Becoming George

A lotta gals appear to be reading my blog which is lovely and feministic but it does change one's perspective when it is not just the three friends, the cousin, and the dog. My friend Paloma and I rented Thelma and Louise from blockbuster aka Ovary-buster. The DVD was cracked. I had planned the entire evening: invited myself over, made the margueritas, and Paloma provided food on which to gorge. And then we were Blockbustered.

We watched old Seinfeld episodes instead. I had never seen the episode in which George plays the opposite game and becomes successful, and Julia Louis-Dreyfus becomes... George! Ack! It got me to thinking, as all good t.v. shows do - that maybe I, too, am turning into George. I am about to quit my job before I get booted, my excellent haircut is growing out and I look like a troll, and, and, I walked into a pole the other day and I have a huge bruise on my nose. Yes, I did. I was chatting up a curriculum director, all professional, and as I turned to go, a pole rammed me in the face. Did I mention that I need new glasses? I went to a work-sponsored health fair that was, strangely, required, and discovered that I'm hypoglycemic, sun-damaged, and I need bifocals. That answers a few burning questions you may not have had about me, and questions even I did not have about me, but at least now I know why it's so hard to read a bedtime story aloud to Rugelah lately. Plus my own reading had taken a sudden nose-dive: a few pages, burning eyes, and I'd realize that my concentration was shot. I had no idea that when the letters do little polkas on the page that perhaps one needs to visit the eye doctor.

Anyhoo, back to the premise, if there was one, I may be George. Problem is, he is a television character. Worse, he ended up doing Kentucky-Fried commercials that were so bad I was embarrassed for him. KFC makes me throw up - always has. Even as a tyke, I'd eat that hearty meal and hurl it back within the half-hour. McDonald's, yes. Burger King, yes. Four Donuts Sunday morning, sure. No KFC. You can imagine my conundrum. I am turning into a big fat hairy loser, to use my sister, Kitty's expression, yet I am unable to fully embrace even that role. Over the weekend I discovered that the job I really want has 6 - count em in any language, including pig fucking latin - 6 "strong final applicants." That's way too fucking many experienced solid people and one of them is, bizarrely, me. Aw, cut the 'another woman dragging herself down' crap. I know where my strengths lie. And at this point, well, reminiscing about puking works for me.

Aw, crap, I gotta go get ready for my militaristic yoga teacher. She gets pissed if I'm late.