Tuesday, January 08, 2008

Things About Today

1) First, sad news. Pizza Hut has discontinued the P'Zone. I know. I know. I'm hurt. Depressed. And P'issed off. Couldn't they have given us some kind of warning? Sent in a somber looking gentleman wearing a lab coat and smelling of Purell to softly tell me that I only had two more weeks? So I could have reflected on all the good times we spent together with the meats, the cheeses, and the days without a bowel movement? SO I COULD GRIEVE, P'IZZA HUT! So I could grieve.

I was actually so upset last night when I called P'izza Hut to p'lace my p'ick up order (OK. I'll stop with the 'postrophes.) and they coldly told me that they were no longer serving P'Zones that I had to hang up, regroup, and call them back before settling--and it did feel like settling--on some stuffed crust misfit. Now I know how Angelina feels when she strolls into an orphanage with her heart set on finding a doe-eyed, flipper-limbed former boy soldier but instead ends up with a splotchy kid with a faux-hawk.

2) Know how Don Henley was all freaked about seeing a Deadhead sticker on a Cadillac? Try spotting a Beatles decal on a RAV-4 and see if that doesn't twist your shit up.

3) We have now reached the end of the scatological portions of the post.

4) I was taking my trash out this afternoon, and--of course--saw the Sole Hot Resident of my building. Granted, the Other Residents look like Al Borland if his beard was made of pockmarks, so make of that title what you will. Regardless, he looked fierce, rocking a trench coat like Unsolved Mysteries-era Robert Stack (or Untouchables-era Robert Stack, your choice). When he got on the elevator, I tried to conceal my empty pizza box and full colon in time to make eye contact with him, which--according to several Seventeen magazine articles--is never a bad thing. Unless you're a Gorgon. Or in a prison shower.

So we locked eyes. He said hello. I said hello. And then he turned around and tried to decipher the various smudges on the elevator doors. So either:
--Seventeen is full of shit (Very possible, since they once encouraged me to wear jeans beneath a sundress).
--He is autistic and cannot respond appropriately to facial cues, even my very brightest Whitestrippiest smile. Next time I see him, I will dump a box of toothpicks on the floor and wait for him to say either "107" or "What the fuck?"
--He noticed that my complexion is less "traditional Peaches and Cream" and more "Quaker Oatmeal's Strawberries and Cream".

Sigh. Since getting a puppy, I've worn less makeup than Sara, Plain & Tall and that is not a look that works for me. My skin is the type that needs to be buried beneath layers of Clinique foundation, pressed powder, and a polarfleece blanket. Thank you, Pigpen, for shifting my priorities from "Have my lashes reached such an inappropriate length that I may ensnare a hummingbird?" to "If I leave you alone, you'll flood my sneakers with piss again." So needless to say, I didn't get a second glance as he raced off the elevator, unwittingly leaving his own smudge for me to stare at on the way to the garage.

That didn't stop me from adding 'toothpicks' to my grocery list.

5) Slightly less depressing but still depressing? The last credit in Robert Stack's 218-year film career? Butt Ugly Martians.

3 comments:

Mike G said...

I would say something brusque like, "your sadness gives me momentary joy when the world is crapping on my bed linens," but I've just now concidered how that would affect me had someone said that to me after such a day of drudgery. Not good.

Tara Shleser said...

Did you ever think that perhaps he is just pissed that you named him Pigpen?

J-Money said...

He's named for Ron "Pigpen" McKernan from the Grateful Dead. I think he'd be more pissed if I'd named him Ron.