I should have known better when I looked in the bathroom cabinet, that the box was empty. I thought it was a brand new box. When I opened it and realized, to my horror, that it indeed was empty, panic set in. I run downstairs and my oldest son is sitting on the couch, watching television. I begin my schpeal.
You know what brings a mother and a son closer together?
Um, no?
And it also guarantees a spot in her will.
Um, okay? What?
They will know it’s not for you.
Who? What?
I need something from the store.
Okay, what?
You like driving your new car right?
Right.
Well then, here’s a perfect opportunity for you to drive that shiney new car.
Wanna spill it already?
I need tampons.
Oh no, that’s not happenin’.
But I need them.
I don’t buy those for anyone. No way.
The cashier will assume they’re for someone other than you - you know since you don’t have a vagina.
Not doing it. I will drive Matt over and he can go in.
Fine then.
I approach my youngest son and ask him if he could run down and tell Matt to come upstairs, that it’s an emergency. He jumps up and races down to get Matt.
Matt comes running up, a look of panic on his face. I begin my schpeal with him.
You know what brings a mother and a son closer together?
Uh, no?
When a son walks into a store and buys his gorgeous (just adding an adjective for a more interesting story) mother a box of tampons.
OMG.
What?
Geez, Ryan came downstairs and said there was an emergency - I ran up here thinking someone was, I dunno, bleeding!
*Crickets* The room went silent.
He soon realized that his words, couldn’t have been more true. I assured him, that he’s definitely in my will.
If you missed Teri Hatcher’s rendition of Carrie Underwood’s “Before He Cheats,” thank your lucky stars. Your ears will praise you. If you were unlucky enough to hear it (why oh why did I click it?), then you will now know that she is a horrible singer. True, I’ve probably heard worse via American Idol tryouts, but seriously, Teri needs to stick with the acting - because, ya, she’s the best actress there is.
Most people I know, who’ve listened to or saw Hatcher’s performance on Idol Gives Back, thought she sucked. I’d have to agree. Every blog or celebrity site I’ve read, came to that same conclusion. However, there is at least one person on the planet who thinks “she was pretty good.” Ya, that’d be my husband.
Mr.Man has a boner for Teri Hatcher, but still, I was sure when he actually listened and watched her performance, he’d agree with the masses - that Teri should never pick up a microphone and sing in public. Ever.
But nope, he only had positive, nice things to say, such as:
She’s pretty good, stayed in key the whole time (Yes, her voice was like liquid gold and that’s why she’s famous for her singing - oh she’s not famous for her fantastic singing? My mistake)
She’s not a professional singer but did fine for not really having any training (Uh huh)
I’ve heard worse, but really, she wasn’t bad at all (I’ve heard worse too - Teri Hatcher, ha)
I don’t know why people are saying she sucked (Uh because she did?)
Listen, I’m not stupid - had she been 5000 lbs of jiggly fat, hairy, sporting a thick mustache, had huge pit stains on her blouse and farted live on stage, then he’d say she sucked, no doubt about it, even if the “quality” of her performance was exactly the same. But since he’s got the hots for her, ya, “she was pretty good.” Ha, men. Soooo transparent.
And just incase you missed it, here’s Teri in her full singing glory - note: You MAY want to wear earplugs or pray beforehand that your ears don’t bleed.
Every Friday night, we usually go to a particular restaurant with all 4 kids. Since both of our vehicles are only five passenger, some of us go in hubby’s truck and the rest of us go in my SUV. However, sadly the story doesn’t end there.
It’s been bitterly cold here for a few days. When it’s bitterly cold, we plug our vehicles in. Again, sadly, story doesn’t end here either.
My husband and Matt, leave in the truck. Myself and the 3 other kids are a few minutes from going out the door. I start the SUV, run back in and get the two younger kids ready to leave. The four of us head out into the cold. I pull away from the front of our house, leave the cul-de-sac and drive down the street to the first stop sign. As I approach the stop sign, I look in my rear view mirror, and see another car behind me. I’m not quite to a complete stop yet but the driver starts blowing his horn. I’m thinking what a moron. Get a life buddy, I’ve not even stopped yet. And if he thinks I’m going to do one of those lame, half assed rolling semi stops, he can forget it. I’m stopping.
I make a right turn, head down to the lights. Buddy is following me, I guess going in the same general direction. As I’m approaching the lights, which are red for me, dude behind me starts blowing the horn. I’m slightly annoyed by this. Does he think I’m going to run the red light. Not happening shit head.
What is his freakin’ problem? I ask my oldest son.
I dunno. Want me to give him the finger?
No. He might have a gun.
What?
He might have a gun and get pissed off if we flip him off and shoot us.
Oh my god, paranoid much?
You just never know.
The light turns green and guy starts blowing his horn. Holy, what is his PROBLEM? It’s snowing out, roads are slippery and I’m being cautious but not driving that slow. Buddy needs to flippin’ chill.
I go through the green light and glance to my right and horn blower extraordinaire is beside me and this maniac is waving his fist around at me. Had I not had my children with me, not been driving a new-ish vehicle and had a wee bit more balls, I would have rammed my SUV against his shitty little beater.
My son is getting annoyed right along with me.
What is buddy’s prob?
I don’t know but he needs to get a life and stop harrassing me.
Hey, at the next red light, make sure you blow your horn if we’re behind him, you know, piss him off right back.
Okay, I’m not doing that. Again, he could have a gun and shoot us in the face through his back window.
Of course.
Crazy guy passes me, is now ahead of us at the next red light. I decide not to blow my horn, um, yes because I think he’s packing and is going to go all Clint Eastwood on our asses. We arrive at the restaurant, hubs and son arrive shortly after. We relay the story of a-hole blowing his horn, being totally obnoxious, waving his arms/fist around and tell the incident with great disgust for this guy. We eat our meal, which was yummy by the way and head home.
My husband goes out this morning to warm up his truck to take our sons to work. He comes back in and we have a conversation. This is going to be the part, where it may seem like I’m an idiot.
Hey, where’s my extension cord?
What extension cord?
Ah the one I use to plug in the vehicles.
Well the one you use for the truck hangs over the fence, so if it’s gone, then some asswipe stole it! Nice. Why do people feel the need to take other people’s stuff? Geez.
Um, the one I use for the truck is there, my truck was plugged in. I’m talking about the other one - the one that we plug the SUV in with.
The SUV?
Yes, the SUV.
Well duh, why would I take a big extension cord. I don’t need one. Why would I take it?
Well it’s not outside, plugged into the house. I plugged the SUV in yesterday, before we went out.
You did?
Yes, I did. I told you I did. And didn’t we just have this conversation a few days ago about you FORGETTING to unplug your vehicle before driving away? And how you wouldn’t do that? Remember?
Yes. Um, are you saying I possibly, maybe drove away with the car plugged in?
That’s what I’m saying. Perhaps buddy, who was being obnoxious wasn’t being obnoxious and maybe he was blowing his horn several times, waving his arms, his fists, blowing his horn some more, trying to get your attention because you were driving down the street DRAGGING A FIFTY FOOT BRIGHT YELLOW EXTENSION CORD BEHIND YOU.
Oh. I see where you’re going with that theory.
Ya, I don’t think it’s a theory, I’m pretty sure it’s a reality.
Oops.
Ya, oops.
See? Idiot. And I’m not talking about the dude blowing his horn. If you happen to see a big yellow extension cord out on your travels, um, it’s mine.
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.
…That’s what Paris Hilton told Barbara Walters on the phone. Ah okay. So she’s saying she’s not really dumb but just pretended to be dumb? Hmmmm. She said ‘that act is no longer cute’. Wow, now I beg to differ. Who doesn’t love a dumb person? Especially when they’re over the age of 25? Not this chickie. Show me the dumb, people, show me the dumb. Cute and sexy. I want me some dumb.
Enough about Paris already. Like we have more important topics to cover such as my 11 year old, who by the way, is a Selective Mute and who also acted like he wasn’t one at Walmart the other night.
We’re loading stuff from the cart onto the counter and as my sweet boy is helping me, he picks up a box of tampons.
Tampons? Tampons? Mom what are tampons? His part is all said in a loud loud voice with lots and lots of people standing in the lineup behind us. All snickering. My speaking parts are in part whisper, part hiss through my teeth.
They’re for mommy okay?
Ya but what are tampons? Holding box up, looking at it from every angle.
Just something for mommy okay?
Ya but what are they? WHAT THE HECK ARE TAMPONS? WHAT THE HECK DO TAMPONS LOOK LIKE? SHOW ME, SHOW ME, SHOW ME!
I’ll show you but just not right now, in the checkout, in front of the nice people staring and laughing at me now. Thank you.
SHOW ME THE TAMPONS, SHOW ME THE TAMPONS.
Aren’t you a selective mute? Huh? What happened to that?
I wanna know what the heck tampons are and we should just OPEN the box mom!
Ummm look I see the real Scooby Doo over there. Go pet him.
We went on a picnic yesterday and I took a picture of two dragonflies gettin’ it on.
Sweet isn’t it? Look how their little bodies made a heart shape. Awww, say it with me. I wonder if the girl dragonfly then eats the boy dragonfly? Or maybe they just go out to dinner, you know, go eat some mosquitoes? Or maybe she punches him the nutsac and says, ‘thanks for nothin’. Things to ponder.
Oh, I have a hangnail. And I painted my toenails a new dark red colour. Oh and I love broccoli salad. And I cooked bacon on Sunday too. I know I shouldn’t make you so jealous of my life but it can’t be helped. I’m sorry. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…………
Ooops, sorry, dozed off there for a minute. It’s the excitement, keeps me awake at night and then I get tired in the daylight. Good times, good times.
Ah, okay, well my licquor cabinet couch is calling me because my tv wants me to watch it. I’m going to watch America’s Got Talent and pray that they really do.
*Edit* For some reason, my picture is not showing…could be wordpress, could be aliens. I dunno but if it doesn’t show by tomorrow sometime, I’ll just moon you and then we’ll be even. In the meantime, you can have naughty dreams about dragonflies.
*Edit again* Okay it’s now showing, so that means no moon show from me I guess. Aww shucks. Maybe next time.
That’s what the wind did to me today. It’s so freakin’ windy here, that had I brought my wings (they were being cleaned) with me on my walk, I’m quite certain I could have taken flight.
I walked to the grocery store and although, nothing major happened while in the store, with the exception of an angry lady complaining to me about how she’s sick of the customer service there, I did have a fun walk getting there. By fun, I mean, where’s a taxi when you want one?
First, I saw someone’s wig laying on the sidewalk. I had to do a double take but sure enough, it was a brown wig. I’m not sure how you lose your wig and not notice unless perhaps they were drunk or on drugs or they wanted to be bald today, who knows. I did take a cell phone picture of it but since it’s not great quality, it looks like a giant pile of dog crap, which I’m sure you don’t really want or need to see. Unless you’re some kind of freak and if that’s the case, then you can find a blog that posts pictures of dog poo. I’m not doing it and you can’t make me.
I also got hit in the head with an empty pop can. As mentioned, it’s so bloody windy, that everything not tied down or weighing over 10lbs is being strewn about and hitting people. I also got jabbed in the corner of my right eye with a folded up receipt from Home Depot. That kinda hurt. Not hurt like, I want to roll over and die or call 911 but hurt nonetheless. Feel sorry for me yet?
And finally, I stepped in pinkish vomit right outside of Michaels craft store. I mean, who hasn’t stepped in puke on the sidewalk in front of a shopping plaza? And who hasn’t hurled on the sidewalk at some point in their life? Happens to me all. the. time.
I could use a nap now. I feel volated after walking in barf. And what the hell did they puke up? I mean it was day glo pink. Maybe they just drank a whole bottle of Pepto? But doesn’t that help an upset stomach? I dunno. I’m tired now. I have to go wash my sandals. Or maybe I’ll just throw them away. Or burn them. Where are my matches?
*Edit* Maybe the person who threw up, was the one who lost their wig later on? Just a thought. Okay back to burning my footwear and bleaching my feet.
*Edit again* Or maybe they lost their wig, didn’t notice AND then puked because they lost their wig? I’m thinking out loud here, is there a law against that? No. Oops, note to self, don’t burn footwear inside. Gotta go.
I don’t touch our barbeque ever. I think I did turn it on one time last year but I broke out in a nervous sweat and had major heart palpitations, so that was the one and only time. And it’s for good reason I should be afraid, very afraid.
I just had to have a barbequed steak, cooked by none other than my husband, who really does know how to cook a piece of cow. I trotted off to the grocery store and decided to get us decent steaks. I picked out a nice t-bone for him and a ribeye for myself. They even looked yummy in the package. Well except for the rawness and the blood. But hell, if you can look past that and not listen to the moo-ing, then you’re all set.
I arrive home with my proud purchases, my mouth practically watering at the thought of eating my steak. Hubby fires up the Q (no pun intended or maybe it was totally intended…anyhoo….) and as it’s heating up, I make some side dishes and salad and can hear my stomach growling. I beat it and tell it to be patient, that you will get your steak bizatch, but honestly, enough of the roaring.
Mr Man throws the steaks on the barbeque and takes a call that has come in. He leaves the room for a few minutes and I don’t question him about ignoring the steaks, as he’s cooked alot of them over the years and always does a great job. He comes back upstairs a few minutes later to check the steak and the flames coming out of the barbeque don’t look quite normal. And neither do our steaks. Mine was okay, not quite ruined but his t-bone was charred on one side. Wow, I’m thinking, that’s never happened before, that he ruined a steak. We sit down to eat our charcoal steaks and as we’re sitting there, I glance out at the deck and wonder why the barbeque is still smoking? Hubby assures me it’s just because it’s still hot and the wind had picked up a bit. Okay. I’ll believe that.
Hubby gets up to get more water and as he’s coming back to the table, he looks out the patio door and says, ‘hmmm I think the barbeque is on fire’. He’s so frigging matter of fact about it. Oh no problem, it’s a barbeque, it’s supposed to be on fire right? No. Not really. He goes out onto the deck and lifts up the barbeque cover and sure enough, there are huge flames flaring up. This can’t be good.
OMG what are we going to do? Should I call the fire department?
Ummm no, it’ll burn out eventually.
What? And in the meantime, we should just sit here and eat while our barbeque is on fire? Shit,what if it blows up? Panic is setting in. I’m actually afraid of barbeque’s blowing up, ’cause that happens all the time’.
It’s not going to blow up. Do you think I’d be standing this close to it if I thought it was going to blow up?
I don’t know. Maybe you’re a barbeque daredevil. I really think I should call the fire department.
Ah no, that would be silly. It will go out.
I don’t think so, look at the flames. Did you turn the gas off? OMG are you sure it’s not going to blow up? It’s so on fire that you can’t even reach down to turn off the gas! What if it blows up? I’m not sitting here any longer. I inch my way away from the table, head towards the bedrooms.
Where are you going? You’re not going to eat? Come on, the barbeque isn’t going to blow up.
Yes it is. I can just tell. Look at those flames. And that tank has propane in it. Propane blows up, I know it. Panic is making my voice high pitched and totally annoying.
Get a grip. It’s not going to blow up. Oh look at that, 2 of the knobs have melted right off.
OMG see?????????????? Melting knobs, flames, then BOOM. I can feel it. I’m calling 911.
No you’re not calling 911. Be reasonable. You’re getting freaky now, it’s not going to blow up.
Okay, sure and when we’re all laying here in a pile of dust and debris, I’m going to kick you right in the balls for letting us blow up.
Okay, you do that.
We watched as our $650 barbeque (that I got for a fabulous deal and paid only $399! Okay I digress…….) got nice and black on one side and as the flames died down a bit, hubby got some water to throw on it, which we both knew was not the right thing to do but at that point, I wanted the flames out. I was near hysterics and was practically packing the kids up and heading out the front door because I was so afraid. I think I was being totally fucking slightly irrational but I couldn’t help it. I’m a freak like that. Things blowing up seem like a real possibility to me especially when, you know, THEY’RE ON FIRE. So much for having a nice steak in the near future.
Oh that’s what you’re gonna be when you read this. You just wait and see.
Last week, I decided to get ambitious and finish painting my son’s room at the new house. He’d requested his room be done in a ‘Scooby Doo’ green, so basically it’s a bright, you need to wear sunglasses type of color. It’s definately cheery.
I had started painting a couple of weeks ago, had put a coat of primer on and thought, well, I’d better get my butt in gear and get the top coat on. So I walked my daughter to school and then went across the street to the new house. I was full of piss and vinegar, set to get that room done by the time the bell rang and she was out for the day.
Everything started off pretty well. It was a gorgeous day, warm and sunny, so I went around and opened all the windows in the house, including the window in my son’s room. I went downstairs and grabbed our kitchen chair (not one of the new ones we purchased but one we’d brought from our current house) and took it up to son’s room because being 5′2″, there’s no way I’m going to reach the top of the wall to paint around the ceiling. Well I guess if I had Gumby arms or I was Inspector Gadget, then maybe. But God didn’t make me that way, he gave me standard length arms, so I’m shit outta luck on that I guess. Anyway, moving on now…….
I get the paint opened and stirred, my brush set out, paint roller and tray and am pleased that I’m so organized. I plug in the radio and crank some tunes, spring breeze is blowing in through the window and although I do not like painting one bit, I felt joyed that I was going to surprise my son later that day with a completed room.
However, before I could start painting with the top coat, I had to cut in around the ceiling with the primer, as I had not done that previously. Hubby was going to do it for me since I am a loser painter not the best painter in the world. He, however, didn’t get around to it since he’s working 15 hour days. So, I figured, I would just go ahead and get it done. I mean how hard is it to cut in at the top of the wall? Piece of cake.
I poured some of the primer into the paint tray. Did I mention the primer is tinted too? It’s even brighter than the actual paint, more like a dayglow, you will be blinded kinda green. I pick up the paint tray and my brush and get up onto the chair. I’m starting at the wall that the door is on. Across from the window. Why am I telling you that the window is across from where I am? You’ll see.
As I’m painting, cutting in, I’m thinking to myself, wow, you’re doing a damn fine job. I thought for sure I’d have green paint smeared all over the white ceiling but nope, I was hot. On fire with that paint brush! After about 5 minutes or so, feeling very proud of myself that, indeed, I was doing a damn fine job cutting in, I felt something. I had on a short sleeved top, a very pretty one I might add. And my arm felt wet. I looked down to my left arm and didn’t see anything. I go back to painting and again, felt something wet. I look up at the ceiling. Why? Apparently I’m retarded and thought, wow, is the roof leaking? You know because often, when it’s warm and sunny out and blue skies, your roof leaks and then you get wet under your arm. I hate when that happens. Gah. Again I look down at my arm and still see nothing but I can feel wetness under my arm, near my elbow. Then I realized something. While I was busy painting, dragging that brush back and forth, cutting in at the ceiling, I forgot that I was also holding a big paint tray. With green primer in it. My brain apparently, can’t do too many things at once and while I was singing and painting, I was also pouring the entire paint tray of primer onto my clothes. Green primer. Ya, that pretty top, wasn’t so pretty any more. Oh and my fav jeans, well, let’s just say, they are not at the top of the list anymore.
So there I was, holding a now near empty paint tray, a brush and standing in a big pool of green, that was now smeared all over my feet and the chair and dripping onto the floor. Thank the holy mother of all that is good, that I had put a drop cloth down. Can you imagine the look on my husband’s face had I had to tell him we really should replace the carpet in Ryan’s room? Why honey? Oh, well you know, because. Because it’s kinda ugly now with that giant sea of green paint smeared in it. Whew that was close.
Okay, let’s breath a sigh of relief, the bitch didn’t ruin the carpet. However, I still have the issue of wearing the paint. And my feet and left arm are not their normal pasty white anymore. I’m glowing. And not from happiness. I swear I stood on that chair for at least 10 minutes, wondering what the hell I’m going to do?
I set the brush into the tray and bend down as far as I can and drop it onto the covered floor. I look down and assess the mess. It ain’t pretty. My left foot is completely green and since I’d been stepping in the paint on the chair, under my foot was coated too. The whole left side of my shirt and pants were covered and dripping. The chair was ruined. What to do, what to do? I realized I had no choice but to strip right there and hopefully limit the mess to the area I was in. I gingerly look off my top, careful not to get green paint in my hair. I balled up my shirt and tossed it on the drop sheet. I then took off my pants, getting green paint all through them with my covered left foot. Nice. Very classy. So there I stood, with a totally green foot, green arm, partially covered green right hand and foot, in my bra and panties, on a wet, paint covered cloth chair. Then it hit me. I’m standing directly across the window. The open window. The one with the blinds pulled completely UP. And staring at me are the houses of my future neighbours. Good Lord. I panicked and jumped off the chair, realizing, damn, what if I don’t land on the drop cloth? Oh no need to worry about that, since I landed in the paint tray. Great, now both feet were equally green. I rubbed them as much as I could with a big bulky paint cloth and crawled on my hands and knees across to the bathroom, where I proceeded to wash my feet in the tub. Panick was about to set in, thinking, what in hell was I going to wear home? I didn’t drive, so I can’t even sneak out to my van and drive home half naked. Then I realized, I had brought some clothes over and they were hanging in my closet like a best friend, waiting to wrap me in her embrace. I had nothing that was springy so I had to opt for a big thick winter sweater and a pair of wool dress pants. Great my friend was making me sweaty and itchy.
I went back to the bedroom and grabbed my clothes and proceeded to wash them out in the tub and did succeed in getting most of the paint out of my top. My jeans, well, may they rest in green peace. They will never be the same. I know what you’re all thinking. Why would someone wear something NICE to paint in? My husband asked me that very question. I don’t have a very good answer. I said to him, ‘well I never thought I’d be pouring a litre of paint on myself’. Because that just doesn’t make sense. I mean come on, who’s ever heard of that? The room did get finished though and it does look great. I will post a picture of it soon, and be sure to wear sunglasses when you look, I don’t want to be responsible for your blindness. Oh and here’s a tip: When painting your son’s room, hire a professional.
Well my payment to the power company has finally been received. I guess it must have been going by horse and buggy, seeing this is only 2007 and no way do we have enough technology to transport a payment from my bank account directly to the place I want to pay my bill. Maybe in the year 2045 that will be a reality. Maybe I should invent that. Where oh where is my mad scientist hat?
Now we just have to wait and see how long it takes for someone to come and hook us back up. The nice (not being sarcastic) lady I spoke with this evening said it can take up to 24 to 48 hours. I’m hoping for an hour. Although she didn’t give me that option, I’m crossing my fingers and wishing on my genie that it comes true. I mean that bitch lives in a gold bottle and wears a bikini, so surely she can grant me that much.
It would be nice if you not only dreamed about me tonight (just because I’m cool), but crossed all of your crossable body parts, you know, if you’re not using them right now. Thanks.
Well it’s now been over 48 hours with no heat and no way to cook meals, no lights, with the exception of our diningroom light and livingroom light. It’s so fun peeing in the dark. I guess I’ll have to clean out my closet now. Oops.
My kids are going to have a great time telling all of their friends about their spring break. ‘Hey what did you guys do on your spring break’? ‘Well, we played pin the icicle on the doorframe, skating rink in the bathroom and ring around the frostbitten toes’. It was a blast! Beat that bitches!
I went to the bank yesterday to get help from the teller who took my payment to the power company and it would have been much more fruitful had I just stayed home and punched myself in the face. That’s how helpful she was. I can see why she’s a valuable employee to that bank. Absolutely. And it was nice of her to blame me for her not stamping the other portion of my bill. I guess I forgot that I DON’T get a pay cheque from the bank and didn’t do my job properly. You know, reach over the counter, grab the bank stamp from the teller and stamp my receipt. Stupid me.
It’s Good Friday on Friday. And while that might be ‘good’ any other time, it gives me no pleasure this year. If our payment doesn’t reach said power company tonight or tomorrow, then we’ll be in the dark and cold until Monday or Tuesday. Now that warms my heart. Oh wait, my heart is a frozen piece of tundra right now because it’s 40 fucking degrees in my house.
The thing that kills me, is everyone (power company people and helpful teller at the bank) keeps saying things like, ‘well we don’t know that you paid that amount on your account. You may have paid someone else’s account’. I mean does that even make sense? Who pays their neighbours’ power bills? Or the guy you met on the bus? Or your mail person? Or your liquor provider? Let’s be reasonable. And if I did indeed pay my neighbours bill, why would I call the power company 5 thousand times a day to find out if my payment got there? It’s all asinine in my opinion. It would be one thing for me to whine if we’d not paid our bill. I’d have no reason to even open my cakehole. But we’ve paid it. FIVE DAYS AGO. In FULL. Up to date. Like come on, is there noone that can give us a break? I guess not.
Time to go and stick my hands in the snow to thaw them outside because that’s way warmer than my house right now. Happy Hump Day. Ya baby, ya.
