See that? Ya, that’s proof in the pudding. Chris said so. She said I’m a rockin’ blogger. She picked me because she thinks I’m crazy and is afraid of me loves me. Thank you Chris for choosing me (I think you rock too) and ummm, where’s my Starbucks? I’m waiting. Ha.
I ate pasta tonight for supper and now I’m paying for it because I have heartburn. I do have Tums, so I will take one in a minute or I suppose I could get off my duff and get one now and stop the suffering, but maybe I want to suffer. Ever think of that?
Do you realize what today is? Yes, it’s Monday evening, perhaps even Tuesday somewhere. Or maybe it’s Friday on Mars. My point is, wait, did I have a point? I forget. Oh, I know, my kids go back to school in a week. Next Tuesday I will be dragging my arse gleefully getting out of bed to make breakfast, pack lunches, brush hair, get backpacks ready, shoes laid out by the door, offer a hug and a kick kiss and off they go. The excitement is bubbling up. Sure summer is fun because you don’t have to be on a particular routine, you can stay up late and there’s no trying to get homework done before Survivor comes on but there’s drawbacks too. There’s the whole, ‘I gotta be a parent thing’ from about 7am to 11pm because they don’t sleep in even though it’s summer and they of course stay up late because you’re passed out drunk being sweet and letting them stay up way past their regular bedtime. Pros and cons all around.
I’m happy to report that I have a new 6 in 1 scanner/printer/fax thingamajiggy. I had to set it up today. Only took me about 5 hours minutes, well because I’m a brainiac. I know what is going through your mind. She’s model material AND super smart. Bitch. It sucks being this awesome, trust me. Oh and I’m a doctor. Naw, just yankin’ yer chain (no seriously, I’m a doctor). I printed out some calendar things for the kids today which totally made them jump around as if I’d handed them a sack of money to spend at the toy store. Apparently, all we have to do, is keep the ink stocked up, print out a few cartoon pictures and they’re in heaven. Certainly another thing for me to threaten them with. ‘Oh you want to print a Spongebob picture out? Well then, you’d better get your room cleaned, vaccuum, make the beds, cook all meals, rub my feet and bake a cake, then we’ll talk about that guy that lives in a pineapple under the sea picture’. Again I’m just kidding. They don’t have to rub my feet.
I received a call the other day from some dude from the head office of my bank. I forget exactly what he said his title was, something like ANNOYINGTHESHITOUTTACUSTOMERS Bob or something close to that. He wanted to know why I’m not very active concerning my account. Well, Bob, I just opened it 2 weeks ago, so I’ve not had much time to rob other banks and deposit my ‘findings’ in my account. I’m sure Bob, if you had taken, oh, 30 SECONDS to view my account, you’d see the date I opened it and therefore be able to deduce the fact, that my account is NEW and that I’ve not had that much time to be active with it. And it’s my bank account, so if I want to ignore it for awhile or smother it with deposits, I will when I feel like it. My choice. He blabbered on about how they want to have a relationship with me. Ah ya, because my past experience with banks has been stellar and they’ve all wanted to have ‘relationships’ with me. Always helpful, those banks. Okay, so if I need a drive at 3am because I have a flat tire on the highway, you’re going to come and rescue me Bob because we’ve created a relationship through my bank account? Okay. I’ll be calling yer ass. We’ll test this theory out Bob. Have your phone ready. You want a relationship, you got it. Ha.
My tan is fading. Not that I was super dark, but hey 3 shades above PASTY is hot you know. Soon I will be back to being whiter than white bread but less crusty of course. Oh see that? See that awesome play on words. Word play? You know you’re impressed. I often get that reaction. Sorry for being so fabulous. It’s truly a curse.
Well I must go clean my kitchen…wait…I think my youngen’s are supposed to be doing that because I’m supposed to be threatening them with ‘if you want that printed out, you will do this’. Oh this is gonna be fantastic. If you’re a parent, get a printer. I highly recommend it.
…I’m hardly modeling material either. However, someone named ‘Francesca’ seems to think I’d have a great career at modeling and is insisting I send ‘her’ a photo of myself. First off, I think ‘her’ is probably ‘he’ and not just any ‘he’ but a big, fat, greasy slob, at home, sitting in his skid marked undies, a huge beer gut covered in blackish-grayish hair, belly button lint overflowing, smelly pits, a piece of KFC in one hand and obviously typing with the other hand as all of this conversation is taking place on messenger. Unless he’s typing with his penis. Oh God, I just threw up a little in my mouth.
F: Hello, how are you?
Me: I’m fine, thanks
F:You remember me?
Me: Umm no, not really, sorry. Where do I know you from?
F: I find girls for modeling agency
Me: Umm oh. Well I’ve never been to a modeling agency so I highly doubt we’ve met.
F: You want model?
Me: Do I want to model? Sure if you’re looking for a 5ft 2in forty twenty-five year old who may look demented sweet for her age but I’m thinking I’m past modeling career status. Plus, really, I could be an ugly troll who lives under bridges and eats people.
F: Show me your looks.
Me: Show you my looks? Damn, I just packed them away. Ah, well, my picture is in the display box of my messenger, so you can see what I look like.
F: Oh you beauty
Me: Well thanks but I’m still pretty certain I’m not what you’re looking for.
F: You send me?
Me: Send you what? A donut?
F: You send me photo.
Me: Ya sure, I’m going to send you a photo. I’ll get right on that. And by right on that, I mean, when it becomes fashionable to pee on total strangers. Wait, how about when pigs fly?
F: I’m in Milan, you in Milan?
Me: Oh ya, I go to Milan all the time. I just got back this morning actually. I was on a modeling job.
F: You making fun?
Me: Making fun of you? No. That’s not my style. Like I would be sarcastic. Like ever. Especially with someone who says they are Francesca looking for ‘girls’ for ‘modeling’ from ‘Milan’, which all sounds totally plausible. And certainly since you think I’m modeling quality, why would I make fun of you? That would be fun rude of me.
F:I get back to you
Me: Oh I’ll be waiting with baited breath by the messenger! Be still my heart.
So betches, I might not be writing for awhile, you know, since I’m going to be in Milan posing n’ shit, while people take my photo while I look all pouty and stuff. Hey don’t be jealous, we can’t all be models.
I’ve been tagged yet again, this time by Ozy, who of course would choose me because, yes, you guessed it, he thinks I’m certifiable fabulous. I’m supposed to tell you 8 completely random things about me. Why? To make your life complete. Duh. What oh what would you do without me? Not have much of a life I guess.
1.I have this insane ocassional fear that the vehicle I’m driving will blow up. I know what you’re thinking…’she’s so pretty’, but even so, this really is fucking ridiculous sorta silly and unfortunately I can’t help it. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does strike me, I honestly think that the car I’m driving will explode. Maybe it’s the booze fact that I was dropped on my head last week as a baby.
2.I prefer crushed ice in my drinks over cubed ice. I mean, I will use cubed ice if necessary but if there were an ice crushing hunk available, I’d get him to smash my ice every single time. And is this ‘code’ for sex talk? You betcha. Where’s my Yellow pages?
3.I can’t leave my house unless my kitchen is spotless. I don’t know why this is, but I’ve been this way for years. I can feel your excitement at this knowledge and let me say, I’m happy to make you happy.
4.My clothes are colour coordinated in my closet. Call it a sickness if you will but I prefer to call it C.R.A.Z.Y. organizationally talented. Yes organizationally IS a word. It’s MY word. I invent them. Move on.
5.I’ve never had a broken bone except for a broken baby toe but does that even count? That hardly counts for a bone. And sure I’ve broken other people’s bones, like the annoying lady that kept dumping her dog poo on my lawn. I punched her in the face and broke her face which is like one big face bone right? So it was only in my overactive imagination but still, that absolutely counts. It’s only in horse shoes that it doesn’t count. Or whatever that saying is. You get my drift. Is this fact number 8 yet?
6.I once won $98 on a lottery ticket. Ignore the fact that I had to spend $75 on the tickets to win that almost $100 dollars but still, a win is a win. Were these facts supposed to put you to sleep? If so, mission accomplished. Oh snap!
7.I was stung by yellow jacket hornets a few years ago. It hurt alot. I cried. And that’s all I got for ya.
8.I have not a fucking soul who knows me several hundred fans who read my blog, so to only choose a few to tag would be so unfair. And if there’s one thing I am, it’s delusional fair. I wouldn’t want to change that about myself. So if you want to tag yourself on behalf of me, I only charge $24.99.
Now that I’ve totally made your day (probably your month), you can skip through the rest of your Monday with a huge smile on your face and thank your lucky stars that you don’t live anywhere near me know me.
I don’t normally discuss certain personal, private things, well, other than with the mail lady or the cashier at the corner store but they are thinking of having me committed very close to me, so I usually tell them all the juicy details. But for you today, I’m going to get down and hairy and spill the beans on the internet. Might get a bit hairy in here. Oh the pun-y-ness (that’s my own personal invented word..use it and you will have to pay me royalties. Just sayin’.) Let me explain….
The other day, while brushing my pearly whites, I glanced down and noticed a, ummm, ah, wad of ‘hair’ in the garbage can. I didn’t particularly think much of it. Figured, oh hubby’s been doing some trimming, which, how thoughtful is that? Later on, while I was vaccuuming the livingroom, I saw something in the corner by the tv stand. I bent down to get a look and I could actually feel the knot of confusion spreading across my face. It was another clump of ‘hair’ of a certain texture, length and colour. I mean, sure it’s nice when your partner keeps themself well groomed and all, but to leave their ‘trimmings’ in the livingroom seemed a bit weird. I wasn’t sure if I should suck those bad boys up or get a papertowel and pick them up. Either option seemed, well, yucky. I opted for sucking those puppies up, the least yucky of the 2 options.
I continued my cleaning spree, forgetting about the giant hair balls I’ve encountered. I put the vaccuum away and decided I would clean out my dresser and get rid of some clothes that I really didn’t want anymore. As I’m sitting on the floor sorting things out, I see something out of the corner of my eye by our bed. It’s looking very familiar at this point and now I’m really starting to get weirded out. I scooch over by the bed and sure enough, there’s another ball of hair, taunting me. I mean, how the hell much hair does one person have in a certain nether region? And who trims their, ah, unmentionables in every room of the house? I trot downstairs to retrieve the vaccuum cleaner again as there is no way in hell I’m going to pick up hairy clumps of, well, ‘HAIR’. I’m thinking perhaps, that I should call my husband and ask him if he’s smoking something and should I be on the lookout for more surprise balls of human yarn around the house? I soon go back to sorting my dresser out.
After packing some clothes away, I made my way downstairs to the 4th level of our house, which I lovingly refer to as ‘tornado alley’ since that’s where my 2 youngest children often play. I entered their playroom and proceeded to pick up a few toys as not to end up breaking my damn neck while manuvering around the room. As I’m tossing some stuff into their toy boxes, I look to my right and oh my freaking gawd, I see yet another clump of curlies. I’m sooo not impressed at this stage. What kind of person does their private shave jobs in a kids’ playroom? I’m about ready to have my husband committed or at least take him in for tests. As I’m getting up to go get the stupid vaccuum cleaner yet again, I noticed a pair of kid scissors beside the hair. Why would anyone trim their pubes with kid scissors? That seemed a bit on the odd side. It’s then that I noticed it. A doll. A Barbie doll to be exact. And she only had half a head of reddish, curly, wirey hair. It’s at this point that I realized that perhaps I was a bit hasty in thinking my husband had done his cutting business all around the house with kid scissors. I’m thinking that maybe, just maybe it was my daughter’s work, deciding she would be a Barbie hairstylist for the day. I approach the offending clump and pick it up. Ah ya, it was doll hair and after asking my child about it, she confirmed that she had started her career in the bathroom and then the livingroom, in my bedroom and eventually back down to the playroom. It’s at this stage, that I realize I really need to continue getting drunk be able to tell the difference between pubic hair and doll hair. Could be embarrassing.
We went for a drive in the country yesterday. And nothing adds to that experience like getting a wrong number on your cell phone from a seemingly drunk womanm with a gaggle of other drunk women in the backgroun.
Hello?
Hi! What are you wearing?
What am I wearing?
Ya.
Ummm a pair of jeans and white tee shirt.
Oh, how about a wet tee shirt?
Ah, well, no it’s not wet, just white.
Oh darn! How are you?
I’m fine, how are you?
Great! Whattya doing?
Just out for a drive in the country.
Why?
I dunno, something to do.
Are you coming over?
Ah, who is this?
You don’t know who this is?
Not really.
Really? You don’t know who this is? For real?
Ummm ya for real.
What’s with you today? Good thing you’re so pretty!
Well, thanks. But I still don’t know who this is.
Really? Come on, you do!
No, but I guess it’s someone who loves me?
Loves you? No, but I’d fuck you! *Huge laughing by other women in the background*
Ah, well, okay then.
Naw, I’m just fuckin’ with ya! Seriously, you coming over?
I don’t think I am since I still have no freakin’ clue who this is.
Jesus girl, what’s with you today?
I’m crazy I guess. Still don’t know who this is.
This IS Britney right?
Britney? You’re looking for someone named Britney?
Yes. And this IS Britney right?
Nope.
You’re kidding? This ISN’T Britney?
That’s correct.
Oh geez, I have the wrong number!!!!!!!!!!!
Ya think?
*Click*
My husband asks what that was all about, so I relay the conversation to him. He was upset because he NEVER gets those kind of wrong numbers and wanted to know if her number came up on my cell phone and maybe we should give her a call later. Maybe she’s cute and into orgies. Sure honey, sure.
| www.flickr.com |
| BlogHer Ad Network |
| More from BlogHer |
| Advertise here |
| BlogHer Privacy Policy
|
Subscribe in a reader
