Monday, October 03, 2011

I'm listening to Foster the People on Spotify and I like it so don't push it, dammit.


I'm cranky.

Let's get through this post without using an expletive describing a close and physical act between two people who love each other very very much.  I'm trying to have some dignity here or at least a PG rating for when my 7th grader discovers my blog on the school's internet and shows his widdle friends.


It's not the new drop off/pick up/parking system they implemented today at the elementary school parking lot either.  Finally they designed one that might serve to keep parents from running over other people's children.  It's a goddamned good thing and I flippin' appreciate it.

And this hell hole I call a house is clean.  My new mattress is soft and comfortable.  Sleeping in it is fetchin' delightful.  It's a stinkin' foot taller than my last bed and I feel like a damned queen.

This crank is brought to you by my hormones.

The progesterone cream I rubbed into my shins and calves this morning has worn off, at least two hours ago, when I rolled my eyes at the news program I was watching because they were giving away an 11/11/11 wedding package.  All the trimmings.  Parade float dress and a chicken dinner for every great aunt still living.

I am really really really farkin' tired of these cutesy fortuitous wedding dates since the turn of the millennium.  Oooh, you got married on 1/1/1 or 2/2/2 or 7/7/7 or are planning to get married on 10/11/12.  How speshul are you!  That's a story you'll tell to your grandchildren if someone doesn't run over them in their own elementary school parking lots.  Bet your fancy wedding date won't help you then.  Better guarantee one of them nosepickers is born on 4/4/40 or you are a failure.

You know what?  I furkin' love my husband and we got married on a Wednesday in 1993.  That's not a good round even number is it?  It's awkward and inconvenient.  None of the numbers in my dates are matchy matchy.  My anniversary is one black nylon dress sock and one pink argyle sock but my feet are flubbin' warm  WARM.  If you don't quit staring at my ankles I'm going to pop you in the kneecap.

I made fakkin' good spaghetti tonight for dinner, alrighty? 


Hand me that tube of hormones. 


  1. My parents got married on 8-8-64. The times table! And my son was born at Slurpee time—7:11. My anniversary is May 4, but half my relatives think it was May 2, 3, 5, or 6. You can hardly get less distinctive than a date the couple themselves can barely remember with any accuracy.

    Maybe I need a new mattress too. I'm thinking of Verlo latex foam.

  2. We got married on President's Day. So I never am sure exactly of the date.

  3. All I remember is that my divorce was final on August 19th.

    You always remember the happy times.

  4. Pat's birthday is Feb 22 and way back when we were growing up, that was a National Holiday for George Washington's birthday. This was back before the government office personnel threatened to not go to work if they didn't make those Feb president's birthdays (Lincoln's is the 12th and we used to get that one off, too) an always on Monday holiday. Thus President's Day was created and they dropped the two real ones.

    Anyway, Pat had all her elementary school classmates convinced that they got that day off to celebrate HER birthday, it kind of made her Queen For A Day. I guess some kids were kind of dumb back then.


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