Friday, February 05, 2010


I think someone needs to write a movie with these lines in it:

"Lobsters and butter. Drawn butter. With pictures of a Dutch village on it, just to add class. Yeah man, that’s what I’m talkin’ about. CLASS."

Sadly, unless I write that movie, there’s real doubt if those words will ever be utter, by anyone.

Must get on that.


Might I just say now that if either of the Things comes home with a Jersey Shore haircut that I’m marching them right into the bathroom and washing that crap out of their hair, pronto?

I might, and did. The same goes for spray tans, those dorktastic hair bands, and LIP GLOSS ON BOYS. Just….no. I’d rather they go full-on emo than Guido. Really. Black goes with everything, while orange skin goes horrifyingly well with douchebaggery.


Work update:

Yet another personal phone call being taken by The Talker. Oh yes, the puppy is being super-super-super sweet! Yes she IS. Poor baby, being alone all day long, missing her mommles. What’s that you say? I’ll be home by 7 or so. Out where? Someplace in downtown is what I’m thinking, the warehouse district. Ya think? I did too, but not sure if he’s going to call again. It was loud. Right. Hey, that’s cool – we could totally do that. Uh-huh. But we’ll need chocolate. M&M’s maybe. Was that a bird I heard? Sounded like a bird. That was the dog? Poor widdle wumpkins, you should go have a snuggle with the sweetie.

(all true people. All true. And she’s not done yet. As an added bonus, it’s almost time for the daily afternoon trip to the vending machine for what must be the LOUDEST CHIPS IN THE WORLD which will be eaten with gusto and an open mouth because she can’t really breathe well through her nose, ever.)


In a couple of days I’m going be home alone for many days in a row. The LOML is travelling to foreign lands to do good works, leaving me the sole protector of the Tiny House until Thursday when the Things arrive once again. It is at this time that I have chosen to go ‘dry’ both in solidarity with Biff who will likely NOT be quaffing, and as an experiment in just how addicted AM I to those nightcaps. It wouldn’t really be fair to Biff for me to do this while he’s around, as I envision my overall mood might be hovering somewhere between ‘feral’ and ‘orc-ish’ as I embrace utter sobriety for 10 days in a row.

Y’all think I’m joking, but no. You know I likes me some drinkage, but it’s been getting a tad out of hand lately and it’s time to pull the plug. Heaven only knows how much will be accomplished as I wend my way through what is sure to be a weird week - why, I might even do my taxes, and bake a lot, and research ancient societies of Mesopotamian midgets, and possibly discover a hidden treasure in my crawlspace as I start digging it out teaspoonful by teaspoonful in preparation for the Roman-marble natatorium I might just have the energy to install.

Could happen.

Or, I could wind up being fine and simply be as lazy as I usually am.

Let’s hope for the latter, because really? We don’t need a pool in the crawlspace (but the treasure might be nice).


Busy weekend around these parts; two gigs for Biff’s band, which means we’re home by MAYBE 4 a.m. on the next mornings, and Sunday he’s flying out at 7 a.m. which means he’s to be at the airport by 5, which in turn means we’re going straight to the airport after the Saturday gig, after which I need to be at church by 8 to run the info booth (stupidly easy way to serve. I’m all about rocking the stupid), which of course means that if I don’t get a TON of sleep tomorrow I’ll be drooling into the offering envelopes Sunday morning.

Oh, this ought to be good.

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