a butt peach is born

10-25-99

Okay., so today was my first official day of unemployment, and I am officially screwed. I decided that today is the last day I'll wait for the music store to call me. Today was the two week anniversary of my interview. By now he should have called. So tomorrow I'll go to the damn mall and get myself a damn retail job for the goddamn holiday season.

And you know what? It's still better than what I was doing. Sure, it was a quiet office job; sure it ensured a two-week Christmas break; sure it was a sure thing. But I hated it. Damn it, I hated that job.

Wandered the mall today looking at gift ideas for John. If he didn't read this journal I might post some ideas, but, oh gee, never mind. Walking around a lame, deserted mall on a Monday afternoon always makes me feel dirty.

John and Rob and I went over to Becky's tonight and watched Ally McBeal. High point of the evening was when Rob fed Becky's kitties some of his beer. We convinced Becky that Sammy was acting all jungle cat because of the beer, but I'm sure he always gets that way around 10 pm. I know my kitties do.

Scrabble today started out heavy and turned silly. John opened the game by using all seven letters to spell contest, for 62 points. Then I came back and wiped the floor with his ass, 355-247. Good ones: haze, stumping, nonfat, phlox (that was the turning point—I spelled "phlox" with the x on a double letter, also making "lax" going the other direction. John had no chance.) teat, contest, quirk, flicker, arid, avenue, and swoon. It's reached the point where nobody will play scrabble with us.

Betsy: "Check out the moon, dude!"

John: "Wow, dude. It's all dripping and shit."

Betsy: "It's not dripping, silly, it's drooping." John: "It's dripping."

Betsy: "The moon doesn't drip, it droops."

John: "I think it's cooler to say dripping, it's all kinky."

Betsy: "Drooping is pretty kinky, too, dude."

John: "It's bigger than usual, isn't it bigger?"

Betsy: "That's an optical illusion."

John: "Shut UP! I know, I was trying to be POETIC."

Betsy: "Sorry dude."

John: "The moon's different here, isn't it? It's bigger."

Betsy: "Sodden."

John: "It's bigger in Georgia."

Betsy: "Nooooo, I saw some pretty big moons in Michigan."

John: "I thought it was bigger here because it's warmer."

Betsy: "What, you think the heat makes the moon swell?"

John: "Yeah!"

Betsy: "Like a swollen moon?"

John: "That's it! It's swollen."

Betsy: "Big drooping swollen moon. Like a peach."

John: "Uhhhh...."

Betsy: "Dripping peach. It's an optical illusion. It's a butt peach!"

I've been flaking about butt peaches since we moved here. Those new quarters with Georgia on the tails side are a great example of what I'm talking about. There's a peach on the back, but to me it looks like a pair of butt cheeks. There are peaches on everything in GA. On the Public Radio mugs, on the billboards, on everything that is state-triotic and Georgian. Symbolic asscracks all over this godforsaken state.

For the rest of the night, John and I called everything "butt peach." Somewhat the same as my recent "dumbass" obsession. We've been calling everyone and everything "Butt Peach" all night long. We've determined that "Ass Peach" is not the same and definitely is not as cool as "Butt Peach."