Prettymuch Nothing Ventured

If you’ve got my button, please grab it again. The html reflects my new host site. If you’ve got the original button you’ve got nothin’, which, ironically, is the topic of today’s post.

If I don’t have your button, please let me know in your [glowing] comments.

Comment for sure. Complicomment.

Don’t read without letting me know you were here.
Leave. A. Comment.

Feel free to fawn. Fawning is fine.
Fawning is fun.

We love comments, don’t we?
I’ve got tens of things on my “To Do” list
But here I am, with furrowed brow and eyes wide shut, struggling to drum up a post so that I might feed your need, thus attaining your blogadoration.

Just gimme your comment affection, k?
Go ahead and love me.
The cable guy does.

I was napping reading blogs studying baking whole-wheat bread and cleaning the carpets while juggling puppets and teaching my daycare kids how to read German when he arrived.

I got the same old Mediacom song and dance. They’re not fixing the problem, all the time.
Failure to do their job is the Mediacom mission statement.
What made this visit special was that Cable Dude became smitten the moment he laid eyes on me.

“Oh REALLY?” you ask cynically.

“Puh-lease,” is my clever reply.

I don’t think his frequent attempts to make and hold eye contact were simple social retardation.
He didn’t zip his fly and fix his hair so he could chop me up and bury me in the crawlspace.
He didn’t ask for a drink, a snack, or to use my restroom. He stayed for an hour and a half because he fell in love. With me.

It happens all the time.

I’ve mentioned “auction boyfriend” who constantly called me “Gorgeous” and once told my long-suffering Mr. he was lucky to have such a sweet wife.

I’ve got “boyfriends” all over the place. I can’t go anywhere without making “boyfriends”, which is our fam’s word for men and boys who fall for my charms.

I’ve got a “movie store boyfriend”, a “post office boyfriend” and a “boyfriend” at the library.

I've got a “girlfriend boyfriend” at Walmart.

Boys at the junior high find themselves bowled over.
Guys at Home Depot, Lowes, and Menards thank their lucky stars that our kitchen renovation is never gonna end.
Retard Neighbor waits extra long when his dog craps in our yard, in hopes that I’ll come out and scream at him (read; "retard neighbor boyfriend").

I’ve got "celebrity boyfriends" too.
Tom Cruise married Nicole cuz he couldn’t have me then. (He can’t have me now cuz he’s nuts.)
Zac Efron wishes he was ten years older.
Rupert Everett wishes he wasn’t gay.
And Christian Bale wishes he’d kept his mouth shut.

En route to school one day a 20-something wannabe gangster refused to leave the middle of the road. He talked player love to me all the while I waited.
As we slowly drove past him he rubbed his shirtless chest and cooed sweet urban nothings which I couldn’t translate.
Doll said, “He thought you were good-looking wool.”

Everybody falls in love with me.
I’d be boasting if it wasn’t true.

You know me. I’m humble as heck.
You know it’s not easy for me to talk about my beauty.
It’s likewise difficult when I mention my extraordinary intelligence.
I blush when I bring up my incredible charm and sparkling wit. But there’s no disguising my awesomeness. Ask anyone who has heard me talk about it.

Now that it’s on the table we can get back to the subject of guys who fall in love with me.

Before the Darlings’ wedding I had some long-standing foot problems repaired in order to tolerate heels for the nuptials. My foot doc put me in the hospital overnight.

Even in a hospital gown with raging bed head and a ginormous purple Flintstone foot the magic was undeniable.
My murse fell in love.

He woke me at 1:00 AM to check my vitals and talked to me for over an hour. When I grew weary of dropping not-so-subtle hints that I was tired (like lying down with my back to him) I jack-hammered my morphine drip and pulled the covers over my head.
He stayed.

Imagine my joy when two hours later I awoke to discover that he hadn’t moved. He was glued in the spirit of my greatness.

I told you that I’m gorgeous and that I have a knock-out body. Only because of my incredible fortitude could I overcome my humility and broach the subject.
It wasn’t easy, but I got past having to tell you I’m super smart.
I stumbled through the mention of my magnificent personality, but what I [modestly] neglected to mention was my warmth, kindness and eloquence.

When I woke to find the adoring murse leaning up against the wall watching me sleep I leaned towards him in all of my post-surgical glory and said, “You sick b*stard! What the h*ll’re you doing in here? Get your *ss out and don’t let me see your ugly d*mn face again or I’ll report this sh*t to your supervisor!”

I’m gorgeous.
I’ve got a great body.
I’m smart, and fun, and funny.
I also swear a lot when I’m on opiates.

Ya gotta love me.
Go ahead and tell me how much.

KittyCat by Day, SUPERCat by...Well... Day Also

Mr. is gone this week.

I think he's becoming a Big Nut on the bureau tree. Regional offers are frequently mentioned, and his name has been spoken in Washington.
It’s about time he’s getting some respect, cuz there’s none for him around here.

I miss him when he’s gone. (The trash is full, my gas tank is empty.)
But when he’s home he sometimes annoys me. Occasionally.

It's good to have him here for the doing of things I can't/don't/shouldn't.

And he’s got a body like Daniel Craig. That helps.

But at some point there is Getting Out of Bed, and Putting On of Clothes.
And sometimes he bugs me. Just a little.
(Not because he dresses badly, though he does, as I've mentioned.)

What drives me crazy is his Monkishness.
Mr. is a type “A” personality.

A" as in "anal".

He organizes the items in the fridge. He puts things in rows according to height, food group, and expiration date.

He finger spaces clothes hanging in basement storage.
The checkbook is balanced in a code that has four different colors and what appears to be Koine Greek.

Mr. dusts the ceiling fans on a weekly basis.
He’s a stickler for clean glass.

And he vacuums when I’m trying to blog.

Do I bother him when he’s ironing?
No.
I help.
I bring him my wrinkled stuff.

Do I distract him when he’s sifting the cat boxes?
Nuh-uh.

Do I interfere when he’s cleaning the bathroom?
Never.

I watch television take care of daycare kids or nap cook.

Mr. is gone until Friday, so we’re at the mercy of the small “g” gods of ease and comfort to manage without him.

If baby fusses whilst we are en route to school he is Out of Luck. If he poops while we’re waiting for the Dolls we’re all screwed. (Babies are vile creatures.)

If it rains and Miss Kelly left the umbrella in the trunk Calvin can be thankful his [post-chemo] hair has fully returned.
He’s the King of Napping, but this week his slumber has been/will be interrupted by chaperoning, grocery-getting, sleep-over friends and a campfire/cookout on Friday.

♪♪Masquerade, paper faces on parade...♪♪*
It's like I'm LARPing. I'm playing “Competent Mom.”

And it's exhausting.

The Dolls are glad I made a huge pot of their favorite pasta on Tuesday. It was a rerun last night, and will be first come is first served tonight. Latecomers get meatloaf, or “Celery Loaf with Meat” as Mr. calls it.

Laundry waits in the dryer for his return. God only knows what’s going on in the cat boxes. The needle is on “F” and I'm scairt to go near.

Does the lawn need mowing? I don’t know, but it’s free of dog leavings, cuz Bingo is also away.

The dog is on vacation, living the City Life with the Darlings.

I hate our dog. We are currently trying to find a home for him.
He’s zero percent dachshund and all weiner.

The Dog Whisperer says it’s because of my “energy”.

I tried to change that. We tried to “Man UP” our weasely Boston Terrier, but it didn’t work.
He’s gotten worse. He stares at me All Day Long.

If I look at him he looks away. If I speak to him he cowers. If I walk in his direction he retreats.

No matter what I ask/command he replies excitedly in a doggy “Yes!” with his ears down and his lipstick OUT.
Do you wanna go outside?
Are you hungry? Do you need some food?
Wanna play? Get the ball.
Do you suck? Do you have a death wish?

Every time I see his hang-dog, “Kick Me” look I want to stab him in the neck with a steak knife.

Anybody want a BT? He’s from champion blood lines and registered AKC.
Yep; Bingo is King of the failDogs.





Cats is where it’s at.

The Cave Cricket Exodus of 2009 has begun.
It’s fitting, I say bitterly, that the vile creatures have inundated our yard and home whilst Mr. is away.

We are three delicate girls all alone, and last night I disturbed a pride (a school? a gaggle??) of CCs so large they rattled the dry leaves near my doorstep.
Please understand that I disturbed the bugs by gracelessly high-stepping around a giant spider while shrieking at the top o’ my lungs.
("Mr. hurry home!")

This morning I opened a kitchen drawer to find a large Cave Cricket in waiting. (Where waiting equals crapping on my cutlery.)
I had to keep my brave face on.
Calvin has dealt with cancer and chemo.
Now he lives in a little boy fantasy world where “bad guys” chase him in dreams.

He doesn’t need to see Miss Kelly channel her inner Screaming Grandma over a bug.

I nearly broke the drawer pulling it out. I put it on the floor, knowing that the cats were our best defense.

It’s a little known fact that Cave Crickets taste like bald eagle to a housecat. (It's similar to chicken, only nobler.)

Big Kitty boldly kicked Cave Cricket butt, but not before letting Calvin in on the secret.
Not the Miss-Kelly’s-scared-‘o-bugs secret. But;
“Miss Tay [Kelly]?”
“Miss Tay?”
“Miss Tay?”
“Miss Tay?”
“Miss Tay?”
“Miss Tay?”
“Miss Tay?”
“Miss Tay?”
“Miss Tay?”
“Miss Tay?”
“Miss Tay?”
“Miss Tay?”
“Miss Tay?”
“Miss Tay?”

“WHAT?!”

“That’s knives is dirty.”

Yea. I just saved your life with my quick-thinking. You’re welcome.

Big Kitty is now Super Hero Big Kitty.
It doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, but it beats

failDog

Where art thou dog? Thy canine lover?
Where is thy hot breath on the nape of my neck?
We shall form a bond, man and beast.
You will lick my face and I shall lick your snout.

*Note my gratuitous mention of Phantom of the Opera.

The play was spectacular.
We shopped that afternoon to take our minds off the clock. We went to a high-end mall, the anti-Walmart, where our self esteem plummeted sufficiently for over-indulgent eating.

We rested.
We dressed.
We re-applied, and we posed. (When did I get so OLD?)

We loved Phantom!

Theis Farm was another stop on our St Louis Fall '09 Tour. We spent half a day enjoying their market, their food, their entertainment, and all manner of amusing diversions.

We enjoyed people watching ("If you can't laugh at others there's no way you'll learn to laugh at yourself.") and it was confirmed that 99% of all children are horrible brats.

Theis Farm rocked though, and it’s on our list of Awesomest Places Ever.

Next up on my Holy Crap I'm Excited List is Anberlin on the 27th. Holy crap I'm excited! Have I mentioned?

One Is Number Of Most Loneliness You Ever Will Be Seeing

Vlad is back for to make happiness to you again. Many blog readingers has been asking for to Vlad; Come Back!
Vlad is like Lays Potatoes Ship; you are not for having just one (also Vlad salty and greasy - is bonus).

Kel is off again. She is to say many times post, post, post for the doing of something of usefulness.
She is to scream about bill paying and way making and not of noticing Vlad’s contribute.

She is not to care when Vlad is telling her of Erica Cane delighting the peoples of Pine Valley with her antics. She is not wanting for opportunities of glorious hair and clear skin and clean colon. She is not understanding that BET and CMT is for making of better English speaking Vlad to a hipper one of the peoples.

She say only TV court is daytime television of worthiness then when watching she is still complaining is trash of whiteness necks of red and idiots. She says fat girl you were played not knowing Vlad is having savviness now. PlayAH, Vlad knows, is smooth man of charmingness to the ladies for getting gold chains and cell phone plan, free trips and getting to be baby daddy many times.

She is turn off TV and not care Vlad is still on sofa and wishing to keep it on always. She is doing daycare vacuum laundry and work of house.

She cook much meat for doctor of Atkins of whom she is often complaining and is never having here for meal. She cook meat of boston BUTT and laugh at Boston Terrier dog of nervousness. She say rib EYE is good, and pork CHOP. Then she is grimace when Vlad say niceness would be the having of lamb BRAIN or KIDNEYS.

She say Vlad go to his own people for that.
That is not funniness.
Kel is knowing already that American police of uniform take Vlad from driving with vodka and now Vlad no more for getting around.

Vlad stay home and more Kel is to scream about bill paying and way making and not of noticing Vlad’s contribute

Vlad company to her cat pets of preciousness for what she could be glad.
Kel is much for cat-ladiness but don’t tell I say you so.
She is for buying and making of toys for cats and treating. There is time of playing and brushing when Vlad can see the need of cats is just to be leaving alone for sleep.

Is certain Vlad think same like cats. Vlad is now sleep of day awake at night and watching television for Girls of Wildness and juicer. TV of colon cleansing and body shaper on women of fullness is for fascinating the eyes.

Vlad is no more of calling to make friend with TV beauty as Mr. Savant see minutes on phone and did much talking to Kel with lowness of voice and furrowed brow. Now Kel say to Vlad no more phone. Planmaster is not for the liking of much minutes of phone sects on his bill.

So Vlad is stuck with none of driving none of drama in daytime, none of phone. What to do but sleep with pets on sofa?

Vlad is comrade to kitties which is much of need, for kitties and Vlad is much similar – off couch only for to get food and pee.
Kel say no more peeing in Funyun bag, even when Funyun bag most convenient and crumbs very absorb. Vlad very neat hardly to make dripping and wiped nearly dry with blanket. Kel is poor hostess and snob to have no containers for the urine of handiness to guests.
It is not over, for she have much houseplants and is not paying of always attention.

Kitties have happiness for Vlad getting of sardines and sharing.
Kel being busy of reading books for to be brown-nosing student at online academy that is school-shaped toilet. Too much busyness for to see sardines is gone.
Too much busyness for to thank Vlad when he call the Mr. Savant at his Big American Prison to page him when sardines is gone and for to tell the officer it is URGENT Mr. Chaplain is to CALL FOR HIS HOME is MATERIAL OF LIVE OR DEATH!

Kel not for thanking Vlad.
Mr. Savant not for thanking Vlad.

Federal Bureau of Prisoning in America not taking seriously the running out of sardines for Vlad is houseguest and for kitties.

Do not question Kel or Mr. Chaplain Savant if no pants is EMERGENCY when sardines and having of them is gone.

Put on pants and get self to store. Vlad is certain of that now, like crystal of clearness when many angry thick neck people of uniforms arrive in white vans, battering rams and spraying liquid fire to eyes and Kel screaming from office in words of many asterisks.
Vlad’s track suit of soft velour still stinking of pepper spray and crap.

How you say; fairabout is turn play. Teaching of Savant’s lesson will come. Vlad no call for helpfulness. Let family suffer for having none of sardines and see sad faces on kitties who return to licking of cushions on sofa where Vlad’s sleep liquids leave crust of dryness.

All is mess when Kel treat Vlad as embarrassment to family. One is loneliness number, but it is better much than being treated as number two.

Dumb, But With Errors On Page

If you don’t know my friend Lynn Vynn BuzzKill Grynn, you should.
She’s hosting a Fabulous Giveaway in honor of her 200th post. There’s booty galore, which is also my nom de porn.

Visit Lynn at “It’s a July Thing”, AFTER you read today’s post.
If you leave me now it’d be a waste of a good viagraberry smoothie.
What's it take for YOU to get your blog up?

We all do occasional bits ‘o random. My thanks to Mrs4444 for assembling those of us who’re willing to play well with others. This is my offering to Friday Fragments; a landfill of random blurbs.

Lynn Vynn BuzzKill Grynn wants me to be a surrogate for her and her Mr.

We take lots of “polls” at Miss Kelly’s Daycare. We take polls to confirm that everyone is NOT the same. We like different things. We have different things. We do different things.
One day during breakfast the subject turned to the stinkiness of Calvin’s feet. (He was surprised the week before to learn that Sneakers minus Socks equals Stink, even when you’re only three years old.)
The poll at the bfast table was “Who’s Fresh?”
Fresh ["fesh"] is CALVIN’S word, elicited when we gave the dog a bath, and the speech therapist in me was impressed.

Now it's the word de jour, lots of jours.
“Who’s fresh?” I asked.
Hands went up, but not Calvin’s hand.
He looked thoughtful for a moment and exclaimed, “Uh-oh. I think some my parts NOT FESH!”

Lynn Vynn BuzzKill Grynn is taking crochet lessons so she can cover all her liquor bottles with poodles. That level of CLASS makes me wish I was still a drinker and gives a whole 'nother meaning to the term Booze Hound.

The promise “If I can do it, anyone can,” speaks more to your failings than to the simplicity of the task.

Last summer when I was in Cancun with Lynn Vynn BuzzKill Grynn she looked at me from over the brim of her bucket o’ margarita and said, “I love you like a sister. You have heutiful bair.” Then she cried hysterically until she threw up.

I hate steamer cleaners. Blasting germs with steam isn’t killing ‘em. It’s making them mad.

Lynn Vynn BuzzKill Grynn sucks at three-legged races, but she has an awesome collection of Star Trek action figures.

Calvin: Miss Kelly, I like this toy. (snuggling said toy)
MK: Yes. It's a soft toy. Good for napping. (It was his selection for naptime.)
Calvin: I just shake my butt and lay down on the floor and do this. (Puts head on soft toy.)
MK laughing: You shook your butt? Why did you shake your butt?
Calvin: For the poops.
MK: Are there poops that want to come out? Do you want to try to get some poops out?
Calvin: No. I shaked my butt for the poops. Now they fine.

Lynn Vynn BuzzKill Grynn is 7’ 5” tall. Folks from Guinness are visiting her next week to see if she qualifies for a world record. She’s 2.25” shy of record-setting height, but [luckily] she was born with her kidneys on the outside of her body, so she’s eligible for a special entry.

I think lots of words are funny when you simply add small “i”.

It’s pretty common. I’m surprised Apple isn’t quashing it with huge lawsuits.
I like iNap. iRelax. iSurf, iTan, and iRead. They're all iNice.
iPedophile is not.
iGenocide, iNecrophile, iCannibal, all bad. i can't help that.

Lynn Vynn BuzzKill Grynn says I’m her favorite blogger and has started a fan page for me on facebook.

Our economy is so bad a picture is now only worth 400 words.

Lynn Vynn BuzzKill Grynn knows the Declaration of Independence by heart.

Motherlode – the unspeakable diaper that only a mother should have to deal with.
I no longer call it "changing a dirty diaper".
It's “working on my two-week notice.”

Lynn Vynn BuzzKill Grynn is too humble to self-promote, but I’m not. I am warm, loving and generous to a fault. My charming personality makes me sheer joy to be around, and my amazing good looks allow me to be the highlight of your day even if all you get is a glance. I am intelligent, creative, and witty. I have a ton of money and expensive things.

Being a Speech Pathologist I take special pleasure as I watch my daycare kid learn new language skills. While we were doing some yard work I had him entertain himself tossing a superball against the garage. When it bounced out of sight I heard him asking the small “g” gods of play, “Where that ball? Where that ball?” as he scoured the yard and driveway.
Imagine our mutual delight; he found the ball and I heard him self-correct, “Here that! No; here it are.”

Lynn Vynn BuzzKill Grynn has a Genuinely Cool Giveaway. She’s funny as H and makes great banana bread. Go visit Lynn right now. Wish her a Happy Birthday and best of luck for her upcoming gall bladder surgery.

"Look at That Monkey Run" or I See in Color

Oh, I didn’t see you there.
Hey.
How’ve you been?

I’ve got to apologize for the extended absences between posts and the infrequency of my wit in your comments section.
Don’t expect any change in the foreseeable future. Savant life is busy.

Lucky for you; I live amidst idiots and hillbillies, retards and rednecks, hayseeds. Hicks. Yokels.

Living in the south is often delightful, occasionally frustrating.
Sometimes unbearable.

After listening to some of my finest material about the people-shaped turds we call neighbors, The Fam suggested I blog it out.

(It sounded a lot like, "Mom, you're talking, not blogging. Breathe in.")

Here I am, to bring you up to speed on the minutiae of my Colorful Life.

Mr. Chaplain Savant is putting forth the time and effort necessary so that Latino inmates can be proud of their Hispanic Heritage (mid-September to mid-October).
¡Hooray para los criminals!
Way to represent. (Ustedes son ejemplos exellent.)

I continue to struggle with the online course headed by our clearless leader, Professor Clampett.
She has revealed herself to be dumb as dirt and made it to the top of my short Fecal Roster with Monday’s imbecility du jour.

I won’t go into the blow by blow that occurred via email. Suffice it to say that she had the stones to ask me why I thought the word “quiz” implied anything different than “assignment.”
Anyone?
or is it just me?

She’s an idiot. She’s FROM here.

Southerners are often delightful, occasionally frustrating.
Sometimes unbearable.

Last week’s chapter included a little blurb about the psychology of color (certain colors eliciting certain feelings.) Part of our task was to examine several children’s books and comment on the emotional effects of colors in the illustrations.

I tried my best to contrive something that didn’t sound contrived, but not being proficient on the subject I could only parrot the textbook; “The red and yellow made me feel warm and happy. The blue was soothing.”

I looked at the assigned books and asked myself repeatedly, “What do I feel? What do I feel?”
“I feel… I feel… I feel … like this is a waste of time.”
What a maroon, this Professor Hatfield.

We were also told to examine cultural implications of the colors used in our books. Holy hell.

Last week’s debate topic (in which I cleverly coined the term “authorticity”) was whether a person from outside of a culture could intelligently write that culture’s history and/or tales.
I put my dog in that fight. She chewed ‘em up and spit ‘em out. B*tches.

A well-informed author should indeed be able to write about a culture other than his/her own.
Hey idiots; who’ll write about Puritans in early America, if not someone from “outside” that cultural group? Hmm?
I took a passionate stand.
I took a pass on the Cultural Color Commentary.

I explained my decision to Professor Bodine and got a country castigatin’.
Professor McCoy said “Anyone can identify red, yellow and orange with Mexican heritage.”
Oh.
Yea.
Anyone. Could. See.

I thought blue was Mexican, as in Mexican Mafia blue. Neck tatt blue, and oversized denim shorts blue.
Or is it khaki that’s Mexican? That’s what they wear in the penitentiary. It’s green for Mexican (and everyone else) at the satellite camps.

I explained to Professor Jethro that it’d not be wise for non-experts to weigh in on this topic. Certainly we’ve all had different experiences, and without Googling “culture + color” and again regurgitating someone else's ideas, I’ve got nothing.

Turns out, I was just being modest. Imagine.

Turns out, I’m not completely clueless on the subject of culture/color association.

I know rainbow is gay. (Everybody knows rainbow is gay. They hog it. Like, totally.)
The gays also have dibs on yellow on Thursdays.
They have red socks with jeans. We all know that.

Pink is lesbianism, or militant breastfeeding if it’s a squirting >, or breast cancer.

Lots of cancers have a color. My car sports a checkered, dappled, flecked, kaleidoscopic, marbled, mottled, multicolor, piebald, polychrome, prismatic, speckled, spotted, streaked, striped, varicolored, veined, versicolor cancer ribbon, in camo, cuz I hide from cancer.

Green is Irish. The Irish are drunkards.
Green is also lust, when it comes to M&Ms.
Irish are Catholics.
Booze, M&Ms, and a ban on birth control; that's Irish.

Irish and Scottish are basically the same.
Tartan is Scottish. Men in skirts is Scottish. Men in skirts commando is Scottish.
Scottish is pretty much Irish in a skirt sans undies.

Green and orange are the flag of India.
Green and orange are also the 7-Eleven.
I see it now!
Professor Ellie May would be proud.

Pakistanis look just like Eastern Indians smell of curry and drive yellow cabs.

Yellow is Asian.
All Asian people are good at math, bad at driving and they all look the same.
All black people look the same too.

British people look terrible. They’ve got bad teeth and eat bad food and they can’t engineer a decent automobile.

The Germans make great cars.
They’re emotionless just like the Russians, but the Germans sing when there’s beer.
The Russians stand around in bread lines.
Germans love meat.

Pollacks love meat too, and Pollacks’re stupid.

Jamaicans are stupid. They’re all high all the time.
Black, green, and yellow are Jamaicans. Or is it red, yellow, and green?
Is it the Jamaicans who smoke all the pot? or Rastas?
They’re black, and I can’t tell the difference.

Black like Bubba teeth.
Southerners are often delightful, occasionally frustrating.
Sometimes unbearable.

Let me state emphatically that that above stereotypes are for illustrative purposes only.

Lest any hint of doubt remain: I am dealing with complete morons in my online class.

I love living in the south but I will stand by my hillbilly rants ‘til the day I die or I assimilate into one of the two outstanding stereotypes that exist here in Dixie.

I am Irish, English, German and Danish (nationality, not pastry, ya’ll.)


I am the biggest Pollack ever.

A-B-C, Easy as 1-2-3? Apparently Not for All of Us

I loved being Home Alone.

Loved.

It.

It was surprising how much I enjoyed the same ol’ things with greater intensity sans fam.

The sky was bluer.

The grass was greener.

Food tasted better.

Even the dog’s farts didn’t smell as bad.

The living room carpet wasn’t quite so outdated and worn.

My posture improved.

I showered daily.

Saturday I took TWO showers simply because I. Could. Use all the hot water. Which is another one of those unindulged indulgences I don’t indulge in. I prefer tepid water always.

I didn’t iron.

Laundry remains untouched even now, but my house was clean all weekend.

My bed was made.

I cooked. Which is condusive to eating well.

I ate well. (I got my Atkins on with steak.)

I took care of the pets (read; let ‘em lie on the couch and watch the XMen movies with me.)

I turned Power Point into my girlfriend and revealed my literary genius in the form of a picture book critique for my online class.

I have no grades yet, thus no feedback on the half-dozen assignments I’ve submitted.
This irks me.

The uncertainty adds to the stress I create for myself and my presupposition that my professor settled;
for community college because it’s safe and easy,
for community college because it’s a school-shaped toilet,
for community college because she got her education in Brunei Darussalam,
for community college because she wasn’t the valedictorian at the U of BD (in a class of five).

In truth, she settled for community college because she’s from here (read redneck and backwards).

In her defense, she must have smelt the failure after our first assignment.
She donned her sparkly Captain Obvious cape and posted the following reminder:

…follow all directions carefully… …be thorough… …be careful...
These are written assignments for a college literature course, so it's essential that you use correct grammar, spelling, punctuation, capitalization, etc. No 'text talk' or abbreviations! (u no what i mean, lol)
A posting with multiple errors will not earn full points.

The nature of an online class eliminates discussion, so we’re encouraged to comment on each other’s work regularly.

I’ve read the section on netiquette.
No swearing; check.
No hate speech; check
No threats; check.
No name-calling; check.

I'm no idiot. I got it. Don't say, ‘You d*mn n-word, I’ll kill you for being so dumb!’”
How hard is THAT?

Truth is; I’ve been isolated for far too long.
I fear I’ve lost all veneer of propriety and social skill and I wonder what IS safe.

When I read: "My favorite reading memorys is every night I get to read my 2 kid’s bedtime story's."
Is it okay to ask, "Do they help you sound out the words?"?

After someone posted: "I plan on getting my batchlors I want to be a kindergarden teacher," can I suggest a job in food service?

And if someone poses a brainless question about “author authenticity” can I use the word “authorticity” in a thinly-veiled insult?
Can I pull it off?
Am I smooth like Vlad?

It’s not that I’m discouraging my fellow classmates. On the contrary. When I read a woman’s educational/career goals included “I'm also taking phsycology and bisiness math,” I suggested she add a spelling course. I typed it all friendly-like.

Makes me wonder if the prof is gonna be grading on a curve.

It's Pronounced "Ass Effects" People. A Two-fer Plus Some, Lucky You

The Dolls and Mr. are traveling to St Louis for the weekend.
I’ve never been Home Alone.
In. My. Life.

The opportunity kinda makes me wish I still drank, that I had friends, or that I wasn’t Serious About Dieting.

I wish that Naked Time didn’t elicit suicidal thoughts.

Pajamas-All-Day is not a huge departure from the norm and thus not a Big Deal.

I can’t NOT make the bed and clean the kitchen.
I won’t stand for clutter.

I don't have a good book going. I've seen all the good movies.
I’ll be forced leave the couch to let the dog out.

There’ll be homework.
And laundry.

I’m thinking about ironing.

I might Shave All The Way Up.
For no reason.
(Or for his Return…)

Still. I wish there was something a little self-indulgent to enjoy while I’m free of parental responsibility.

This weekend marks the Fourth Annual Father/Son Cards game.
The guys have added a football game to their yearly Daddy ‘n Me shenanigans.

Funny Boy (Darling SIL) plays on various teams throughout the year. Last year Mr. played on Bring an Old Man to the Park Day.
Later on, and for days afterward, Mr.’s knees complained to his legs that his back is too old to carry his shoulders. Henceforth he is sidelined.
Be satisfied with spectating, Old Man.

The sisters (Dolls and Darling) will spend some quality time together.
There will be playing of SIMS, eating of garbage, taking of pix and staying up late.

I’m betting on a trip to Creve Coeur Park.
Maybe shopping.

There might be swimming. That could mean diving for M&Ms, which brings to mind the story of Darling and the Band-Aid, which I don’t share because it’s not my tale to tell.

It disgusts/embarrasses her.
I would never mention that she put a Band-aid in her mouth cuz I’m Classy Like That.
Classy like every time I spot a discarded Band-Aid I point it out, with commentary.
Yep; Classy Like That and sympathetic.

I wonder if Dr. Atkins planned his adherents would lose weight via diarrhea.

I am Serious About the Diet again.
I didn’t want to go phlabby to Phantom but I wasn’t motivated ‘til something New and Exciting came on the horizon.
It made me take it up a notch.

Let’s just say when The Band sends code to their roadies saying; Bring the Hot Broad to the bus, we need a Bandmom, I don’t wanna be 145#.

I’m going to see Anberlin!

And I’m Seriously Dieting.
Di-e-ting.

Before leaving for last summer’s vacation I was using a record-setting number of medications (as per paragraph two, line four of “Ready, Set, Go.”)

I was taking five different prescriptions in a steadfast effort to eradicate, alleviate, or compensate for some aggravating health problems.

It was one of my New Year’s Resolutions to take more meds. I’m a Go-Getter/Goal-Setter/Master of Achievements, so I didn’t balk, not even at the $200 Aciphex price that wasn’t covered by our insurance.
Sure it’s expensive, but it’s fun to say; Aciphex.
Aciphex.
It didn’t help a lick.

I had horrible heartburn, annoying allergies, and my gall bladder was grievous and bloated. I felt like I had Tiger Balm inside my head, and a football tucked under my ribs.

Viola! I felt better while we were on vacation. The same thing has happened in years past. I’ve convinced Mr. that I’ll be the Picture of Health when he retires and whisks me away to low country.

This week it dawned on me; I go off the low carb diet when we’re in South Carolina.

Effing Atkins.
If he knew we were gonna shart ourselves thin why not jump straight to Alli?

Hearing returned to my left ear almost three weeks ago. (Well, my normal amount of hearing.)
For me this means a serious flare of Meniere’s is less likely. That’s been my history, but Mr.says I rewrite history. I’m a revisionist, he says.
Whatev, I says.

I’m NOT moving forward with the second appeal to Health Alliance. Thus far the complete lack of action on my part was indicative of my hopelessness.
Since I haven’t had a serious flare in many weeks I shelved my worry. And all forward motion.

I still believe that Dr. Shea’s treatment is the solution. I believe my symptoms will return in the spring (as per the aforementioned history) and I know that the nature of Meniere's means I could get Seriously Sick in seconds.

I believe what Scarlett said when Rhett stormed out, “Tomorrow is another day,” which is the procrastinator’s mantra and pretty much my motto.

And tomorrow -- I’ll be Home Alone…