I was trying to take a photo of how much more appropriately necklaced I was today, but the picture I took with my camera phone looks like I have a mustache.
Then I remembered I had the webcam fixed, and excitedly took this picture, which makes it look like I have 49 JJJ hoots. Which am I? A mustached man or a hooty woman? Nature needs to make up its mind.
In other news, I have not forgotten to tell you the scorpion-under-my-corner-cabinet story, which may be some kind of record, because I ALWAYS forget to tell you stories I say "remind me to tell you…" about.
Oh, but before I tell that story? Someone at work had my exact sweater on. Well, obviously not my EXACT sweater, as then I would be going around topless and it's a little soon for that even for me. But it was the same sweater, I mean. She wore it better. If we were in US Magazine she totally would have gotten the majority of the votes. For one thing, she has no facial hair.
Okay, so the scorpion. Which may not have even been a scorpion. I did not ask it its sign.
On Saturday night I was on the couch, poring over that ding and also dang statistics textbook, which was the Everlasting Gobstopper of all statistics textbooks. Tallulah was being a faithful cur and was sleeping on the floor right next to the couch.
All of a sudden ("all the sudden") (sigh), she JUMPED up and went TEARING into the dining room, where the lights were off, but do you know that even though it was dark in there, I saw…
…movement…across the floor.
I was frozen. FROZEN! in shock and disgust. The, you know, THING, whatever it was, scurried across the room and under the corner cabinet.
It really looked like a scorpion to me. It was the size of one. It didn't move like a cockroach. It wasn't that fast. It may also have been a teensy field mouse, as I had had the back door open, which I really need to stop doing.
Tallulah flattened herself to the height of the bottom of the corner cabinet and tried to scooch under there, like she was some kind of Viet Nam soldier crawling through the rice paddies.
I have no idea if they crawled though rice paddies in Viet Nam. I was trying to sound authentic.
The dog was flat, is what I am trying to get across to you.
"Get it, Talu!" I yelled encouragingly, as I folded myself into a ball on the couch. Edsel, meanwhile, had pressed his eyeballs into my legs so he could not see anything. I told this story to Hulk and he said, "Edsel sounds like a total puss."
You know, Edsel IS a total puss, but I think also he picks up on my emotions, like Elliott and E.T., so because I was repulsed and terrified, so was he.
After a few minutes, it was evident that 50-pound Tallulah was not going to be able to squeeze herself under the corner cabinet, as much as I wished it were true. So I did what any fiercely independent, strong woman of the '10s would do.
I called Marvin.
And he WASN'T HOME. I was totally Diane Keaton calling because there was a spider in the bathroom, and I shudder to think of what kind of hot Saturday night, Larry-on-Three's-Company evening Marvin was having while I battled scorpions and rats and poison and possibly guns and roses over there in my dining room.
Finally I pushed Edsel's irises off my knees and got all my gumption up and got the flashlight. I scrinched down 800 feet from the corner cabinet and turned on the flashlight.
And the terrible part? The thing was not there. IT WASN'T THERE! It is IN HERE living AMONG US somewhere. Ima open my medicine cabinet and there he'll BE someday, SMILING at me. He'll be in my CEREAL some morning. He'll crawl down my THROAT while I SLEEP.
He totally has a blog: Scorpion's Barbs. "Girl with hair on face sleep long time. Touch her lip with stinger. Giggle. Touch her wimp dog too. Giggle again. Come back next week for my special post: Best shoes to hide in!"
I kind of love myself for Scorpion's Barbs.
So that is my hell. I am trying not to think about it too much. Except for the part where I just blogged about it.
Marvin is a Scorpio. Do you think this is somehow symbolic? At least a crab didn't crawl under the corner cabinet. That is my sign. If Barry Gibb's astrological sign crawled under my cabinet, I'd have a virgin under there. Of course, for all I know that scorpion is as pure as the driven snow. And therefore kind of crabby.
I need to get out more. Perhaps I could tool over to the mustache wax place.