I am alive.
The rumors of my death and dismemberment have been greatly exaggerated.
I am only dead in the sense that a fat girl is dead after she does Disneyland in 20 bajillion degree heat - which we did yesterday. I left only slightly hived up (have I ever mentioned a couple of years ago I was ambulanced out of Disney to the most ghetto hospital imaginable?) I am apparently allergic to tourist filth. In addition, probably children.
My last week:
1). I took Bubella to Hollywood Blvd. Whenever she comes out I do not have 'rules' as we are buddies and I therefor feel no parental instincts towards her other than keeping her out of hospitals while she's here.
Anything resembling a 'rule' is really just a guideline whose sole purpose is to keep her from being sold into prostitution. Guideline number one is to never make eye contact with anyone wearing a costume.
Fun fact: Hollywood Blvd is full to the brim with people wearing costumes. When one sees this, one would of course assume that they're being paid to hang around and get pictures with tourists. No-no. These are people doing the usual homeless-hustle, just in a costume. They are not actually allowed to ask you to tip them, however - which has in the past led me to see such visual gems as Elmo being beheaded, handcuffed, and stuffed cursing into the back of a police cruiser.
Not to say that avoiding eye contact with the feathered and furry will prevent you from seeing unusual things. A picture and a video from our trip:
2). I took her to her first drag brunch.
If you live in or are visiting L.A. and have not been to drag brunch at Hamburger Mary's - go. Go now. It is the raunchiest most delectable thing ever.
This past Sunday I took her with Mr. T and a gaggle of gays, and was pleased to see someone there with two four year olds. They very clearly and fairly explain before the show starts that it's very, very dirty and they do not edit it down for even the smallest of children.
So 15 minutes later when the two adorable preschoolers were standing on a bench waving dollar bills, prepared to plunge them into the cleavage of a 300 lb drag queen, my uterus skipped a beat. The awesomely plus-sized lady in her cheetah print spandex jumpsuit pointed at the tiny tots, and said very eloquently into her microphone "ya'll mother fuckers know what's up!".
Man, I can't wait to have kids.
3). She has to read some really awful books before she starts her junior year, and she's here for 3 weeks. Normally I wouldn't care, but seeing as how I would love to have her for even longer next year, I need her to go home and have her parents say "my, how wildly functional you were under the supervision of the wonderfully adult Stork".
So I went with my instincts, sat on her and read aloud until she was near death and willing to read herself.
4). I stuffed her into her first corset at Frederick's of Hollywood. Very important lesson for all women, which I only learned a few years ago: corsets are the slutty equivalent of a magic wand. I may not be much of a looker usually, but stick me in one and I am Jessica Fucking Rabbit.
5). We played beauty shop, as one does with a younger sister.
What started out very innocently as a 15 minute 'let's highlight your assets' affair turned into 2 hours of using the entire contents of my "I love Kermit the Frog" lunchbox (that doubles as a super sophisticated make up case), laughing hysterically and whispering "I'm just going to do something subtle.. SUBTLE...".
I give you, Bubella:
And perhaps you can't tell because of the angle and my drawing skills, but on her forehead is a vulva with wings.
In uterine news my positive ovulation test (a digital! et tu?) from a few weeks back was apparently a filthy whorish liar. I would have gotten my period on Saturday if it had been accurate - it is now Wednesday, and no sign of the evil bitch except for mind numbing cramps (which have been going on for 2 weeks).
Took a pregnancy test yesterday - nada. And the only possible symptom I could read into if I really, really stretched it was yesterday smelling dog hair and cheezits everywhere I went. In reality, it's entirely possible that the few magical spots in Disneyland not smelling of churros may indeed smell like dog on cracker.
I MISS YOU. Do not forget me whilst I am running around like a lunatic.