I’m sure she would be a delight to hang out with, but Juliette Lewis is making my arms itch here.
See, when we bought our house, it came with a bathtub that has jets, which means it has to have a flap you can open that lets you at the mechanics — and thus, also, is a portal to underneath our raised-foundation house. And about two weeks after we moved in, a bunch of fleas got in through that flap and infested the bedroom, so — in addition to having everything sprayed and washed, we had to tape up that door but GOOD. And that turned it into a kind of insect graveyard, because stuff would sneak in through this terrible stupid-yet-mandatory flap and then get stuck to the tape and die, spread-eagled and sticky and severely bummed out that they didn’t get to roam free through a cat’s hair-lawn one last time. So I can’t look at the random scattering of morbid half-bows on Juliette’s frock without thinking of itchy, nasty, pesky fleas, and the experience of picking rogue corpses out of the carpet fibers three weeks later, and I imagine wearing a dress made of fly paper, and suddenly I’m scratching my head and slapping my arms and maybe I’ll go take a shower in calamine lotion.
Perhaps this is too personal a reaction. But don’t sweat it, Juliette. We’ll always have this:
I mean, some days I just think, “It’s not a real Tuesday unless I’ve seen Juliette Lewis’s phantasmagorical pelvic ponch and some patriotic knee curtains,” you know?