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2005-01-02 @ 11:02 p.m.
cooking eggs naked

Its late morning, but it is dark and dreary around the room, because it is dark and dreary outside. But it’s nothing compared to what’s Deep Inside today. It’s like Day Eleventeenthhundredth of gray weather and Twentyninehundredth of no human contact (other than monster mom), and pulling the covers off my naked body seems like a Herculean task. I say, “Hey Fuzzyhead” to Guardcat, who is sleeping down at the edge of the bed, but she is dead to the world, probably dreaming of sunny climes and some kind of frenzied sexual romp with the twelfth generation of Morris the Cat.

I walk naked to my bathroom, past the open curtains. Yeah, I’m pretty much a perv. I keep hoping the mailman will walk up when I’m doing my nude calisthenics from 7 a.m. until 5 p.m. (do you get the feeling I’m trying to do this “on purpose” considering the vast time span involved?), but thus far, no luck. For him. I then cooked some the nude. I look out my back window, over at my elderly Eye-talian landlord sitting in his kitchen. I wonder if he knows I’m nude. I have a row of plants on my window sill. But Lordy, he sure does sit there a lot. He’s probably thinking, “Our tenant sure does do a lot of nude calisthenics. I think we should raise her rent, so she’ll move.” Oh wait, that was probably his wife saying that. Wives are so tight assed about attractive tenants doing nude calisthenics.

I then went back and laid down in bed. And that was nearly it for the day. I nearly went into another SLEEP Bender. But I had just got my period yesterday. As in Happy New Years!! Go Forth and Bleed Profusely! Ok, there really was no reason for the word “But” there. Because now that I have passed 40, I no longer have cramps and can’t climb into bed claiming ill health. But isn’t that good news? That when you get older your periods get less painful? Yay! I should only hope that the PMS fairy should pass my house too, but that sure ain’t gonna happen. Of course, when you suffer from PMS 29 1/2 days a month like me, it really doesn’t matter. But man, come to think of it, that half day WITHOUT PMS is the greatest! I will usually try to celebrate with some kind of raging eating binge involving Crispy Creme donuts and French fries dunked in gravy. But that’s just me.

I did decide before I headed out, that I was going to clean out my purse for the new year. Wasn’t that productive and efficient of me? Take out the old random M&Ms, pain pills and hand guns from my purse, so I have space for my new 2005 M&Ms, pain pills and hand guns? I was actually making space for a new Datebook I got on new year’s eve. I have the memory capacity of a lobotomy patient who fell down a flight of stairs and then smoked a lot of really good grass. I used to make fun of people with their cutesy little palm pilots, but then when I actually “got a life” (or at least employment), I realized I needed to know where I was supposed to be. Right before Christmas, I was up at Target shopping with my mom at 5 o’clock in the afternoon when I suddenly let out a huge gasp. I had totally forgotten my support group at 4. I felt really bad because I’ve only missed two meetings in 3 1/2 years and I have never just not shown up without calling. I’m very committed to my group and am really irritated when people blow off the group without calling. And then suddenly I was one of them. And I really needed group that week. That was right after I saw kidlet in the grocery store and was really hurting.

I had asked my friend in California for a Datebook for Christmas (she always asks for a gift list from me), but unfortunately, she is also always so late with her gifts (as in sometimes they don’t arrive until my birthday in February), that I just picked one out with Keith Herring artwork. I really like his bright cheerful stuff. The only problem is, this sucker is heavier than a hardcover copy of “War and Peace”. So when I got it home I tore out about 32 pages. What were they of? Pages with metric measurements on them. Huh? Nope, won’t be needing these. Riiiiiip! Pages with individual months listed so you can list all three hundred of your friend’s birthdays individually. WTF? You got a whole calendar, bucko. Riiiiiip! Pages with different spellings of the word “the”. Riiiiiip! A page with a map of the location of Jimmy Hoffa’s body. Riiiiiip! Websites listing pictures of Paris Hilton’s left earlobe. Riiiiiip!A connect-the-dots picture of a naked Angelina Jolie. Ok, well maybe I’ll keep that. Give it to “A” for his birthday.

I finally got it down to a somewhat acceptable weight. 23 pounds. I just hope it doesn’t crush my glasses. Otherwise I won’t be able to see where I’m supposed to be going.

I finally headed out around 1:00. I decided to hit Blockbuster since I still have a whopping $5 giftcard burning a hole in my pocket. I’m also still searching for that extremely rare and elusive copy of the Adam Sandler comedy “Anger Management”. I’ve hit every Blockbuster in the tri-state area (ha, ha, that sounds so impressive, but virtually impossible since I live smack dab in the middle of a large state and would have to drive hundreds of miles to even hit another state, thus eliminating any possible savings on a $4.99 used video tape at Blockbuster). Ok, so I’ve hit 3 Blockbusters in town, because according to Goingloopy
she said she saw a copy in her town. Well, we don’t have any here. But we do have lots of copies of “Runaway Jury” and “G.I. Jane”. I finally spotted this one movie with a ripped cover. It wasn’t “Anger Management” but it was “Sex in the City”, SCORE! Sex, anger, its all the same to me.

But I really don’t think there is anything more pitiful than a 46 year old woman, without her glasses, holding a copy of “Sex in the City” at arm’s length trying to read the infinitesimally small captions to see if I had seen them. What a loser. Well, maybe not. I did look hot in my black wool coat, tight jeans and rakish black beret. Plus I was having an awesome hair day. But wait, nobody was looking at me, so bygones. I finally went to the counter and bought the damn thing. Conspicuous Consumption...what a racket!

I then thought as long as I was that far down the boulevard, I might as well head to The Man Store Barnes and Nobles. “A” used to give me that place as homework. I was supposed to go there -- look -- talk and possibly make eye contact (gasp) with as many available men as humanly possible. I mean, where else can I go since I don’t drink and go to bars and I don’t pray and go to church. But today, the place was crawling with men. Lots of their stylish LL Beane coats and snugly fitted jeans, not that I was looking and black boots. And surely it was a sign from God, that even though it was raining, a single ray of sunlight somehow burst forth from the clouds for the first time in eleventeenthhundred days and fell across the entrance just as I was walking in. You know, as if to trumpet forth the arrival of The Goddess of.....

Well, you know when you have your period and you inadvertently cough and you suddenly feel a warm gush of blood issue forth from between your legs? That’s what happened. Some nice looking guy saw me walking in from the parking lot, and he saw me from way out in the parking lot, yet he waited...and held the door open for some man from a 1950’s village of nice men. And then Cough

And I’m fairly certain my expression changed, as I brushed by him, feeling my “girl juices” draining out of my uterus. But I somehow managed to say “Thanks”, as I rushed to the bathroom to survey the damage.

Was he my potential soulmate.. my one true hunka hunka burning love, who I lost because of a malfunctioning uterus? Wouldn’t that just be the way?

The place was still teaming with men when I came out, but I felt a little discouraged. I went over to the magazine department and leafed through several art magazines and periodicals. I tried to interest myself in the supposedly straight forward pieces of art presented in the magazines, but then I would always find myself hopelessly attracted to the wild, vivid abstract pieces. Now if only I could find a man who likes Kandinsky...or at least a nude calisthenics aficionado.

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Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty