There's not a net you couldn't slip through
Daniel Craig and Hugh Jackman possibly Broadway bound.
I don't care how much tickets are, I don't care if the play is as badly written as Twilight; that is very likely the closest I will EVER be to either Daniel Craig or Hugh Jackman, and in doing so, I think I'll be able to die happy.
And now, my diaries from The Weekend at the Jeanses.
Saturday, May 23, 2009, 11:11 p.m.
So it took me about ten minutes to get Ginger to calm down enough to let her sniff me and let her realize that yes, she did indeed meet me previous to tonight. Oy.
As I've said, it's actually a blessing in disguise that I cannot hack into anyone's wireless while I'm here, as it will help me remain focused on finishing Busted Eardrums/Broken Records. However. It also means that I have to keep a somewhat more primitive diary while I'm here, because dudes - I'm staying over at the Uncle Jeanses. Which is like, aside from reading Lord Jim again, the one thing I swore I'd never do; there has to be a record of it somewhere.
Oh, hello Miss May (the cat). Finally decided to stop hiding in the bathroom, I see. Did you realize that I moved your catfood down onto the floor? Oh, I guess you have no problem being on the counter. And now the cat is sniffing my laptop. Awesome. Also, two guesses as to where the cat decided to sleep for a bit. If you guessed "my brand new towel, because I sure as hell wasn't going to use one of theirs," you win. Thanks, Miss May.
Anyway. Let's see, where to start. Oh! Why is this house so effing warm? Seriously, it's like a sauna in here. I want to know who keeps the heat on in May when it's in the eighties over the weekend. And in a very cute yet weird thing - there are Post-It Notes everywhere. Like, telling me what is behind the cabinet door so I don't have to open the cabinet door if what I want isn't behind there. I've been here before - I know where the glasses are, Aunt Amy!
LOL. Apparently, Miss May prefers Ginger's water bowl to her own. Cats are so weird.
So, that's the house. There are no family pictures in Little Emily's room, so I won't have nightmares about those. And I have to wake up at 5:30 tomorrow to make sure I feed the dog before going to work for 8 a.m., so I won't be sleeping long.
Finally, a That's What She Said from an unlikely source:
Johnny O: Flexo, do you want to try and unlock that fitting room door? It's locked.
Flexo: Do you have a key?
Johnny O: No. I have a bent paper clip taped to a piece of cardboard.
Flexo: You want me to pick the lock? I'm from Auburn, not Lewiston!
Me: Seriously? Let me try.
[I take the 'key' and twist the doorknob. It opens right away.]
Me: Guys! I didn't even have to stick it in the hole! All I had to do was twist the knob!
Flexo: Oh, brother.
Me: Also, That's What She Said.
Johnny O: Well, I was messing around with that for half an hour, and I couldn't get it to work.
Me: I guess I'm the one with the magic touch, John.
Johnny O: Touché, Weevil … touché.
Monday, May 25, 2009, 9:03 a.m.
After playing about eleventy million rounds of "Outsmart the Cat" with Miss May, the score stands "Alaina: -4, Miss May: eleventy million." Damn, that is one smart cat. Also, she is the only cat that doesn't come when she's called that I've ever known. I mean, I've had cats all of my life (up until December), and even when Butterscotch was an outdoor cat, she came when she was called. Or, at least, came when she heard us shake the cat food container. Miss May doesn't come whatsoever. And Little Emily had expressly requested that she not be left outside while I'm gone or after 8 p.m., and when I let the dog out the cat got out too, and … yeah. I was just about to call Stephanie when lo and hebold, forty minutes later, in saunters Miss May, like, "Oh, you were looking for me?"
God, I hate that cat. And I'm a cat person.
So both the dog and the cat are outside now - I have to leave for work in about an hour and a half, because I have to stop at Hannaford and finally pick up my prescription that I called in two days ago, and hopefully, I will not have to play yet another round of "Get in the house, you fucking cat before I call the fire department."
But seriously, I was always horrified when, after a particularly bad day at work, Uncle Jean would remark that he was going to go home and kick the cat. I UNDERSTAND NOW. Kicking the cat would be an amazing release of tension, and no doubt well deserved.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009, 8:51 a.m.
The Cat and I reached an impasse last night. I finally was able to enact the Airlock System, ensuring the animal I wanted to let out was the only animal that went out. Last night I watched Monty Python and the Holy Grail and The Cat actually slept on me. Like, curled up, using my fist as a pillow, because of course I was trying to write the Uncle Jeanses a note, and that's when The Cat decided, gee, this hand looks comfy, *snore*.
And then both the animals are morning people. Guys! I am not a morning person! I told you last night before I went to bed that I'd be up around 9, which is early for me! 7:50 a.m. is not 9 a.m.! Grrr…
So I'm being a very nice house-sitter and washing the sheets I used over the weekend, as well as some hand towels. Very small load in the washer, but there were some towels left in the dryer. I have no idea if they're from Stephanie's sojourn here previous to mine, but I was taking them out of the dryer and … yeah. Not from Stephanie. Using the majority of the towels to pick up the couple of pairs of undies I saw, I loaded it all into the basket and left it on the top of the dryer. They can deal with that when they get home in four hours, because you could have left me a hundred dollars in that envelope, and I still wouldn't be paid enough to dry your fucking underwear.
I'd take a shower, but I'm still here, so I'd need another shower to recover from the first one.
As soon as the load of laundry's completely dry and Little Emily's bed is made again and the kitchen floor has been swept, I'm out of here. I am going to MY [parents'] house where MY dog is and I'm going to play with MY dog and throw HER ball and watch her completely spaz out because she's a SPAZ, and then I'm going to have some of DAD'S BRISKET, which TOTALLY MADE MY WEEKEND, and then I'm going back to MY APARTMENT and wash MY bedding at the Laundromat, and then I am SLEEPING UNTIL THURSDAY.
Can't. Fucking. Wait.
But they bought me a present. They almost bought me a poster of Daniel Craig.
Aunt Amy:... but we couldn't figure out how to get it home without wrinkling it.
Me: Aunt Amy! I would have paid the postage!
Y'know, I may still buy one anyway. And then when I go see him on Broadway, he can autograph it for me. And if he kisses it, then I'll have his DNA, and then all I need is a healthy ovum and I could grow my own Leonard Nimoy Daniel Craig.
I don't care how much tickets are, I don't care if the play is as badly written as Twilight; that is very likely the closest I will EVER be to either Daniel Craig or Hugh Jackman, and in doing so, I think I'll be able to die happy.
And now, my diaries from The Weekend at the Jeanses.
Saturday, May 23, 2009, 11:11 p.m.
So it took me about ten minutes to get Ginger to calm down enough to let her sniff me and let her realize that yes, she did indeed meet me previous to tonight. Oy.
As I've said, it's actually a blessing in disguise that I cannot hack into anyone's wireless while I'm here, as it will help me remain focused on finishing Busted Eardrums/Broken Records. However. It also means that I have to keep a somewhat more primitive diary while I'm here, because dudes - I'm staying over at the Uncle Jeanses. Which is like, aside from reading Lord Jim again, the one thing I swore I'd never do; there has to be a record of it somewhere.
Oh, hello Miss May (the cat). Finally decided to stop hiding in the bathroom, I see. Did you realize that I moved your catfood down onto the floor? Oh, I guess you have no problem being on the counter. And now the cat is sniffing my laptop. Awesome. Also, two guesses as to where the cat decided to sleep for a bit. If you guessed "my brand new towel, because I sure as hell wasn't going to use one of theirs," you win. Thanks, Miss May.
Anyway. Let's see, where to start. Oh! Why is this house so effing warm? Seriously, it's like a sauna in here. I want to know who keeps the heat on in May when it's in the eighties over the weekend. And in a very cute yet weird thing - there are Post-It Notes everywhere. Like, telling me what is behind the cabinet door so I don't have to open the cabinet door if what I want isn't behind there. I've been here before - I know where the glasses are, Aunt Amy!
LOL. Apparently, Miss May prefers Ginger's water bowl to her own. Cats are so weird.
So, that's the house. There are no family pictures in Little Emily's room, so I won't have nightmares about those. And I have to wake up at 5:30 tomorrow to make sure I feed the dog before going to work for 8 a.m., so I won't be sleeping long.
Finally, a That's What She Said from an unlikely source:
Johnny O: Flexo, do you want to try and unlock that fitting room door? It's locked.
Flexo: Do you have a key?
Johnny O: No. I have a bent paper clip taped to a piece of cardboard.
Flexo: You want me to pick the lock? I'm from Auburn, not Lewiston!
Me: Seriously? Let me try.
[I take the 'key' and twist the doorknob. It opens right away.]
Me: Guys! I didn't even have to stick it in the hole! All I had to do was twist the knob!
Flexo: Oh, brother.
Me: Also, That's What She Said.
Johnny O: Well, I was messing around with that for half an hour, and I couldn't get it to work.
Me: I guess I'm the one with the magic touch, John.
Johnny O: Touché, Weevil … touché.
Monday, May 25, 2009, 9:03 a.m.
After playing about eleventy million rounds of "Outsmart the Cat" with Miss May, the score stands "Alaina: -4, Miss May: eleventy million." Damn, that is one smart cat. Also, she is the only cat that doesn't come when she's called that I've ever known. I mean, I've had cats all of my life (up until December), and even when Butterscotch was an outdoor cat, she came when she was called. Or, at least, came when she heard us shake the cat food container. Miss May doesn't come whatsoever. And Little Emily had expressly requested that she not be left outside while I'm gone or after 8 p.m., and when I let the dog out the cat got out too, and … yeah. I was just about to call Stephanie when lo and hebold, forty minutes later, in saunters Miss May, like, "Oh, you were looking for me?"
God, I hate that cat. And I'm a cat person.
So both the dog and the cat are outside now - I have to leave for work in about an hour and a half, because I have to stop at Hannaford and finally pick up my prescription that I called in two days ago, and hopefully, I will not have to play yet another round of "Get in the house, you fucking cat before I call the fire department."
But seriously, I was always horrified when, after a particularly bad day at work, Uncle Jean would remark that he was going to go home and kick the cat. I UNDERSTAND NOW. Kicking the cat would be an amazing release of tension, and no doubt well deserved.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009, 8:51 a.m.
The Cat and I reached an impasse last night. I finally was able to enact the Airlock System, ensuring the animal I wanted to let out was the only animal that went out. Last night I watched Monty Python and the Holy Grail and The Cat actually slept on me. Like, curled up, using my fist as a pillow, because of course I was trying to write the Uncle Jeanses a note, and that's when The Cat decided, gee, this hand looks comfy, *snore*.
And then both the animals are morning people. Guys! I am not a morning person! I told you last night before I went to bed that I'd be up around 9, which is early for me! 7:50 a.m. is not 9 a.m.! Grrr…
So I'm being a very nice house-sitter and washing the sheets I used over the weekend, as well as some hand towels. Very small load in the washer, but there were some towels left in the dryer. I have no idea if they're from Stephanie's sojourn here previous to mine, but I was taking them out of the dryer and … yeah. Not from Stephanie. Using the majority of the towels to pick up the couple of pairs of undies I saw, I loaded it all into the basket and left it on the top of the dryer. They can deal with that when they get home in four hours, because you could have left me a hundred dollars in that envelope, and I still wouldn't be paid enough to dry your fucking underwear.
I'd take a shower, but I'm still here, so I'd need another shower to recover from the first one.
As soon as the load of laundry's completely dry and Little Emily's bed is made again and the kitchen floor has been swept, I'm out of here. I am going to MY [parents'] house where MY dog is and I'm going to play with MY dog and throw HER ball and watch her completely spaz out because she's a SPAZ, and then I'm going to have some of DAD'S BRISKET, which TOTALLY MADE MY WEEKEND, and then I'm going back to MY APARTMENT and wash MY bedding at the Laundromat, and then I am SLEEPING UNTIL THURSDAY.
Can't. Fucking. Wait.
But they bought me a present. They almost bought me a poster of Daniel Craig.
Aunt Amy:... but we couldn't figure out how to get it home without wrinkling it.
Me: Aunt Amy! I would have paid the postage!
Y'know, I may still buy one anyway. And then when I go see him on Broadway, he can autograph it for me. And if he kisses it, then I'll have his DNA, and then all I need is a healthy ovum and I could grow my own Leonard Nimoy Daniel Craig.