Weekend: Battleship Gray

Tuesday:
Because of holiday junk, Jen and I moved dinner to Tuesday. In a moment of weakness, I had “basket of delicious fried crap” (shrimp, texas toast, onion rings) at IHOP. I later lived to regret that decision, not in the form of stomach drama…just in the form of “dude…I feel totally grossed out for that.” After dinner, we headed out to Opry Mills for time wasting and my yearly farewell to malls of any kind. Goodbye, friend…see ya in February when it’s safe to enter without having my personal space invaded by shoppers, toddlers, and Christina Aguilera’s cover of “Silent Night.”

Thursday:
Got up at 5:30 (!) to start driving up to southern Indiana for turkey day at my aunt’s house. It was pretty much the usual, with the exception of the tape adapter for my iPod breaking somewhere around Bowling Green. Thank god for truck stops, I was able to get another one and continue the rawk. When I got back to town, I went over to Jrob’s for True Blood and Dreamsicles (the alcoholic drink, almost as tasty as the frozen dessert item). I drank my first one a little too fast, resulting in Jrob making me a second one…which resulted in some dizzyness.

Friday:
Slept until 2 and then got up and finished sanding and spackling the bedroom. Remember last week when I did those first two walls, resulting in looking as though I’d stepped out of the world’s crappiest Fields of the Nephilim video? Well, lesson learned. Here’s a “last week” and “this week” wardrobe comparison:

Ok, so that last picture makes me look like a low-budget version of Assasin from Soul Calibur, but it kept the dust out of my nose/hair/ears.

Caturday (literally):
Got up early to take Murphy to the vet. He hadn’t been in about 6 or 7 years and I thought we should start making the vet a yearly thing now that he’s starting to get old. The checkup turned out well, but his pre-tooth cleaning blood work made my bill some 250 bucks (I’ll pay another 250 for the cleaning and pre-cleaning ECG). All he has that they know of is a little gingivitis and some questionable pacreatic blah blah levels that could either be the beginnings of pancreatitis or nothing at all. The verdict: keep an eye on him, but don’t worry until he starts puking for no reason.

I also got the bedroom walls primed, which makes them now battleship gray. I have yet to crack into my sample of the color I think I’m going to use for the bedroom, but the dot on the top of the can looks about right: Glidden’s “Black Tulip,” which isn’t actually black. It’s eggplant purple, but in the super-dim light that I plan to have in the bedroom, it may look blackish. Which is fine.

Sunday:
Did a little work and then headed out to goth night. A little light drama, but that’s pretty much par for the course. A little tip: if you want to get drunk and act a fool in a place you don’t normally go, take that shit to Graham Central Station like everybody else does. If you do decide to do this in goth night, do not do so in my personal space. If you do this in my personal space, do not bump into me. Twice.
And to anyone who thought “you are dangerously close to being kicked in the face” was a threat rather than a statement on one’s dancing…while I am flattered that you think I would be physically capable of kicking someone in the face, I don’t think I could do it. Even if I could, I wouldn’t. I’m not a fan of peeing in front of other people…which is what happens if you get arrested for kicking someone in the face. I just find that, when laying it out for someone who’s trashed, one must be abundantly clear in order to get through all that booze that’s sloshing around in there. I have never had to make good on any threats and, frankly, I don’t have any plans to do so. I will not fight you. I will take the beating and let you go to jail and pee in front of people. I find that “I do not want to have to pee here” is a good yardstick for any location. Especially Metro News.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah. I think it’s high time for a goth night sabbatical anyway. It happens a couple of times a year: you start getting sick of everything there and it stops being fun. Either that, or you accidentally end up in a conversation with some dude and decide that it might be wise to lay low for a while so his interest in getting your number dies down. (Not conceit: last night he gave me the old “well, we could just get out of here…” which, bless his heart, makes it clear that he hasn’t gotten the memo about me.) Give him a month or so to totally forget who you are. In fact, I need to be touching up all of my mission statements. Stop writing reviews and start writing my book. Do more stand-up. Get my Cool Edit Pro serial number to work. I swear, you take away a girl’s cable and she gets all productive.

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