Walking on the Moon
Random thoughts:
1. Aside from the fact that Sting has grown an unbridled-growth-down-the-neck kind of beard, he looked even better on Monday night than a Double Stuffed Oreo tastes—which is really saying something because I do not go in for beards. It must be the tantric sex. But I digress. The point I’m trying to make is that The Police should be opening for Elvis Costello on this reunion tour of theirs, not the other way around. Elvis was the show.
2. The wood nymphs who only a short time ago replaced my child with Rosemary’s Baby, repeated the switcheroo some time this past week and returned my angel.
She’s been full of un-prompted pleases, and thank-yous. She slept through the night twice. She let me sniff her all day. She’s been liberally kissing her father and me and the dog and door jams and floor moulding. She’s so convincing, I almost feel like I made up that whole other nightmare. At this point, I have no idea where the truth lies. It must be that I’m crazy.
3. Gravity is not selective. It works on breasts and buttocks and, according to my husband, labia and testicles, too. He announced Saturday night on the way to a party that he “almost peed on his balls” the other day. Of course, we weren’t alone in the car during the proclamation and our friend Joe had a follow-up question in which he inquired whether Sam had “tea-bagged the toilet water.” AWE-SOME. I find this course of dialogue to be hilarious which means not only am I crazy, but I’m also a 13-year old boy.
4. I finally debunked, once and for all, my grandmother’s motto that it’s “better to look good than to feel good.” There’s a pair of shoes I’d been eyeing for a couple of weeks and, in fact, dreamt about twice, my personal barometer of what Must Be Done Next: I bought them, licked each one and then wore them to a CityBeat event on Friday night. By the time I left, I could barely walk. Literally. I’ve never, in all my years of shoe-wearing, experienced such pain. I mean, it felt as if someone had smashed flat the metatarsals of my right foot with a Kettle Bell. And God dammit! Those shoes are fucking beautiful!
It’s tragic. There should be a national holiday for a tragedy of this magnitude.
Anyway, I had to walk down an alley by myself to get to my car—and for any locals, it’s the alley just behind El Cajon Boulevard between Louisiana and Texas Streets. Nice, right?—and half-way to my car I couldn’t do it any more. I looked exactly the opposite of the sophisticated these killers are supposed to convey, what with the way I hobbled like a clueless college freshman wearing heels for the very first time. I kept imagining my feet as nothing but raw hamburger meat and finally decided that the risk/benefit ratio was worth going barefoot. Fortunately, I didn’t step on any broken glass or used condoms, which still would have been preferable to the agony I was in.
5) The Gaydi Project arrives at 9:34 tonight, so please keep your arms and hands inside the vehicle at all times.
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