for the 10 millionth time, I do not look like her. "Well then, who do you think you look like, honey?" You ask.

Me. I look like me. Okay?

Why do the old people in our families insist we look like someone we are related to, even when we bear no resemblance whatsoever??? This is a rhetorical question that requires no response, by the way. Just thinking aloud.

Sheeesh.

yep. the garbage dudes saw me naked

So I was caught naked by the garbage dudes this morning. Sigh.

I am house/doggie-sitting for Kip who is in Atlanta at a fucking scrapbooking convention (we just won't go there). We had a helluva thunder storm last night and sometime in the middle of the night I guess that the power must have surged which kicked the A/C off. I awoke at 6 a.m. all sweaty and disoriented. Maybe the fact that my buddy Jenn came over last night and we floated in the pool and killed two bottles of wine (1 red - 1 white) helped with the dehydration. Anyway, I went out onto the deck to let the dog out and feed the iguana (romaine lettuce and shredded carrots = yum!) and it was so humid and sticky that on impulse I whipped off my nightshirt and slipped into the pool. What the hell--I was alone and the yard is completely fenced. Why not? Ah, heaven. So as the iguana ate breakfast and the crazed corgy wandered around the yard nibbling grass, I glided about in the pool.

I swam a few quiet laps and floated for a bit, enjoying the sunrise and the seagulls flying overhead and because my ears were below the surface, I heard nothing. But I did notice the dog's ears and tail suddenly stand at attention. I glanced over to the 6-foot privacy fence and to my horror saw the enormous chrome exhaust pipe and the roof of a garbage truck pulling to a stop in the alley behind Kip's house. And the two guys hanging from the ladder on the back of the truck clearly saw me. At this instant I stopped floating and did a duck and cover underwater maneuver that consisted of bringing my knees to my chin and bending at the waist, trying to cover my boobs. But too late. The grins on the dudes made it clear they had seen me and my boobs which sure are buoyant in the water. Like two flotation devices with minds of their own. Fuck.

next

I am officially over the month of July.

July may now go fuck itself, thank you very much.

On to August...

damn it all anyway

One of my girlfriends learned this week that she has one of the rarest and most lethal forms of breast cancer, one I had never heard of until a few days ago.

The Lovely Barb (seated in the chair in the white cover-up)has inflammatory breast cancer. And I hope to god she stays off the internet (though I know she won't) because some of the words swimming in front of me when I have done some online reading the past few nights are "aggressive" "rapid metastisis" and "slim survival rates." I am so angry and frightened and nauseous. This is my third girlfriend in a year diagnosed with breast cancer. We lost Karen last summer, Polly has a clean bill of health so far, but this just feels so terrifying, this news of Barb's. I am ill about it. I layed in bed last night with my hands on my own breasts wondering if there are evil little time bombs lurking in my tissue waiting to unleash and destroy me. I am just beside myself over this news and have little tolerance for any other petty bullshit that may come my way. Which probably explains the previous blog entry.

Dear Diary,

WTF is wrong with men? Why can't they just shut up already and worship us for the goddesses we are and be grateful we put up with their shit and allow them to bask in our loveliness? And will the day ever come that I no longer give a shit? One can only hope. But right now, I think they are just a bunch of dicks and I am so annoyed.

Dicks.

so Oprah is N-O-T a sister of sappho--whew!

I don't know about you guys, but gosh, I'm just ever so relieved to hear that Oprah and Gay-le are not in fact, rummaging around in one another's Louis Vuitton leather panties. Maybe now I can finally get a decent night's sleep because this question was right up there with the "is there life after death?" and "why are we here?" ruminations for me...

If you really wanna know what I think, here it is: For a while there I had suspected that Oprah and Gayle were the same person, you know, ala Michael/LaToya, 'cause, well, you know, if you have ever heard Gay-le speak, her tone, timber and intonation is exactly like the Big O's. And so I began to think of "them" as "shem" or "Opayle." And they are never seen in the same place at the same time. Okay, not true, but I'm just sayin'...

And let's face it, would Gay-le really have a 7-figure job or a real reason to live were it not for her girlfriend, er, I mean "best friend" (at least it's not the lame-o "roommate") employing her? Girl, please. She'd be a goldenrod blazer-wearing Century-21 realtor or maybe the Channel 9 weather girl in Hackensack. If she were lucky.

I don't care what anybody does when they wanna get their freak on, I really, really don't. Go ahead, Oprah, tie Gayle up and hang her from the bathroom door and have your nasty way with her. And make Steadman watch (can you just see poor Steadman all curled up fetal in the corner weeping and wringing his hands? I can). But please, bitches, don't be calling news conferences to tell us about it one way or the other. Because, really, in spite of your megalomanical narcissism-driven sincere belief to the contrary, truly, no one gives a shit.

Hugs and (so not gay) kisses,
ell

winky

I work with a winker. Which is really not a problem because I only have to actually show up at work twice a month so it's not like I have to deal with Winky five days a week for 8 hours at a pop. Because that would drive me over the edge. And, you know, Winky is nice - I just can't figure out any rhyme or reason to the winks. And no, they do not appear to be nervous tics. But Winky gets to winking for emphasis when saying smart ass things AND saying things that seem pretty serious to me. Like they are periods at the ends of sentences. I don't know. The winking is not keeping me up at night, but I admit I'm a little precoccupied with it. I have a meeting tomorrow. I will faithfully count the winks and report back. Yeah, I know, like you give a shit. Sigh.

et tu, shoppers?

what the hell is wrong with people?

I ask this as part of my monthly misanthropic moment, usually brought on not by PMS but by the bone-headed, self-absorbed, shallow and otherwise, thoughtless, inconsiderate, lazy-ass behavior of others.

So what is the big problem with returning the grocery cart to the store or to the corral in the parking lot? Why do people unload their groceries, then blithely climb into their cars and motor off, leaving the carts sitting exactly where they left them, or better yet, to drift about the parking lot aimlessly until they are picked up by a nice little breeze that sends them careening into the quarter-panel of my nicely maintained older non-gas-guzzling sedan?

Last night Schmoopie and I came out of Publix with our groceries in our hands, only to find both passenger and driver's doors of the car blocked by carts left by previous lazy asshole shoppers. We, of course, guided them to the cart corral, which took us a whole 30 seconds. But still, why? What the hell is wrong with people? Sometimes I think Ted Kazinsky had the right idea. People suck.

Okay, greasy popcorn lovers and women who dig guys with muscles: Superman Returns is worth the trip to the movie plex.

I was totally prepared to not like this one and was dragged by Schmoopie and the GITB but the kid playing Clark Kent is indeed charming while avoiding becoming smarmy and he is as sweet and engaging as Christopher Reeve. Still cannot believe he and his lovely wife are gone. Sigh. I digress. It's an entertainig flick and I also enjoyed Kevin (gay) Spacey as the evil Lex and Marlon (dead) Brando's cameo. I mean, it would have to be a cameo, because, you know, he's dead.

The GITB couldn't help pointing out that Lois Lane and I have a few things in common including the occasional anxiety-induced closet smoking and harboring a secret thing for guys who wear their underpants on the outside. All I need now is the Pulitzer.

Go see it. It's charming. Really. And no curse words, Mel. Nota-one.

Ho-hum, another shitty day in paradise. Okay, it was hot as hell, but who's complaining? So how was your Fourth?