At 2:45 in the afternoon, he serendipitously found me at a small salon in Little Vietnam, where I treated him to a pedicure. So it was me, my big, gruff friend, and two tiny Vietnamese women at work on our nasty feet.

It was only the second pedicure I’ve ever had, and I guess I really needed it. Mysteriously, by the time Ted was already at the pumice stone stage of the ordeal, my pedicurist was still laboring at the first stage: ridding my ladylike feet of layers upon layers of cuticle. I don’t see what’s so evil about toenail cuticles that they have to be so vigorously scraped … scraped … scraped until the water runs clean. It’s not like my toenails were overgrown with nasty fungus or anything; I didn’t even see the overgrowth until my pedicurist had wiped it from her little scalpel thingy onto the towel by my feet. I’m so pretty!

Suffice to say, Ted’s burly man-feet are more princessy than mine. I, apparently, have fieldhand
feet. Whatever. It’s not like I wear my magical tiara on my fuckin’ feet.

How many more times can I say “feet?” Feet, feet, feet. Four, it seems.

Ted had his toenails painted a deep red called “Dark Vampire,” and I had mine done in a shiny discosmurf blue by the name of “Trout Lily.” We left with pretty feet. Feet, feet, feet.

In addition to the pedicure, Ted was pampered with breakfast, lunch, a massage, an hour in a sensory deprivation tank, and video games. Everyone met up for dinner, then continued on the Ted and Lynn’s for beer and ice cream cake.

The store-bought cake was made by Carvel. Who else knows of Carvel?

They sell their cakes in supermarkets, (so, GET ONE,) but I think they only have stores on the east coast.

Oh, Carvel. A name from my childhood. It deserves to be yelled into an echo chamber.

CarVEL … Vel … vel .. vel …

Oh, Carvel. With your ice cream that’s a little sweeter than it should be, as if the sweet cream base was mixed with frosting. With your delectable “Ice Cream Saucer” sandwich thingies. Yes, I even pay homage to your waxy “Thinny Thin” frozen yogurt concoctions. But, oh lord, it’s the chocolate crispies that bring me home, man. Those crumbled up, black, chocolate cookie bits that comprise the middle layer of your cakes, spill onto the platter when a slice is cut, get soggy on the outside but stay crunchy on the inside, until you saturate them in thee pools of ice cream as it melts onto your plate.

Carvel, those broken cookies made you a legend, and without them, the Beastie Boys never would have given Cookie Puss a second glance.

Because … look at him:

That is Cookie Puss. Cookie Puss is an ice cream alien with a sugar cone for a nose and ice cream saucers for eyes. Those fudge blobs you see by his sides are his arms. He is Carvel’s intergalactic mascot and spokesalien, who, in my day, would levitate through crappy Carvel commercials and narrate the process of his own birth, a birth which featured a phallic-looking pipe pooping a tubular blob of ice cream into a cake-mold.

To clarify, Carvel used to advertise with cheap regional television ads, in which a picture of a Cookie Puss cake was superimposed levitating precariously in front of bland documentary footage of his assembly, shot inside Carvel’s sterile kitchen. Cookie Puss narrated. It was like Nova plus Mr. Rogers minus Budget.

Cookie Puss has a tinny robotic voice that is more over-produced than that of Britney Spears. Cookie Puss never touches the ground, but instead bobs up anddown in mid-air, all the while subliminally urging the consumer, “Eat me … Eeeeaat meee… You liiiiike
it! Cookie Puss’s pupils, as you can see, are way dilated. Cookie Puss’s name is “Cookie Puss.” Creepy. Cookie Puss is creepy.

This is Mr. Puss’s friend, Fudgie the Whale.

Fudgie wants you to know that all of you, collectively, are “A Whale of a Dad.”

Fudgie the Whale, who was Carvel’s equivalent to McDonalds’s Grimace, spoke in a Homer Simpson-cum-Barney the Dinosaur baritone, and was dopier and generally more benign than Cookie Puss, but he was still creepy. He and Cookie were often featured inthe same commercials, talking to each other about the virtues of Carvel ice cream, in a stilted way that made it sound like they were either hypnotized, drugged, or being forced to speak at gunpoint. These commercials showed them to be the same size, which leads me to believe that either Fudgie is a dwarf whale, or Cookie is GIGANTIC. I prefer to believe the former, because a whale-sized Cookie Puss is just too much for me to take.

When I was fifteen, I dumped my gay boyfriend to start dating Jason, a hunky guy who my best friend Sarah had dated in her pre-lesbian days. (I’m starting to think my love life never would have begun if not for the gay community. Oh, those homos. I’m beating this joke into the ground, aren’t I? Yeah. Happy Pride Month!) Jason was sort of greasy in a strangely appealing way, and had a black belt in Shao Lin, which had chiseled him into the most buff seventeen year old I’ve ever seen. He was nice, artistic, and hot, despite having weird hair long enough to approach mulletude. Seriously, I think he had bangs.

But, he worked at CarVEL … Vel .. vel … vel … which added a bit of forbidden allure for the extremely food-phobic young me.

For one of our first dates, I met him at work, right closing time. After locking the store, we dined on Chinese take-out in the back room, and for dessert, he presented me with three frosting roses he had piped by hand onto wax paper. Pretty classy wooing for a seventeen-year-old, I must say. And tasty.

My relationship with Jason was short-lived. Nice and cute as he was, we weren’t compatible. He was pretty desperate for a slice of my Cookie Puss, and to be honest, back then, I was so boy-shy that I wouldn’t have known what to do with a penis if one of them walked up and porn-slapped me in the face.

We did have the most mature teenage breakup in history, though. He called me, we made small talk, he said, “Kelly, I … think we should break up.” I said, “Yeah, me too.” Probably responding to that instinct which tells boys that they are horrible people if they make girls cry, he said, “Really? OH, THANK GOD!” We made more small talk, and said we’d see each other around, and never had anything but nice things to say about each other. Rather anti-climactic.

After working at Carvel, Jason went on to work at the filling station down my street, where we exchanged pleasant hellos every time he pumped my gas. Between the Cookie Puss and the insertion of nozzle into tank, maybe the universe was throwing me hints, and I missed out on something earth-shattering with Jason the long-haired Shao Lin master.

Doubt it, though.

Was this really my entry? Sorry. I’m preoccupied.

See, until about an hour ago, I had two possible places to live in California, both well within my price range. One is a decent apartment in San Francisco, with strangers who seemed really nice and like-minded when I spoke to them on the phone. They also have a cat, and were willing to take another. It could work out beautifully, if I managed to afford the move-in fee.

The other, a short bus ride from the city, is an awesome 1970s cocaine mansion straight out of Boogie Nights, complete with metal fireplace, stained glass windows, my own bathroom and balcony, and 4 roommates (one of whom is a good friend) who I already know to be fun and low-drama. My friend told me I could pay my deposit in increments, after I was settled and employed. This house also comes with a dog, however, who, while he’s sweet and friendly to humans, is an infamous cat chaser who could damn well kill my Ziggy. So, if I were to move in with my friends, I’d have to leave Ziggy behind. Other than that, the place sounds perfect, but the thought ditching my cat makes me nauseous.

Anyway, a little while ago, I got a phone call alerting me to circumstances too boring and logistical to relay, which might make it impossible for me to move into the cat-friendly apartment.

So, yay for the big, affordable, gorgeous place to live with fun and understanding people, but I can’t believe I can’t bring my cat, who is presently curled up against my hip, purring. I seriously can’t believe it. I know, life could be a lot worse, but right now, this makes me sad. It sucks even more than this fucking entry.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Arm-in-Arm Down Burgundy - 09.05.05

Motivated! - 08.25.05

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

---

BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

---

BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

---

««« Chicago Blogs Webring »»»

---

email:

---

words © luvabeans, 2003 - 2004