Jeeeez, I’m so tired. I shouldn’t have played around on that Groupie Central site so late. I wonder if Joe Elliott really has a freckle on the left side of his – well, never mind. I needed to finish my expense reports. The accountant will have a fit if I do them in Excel again, but Quicken doesn’t provide enough variance in category. I have to call him tomorrow. Can’t forget to make follow-up calls to production companies, either. Something’s bound to come through soon, ‘though I can’t be a pushy broad, although I’d like to give some of them a broad push.
What time is it? Oh wow, already 1:30. Well, I’ll get least 5 hours of sleep if I nod off right now.
I’m not comfortable. It doesn’t matter how I squish my pillow or if I lay straight, cuddled right, legs in “4”, covered or uncovered. I wonder if one of those Nautilus beds would really make a difference. And why do I always have to be covered up, even when it’s hot? It’s not like I’m a little kid or something...do I just need the security? Maybe I’m more Linus than Lucy after all. That ugly redheaded Shannon girl in the third grade never liked me. I didn’t do anything to her, but she always kicked me in the recess line and dumped her chocolate milk on me on purpose and called me “Giraffe.” She was so stuck-up because her dad was a lawyer but she still had that sprongy, carroty hair and it was a freak of nature that fried her brain. I hated her and was glad when she moved. I wonder where she is now? Living in a tracked-out trailer somewhere in rural Arkansas I hope, barefoot and pregnant with her fifth illegitimate child by a boyfriend named Joe Bob who calls her “Shanny” instead of Shannon. We didn’t make it to Shannon on the Ireland trip. Maybe next time. There will be a next time, right? We’ll move there, won’t we? Is that too crazy? I’ll probably be over 40 when that happens. Will I be just some poor pathetic middle-aged housewife trying to recapture my youth? Ah hell - that’s assuming I live ‘til 80, thereby presuming 40 will be my “middle-age.” But I may not, so I could be beyond that mid-point already. There’s a pleasant thought. Will living in Ireland be my little red corvette, my clandestine affair? Or am I just paranoid? What if JFK was actually assassinated by the Democratic Party because he wasn’t a good President? And they didn’t want to be embarrassed after all the money Joe Sr. spent, so they decided to make him a martyr instead? Boy, Caroline has a set of teeth, doesn’t she? Everyone talks about Osmond teeth, but no one ever mentions Kennedy choppers. And none of them have ever done a Pearl White or Colgate commercial. I can see it now – the Kennedy clan at the Hyannis Port compound in a group pose: “Pearl White! It’s An American Tradition” –in unison- “Just Like Us!” Advertising is like herpes: it never quite leaves your system. As long as I continue to convince clients that the phrases “you owe it to yourself” “summer’s just around the corner” and “free gift” are to ad campaigns like arsenic is to rats, I’ll survive. I hope we don’t have any more opossums in the backyard again this winter. Big fat rats that hang upside in trees, that’s all they are and that’s not right. If I see one more slithering leathery tail on my patio...I really don’t understand escrow. I just pretend to at the bank so I don’t look stupid. Homeownership is more complicated than our parents let on. It’s probably another one of those episodes they snicker about behind our backs, like when they overhear us reply “because I said so” to a child because we haven’t thought of a better response to “why not?” either.
It’s 2:11 a.m. How’d that happen? Well, I’ve made it on 4½ hours of sleep before.
I’m hungry. But I can’t eat now; it’s too late. Then I’ll feel like a bloated toad on a pond rock. Maybe just a bowl of cereal. It has milk in it - that will make me sleepy. All that’s out there is Apple Jacks, though. Damn, that’s just pure sugar. Maybe I’ll just have a spoonful of honey. But that’s sugar, too, isn’t it? I don’t get it. How can honey make you sleepy? It must have tryfecta-trifecto-the same sleep-inducing chemical like in turkey and warm milk. Thank you, Porky Pig. Tomorrow, I’m switching to a macrobiotic diet. Really. I can do this. The whole food approach is the way to go. ‘Course then I probably can’t have ice cream or macaroni and cheese. Unless it’s rice ice or soy cheese and who wants that? Okay, maybe I’ll just eat more vegetables and less Cadbury Flake. I really hope I don’t have that dream from last night again. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why I was skiing topless in Connecticut while wearing a peacock feather boa. I’ve never been to Connecticut. I don’t even ski. I’m sure Freud would have something to say about clinging to frigid poles, though. Everybody around me on the plane yesterday was sneezing open-mouthed. Now I’ll probably end up with a cold. I’m so not in the mood for that. And during the last capitalistic Walmart run, I made the mistake of buying lotion-infused tissues that feel like you’re not ridding yourself of goo, just smearing it all over your nose. That’s just nasty. Someone has got to stop Michael Jackson before he “whoos” and “hees” his way into plastic -oops, cosmetic- surgery again. His common sense has obviously been reduced like his proboscis cartilage. And what’s with the “bad boy” videos? I don’t think the real Mafia appreciates their image being desecrated by the Gloved One. ‘Ole Mike acts ticked off in way too many videos – get a therapist or get over it, sheesh.
Okay, it’s 2:42 and this is just crazy.
I should get up and try to read a little. I can’t turn the light on; much less use my book light ‘cause Matt will wake up at the slightest click. I’ll just go out to the couch. But I’m warm and cozy and why should I get out of bed to read? It’s my bed too, dammit. Maybe I should just get up now and ooze through the day. I can catnap or something later. Scratch-scratch-scratch-wait, what is that? What IS that? Was that there during the exam last week? Oh no, I’d be absolute camp in a turban because my forehead is like the side of a restraining wall so I wouldn’t look like Rita Hayworth as much as Rita the cashier at Safeway – the one that always has ink marks grazing her cheek. Doesn’t she notice when she pokes herself in the face? I really need a new writing notebook. I can’t become computer-dependent for creative generation. Shakespeare didn’t have a computer. Neither did Erica Jong or Berke Breathed. Pap to prose transformation is best when done with mere paper and pen. Plus if I had a notebook with me at lunch, I would have immediately captured in adjective-laden detail the sausage vendor caught in the brat rapture of his Wrigley ace pitch with remarkable cadence: “HOT boys! Get your HOT dogs! HOT off the grill!” I can’t believe none of those guys on the plaza looked at me today. Didn’t even rate a single glad eye. Guess the glory days are really over. ‘Course, they were young enough to be my sons and I don’t exactly have a Britney navel. More like a navel fleet. “There she was, just a walkin’ down the street singin’ 'do wah diddy diddy dum diddy doo'....” Are dingleberries real berries that became burdened with a horrible slang definition? Who first thought to make that comparison?
3:00 a.m. Cripes, it’s already 3?
Wasn’t it, like, 3:12 in the morning when the Amityville Horror guy heard voices? I hate it when the sliding glass doors reflect the VCR lights – looks just like the movie when the demonic pig – Joey? Jody? – stared in the window. Why was it a pig, anyway? And why did it have a name? Like I’m going to read the book again to find out. I still don’t like houses with quarter-round windows on either side of the fireplace. What was that noise? Is that true that Jewish people don’t eat pig products? Is it the cloven hoof thing? Is that an “all the time” rule, or just sometimes, like when some Southerners don’t eat ham or bacon or anything with their New Year’s Day meal because the pig moves its snout forward…no wait, is it the other way around? That Southerners do eat ham on New Year’s Day because turnip greens represent money, black-eyed peas are good luck, and ham –or pig’s snout- is moving forward? What am I fixing for Thanksgiving dinner? Nobody really likes cranberry relish or yams but shovels it all in anyway. Oh jeez, I’m like my mother, deciding the Thanksgiving menu before it’s even Halloween. Being together is all that matters, right? As long as Nephew #3 doesn’t slip the ferret into the...
Tracey likes to shake things up and then take the lid off. She also likes to keep the peace, especially in a safe, fuzzy place. Writer, editor, producer, yogini, ('cause yoger or yogor simply doesn't work) by day, rabid WordsWithFriends and DrawSomething! player by night. You can follow her on Twitter: @traceylkelley or @tkyogaforyou
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IF YOU LIKED THIS COLUMN...
10.19.01 @ 10:34a
Wow. This really captures the random machine gun spray of mental diarhea that keeps me up night after night. Good to know I'm not the only one...
10.19.01 @ 12:11p
Thank you, Jeff, for adding what is sure to be a disturbing visual to my late-night repertoire.
10.19.01 @ 1:26p
Oh, and it isn't actually the cloven hoof thing. The law states that the only land animals that are Kosher have to have cloven hooves and chew their cud. Pigs don't do the latter, so.... (Interestingly enough, that means giraffe meat is technically okay, but there's a great debate on where to cut it on the neck so it's the most humane.) There's a whole bunch of those laws - if it swims in the sea, it has to have fins and scales, so no lobster, no shark.
10.19.01 @ 3:12p
Ask (a question) and you shall receive (an answer).
Adam, I can always count on you for cultural enlightenment. What does giraffe meat taste like, anyway?
tastes like chicken... No, that's frog legs.
10.19.01 @ 3:14p
When Jael or Michael post, the discussion eventually evolves to film. When I post, it strays to food. Who is more scared of this than me?
10.19.01 @ 3:45p
For what it's worth, cannibals (apparently) say that humans taste like chicken. There's a useful piece of information. "People: The Other White Meat"
10.19.01 @ 11:43p
See, now, what's going to happen, since it's 11 at night, is that I will most certainly think of that comment before I fall asleep and wonder if cannibals exchange recipes.
"I prefer the (fill in blank) well-roasted with just a touch of palm oil and sea salt." "Oh, but have you tried them stuffed with squid?"
10.22.01 @ 3:55p
Tracey, people are talking about naked muppets over at my column. Who do you think is more scared...?
10.22.01 @ 7:11p
Hey babe, I may have dreamed I was skiing topless, but you don't see me drawing it out, stabbing it onto a toothpick and dancing it across the tabletop. And you admitted it (the dancing pics on toothpicks, that is) So you, dear, have a right to be afraid. Very afraid.
10.25.01 @ 9:15a
I still can't believe no one commented on the cannibal dialogue. That was so begging for further exploration.
10.26.01 @ 2:13p
Especially since I've heard human actually tastes like pork. But milder. But then they say if a bear's been eating blueberries in season and you shoot the bear, you can taste the fruit in its meat. So are we so completely what we eat that we'd taste like (for example) Taco Bell, Ramen, or...chicken?
10.29.01 @ 12:31p
I'm thinkin' my Hannibal cannibal would not appreciate the blend of yellowtail, Edy's Chocolate Chunk and Doritos I would offer. What kind of wine do you serve with that?
10.29.01 @ 2:54p
A nice Chianti of course.
10.29.01 @ 2:55p
And don't forget the fava beans.
10.29.01 @ 5:37p
Well, I wasn't being Lecter literal, but genuinely appreciate y'all jumpin' right in there.