Monday, April 25, 2011

I now pronounce thee ball and chain

Did you hear that Prince William is getting married to this Kate chick on Friday?  It's supposed to be the wedding of the century.  At least until another wedding of the century trumps this one.

That's Lindsay Lohan's wedding, just so you couldn't guess. 

I'm happy for Prince William and Kate Middleton.  Really.  They seem hot for each other which isn't an entirely unpleasant thought, unlike some of William's ancestors.  If I was in a position to give marital advice to Kate and Wills, I'd tell them to pad the headboard well and go at it at least twice a week for longer than ten minutes at a go.  Orgasms are good for a marriage.

I'd tell them to laugh during sex because sex as an act is hilarious when you think about it.  Laugh with each other and not at each other.  Certainly don't point and laugh unless you're both pointing at the same thing and laughing.

I'd tell them that when they fight and things get tense, to try to argue naked.  Nothing diffuses anger like floppy bits all a'floppin'.   No...I can do better than that.  Argue wearing banana hammocks.  Floppy enhanced.

I'd tell them that when babies do come to take turns changing the poopy diapers.  Wet ones don't count.  Those are easy.  Take turns changing the diapers that make you wonder if your kid has been sucking down kerosene on the sly.  Highly flammable and makes the eyes water.  Too much one sided diaper changing causes resentment.

I'd tell them to not share tubes of toothpaste, bars of soap or alarm clocks.  Buy two of each.  Everyone is responsible for their own sundries and their own snooze button.

Never dutch oven one another.  That's not nice.  Doing it twice is grounds for divorce.

Don't talk babytalk to one another and don't name refer to each other's genitals with cutesy baby names.  Baby Huey does not want to come out to play.  When you treat each other like kids you shouldn't be surprised when one of you throws a fit over a broken biscuit over tea.

Let the pets sleep at the foot of the bed but never in between the two of you...that includes hamsters, gerbils, rats and chinchillas.  They just get squished.

Don't complain about one another on MySpace, Facebook, Faceparty, Twitter, Blogger, Wordpress, Livejournal, Craigslist,  on your own Wikipedia entries, Flickr, YouTube, or Adult Friend Finder.  It's just inconsiderate.

Don't poop in front of one another.  Save that mystery for the nursing home and during childbirth.

Tell the inlaws to mind their own business.

Finally, I'd tell them to never call each other any of those clever and crude sounding British slang terms in anger, no matter how smart they sound with the accent.  Twat pronounced /twæt/ is still an awful thing to call your husband.

Lindsay Lohan can just disregard all of the above for just the entertainment value of it on tabloid TV alone.  Except for the banana hammock thing.  Stay away from the goofy underpants dear.

Friday, April 22, 2011

Minutia XV

Welcome to my writer's block.  Take a seat.  Put a towel down first though.  No need getting your butt stuck on the naugahyde.  No, I don't want to know why you're bare-assed.  I'll just take it as a given that you enjoy this blog.

What's funny about this writer's block is that I have no less than 12 potential ideas all lined up tidy like.  Ideas that come out as personable as chalk.  Meh.

Let's try some morning Friday night minutia.  See if I can knock something loose.

My cat Beulah has spent most of today kneading dough on my water bloated mommy gut.  She's my sister girlfriend, this cat, and I think she commiserates with these types of girl problems.  She's the only other female in this house afterall.

Instead of cleaning the toilet hinges in this house I just went and bought new toilet seats.  Best twenty dollars I've ever spent.

Onion dip is romantic if you use it right.

I don't know who this Rebecca Black is...don't tell me.  The stories I make up in my own head are bound to be far more interesting.  Becky has filthy habits, she does.

My teenaged son has just told me that there is a type of caterpillar that can shoot it's poop away from it's body a length of five feet.  If I had to choose a superpower....

I'm getting to know the staff at the new Taco Bell in town very well.  Almost Christmas card well.  Bad tacos are very good tacos.

Tomorrow there is much yardwork to do.  Unless it rains.  Which it probably will.  Yay!

This bra of mine needs to come off.  It doesn't fit.  My boobs need to choose a size and stick with it, dammit.

Finally, I've been asked by reader and an otherwise hanger on, Amy, to mention a site her sister started.  Amy's nephew was diagnosed with Ocular Melanonsis, a condition wherein an overproduction of eye pigment leads to all sorts of eye conditions, like glaucoma and ocular/uveal melanoma.  Learn more about Ocular Melanosis and if you know anyone with the condition, now there is a place online to gather.

Wednesday, April 06, 2011

Yes, I have a Ziplock bag.

I wish that the stomach flu had some sort of RVSP that came along with it.  This is so you can plan a menu before it all comes back up.  Some foodstuffs are pleasanter than other foodstuffs on the second go round. 

Yes, my spring break has been ever so delightful.

No, I'm not telling you what I ate.

No, I didn't drink.

Really.

Not a drop.

Maybe I should have.  Recycled margaritas can't be all that bad.  Recycled red wine just stains doesn't it?   Shame to be sick without some sort of debauchery to go along with it anyhow.

My muscles are also sore and it feels like I'm wearing a rubber band around my head.  The doctor in me has prescribed several hot baths with the Kindle, plenty of ice tea, lots of sleep and a donut.

Yeah, a donut.  It was risky and delicious.  It's not made an encore yet.  Cross fingers.

Whilst soaking, I've finished Atonement, and Confessions of a Prairie Bitch and I downloaded a free book on menopause.  That one ought to be a corker.

So, it's back in the bathtub for me.

...and maybe another donut.

Friday, April 01, 2011

God gave me long arms for a reason.

Let's update you on the state of my hormones, shall we?

If you will recall, my hormones are completely oblivious that they only exist because I exist.  They go about their business and don't give me any consideration whatsoever.  They do not care that they cause me to grow a goatee, or make my boobs inflate and then deflate, or cause hot flashes, or make it seem reasonable that I should bake and eat an entire cake for dinner.

Yes, I baked a cake on Thursday night and ate it for dinner.  Warm.  Unfrosted.  With milk.  Homemade and not cake mix.  Bill Cosby says that chocolate cake is good for a meal and he knows what he's talking about.

Not to mention that the bra that fit on Wednesday is loose today.  Today's breasts are deflated and a bit flappy.  Wednesday's breasts were perkily inflated and angry and sore.

Today my hormones are hungover after last weeks stupid lampshade wearing jello shot party and that means that all the water weight their shenanigans has made me put on is now running downhill. 

On one hand, this is good because I'm not bloated anymore and the pants I wore on Thursday are loose too.

On the other hand, I've spent much of the day in the bathroom with one of my cats violating my personal space by peeking in on the space between the toilet seat and the bowl.  They think peeing is fascinating business.

Did you know that I can tidy up my entire bathroom from my toilet?  No use sitting there mouthbreathing when you can multitask!  My faucets are shiny, my baseboards are dusted, my soap is de-haired and I've aligned the hems on my towels exactly.

How productive am I?  I could have read a magazine during constitutional after constitutional.  Instead my bathroom is magazine photo spread worthy. 

If only I could install a flush toilet in the kitchen.  Then I'd really have something.  I wouldn't go as far as to get one of those portable jobs on rolling casters though.  Those give people an entirely wrong impression even if your kitchen is spotless.

A friend of mine tells me that the hormone hell of her perimenopause lasted for ten years.  

She should have kept her mouth shut about that and just complimented me on how clean my grout is dammit.

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