The premenstrual puff receded, then L.H., who was in charge of making the week's menu, fed me pea soup one night and pinto beans the next. I think he's aiming for a heart attack brought on by severe gastric distress. Death by indigestion—the indignity.
In my English class, the tables are arranged in a big square. I was watching this girl on the opposite side of the square, and on behalf of all other females, I think her womanhood should be revoked. She was flirting heavily with the guy next to her, which—normally—I'd be all, "Go for it, girl!" But in this case, I'd have to say, "What in the hell is wrong with your gaydar?" I mean, the only person more obviously gay than this guy would be Liberace. I'm expecting him to show up in sequins and/or feathers any time now.
There's been this terrible, terrible "Making of a Pop Group Diary" show on the kids' channel that D.D. watches, and the horrific-ness of the whole thing is sickening. They are obviously patterned on a real, live, successful pop group—Ch!pz (I can't believe I just typed that)—in that they have 2 girls and 2 boys, ranging in age from 18 to 22, but they just aren't believable as a group of friends who love to sing and dance together. Their first song is Dubbi Dam Dam (which actually sounds like doobie dum dum—that's all of the words for 2-1/2 minutes of music), and the animated aliens in the video are more talented performers than these guys.
On further investigation on the channel's web site, there was a contest, and the 4 were put together to give it a go. I'm waiting for the "Making of the Diary Show" show, where it's revealed that one of the girls is in rehab, the other is making porn movies, and the two guys are now dating and doing drag shows in Amsterdam.
D.D. is always a source of amusement for us. We typically visit 2 grocery stores on Saturdays, one that has cheap staples, and the other for everything else. At the cheap store, she wanted her own deodorant, so she wouldn't use mine up; and also, ladies use it. That was news to me, that she was using mine, but I said sure, why not. So she picked out a pink, rose-scented roll-on. She got mad at me because I wouldn't let her carry it into the second store, but no matter, she had already put some on. Before we even crossed the parking lot, she offered to let us sniff her armpits. No thanks, honey. In the store, I caught her—repeatedly—pulling her short sleeve up to her nose for a sniff, then saying, "Mmmm." She was quite pleased with her new 59-cent deodorant.
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