2000-08-21

Sleepover!

Proof positive that I am not the only disturbed one in my family: the brand spankin' new diary of my cousin, Mike. In some cultures, he and I would've been left, as infants, on a remote hillside to fend for ourselves. In this age of more enlightened parenting, our clan had a gentler approach: make sure their bedroom doors stay closed, and as long as the police aren't ever involved, we'll assume they're basically normal.

Mike came to visit last week from what is currently left of the rapidly-burning state of Montana. We kept him full of beer, and in return, he bought me an *NSYNC poster, which I promptly hung in the bathroom, much to Kev's dismay: "You shouldn't encourage her, Michael."

I thought it was very nice of him.

In other news, Jess is having a Big, Stupid, Girly Sleepover Party� this coming Saturday night, and I am so excited I can hardly contain myself. Not to make a big pity play here, but I was not invited to all that many sleepover parties during those crucial, formative, psycho-adolescent years back in the early 80's. I have a pretty good idea of what one does at a sleepover, though, and even though it's only Monday, I have begun gathering things to bring to La Casa de Krebstar:

Flicks on videotape: Pretty In Pink (a necessity - for me, anyway - since I have a serious Andrew McCarthy fetish and I want to be able to sit in front of the television and squeal like a hawg without fear of provoking the husband); Better Off Dead; Night of the Living Dead.

My red plastic tacklebox full of cheap-ass makeup. I'm gonna attack Paula and make her up like the Nagel chick on the cover of "Rio." She's gonna be so hot.

My wigs. All of 'em.

Stupid Liquor. By "stupid" I mean the kind of liquor one swipes at the last minute from the cabinet/refrigerator of one's parents: Peach Schnapps, a mason jar of siphoned vodka, 1 or 2 Miller Lite tallboys, etc. According to Linda, the most appropriate way to drink Stupid Liquor is straight from the bottle, in "the woods." Then we have to sneak back into Jess's house, even though it's her house, and, to make it as realistic as possible, somebody has to puke.

Wifey, by Judy Blume. Dirty parts to be highlighted and read in giggling, conspiratorial whispers.

For myself, I will need at least one bag of Cool Ranch Doritos that I am under no obligation to share with the others. Piggy piggy...

lisamcc at 21:15:47

previous | next