Monday, August 30, 2010

My corner of surburbia is the corner that bums pee in.

Alright, this post is late in the day.  I apologize.  Though I don't know why posts earlier in the day are preferable other than I don't have my 11 year old son reading over my shoulder to see if I mention him in my post.

I just asked him what he'd like to tell all you readers and other hangers on and he replied, "I don't know."    It's a good thing he's not writing this post then.

I knew what I was going to write this morning but it got lost in a full day of cutting apart years worth outgrown family jeans into quilt squares and watching Weeds on Netflix.

Why did none of you tell me that such superb entertainment was available to me?  Shame on you.

Oh, you were under a rock with me and haven't watched an episode either.  It's a little moist under this rock.   Smells musty.  There are bugs.  Bugs don't have well developed senses of humor.   A breakdown of the plot from Wiki:

Weeds is an American black comedy-drama television series created by Jenji Kohan, and produced by Lionsgate Television that aired on the Showtime cable television network in 2005. The show revolves around Nancy Botwin (Mary-Louise Parker), a widowed suburbanite mother of two, who turned to selling marijuana to support her family after her husband unexpectedly died...

This is fascinating stuff.  Especially since I barely know where to buy boxed wine.  I wouldn't even begin to know where to buy any form of cannabis much less figure out how to inhale.  I drank half a cocktail glass of rum and coke the Friday before last, before attending a Cyndi Lauper concert with my sisters, and because that's typically all it takes I embarrassed myself with a disgusting story about a hemorrhoid.

Sure, I might tell a story about a hemorrhoid completely sober but it wouldn't include as much giggling or offers to illustrate with visual aids.  Sparing you from that is the least I could do.

And honesty keeps me from faking glaucoma.  The Cyndi Lauper concert was excellent.

What would drive a MILF-y housewife like myself to a sordid life of crime?  If I wasn't cutting jeans into future blankets like a hippie I'd definitely have time on my hands. and you can't help but ask it even if the premise is outlandish.  If Justin kicked the bucket and I blew through his life insurance, would baking some bud in my famous chocolate cake recipe keep me in my accustomed lifestyle and buy me a hybrid vehicle?  I like to think so.  That chocolate cake recipe is the shizznit.

Or, instead of green tinged baked goods, I could delight my audience with tales of other complete opposite life choices.  Housewife becomes hard hittin' pimp.  Housewife becomes smooth international assassin without a hint of cellulite.  Housewife becomes a shill for the banking industry.  Housewife runs as a vice presidential candidate.

It's a mystery why I don't write screenplays.  Terminator Eclipse: Revenge of the Piles.

Meh...I can't become a felon.  It's not a responsible lifestyle to model for my children.  I even had to shoo my 11 year old away so I could type out the word "hemorrhoid".

He knows what a hemmorhoid is.  I told him already.

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