a joke")
3. More blogging about shoes, handbags and other unnecessaries that I buy despite my bank account's best interests
4. More about my sick fascination with television and the love/hate relationship I have with my sofa and my remote
5. More ramblings about my workspace and the random office doings (which this month involve styrofoam snowmen and mandatory potlucking)
6. None of the above

Truly, picking #6 will stump me. I've got a lot more to talk about, but there are some things I hold sacred...dear, even. Things that are just between me and the lamppost...and whomever else (I won't say whom) is involved in my sordid doings...but if you have an opinion, now is the time to express it.

Thank you for your support.

Suzanne Somers strikes again. It was actually difficult to choose what the most heinous item in her HSN collection could be, but this sickly motherfucker came out on top today for two reasons:

1. It has a tie. A matching tie.

2. This is their sassy product shot...and nobody even bothered to steam the shirt, which means that somebody in the marketing department has it in for Suzanne, or, more likely, this condition is as good as it gets.

My link list on the right-hand side is getting excessively long and ponderous so here's an amalgamation of blogs I've recently discovered. Compared to my cavegirl-like blatherings these people are professionals. Enjoy.

www.theamericanmastodon.blogspot.com
www.funnsylvania.com
www.thespoonbender.com
http://thepissedkitty.com/
www.pagesixsixsix.com

And yes, this is how I am spending my Sunday morning. I've got The Tragically Hip on my pathetic $50 CD/DVD player which used to be hooked up to speakers until a well-meaning friend tried to "help" me put my electronics components in a cabinet and as a result, left me with a cd player that is hooked up to my tv speakers, there's a vintage blue-glass ashtray and my brand-new leopard-print Bic to the left of me, I'm in my pajamas, I've eaten my Cheerios, and dammit, I'm feeling pretty good right now.

Mmm, escapism...that sounds good. I'll have that.

I'm addicted to buying handbags. Like in a really demented way. I won't swoop on just anything, but when I see "the one" I am powerless to resist. If I had a digital camera I'd post photos of the two I bought today. Both vintage, both 60s. Both around $20, so I can't feel too bad about it. But this is after my mortgage broker said "stop shopping." Whoopsie.

Why am I blogging right now...oh right, to announce that I have now seen everything. I'm watching "Trekkies 2" (loved the first one) and the filmmakers went to Germany to a Star Trek convention. German Klingons...need I say more? That is disturbing for about a thousand different reasons, but the apex fan had to be the Klingon Santa: he only gives toys to naughty children. ...I'm either very afraid of this man, or gosh darnit, I'm in love!

They also visited other European countries, including France, where they hung out at a Star Trek Quiche Party.

"Trekkies 2" doesn't have the charm of the first one and is really kind of pointless unless you want to see what happened to Gabe, but it's worth renting just for a 5-minute bit about 40-year-old fat men who made a Star Trek movie - that took place in the Old West. I won't say any more, but I will give you this: "I don't know what kind of goat-show justice you people run here, but it's wrong! It's wrong!"

I'm actually not sure about the "goat show" part...I have a tough time with the Minnesota accents...

What else? Got up early today and cleaned my apartment, stopped by my parents' house, went to the gym, had a run-in with a Cougar... this tiny woman in tight sweats and a baseball cap came rushing up to me in the parking lot and demanded, "Where is Costco near here?" It took a few seconds for her words to register...here I was, in my gym clothes, and a Cougar was accosting me! Not wanting to suffer her crazed wrath, I sloooooowly told her, um, where she should go. (To CostCo, natch.) It was just so rude - no "excuse me," no "hello," just in-my-face Whereiscostconearhere?!? I was stunned.

(Oh jeeze, these Star Trek people are so serious. "I am not a Trekkie. I am a Trekker." Calm down, Grandma!)

So the Puppy just stopped by - he just can't get enough of this old biddie! Ha ha. He wanted to use my computer & he was just down the street. He had asked me if I wanted him to bring me lunch but I had just eaten Cheerios. Sucks! So the Puppy has an 8-year-old son (ah, foolish youth - this is why there are so many Mormons, people!) and brought him along. The kid is precious. Precocious, too, and thankfully old enough for me to talk to. My brother is a natural with kids - they think he's hilarious. I'm more of a stick-in-the-mud. I ask them questions like, "So, how does it feel to be 5?" Oof.

(Why do Trekkies have such creepy haircuts?)

Anyhoo, the Puppy said he'd call later to talk me out of the Pi Phi Festa. I have to say, it sounds pretty tempting. An evening laughing my ass off, drinking brandy and coke on the Puppy's couch...or an evening of sucking in my gut and making pinched smiley faces at 33-year-old sorority girls. Yeesh.

(Another aside: it's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, and all my windows are open. Every old person who lives in my building is out today, taking in the sun, shuffling down the pathways to the mailboxes...and all of them are bent over. It's enormously sad. But kind of lovely, too. I think that if I get old and lonely I'll come back to these apartments to live out my final days. Me and my walker...a first-floor apartment...maybe I'll even get a cat. Ah, yes, that will be sweet.)

So it's 7:45 and I just got back from the Puppy's. He called about an hour after he left and asked if I wanted to come over. And since my social calendar is so full.. he made me albondigas soup and we watched Citizen Kane. He fell asleep on the sofa so I left him a note and closed the door quietly behind me. HERE COMES THE SAPPY; Spending QT with the Puppy is finally making me realize that I probably am ready for a new crush. Not the Puppy - errbody calm down! - but I can see how it would be nice to spend this kind of time with somebody that would do all the calling, the emailing, the laughing and the mocking of television, and then put his arm around my waist and give me warm, wet smooches...sigh. And he has to like Built to Spill, Strangers with Candy and acting childishly at times in an increasingly grown-up world.

...wha??? Too much to ask???

Soooo, another day in Alisaland where everything is tidy and sparkling clean. And then, as usual, the shitbomb. They're getting more comic, which is a bonus, but they're still a-comin, which is not a bonus.

Don't recall if I mentioned this before, but the EH owned a condo before we met, which he still owns, and we've had a renter in there for about 6 months - before that his brother lived there. So the EH knows divorce is imminent, and as long as 3 weeks ago - or was it 4? - we discussed yes, divorce, we're doing it. So since I'm refinancing the house in my own name - and he has that lovely condominium - and my lease at the continental is up end of december - we decide that he's out and I'm in. Simple enough, right? Not for the EH! He concocts this elaborate plan for moving into his friend's guest house that hinges on the whims of her 25-year-old daughter and her fickle relationship with her boyfriend. So, instead of telling the renter, "I"m sorry, I'm getting a divorce and I need MY PLACE TO LIVE BACK," he extends the renter's lease another 6 months (ups her rent 100 bucks, though, so good show there) and sticks to the assumption that everything in 25-year-old girl-land is good to go.

Guess what. Turns out that it's not. Big shock, I know. So he calls me yesterday and says, "This may affect some things...I blah blah blah, no place to live" and I said, "Oh no, I'm sorry, it doesn't. You and your stuff will be out by Dec. 23 (I have movers coming) and I will be in."

And this is where the plot sickens: That lesbian-piloted motorhome is still out in front of our house, Ozarks-style, and - I swear, I could not make this up - the EH says, "I was thinking of living in the motorhome." ON MY PROPERTY. HOOKED UP TO MY ELECTRICITY. TWENTY FEET FROM MY FRONT DOOR. I was like, "oh no you don't! Not only will you be gone, but that motorhome will be gone, too!"

And that's when he lost it. "I can't talk to you anymore, Alisa." Oh goody, EH, because I can't talk to you anymore either! He has places to go - though limited, because of his giant old-lady-biting dog. He could move in with his friend P or his brother. Or rent an apartment. After all, I'm cutting him a check for (minimum) $7,000 from the refi. But instead he has to think of the most bizarre, most convoluted, most unnatural scenario. "I was thinking of moving into the motorhome."

Sweet Jeezus. It's one thing to have a motorhome parked in front of your house. It's another thing to have someone living in that motorhome. And it's yet another thing when the person living in said motorhome is your EX-HUSBAND.

What part of this is so baffling to him? I truly don't get it.

In other news, my workplace issued an email two days ago asking each department to decorate for the holidays. It goes without saying that I am so not into this. But there I was at my desk yesterday, cutting snowflakes out of copy paper with the rest of the marketing department...for three hours.

And today I was given the task of shopping for dreckorations. I had a partner, though - this truly sweet girl who just got married, she's 28, peach-pie skin, just fucking adorable, and she was all excited to go shopping with me because I'm "so funny." Poor thing. I chain-smoked cigarettes all the way to the craft store, said every foul word in my vocabulary, and basically behaved in my normal, adorable way. I thought she'd shit herself. NOOP! She loved it! We had a blast! We extended our shopping trip to include a nice lunch and a run through Macy's. It was so not what I expected.

Who woulda thunk?

So I'm expecting - rather, hoping - that my weekend will be low-key. Tonight I'm planning on becoming one with my sofa, though the Puppy has other plans for me. We'll see. I was over there last night - I picked up comfort food and brandy at the store and we watched the OC (which I was not allowed to mock! The kid loves the OC, what can I say) and saw this bizarre thing on IFC where Henry Rollins reviews movies. Huh?

Tomorrow I'm going to hit the vintage stores down the street to finish up my holiday shopping (everyone gets vintage this year - I am in no shape to handle anything mall-related), and then tomorrow night I might go to a birthday party with my friend Krazy K. She needs a wingman. Apparently she knows like 2 people and the rest are - gag - PiPhis from UofA. I think I just threw up a little in my mouth.

xoxo!

Here's a trip down mammary lane: Me and Somlynn in Vegas, circa whenever. Drunk on free trade-show liquor and our own saucetacularness. Sigh. Even back then I never attracted guys my own age...I wonder why?

btw: Am I the world's most pathetic scanner or what? I can't have anything nice.

"I need! I need!"

Stop me, please. I have a problem. I've been advised by my mortgage broker to stop shopping until my loan goes through. Um, oops. Thank goodness I've already shopped for everyone on my list. Well, with one 6'6" exception - I've revised this year's list. And except for a few (all out of state), I don't exchange gifts with my friends. We're more about sharing cigarettes and buying drinks. A shared bar tab says "Happy Festivus" all year long!

So - again - I caught a few minutes of the end of Pimp My Mom. I swear I am some type of masochist. Just in time, too, to see the Teenage Angst Cam swoop in for crotch shots of underfed teenage girls. I don't remember girls at my high school looking like that. We thought someone was slutty if her Guess miniskirt was more than 3 inches above her knee. And oh mah gawd - white lipstick. That was the hallmark of a skank! Now it's so difficult to tell who's the skank and who just looks skanky. For more on this, please watch the South Park where Paris Hilton came to town and all the girls wanted to be Stupid Whores. It's so accurate that's it's almost beyond belief, and features the most disturbing sequence - the "Whore Off" - ever imagined. I can't even repeat it...it's just...something you have to see for yourself.

Anyhoo, so back to My Mom's Whoring Me Out to Teenage Boys, the guy picked his girlie, and he asked her what she wanted to do on their date. And I shite you not, she said, "Um, I dunnoooo...maybe bungee jumping or horseback riding?"

Oh, good times. If you could only hear my chortles. Ho ho ho! I'm feeling a bit lightheaded! That just tickled me oh so right. "I dunno...bungee jumping?" DUDE - SHUT UP. SHUT SHUT SHUT YOUR DUMB DUMB DUMB 12-YEAR-OLD FACE. Oh my! Tee hee. Mm. Eh.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch. I had a busy busy day at work. Settled an argument with the EH, got the refi in motion, saw Hot Hot Dr. B for a cleaning of my teef, emailed the same moving company that moved me into my continental apartment to come and take my shit out out out...oh, it was a glorious, ridiculous day. What a life. And the Puppy just called. He's going to pick up Mexican and I'm going to his place in an hour to watch South Park. It's our thang.

Help me.

I was at this chichi grocery store today and some Man was looking at me. He said my name and all of a sudden I knew who he was...this guy Dennis who I knew briefly in 1992. He was a regular at the Cuban restaurant where I was cocktailing. He was 45 back then. I was 12. He was a flirt but an all around great guy. Never out of bounds, just cute and happy-making. I could not believe that he recognized me. We chatted for about 15 and he flattered me - more flattery - oh, how I need it right now - and we exchanged cards and agreed to meet for coffee. He was like, "Are you married?" and I said, "I'm almost not." To which he replied, "I've never heard anyone put it that way." ha ha! Leave it to me to redefine divorce as "almost not married." My, it sounds excessively legal, doesn't it?

Oh god, well, at least I'm laughing right now. It could be so much worse.

ps: Bimbelina, this is a shout out just for you: "Cut the toikey! Cut the toikey!"

Good times. Good times.

Oh, nononnonononononono. No. I'm ashamed to admit this, but I'm blogging with America's Next Top Model in the background. It's that last bit where the panel of freaks rips the contestants to shreds. And of this one girl, Tyra Banks said, "She thinks all it takes to be a model is being pretty and putting on makeup." HOWEVER, she added, "It's about hard work. It's about research."

Oh, hot lord.

So my brother just called - said he has front-row seats, backstage passes and tickets to the after-party...for Destiny's Child. I said, "That sucks."

Turns out he was totally kidding anyway, but still, my initial response was, "I'm sorry."

And what a thing to perpetrate on a divorce-addled sickie! If he had said, well, basically any band other than Destiny's Child, I'm ashamed to say that he may have sent my adrenalin pumping. I'm at that "denial" stage of being sick where it could go either way. I'm like, "Sure, I'm feeling bad, but not bad enough to stay home!" When in actuality, yes, I am bad enough to stay home.

It was nice to be here, though. The weather is all socked in, cloudy and nice. And I got to see One Life to Live, which I haven't watched in like a year. It used to be a guilty pleasure when I lived closer to work. Instead of socializing at lunch I'd go home and watch what could possibly be the world's cheesiest soap. Today I found that two of the characters who died two years ago are suddenly back from the dead. And they're the original actors, which is a rarity. One returned to Earth in the body of a doctor - he left Llanview as a college student, came back as an M.D. Not bad! The other, in his original form and character, came back with some bandaids on his face and a few broken ribs. I want to know: where have these people been? Where do they go? Is there like an Island of Lost Soaps or something where they ride jet skis and live on breadfruit and speared fish until the producers call them back?

I didn't even make it through the entire hour.

I wound up sleeping most of today away. Made some cappellini with a ton of garlic and drank a carton of orange juice. And smoked cigarettes. Which is such the good idea when you're sick. Each one I'm like "that didn't feel good," and an hour later I'm back at it. I think at this point I am powerless to stop. My stress level is on Orange Alert and it's either reach for the Parliaments or my old friends Jack, Ben, and Jerry. So Parliaments it is. And I don't think that this particular juncture in my life is the appropriate time to give up a stress habit. I'll have to wait for my lungs to actually fall out of my body before I'm convinced that quitting is the right thing to do.

Coff, coff. Plunk. Oh...oops.

So because my "actual" life is so daunting and confusing right now, I'm finding myself fascinated by the oddest things. Among them, my daily showdown with the Launchcast that plays at my desk.

I've programmed in my favorite artists, songs and albums, but lately that sneaky little thing has been surprising me with some of the most messed up music that has ever been recorded. I feel like that character in "The Telltale Heart"... as the ever-louder sound of the beating organ - which only he can hear - pounds beneath the floorboards and slowly drives him insane.

Today, for instance, it snuck in Jordan Knight, Frida from Abba (in a solo effort) and Peaches & Herb between The Starlight Mints, The Minus 5 and Belle & Sebastian. Yesterday it was Gary U.S. Bonds and the Pointer Sisters (singing a country song - I shit you not) between Earlimart and The Tragically Hip.

And poor S...I e-mail her every 5 minutes telling her what bizarre selection was perpetrated on me last. She's very understanding, though. So thanks, honeybunny. I need the outlet!

In other news, divorce sucks. Don't do it - don't even bother getting married. At this age (33) there's really no point in getting married anyway, since by now - hopefully - you can afford your own trip to Maui and have a full set of nice dishes in your apartment. If you have a house, even better. Just let me give you this piece of advice: if you do own property before you decide to tie the knot, SELL IT. Sell the motherfucker and buy something together. Something that the two of you can split down the fucking middle when your marriage crashes and burns in the goatee-singeing, mullet-exploding Nascar pile-up that your divorce will surely become. These are the two words that will surely haunt you unless you take them seriously before the nuptials: COMMUNITY PROPERTY.

Fuck the intangibles like emotion and intention. Sure, you felt all happy when you got engaged, and oh, it was so romantic the first time he called you his wife. FUCK THAT. When the shit hits the fan it's going to come down to who bought the last bag of groceries. Who paid the car insurance. Who mowed the fucking lawn.

Oh yeah, it's ugly. And I'm not saying that it's absolutely going to happen to you...I'm just saying that it could.

And it's not just the divorce - it's like everything I touch turns to shit. In a matter of two days I bought rotten chicken, received a $100 overcharge on my cable bill, a $152 overcharge on my phone bill, I found out that I didn't have half the documentation I needed for my computer rebates, I got my period and two huge blemishes that I didn't even see the likes of when I was in high school, I spilled red nailpolish on my favorite sofa blankie, and realized that as my haircut from September has grown out, each day it makes me look more and more like Doug Henning.

Ready to say it with me? Come on...it'll be fun. Here we go: NOT...SO...MUCH.

I know things are really upside down when the one real bright spot in my life is the Puppy. He's been attentive, funny, sweet, supportive. He's brilliant - in that English way where I'd say "fucking great" and be crass and they'd just say "brilliant" and you'd swoon from the sheer force of their understated fabulousness and then awake to find yourself lubed up and drunk in the back seat of a car with Hugh Grant and a cop shining his flashlight in the window, and you'd think, "That was so worth it. He said 'brilliant'."

Anyhoo, the Puppy is just what the doctor ordered. I haven't laughed this much in years, and I feel like a real person when he's around. And he paid me a compliment. Don't know if I've mentioned this before, but I can't recall ever hearing an actual compliment from the EH, except recently when he said I'd be a "hot divorcee." And that creeped me out because it sounded so Happy Days. Watch out, Fonzie! I'm "hot to trot"! Oh my god. Help me. Anyhoo, the Puppy and I were talking about how I met him and one of his friends for lunch this one time and he had left his friend alone at the table. I walked in and the guy was like, "Are you the Puppy's friend?" I just said, "um, yes" and didn't ask how he knew. But this past weekend it came up randomly and I asked, "how did he know it was me?" I was not the only girl in there on her own as it was a busy lunch-rush type situation. And the Puppy told me, "I told him that you were a brunette. And strikingly beautiful."

Oh my gawd, Puppy. Oh my gawd...considering that it's a mystery how long it will be before I have the energy or enthusiasm to have sex again, that comment could keep me going for months! And if I already shared that anecdote, then it should be even more apparent that it moved me. So, as they say on our illiterate news stations after every "Back to you, Sandy," I can only respond with, "Thank you for that."

ps: I love The Onion: http://www.theonion.com/news/index.php?issue=4049&n=3

Please - stop this man.

Before I begin my semi-lucid saga I do need to explain that I introduced the Puppy to two new concepts this weekend: blogging (no, I didn't show him mine!) and Fugging It Up. He was so taken by FIU that we spent about an hour Saturday night scrolling and commenting. For your reading enjoyment, here were our first FIU 'ments, about Bobby "What the Hell Is That?!?" Trendy. (fyi: the Puppy's handle is "Abe Frohman, Sausage King of Chicago.")

Abe Frohman said...
Remember how Truman Capote was a gayer version of Ernest Hemingway? Well, Bobby, you're...have you ever heard of Kato Kaelin? It's so like the guy who had the 15 minutes, and we didn't like the first minute. It's just old.

Alisa said...
Bobby, in the words of the great poet Jon bon Jovi: "You give gay a bad name." Please - go back to your cave. Your velvet-covered, freakshow, cracktacular hole. And stay there. Don't come out. Ever. Not even to see if it's spring. Just...stop.

And one more - his comment on Helen Slater's batshit getup. (I am so proud, btw...)

Abe Frohman said...
Let's first address the anatomical issue: I was not aware that a 4-foot leg can have the knee begin just 6 inches from the ground. Perhaps this is one of those natural mishaps that then spawns an evolutionary leap...into hell! Not so much Dante's inferno, but more like the burning, evil condo that He and Darwin shared in the Bay Area during graduate school in the early 70s. As for the outfit, I have no comment, only questions... Where's the shopping cart and the inordinate amount of cats?

This is just to cleanse the palate after "The Kougar."

So I've had one of the world's best recordings playing in my car for three days straight: Built to
Spill's "Ancient Melodies of the Future." Genius, genius.

What a day - oof. Do you ever wake up and just somehow know that your day will be shit on a stick? That was mine today. I could feel it as soon as I got up. And it did not disappoint. Among the highlights:

1. Seeing photos of myself from last Friday night. Do you ever just gross out on yourself? And not in a hypercritical supermodel way, but in that 14-year-old girl way where you're seeing yourself for the first time and you're like, "Um, ohmigod. That cannot be me"??? That was me today. I was like, when did I become the ugly fat chick? I haven't had a blow that resounding to my self-image since I got home from college freshman year - after going from 118 to 135 - and having my Grandpa tell me, "You're fat." Ouch!

2. The EH has to do a "quit claim" so I can refi the house in my own name, and it includes a basic division of property list. I felt like that scene from "When Harry Met Sally" where Billy Crystal talks about couples fighting over putting their names in books and going back and forth with their lawyers - from the firm "That's Mine, This is Yours." I felt like saying to the EH, "I will never - never - want that wagon-wheel coffee table."

Fo shiz.

3. Went to LA Fitness after work. Blessedly, my ghetto gym closed its doors and sent all of its memberships to LAF. It was my second time inside an LAF - and this one is brand new - and it struck me as completely Orwellian. You are always on display - never anonymous. All the machines are lined up just so - and centimeters apart - so it's less of a workout than a spin on the wheel in a hamster cage. And the people - woof - it made me semi-pine for the view from my old hangout, drunken barflies and all. All the LAF people are 'roided dorks. So many short men, so little time...

4. Then it was off to the market, because in my self-hating state I felt the need for comfort food. Chicken soup. So I buy like $10 worth of chicken parts and whatnot, drive 20 minutes in heavy traffic to get it home, open the package and notice - wha? - an unusual and unwelcome odor. And being the nutcase that I am, I rip all the chicken out of the package to find the offending bits, and stink up my kitchen while I'm at it, as it dawns on me that I'm going to have to return rotten chicken to the grocery store. That's not my idea of a good time - not so much. No - not at all. As much as I love to return things - pants, especially, and I once returned a leather sofa - going back to say "You sold me rotten chicken" isn't going to give me the Return High - much like a runner's high - that I so crave. NOT SO MUCH.

5. Then it was off to dinner with my dad, my brother and his soon-to-be-daughter. She's 2 years old and obscenely adorable, but also in that "Why?" stage. Again, say it with me: not...so...much. I had some udon soup and a glass of wine.

Came home to find three messages on my voice mail, even though I had my phone with me the whole time. One from L, saying "I Love You!" and blessing me for not crapping out on her over her demonic doings with the Puppy, one from my brother saying "come to dinner," and one from the Puppy, who - despite our agreement to just be drinking buddies - emailed me thrice today (yes, I said "thrice") and called just to check in. I have to love it. The kid makes me laugh, and God knows that is what I need to be doing right now - laughing.

We both watched some VH1 crapfest called "Least Metal Moments," and of course, our mutual favorite part was where Scott Ian from Anthrax said he thought it was "the end of days" in reference to Celine Dion's mutilation of "You Shook Me All Night Long."

Good times, campers! Good times!