Feb
09

“…My Mama Used To Dance For The Money They’d Throw.”

So, what was it I said yesterday? Oh yes: “Decisions have been made! Obstacles have been thwarted! Horrible things have been worn by persons in my close proximity!”
And so they have.

Decisions have been made:
Not by me, really. All I said was “O.k.” The Nearly made a proposal and I accepted. No, not that kind of proposal. And not that kind of proposal either—pull yourselves together! He proposed a time to begin treatment—provided, of course, the magic of NAD’s herbs doesn’t render me fertile before then—and I happily agreed. I will try to start Metformin again in the fall, and should be legs up with a catheter by January.
This is, as you may have deduced, less than a year from now, so probably you think I had something to do with it—but I didn’t. While I am perfectly comfortable wheedling my way into the most pepperoni-laden slice of pizza, or bullying the Nearly until he agrees that wall-to-wall carpet is the Devil’s tool and will have no place in any home of ours, the decision to have children at a certain time (as if this amounts to such a thing!) is not something I am comfortable talking him into. So, as previously demonstrated, I kept my mouth shut. My charm, you see, is formidable, and I feared that if I dared part my (perfectly formed) lips to speak, the Nearly would find himself agreeing to things he did not truly want. And then twenty years from now, when Junior calls from the police station, the Nearly will hiss: “You wanted a kid, you bail him out!” And I am not made of money, people.

Obstacles have been thwarted:
Firstly: I am not moving from my vast office to a tiny cubicle! There was another departmental reorganization after the reorganization that was to result in my move. Apparently, if you reorganize things enough, they end up exactly where they began.
Secondly: I have learned that the results of a vast study have proven that a low fat diet does not significantly decrease disease risk. For dinner this evening I will be having a rasher of bacon washed down with a hearty mug of blue cheese dressing. For dessert I plan to roll a stick of butter in cinnamon-sugar and devour it whole.
Thirdly: I opened a bottle of wine that had gone bad somehow (bad enough that I wouldn’t drink it—not that I didn’t try, mind you) and had resigned myself to a joyless quaff of milk instead, when I found a not-entirely-empty bottle of gin in the freezer. It made me go shivery all over, like maybe there is someone watching over me.

Horrible things have been worn by persons in my close proximity:
To be honest, when I wrote that I wasn’t thinking of anything in particular. It just sort of slipped into the sentence and I left it there, because it seemed like a reasonable assumption. Probably horrible things had been worn by people in my close proximity—I am writing this, you will remember, from Minnesota. But to appease you all, I will tell you that from where I am sitting right now I can see two of my least favorite looks:
1. The “I-was-born-in-the-wagon-of-a-traveling-show.” I know you are all familiar with my feelings about peasant skirts. And I am not saying that it is ever acceptable to wear one, but it is even less acceptable when you are also wearing a beaded tunic-y shirt, tights with paisley-ish cutouts, and sheepskin-lined, high-heeled, Inuit-whore boots.
2. The Puss-in-Boots. Gauchos (or pants-stolen-from-a-tiny-sailor, as I believe I have referred to them in the past) are never a good idea, unless the idea is to look like an ample-hipped amputee. But when you pair them with tall, slouchy boots and a blousy, wispy top, I can’t help but wonder where you left your velvet doublet and dashing plumed hat.

There. Are you satisfied? Now I am going to get hate mail about how people who don’t dress well are people too. Which they are! Of course! Love me!

By Alexa | Posted in Ceci N'est Pas Une Ecrivaine |