At least, as a single childless person, when I'm sick like this I really don't have to function. It's not like I have to get up to get some kid off to school. So there's that.
Hey, how're y'all? I have a cold. I know that when I have a cold, I do not carry on dramatically or anything. Are the lights going out? Is that a tunnel?
Yesterday I slept and splayed histrionically on the couch and blew my nose. It is amazing how many Kleenexes I plowed through, but I have them in droves because my Aunt Mary sent me a bunch, thinking she was hilarious. I have always had the theory that only rich people have Kleenex. I mean, you need a tissue? Why can't you just use toilet paper? You don't need a whole FANCY DIFFERENT form. I said this once when Aunt Mary was visiting, or maybe it was my father and he reported it to her, but anyway neither of them have stopped making fun of me since and for Christmas Aunt Mary sent me, like, six boxes of Kleenex.
I feel so rich. And, truthfully, glad to have all this goddamn Kleenex.
I read an entire book yesterday, in my convalescence: Girl in Translation. I highly recommend it. It's the book my book club pal Hibiscus Wilson recommended for February, and I borrowed it from her this weekend. Hibiscus Wilson lives so close to me that if she were choking on something, I could get over there and Heimlich her on time. How she'd let me KNOW she needed Heimliching is beyond me, cause you only need it when you can't talk anymore. Dear Hibiscus: We need some kind of ringing-me-and-hanging-up sign for if this ever happens. Also, am nervous person and will probably flap hands around helplessly for first three minutes once I get there. Hope this is not a problem.
Are the lights going out for Hibiscus?
In the book, which did I mention I liked? Except for at the end. She pissed me off at the end. Anyway, in the book she mentions a song from an opera, and I've always kind of wanted to know more about opera, because some of it's beautiful and I know people enjoy the SHIT out of opera–I mean, look at Nicolas Cage in Moonstruck. He loved him the opera. And he was hot. With his wooden Pinocchio hand–and I feel like if I knew more about it I'd enjoy it.
The point is, she mentions in the book the piece E lucivan le stelle, which means "When the starts were brightly shining," God, who doesn't know that (thanks, Bing), and I got on trusty YouTube and watched some dude sing it. And I was all, okay, eh. Then they also had Pavarotti singing it. You know, that Pavarotti. He can sing. Not as well as me, but…
Plus, Pavarotti kind of looks like if Barry Gibb enjoyed too many carbs. So I like that about him.
Anyway, since I'm just sitting here expiring from a rare and unusual cold, I thought I'd show more pictures of you.
Oh, great. Let's just START OFF with another cute reader. This is Ezra Pound's Mama, who tells me she is receiving a mix tape in this photo. No, it is not 1988. Has anyone seen my Salon Selectives hairspray?
Faithful Reader Amish Annie sent in a picture of Barry Gibb's wife, thinking she was hye-larious.
I'd asked Culpepper, "Is your HAIR longer?" and she said yes, her husband likes it longer, and I said, "All men like longer hair. Why is that? If it were up to them we'd all
have long straight stripper hair. Which with my face would make me look
like Mr. Ed."
In shocking news, I heart me.
You know what'd be great? Is Pavarotti singing Amanda. Also, I am sorry to report that the first concert Ned saw was Boston. Hulk is over there all, "What's wrong with that?" You know who's probably sick of that song? Amanda, up there. I like the Fancy Feast "ting" they do in that song. Is anyone listening and totally hanging their lighter high right now?
I was so busy being amuuuuuused by this reader's funny email and by her dog, Fisher, that I didn't notice till now that she did not tell me her name. I been through the desert on a reader with no name.
Hulk, I was never actually on this reader. But if it gets you through the day…
This is my best friend, Pal from MA. When I suggested we all send our pictures in and 95859339494939 of you listened, I said, "When you send, tell me your commentor name. If you sign in as Depressed Girl, don't send me a pic and sign it Beth." Anyway, Pal from MA wants the moniker Depressed Girl now. She's going through some shit, folks. Send good thoughts to Depressed Girl. Let's get Obnoxious Screechy Older-than-June-by-Six-Weeks-and-Therefore-Cooler Girl back, with her need for tonic soon.
Here is Faithful Reader Mother, who also serves as my mother. I was making her point out her Christmas pin, which she had on with a…nother Christmas pin under this jacket. Dying. Who enjoys her the Christmas?
Kim in Columbus looks like some kind of 19th-century painting. Am I the only one who sees that?
Did she tell her mom that day, "Do my hair like Sally from Davey and Goliath"?
"Faithful Reader But Not Faithful Commenter Rebekah with your newest reader, Faithful Fetus Madeline." That's what Rebekah wrote, and it killed me. Faithful Fetus. Probably Madeline is all, "I can't WAIT to get out of here and read Dooce instead."
YAY!!! Here's Faithful Reader The Chief, who was editor of our hard-hitting high school newspaper. She was the boss of Hulk and me. I was features editor and Hulk was (sit down) sports editor. Chief rules. In every way. Love her.
We will end with Sully, who looks like she's drinking that kind of beer Ned likes. As in, it has a flavor. Which, blech. But Sully looks fun, don't you think? Now I'm kind of hungry for pub food. Why is no one bringing me pub food? I'm in my final hours on this planet, and NOT ONE OF YOU–
–okay, fine. Don't feel sorry for ME. I'll just go to my grave wanting beef stew or fish and chips. No, I DON'T want to tell you how Project Emiciated is going in prep for my high school reunion.
Talk at you tomorrow. IF I'M STILL HERE.