miss one monday and jeff gets pissy (and eric requests some content)
I’m filled with guilt, as last night Jeff told me that he was very disappointed that I hadn’t updated. He’s got that motherly guilt-trip thing going where he “knows you’re busy” but that he was “really looking forward to it” and you just have to go and update right away because otherwise you’re a bad kid. So, here, Jeff. I’m updating.
But I’ve just got the randoms today, because that’s how my brain is working.
Funniest Person in Austin finals tonight. If you live in or near Austin, come see my friends. Come on. You know there’s nothing finer than smoking and drinking on a Tuesday night.
This weekend. My living room.
I’ve renamed ‘Tis, by the way.
What’d you rename it?
I renamed it T’ain’t.
You know what’s weird? Seeing your ex-boyfriend on Talk Soup’s clip of the day. With Roseanne sitting next to him. That’s weird.
I’m so mortified about the couple that named their baby Espen (for the cable station ESPN), I can’t speak about it. I saw them on the Today Show. That kid was screaming for one of us to go and help him and we didn’t. I feel like a bad person. The “father” said that he’s addicted to Sports Center and watches it for several hours a day. The wife looked defeated. She had told him that they could name the baby Espen if he found the name in a baby book. Surprise, surprise. It’s a Danish name. Talk about your best plans backfiring. She’s all, “I made him put in an extra ‘e’ so it would look like a normal name.” Baby screams, wife in shock, father in complete mouth-breathing guffaw. Espen. And Lauer asks if they’ve come up with a nickname for the kid. Of course they have: “Espy.” That poor child.
Hmm… I don’t know if he wants me to mention it here, but someone’s got a birthday goin’ on today.
Someone sent me this. Don’t listen to it if you’re at work, unless your speakers are low, yo.
Oh, God. When’s Mother’s Day? When’s Mother’s Day, people? When is it? Why don’t any of my calendars have holidays listed? Oh, man. When? When in May? How long do I have?
I just called Eric and told him that I was working on my entry for today, but that I couldn’t really think of anything to discuss, since I spent all of yesterday either working or watching comics. He said that I should just say nice things about him. So here goes:
He makes me laugh. He cares about me. When he walks in a room, I know that he’s walking towards me, and even when we are talking to two different people, he’ll reach over and touch my arm or something, just to give a quiet hello. Last night when I got home from the comedy club very late, he had already set the alarm for me, made my side of the bed, and moved a little pathway on the floor through all of the Spring Cleaning clothing I had been working on. He even woke up and talked to me for a bit.
Do you remember doing that last night?
I remember getting the bed ready, yeah. I don’t remember talking to you.
It was sweet.
Well, I had done all that so your loud ass wouldn’t wake me when you got to bed. I guess you did anyway.
You don’t even remember.
I’m sure I didn’t mind.
We are finally cashing in Eric’s birthday week present in a couple of weeks. I need a bunch of people to go with us and make sure that I get a bit drunk, because otherwise I’m just going to sit with my hands over my eyes and scream, hoping I don’t have to run out on the track like Martha Plimpton running to Keanu, holding a helmet and having my shaved ponytail bouncing in the crashed-car smoke. I’m glad he’s finally doing this, as I’ve been having anxiety about it since I bought it a year ago. Due to the time that has past, I can only assume Eric has been having some hesitation as well.
That boy can sniff out a chance to mention birthday week at any moment.
Marc, you might want to keep that weekend open, as we’re going to do Eric’s car thing.
Yeah, you should come. It’ll be fun.
Last year. Houston show. You were there on Eric’s birthday, remember?
It was Birthday Week.
INSIDE PAMIE’S HEAD
Here it comes.
What am I getting for Birthday Week this year?
We still have to go through Becca’s Birthday Week —
Happy Birthday Week, Becca
Matt’s Birthday Week, Squishy’s Birthday Week–
My birthday week.
I’m so going broke.
But what about mine? Me. My Birthday Week. What am I getting?
I don’t know.
Well, start thinking.
The other night while watching movies I thought, “I really wish we’d turn off the television and just give each other foot rubs or something.” Eric turned off the television and asked if we could give each other foot rubs. That was pretty cool.
He puts up with all of the nicknames I give him, including “Fuzzyhead,” which is also a term of affection I use for the cats.
He very rarely walks out of the living room to the kitchen without stopping to kiss the top of my head.
He’s never complained about me wearing his clothes, even when I’ve ruined his favorite pair of shorts.
He taught me how to throw and hit a baseball. He very much wants to teach me stick-shift soon.
He associates memories and songs with me, and sometimes I don’t even know the songs. He hears them and thinks of me.
His dimples stop me cold. And when he looks at me, I still melt.
He loves the shit out of that cat, Cal. I don’t know. They love each other on a strange, disgusting level that involves stumpy tails and scalp-licking, and although I don’t really want to understand it, I appreciate his love for this cat, since he started out as a “dog person.”
He gives the best hugs.
He knows how to order a bottle of wine.
He has never teased me about Billy Blanks(TM) beating me up.
He and my mother might arm wrestle one day for World’s Biggest Pamie Fan. I’m not sure who’s going to win, although you should probably put your money on my mom, since she’s sneaky.
He’s brave. He’s brilliant. He’s going to do everything he wants in life. He is loved. He has a wonderful family.
He’s going to be a very good-looking older man.
He respects me. He wants me to succeed maybe even more than I want to. He looks out for me.
And no matter what, he’s still my hero.
(There you go, E. How’s that?)
I don’t know what I did, but Cal does not like me at all. This goes well-past the butt-biting thing he likes to do when I walk by.
Last night Cal tried to kill me. He tried to suck my breath. He put his face up to my nose and tried to put his head in my mouth and suck my breath. Luckily, I woke up in time. Cal is trying to ruin my life. The other week I got a videotape from the anime company I script for. I had put the tape in my VCR and it had unraveled. I was going to bring it back to the studio the next day to see if we could salvage it, so I put it on a shelf. When I got home from work, the tape had been knocked off the shelf (which was about three feet in the air), and the tape had been eaten. The cat ate the videotape. The tape was still covered in cat spit. And then, just so I wasn’t confused as to who did the munching, three days later Cal puked videotape on my bra. Lovely. Yesterday Cal knocked a bowl of chocolate from the kitchen counter onto the floor. We now have chocolate stains in the dining room.
Deposit? What deposit? Like I’m ever seeing that money again.
Cal likes to hang out inside the bathtub. Unfortunately, he stays in there so long he gets lost, and doesn’t know how he got in or how to get out. He then starts crying until you call his name and he follows the sound of your voice out of the tub.
Cuteness only goes so far. Cal is a freak, yo.
I have no coherent thoughts today, just a series of clicks and grunts. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m not sleeping enough, I think. But then when I get to sleep, I sleep for too long and then I’m tired again. And I keep having the most vivid dreams. The other night I dreamt that I was trying to convince the ladies of “Designing Women” that cancellation isn’t the end of the world, and that they would still have other projects. I explained infomercials to Delta Burke, and I tried to explain why people pay the Pepsi Girl to Jean Smart.
I don’t know. It was a dream.
Last night I had a dream that we had to do the sxsw panel over again and this time I asked whether weblogs were legitimate forms of journalling, and a fist-fight broke out. Stee was all, “Nice one. Who fucking cares? Someone stepped on my laptop, yo. Go tell that Iowa girl to calm down and get us some coffee.”
I often dream about losing control of my body. (I can hear my friend Matt Bearden in my ear right now, “I dream the same thing, baby. Ya-HEAH!”) But I do. I’ll dream that my teeth become loose and I can’t keep them inside my head anymore, or I jump so high that I cannot keep within the earth’s gravitational pull and I just float off, or I’ll dream that I’m losing my vision, or my ability to clench my fists. The other night I dreamt that all of my hair fell out when I pulled on it. I have a habit of pulling my hair into a knot on the back of my head. In this dream I went to do that, and all of my hair came off in my hand. The strange part of the dream was that when I had yanked off the hair, the remaining hair fell around my head in this perfect hairstyle that would make Jennifer Aniston weep.
I very rarely have the “I’m naked and everyone else is wearing clothes” dream. I have the dreams where I kill people and then I realize that killing people is against the law. I dream that I am being chased by large, faceless people, or things that live inside my walls. I’ll dream about insects or ghost cats or something. I don’t know. I try not to dwell on some of the images my head will create for me in dreams, because I’m a bit concerned that I’m actually a very crazy person that has successfully fooled a whole bunch of people.
Somehow, over the past two years or so, I’ve developed an incredible talent to just sit still. I think I was probably a pretty squirmy kid, as most kids are, and in school it bothered me to have to sit for more than like, thirty minutes in a row. Now I realize that I sometimes sit at my desk for five hours in a row and I’ll only move my fingers and my head. My hands a bit. No walking. No squatting. No skipping, jumping, or running. It’s something to do with occupying my mind, as I guess I probably could do it when I would sit and read on my couch, but why is it when I have to sit still, I can’t stop fidgeting? I’m terrible on airplanes. I feel trapped and too enclosed. I’m always shifting or crossing and uncrossing my legs. I develop itches. I feel like my clothes are either too small or too big. In meetings I can’t stop twitching around. I’ll start rocking back and forth or I’ll start to fall right asleep. I have to keep my mind occupied with doodling, or making lists of things I have to do just to keep my mind focused on who’s talking. But put me in my office and I’ll just sit here and work all day without thinking about it. I suppose I’m multi-tasking here at the office, because at the same time I’m working on the project, I might also be on the phone, checking e-mail, answering e-mail, making a list or putting on a new CD.
I work better to music, and find that sometimes I’ll just end up bringing the wrong CDs to work and that will make for a rather unproductive day. Lately I’ve found that the soundtrack to Bye, Bye, Birdie is excellent music to work to. I just bob around singing and wondering if you heard about Hugo and Kim, and no one bothers me. Oh, sure, they pop their heads in, but once you hear your Web Specialist singing, “Ed Sullivan! Ed Sullivan! We’re gonna be on Ed Sullivan!” suddenly your press release doesn’t seem to be such a big deal.
I’m not getting meta here, but I want to say this: I’m very glad I write this site. I have met some of the most amazing people through it. You guys continue to amaze me and make me laugh, and that is a huge reward. I just wrote three different sentences and then erased them, so I guess I’m not sure what I’m trying to say here exactly except Thank You for being around.
This may be the most random entry I’ve ever written. I think I need a nap.
The other day Thomas Dolby called and said that he was about to release a Greatest Hit album, and was wondering if I wouldn’t mind if he changed the song to “She Blinded Me With Science (Pamie’s Theme).” I told him he had to do what he had to do.
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