Friday Flotsam

FFFFFFFFFRSAMDAYIDFLRFF. (<—miss me? don’t answer that.)

Does anyone actually know what a sump pump looks like?

No. No one does. Not even the men or women that install them. No one knows what a sump pump looks like. I don’t know what a sump pump looks like. It dawned on me the other day that I’ve never known or even wondered what a sump pump looks like. I guess in some way I’ve always imagined it to resemble the fleshy, gooey goopy Mind Flayer monster thing from Stranger Things season three. (yesi’mstilltalkingaboutit)

But like.

It’s this rumble. This churning gear-like growl coming from under the house. But it only revs up when it needs to puke out the collected rain water from the Blair Witch crawl space below the depths of civilization. WHAT IS A SUMP PUMP, YOU GUYS.

And don’t google it, ya boob!

I guess I’ll never know. I don’t wanna know.

(the American is clearly Hopper, right?)

Can’t we just all agree that “brunch” is an excuse to swig booze before noon?

Because really. No one gets excited about “going to brunch” if troughs of alcohol aren’t part of the equation.

But if that’s truly the case, then I don’t see why the world’s not foaming-at-the-mouth enthusiastic over a bowl of soggy Fruit Loops and a fizz-less Coors Light at 7:45am. BUT IT’S BRUNCH. I’M HAVING BRUNCH.

I like brunch, don’t get me wrong.

But it’s the exact same thing. By logic. Not style! Logic and human denial.

The end.

Fleabag.

We must discuss this show. This genius slice of British breaking-the-fourth-wall wit encapsulated in 20-minute segments for (only!, ugh) two seasons IS JUST BEYOND. Have you seen this show?!

First of all, Phoebe Waller-Bridge is my hero. I love her tall, lanky slinking-through-life nature, the shape of her mouth and teeth, her hilarity – her warmth. She’s just brilliant! I feel like if I had a show I’d continually make awkward, grossed-out glances at the camera like she did. But she already did it so I won’t. Not that I’m getting a show. Never mind.

But I absolutely love that Fleabag made US, the audience another character. Such a cool move.

(And hi, Andrew Scott can do no wrong. I can’t get enough of him as Hot Priest! Why was he so hot? How did he do that? “Kneel.” WELL I MEAN IF YOU SAY SO.)

You’ve seen it, right?!

I need more shows like this in my life. I know she also wrote Killing Eve, which I’ve not watched yet. Is it just as great? What other Fleabag-like shows are out there that are quick to get through, and will have me in teary hysterics? Or gripped. Or both.

Speaking of life guidance (you do know me, right?) – I need help!

Tell me what facial exfoliator you love. Would you believe that all month long in Oregon, I didn’t exfoliate. Not once. I’m so gross, I know. I just forgot it at home. And then I kept forgetting to buy some. And then I forgot all about hygiene completely and stopped brushing my teeth and using deo and started saying words like “donk.”

Just kidding.

What do you use? What do you SWEAR BY. I read something the other day about being in your 40s and the proper exfoliating routine. It said to exfoliate more often, but more gently. So a light rub, every three days. In other words, don’t take 40-grit sandpaper from your dude’s toolbox and savagely grind it into your face crust.

Okay, fine.

Weekend plans?

I’m going to pickle all my millions of garden turnips today, per your suggestion, ooooo! Go me. I’m scared.

Also, I’m headed to L.A. Sunday morning! I get to be a part of a really fun show (I’ll tell you about it soon), so I’m staying at the swaaaaanky historic Roosevelt Hotel and am going to celeb stalk like an absolute maniac. But I need help! I have all day Sunday TO MYSELF, so if you have any brunch suggestions (that obviously include soggy Fruit Loops and a fizz-less Coors light) I’m all ears. And of course any shopping gems or interesting neighborhoods to visit that afternoon (OR OMG A HOLLYWOOD TOUR BUS I am not above it), holler!

I’m taking you with me. This is just the way we do things.