Thursday, January 17, 2008

Sleepus interruptus, dude-us obvious, buttus pickus

'Tis a cold and rainy morning in in North Carolina. Reports have it that snow was spotted in the area of the Triangle in the wee small hours.

That must have been what woke me up at three in the morning.


THIS time there was no excessive drinking, no spicy dinner, NO Robot Chicken before bed, not even any bad dreams, and STILL I woke at promptly at 2:51 a.m., as wide awake as if an elephant had been dropped into my living room. This, dear friends, is simply not fair. I am a woman who loves her sleep. LOVEZ IT! And lately I cannot get the full 9 hours I so enjoy. I went to bed at 10 last night like a good little Tiff for a bit....drifted peacefully off to sleep with high hopes of dreams involving fluffy white clouds and gentle music and maybe a little George Clooney, but noooOOooo. I get kicked out of a perfectly USEFUL sleep by the thunderous kerplunk of snow on the roof of the Tiny House. Stoopid snow.

It might be time to commence the heavy drinking again. Maybe a 9-hour pass-out is just what I need.


In other news, who DIDN'T see this coming??

You are a Hippie

You are a total hippie. While you may not wear birks or smell of incense, you have the soul of a hippie.
You don't trust authority, and you do as you please. You're willing to take a stand, even when what you believe isn't popular.

You like to experiment with ideas, lifestyles, and different subcultures.
You always gravitate toward what's radical and subversive. Normal, mainstream culture doesn't really resonate with you.

Well, ARE YOU?


In other-other news,
this entry by Johnny Virgil is about the funniest thing I've ever read. I was in tears in my cubicle yesterday, people, and it's the rare bit of writing that can make me shed water at work.

Go on, go over there and read. It will be worth your while, I promise. Hey, at the very least you'll learn how to hunt sperm whales.


So, now to the topic of underwear. See,
Tammie mentioned the other day that she's throwing away all her thongs because of the misery known as 'oatmeal-jello butt,' and because she mentioned underwear I thought it would be OK for me to, because whatever Tammie does is good for the interwebs, right?

I thought as much.

Anywho, the underwear thing. A while back I bought some underthingies for the first time in AGES, because, well, I didn't HAVE any, I might have NEEDED some, and, well, just because I also WANTED some. I really shouldn't have to explain.....and yet, just did.

Moving on then.

One of the pairs I got was really really cute, totally unlike anything I've ever gotten before (think: not granny panties), and as a bonus it looked like it was going to be reasonably comfortable. Who doesn't like comfy undies? NOBODY, that's who.

Except....well, I didn't look closely enough at the label, and heaven KNOWS I didn't try them on before I left the store. I THOUGHT I was buying bikinis, but this pair is something called a "
tanga," which I now know translates into 'very pretty, but will crawl lickety split up between your ass cheeks.'

Let it be said right now that I am generally not a fan of things in my ass crack.

The tanga, therefore, takes some getting used to. I persevere in the toleration program because the tanga, she is wicked cute all up in front; I like the way the lacy part kind drapes (because, let's face it, I could use drapery to cover the girly bits. Heh, instead of 'window treatments" I've got "cootchie treatments"! Whee!), but the behinder part is what troubles me. Do I keep trying to pick the perma-wedgie out of my buttal regions, or do I let the tanga tango it's merry way to a nuzzly warm spot, where it does tend to stay rather happily as long as I don't mess with it?

What is the proper tanga-wearing etiquette? I'm at a loss, but don't want to give up on them because, as I mentioned, they're hella cute, and sometimes I like to know I've got cute underwear on. Just so you know, even hippie girls like to express their inner diva from time to time, y'all.


With that, I bid you good day. It's past time to go get a cup of coffee and adjust the friggin' tanga. I've simply got too much rectal flossing going on down there. Who wants to bet that by luncthime the tanga will be in the my shocking pink backpack and the twin cheeks will once again be free of the yoke of adorable underwear?


I thought as much. ;)

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