June 17, 2002

* * * I see that Melissa Rivers’ husband has filed for divorce. What a shame – she seemed like such a nice girl, really. ::snort::

* * *
I had a freaky moment last Friday when I couldn’t remember what grade the spud was going into. I mean, totally could not remember at ALL. Sixth? Seventh? Fourth? After a few minutes I remembered that she’d just finished seventh and will be going into eighth. It sucks to get old and have your brain jettisoning memory cells like that, believe me.
* * *
So, we have in several rooms of our house a tray ceiling, like such:
And yesterday, Fred was pacing around the house picking up the junk – letters, books, magazines – that we are wont to leave all over the place, being slobs and all, and he glanced up at the tray ceiling in the living room. “Man,” he said. “That’s nasty. That needs to be cleaned.” Because on the bottom of the tray part of the ceiling, there’s a bit of a lip where 63 pounds of dust and cobwebs have been collecting ever since we moved in last August. “We need to clean that,” he said, and then went on to tell me nothing I didn’t already know, “And by “we”, I mean “you”, of course.” So later, while waiting for my lunch to finish, I got out the Swiffer, hoping against hope that it would work. Because I did very much NOT want to have to get up on a chair with a feather duster, wildly dust the part I could reach, get down, move the chair, get back up on the chair, dust wildly, and so on. But the Swiffer came through for me. It Swiffed the hell out of that tray ceiling, and once I was done with that, I did the tray ceiling in the computer room, and when I was done with THAT, I went around and Swifferized the cobwebs in the corner of the ceiling in every room, and then I got the cobwebs behind the doors, exclaiming with pretend disgust at how much dust and cobwebs had collected in our house, a house that is vacuumed at least twice a week and mopped at least twice a year. It was fucking cool. But going back to the beginning, Fred was getting spazzy at the state of our house because a newspaper reporter and photographer will be coming to our house tomorrow to marvel at the wonder that is Fred, and stare in adoration at him, and write a newspaper article about him and his habits of posing in his underwear in front of the mirror for 24 hours a day (he’s going for an entry in the Guiness Book O’ World Records), and I think that we all know that we don’t need an article starting out like such: I walked into the home of Fred and Robyn, and was blown away by the huge amount of dust and cobwebs on their tray ceiling. For the love of god – you’re not fat anymore, people! Dust your tray ceiling thoroughly and often! I was so disgusted by the nastiness staring down at me from the ceiling that I couldn’t concentrate, and soon went running out, screaming in horror, with Randolph the photographer directly behind me. And thanks to my beloved Swiffer, it won’t. It will probably start out more like: Getting Fred to stop staring at his reflection in any nearby shiny surface is like asking Robert Downey, Jr. to stop scoring Coke. When I asked a tentative question about Subway’s Jared, Fred went into a screaming tizzy. “Jared?!” he bellowed. “I’m no stinkin’ Jared! Jared starved himself! I didn’t starve myself! Look at my fine body! Do I LOOK like I starve myself?!” Oh, yeah. This is gonna be fun! ]]>