Me: HE IS DREAMY AND WAS WEARING A SUIT AND AT ONE POINT WE MADE EYE CONTACT BEFORE HE POINTED BEHIND ME TOWARD THE BATHROOMS BECAUSE I GUESS HIS FRIEND HAD TO PEE. Continue reading
So I’ve had this cold. It’s been going on for over a week at this point, which is ridiculous. Listen, if I go through all the trouble to be responsible and get the flu shot before flu season, I shouldn’t be able to get sick for ten days straight with anything. I should get credit for letting someone stick a needle in my arm in the back of a Vons next to the frozen food section. Continue reading
I’ve mentioned before, but probably not on pamie.com, that I watch Kathie Lee and Hoda most mornings. That’s not exactly true — I have it on while I’m working. Depending on which part of the house I choose to work from that day (couch if I’m feeling frustrated, desk if I’m feeling self-punishey), I will let the TV do its thing from The Today Show all the way to that silly fourth hour of booze and constant chit-chattering. It makes me feel like I’m at an office, stuck in a corporate job I can’t stand, and I’ve got Kathie Lee and Hoda at the next cube going on and on and on about a movie one liked that the other didn’t that starred an actor whose name they can’t remember, or they’re ranting about a young starlet whose behavior they don’t understand, or sometimes — unfortunately — Kathie Lee’s talking about her sex life with her husband. But they really do make me feel better about my drinking, as most days I wait until at least after two to drink as much as these two sloshy ladies Continue reading
These boots you helped me find, both are going back.
The Frye “banana” is really more of a tan, and might work if I popped it with a crazy red or that blue you were coveting. That being said, it fits like a galosh, and is really pooling around my ankles. The Madewell boots are extremely tight at the top of my calf, making me look like I’ve got muffin top legs, and pool so much around the ankles I appear to be melting.
sadness. diving back in.
I hope you like this picture I took last night, even though it’s not a good picture. I’m looking for some kind of bright side to what happened after I’d taken it.
I’d been waiting in line for a long time. Long enough to look up, see these lights and think, “Why?”
After I paid for my things, I scooted off to the side to snap a couple of pictures. First, this one. But as I went to take a second that included the cold storage underneath these lights, I suddenly felt something on me, skin on my face, a mouth on my ear. And then a bark, hot and frantic and human in my ear.
I screamed and jumped. Maybe in that order? I don’t know. Have you ever had someone bark into your head? Things get weird.
Behind me stood the tiny homeless woman I’d seen sitting outside earlier, screaming at everyone that we had no right to be happy. In retrospect, maybe she had only been yelling at me.
Dressed in black, her head wrapped in a shawl, she looked exactly like the Evil Queen from Snow White when she handed over the poison apple.
I am still holding my hand to my head as she screamed, "No picture taking!"
(I will never understand my jacked-up fight or flight reflex. ‘Yes, ma’am?’ Really?)
As I was busy getting the fuck out of there, she turned to the line of men who just watched this shit happen, and she goes, "This kind of thing has happened before." So to any others of you out there who’ve had this happen to them in this weird store: Dude, I’m so sorry. That sucks.
I’m learning that one of the dangers of looking up is that you don’t see who’s coming to get you from down below.
I was sound asleep. Then I heard screaming. A man, screaming, “I’LL KILL YOU! I’LL KILL YOU! I’LL KILL YOU! I’LL KILL YOU!”
I bolt up in my bed and stare at the window. My heart is racing, but my brain is not quite fully awake, but Wonder Killing: No, you know that voice. You know that sound. You’ve heard this before. It’s not real. It’s not real.
It was my neighbor watching a movie on what must be as loud as his television would allow. Continue reading
To those of you who have written to say that your obsessive desire to read every single one of my archived entries has been thwarted by server problems, I say: “I fixed the archives.” And: “Please share some of your spare time with real, live humans.”
So apparently I walked right past Jane Espenson today, because I was staring at the guy she was walking with, thinking, “There’s Doyle from Gilmore Girls! And on my other side I’m walking past Peter Krause for the fiftieth time!”
Sorry, Jane. I really wanted to meet you.
That’s a much better story than what happened to me yesterday, when in less than an hour someone leaned out of his truck window to give me the double bird, a man shouted, “Go home, please!” and then a woman hit me. She came up behind me, jogging down the street, and punched my sign as she passed, causing it to hit me in the back of the head.
It took a second for me to realize what had happened. That the sign stick smacking me in the back of my head wasn’t due to my own klutziness, but because the woman passing me on the street on my left, clad in neon green spandex and a visor, had just hit me. With her hand. Because she didn’t want to either pass me on the right (I was standing at a crosswalk), or spend any of the ten minutes she’d spent running up toward me to say, “On your left!”
Instead she took a swing at me. At my sign, which was a part of me.
I drove home furious with myself. I wish I wasn’t the kind of person who immediately thinks, “Gee, I guess I was in her way. I should be more careful. I wish she hadn’t scared me so much. My head really hurts now. She hit it hard. She must be mad about the strike. Hasn’t she known we are on her jogging path for the past six weeks?”
I wish I had been ballsy enough fast enough that I’d have thrown down my purse and just took off after her and fell into a pace next to her as we ran. “Hi,” I’d say, falling into marathon mode. “I was just wondering what makes you think you have the right to commit battery? Do you have any right to hit me? From behind? A complete stranger who was standing at a crosswalk? Do you seriously think you have the right to hit me? And where are we going? Because I’m going to keep running until you are just as scared as you made me, you egotistical asshole. How dare you hit someone. Anyone. How dare you punch a picketer who wasn’t even in your way? I was on the curb! You were running on the busy street! What is wrong with you? Apologize to me!”
Man, all the way home, I was driving and cursing at myself. Why didn’t I run after her? Why didn’t I make her apologize? Why did I let her literally do a hit and run?
I’m still mad. I can’t seem to get over it. Every time I think of it I get just as mad as I was driving home. I mean, who does that? Who hits a stranger while they’re jogging? She punched my sign! Like I was a mannequin or something! Like a target!
Calm down. Think nice thoughts. Peter Krause.
About that. This morning when Jenny and I were walking she did that thing where she talks without sound and all you hear are these little pops and clicks of her tongue (It’s crazy, and it makes me giggle), and she mouthed, “That’s Peter Krause.” And I looked at the guy in front of us who was wearing sunglasses and a skull cap and a SAG shirt and I was like, “Oh, yeah! Good eye! Let’s walk near him.”
We did, trying to make sure it was him, and the second he said something to someone we both looked at each other and said, “No.” Not him.
An hour later, Peter Krause magically appeared. Standing next to fake Peter Krause! And Jenny balled up her fist and shouted, “Dammit! I just wasted a wish! I wonder what will never happen to me now that I made Peter Krause appear.”
I know it’s important during week four to keep up the fight, the resolve, the rah-rah-rah, but here on week four, day four, I have woken up with a serious case of Picket Lung.
That’s the Radiohead song Laura House and I wrote yesterday while we walked, because we picket in a very active construction zone. (To be fair, I kept making her come up with more lyrics with me, while she marveled, “Wow, you’re really going with this thing, huh? Joke’s kinda…. okay!”)
If Thom Yorke walked our line, perhaps we’d get to hear: Continue reading