You make me crazy when…

In the spirit of all things Dooce, I’m starting a new list. “You make me crazy when…” is the only other thing I can think of that won’t completely plagiarize her entire site. Oh, and if you are Susan Austin, CALL ME NOW. Good lord, finding you is like finding the HOLY FREAKING GRAIL.

So.

You make me crazy when…you tell me something 14 times because you forgot that you told it to me 13 times before.

Me? A Screenwriter?

Is that really even a word? I mean, I need to know this stuff, since one day I’ll be famous for all the fabulous scripts I will have written. Long story short: A is starting a production company with her friends. E knows S, who happens to be writing a book. E is going to send A the manuscript, once she can track down S (and believe me, she’s tried already). Then A is going read the manuscript, pick a scene that could possibly be good for a short, and suggest it to E. Then E and S are going to write the short together, and be famous.

Ta da! And the best part of all is that one day soon, in the mail, I’m going to get a real live script from a real live defunct show on TV. Don’t even deny it – you are GREEN with envy, as you should be. So here’s what I need in the meantime: character ideas. And just a word of warning to you – if you exist at all in my life, there is a larger-than-large chance that you will become a character on either this blog or in some movie or TV show someday. Just so you know.

So comment away, dear readers. (I know, I KNOW. There aren’t any. Leave me alone.) But seriously, I’m going to start writing in my, ahem, free time, and I need some ideas, because right now we’re looking at John Gregory Brown’s nasty advice: write what you know. Mmm hmm. You’ve been warned.

Smooches! Oh, and PS: Kristen, I hope your birthday rocked it out, but I hope your dress rocked it out MORE!

Two days do not equal one week

So I wonder: if you have a Ph.D. in English, does that mean you’re automatically math deficient? Because the last time I checked, June 26-28 does not equal Week 1 of a class. I logged onto Blackboard Friday and discovered that even though my books haven’t gotten here yet, I was supposed to have read “The Lonely Londoners” by Friday (class started Thursday) and I only had until Saturday to respond to the discussion board. Dudes…I know it’s summer and this stuff moves fast, but COME ON. Give a girl a breath, will you?

Whew. I feel better now. In other news, Sex and the City is twice as good the second time around. However, The Fox and the Hound at North Hills should stop serving quesadillas, what with the food poisoning and all. I got home at 12:30 on Friday night and I haven’t felt good since. Carrol suggested that I perhaps drank too much, but one Corona Light’s never gotten me sick before, so no reason to think it would start now. Never ever eat at the Fox and the Hound. It’s loud, the waitresses look like they should work at Hooters and the service is horrible. Enough said.

I missed Brook’s wedding. I could not be sadder if I tried. I saw her announcement in the paper this morning and she looked beautiful, and I am just sick that we couldn’t go. For one, that whole food poisoning thing stood in the way, and then Brian wouldn’t have been home from work in time to go anyway. I’m sure she didn’t notice that we weren’t there, but I’m still heartbroken. I shall mail her a nice note with her wedding gift and hope to goodness that I can find some eloquent way to say, “Sorry I missed your big day, but I was married to the toilet at the time.”

Finally, my great-aunt Mary Elizabeth died this weekend. Funny story about my name, if you’ve never heard it. I was supposed to be Elizabeth Wellons Davis. My mom is Margaret Elizabeth, after her aunts Mary Elizabeth and Margaret. And then she got pregnant and Aunt Margaret, who never had grandchildren, was beside herself with happiness. She insisted that despite the plan to name me Elizabeth Wellons, she would still call me Little Maggie. So she wrote me letters when I was in the womb, and sewed me clothes and blankets, and when I was born, my parents decided to go with Margaret Elizabeth to honor her. There were 7 children in that family, and Mary Elizabeth was the last one of them. She was 95. She’s now with my granddaddy and Ava, Margaret, William, Mabel, and Robert. Mary Elizabeth was something else – she married my Uncle Dufty (who was married to Aunt Margaret) after Aunt Margaret died. So two of my great-aunts were Something Wellons Dufty, because they were married to the same man. Too funny.

I have a phone date with Alissa this afternoon, and then I’m hoping and praying that Anne invites us over for spaghetti so that I can have a real meal that won’t make me sick. Cross your fingers.

You suffer from Cougar Macking

I forgot to flatiron my hair this morning. Ordinarily this would be the beginning of a mundane and useless post, but you see…I have poodle hair. I never knew what poodle hair was until my friend Kristen introduced me to the idea – it’s not so much curly like a poodle, but floofy like a poodle. The humidity is not my friend, and when I left the house this morning, Charlie cocked his head to the side like Morris in those 9 Lives commercials and just kind of stared. That’s SO not a good sign.

And then my old boss came by for a visit and his eyebrows shot up when he saw me – I haven’t gained a massive amount of weight or grown another nose or anything since he left, so it’s bound to be Poodle Hair. Any ideas on what I should do to combat this? It’s not curly, it’s not straight. It’s not flat but it’s not bushy. It’s that awful in-between state that’s just plain wrong. Is it my hairdresser? Maybe her pregnancy hormones are wacking out and she does not, as Darryl Hannah would say, “have the ability to do good hair.” I shouldn’t blame her, though. She can’t help what mop grows from my scalp.

I made two pounds of pasta salad last night. Do you have any earthly idea how much that is? Two pounds of pasta would fill a pillowcase. And then I added veggies and salad dressing and it filled the two largest plastic bowls I own, which are together larger than a pillowcase. Unreal. As I told Anne last night, there’s no other group in this world that enjoys inventing a reason to get together and make food than state employees. None. She suggested that I put a bunch of mayonnaise in the pasta salad and leave it out in the heat at lunchtime as a cure for this constant gathering problem – but I think a few hours of roasting adult bodies playing horseshoes in 95 degree weather will take care of it.

Archives

I’m reading through my favorite blogger’s archives right now, and OH MY GOD. If only she knew me, we’d be best friends. I just know it. Except for the whole Mormon thing. And whole tall, lanky blonde thing. And the whole living on the West Coast thing, because even though I’ve been there a bunch, I’ve never actually lived there. Nor have I wanted to.

But seriously, I wish I’d known about blogging in 2001, when she was blogging. Because see, if I knew about it then, then I could’ve documented, in painstaking detail, the utterly mind-numbing life I had then. (Post-Europe, post-9/11, post-retail days when I lived at home and ran from creditors.) At least I started in 2007. I’m only a few years behind her. I can still catch up. Right? Right?!?!?!