Ooo, Me So Funny...

I laugh at my own posts.
As a matter of fact, I can’t read aloud through an entire post to share with Mr. Savant without cracking up.

It’s not that I laugh easy. (I’m just That Good.)
I’m more apt to have one of those laugh-so-hard-I-can’t-talk moments that ends in tears and sore abdominals than to generically LOL. (I’m very cerebral and sedate that way. I’m high-minded and a deep thinker, and if it weren’t for my nonstop talking willingness to share you’d never have to endure a steady stream of know my innermost thoughts.)

Laughing ‘til crying is the norm when I read my posts out loud. I slay me.

The Federal Government (specifically the Bureau of Prisons) has banned the reading of my blog by employees at work.
If Mr. Savant wants to know what I’m thinking (as if I’ve drawn breath not told him repeatedly verbally) he can read my posts from home computers. But he doesn’t (I know; right?) so occasionally I use my outside voice to read to him in the next room where he's watching ESPN share my gems.

I always have favorite parts in my own posts.
Yesterday’s highlight was the mention that maybe Mr. snuck a peek at my Goods while he was helping me out of pukewear.
I thought I was at the top o’ my game with that remark.

You Get It; if you’ve seen the far side of 40, and naked, or if you've seen wobbly and nude.
If you’ve ever slumped in your husband’s arms, too sick to stand, wet with sweat, and shivering in a Wrinkly and Dilapidated Birthday Suit, you Get It...
He’s looking at your Goods…hahaha…

It’s often funny but always true; in a Solid Marriage we Older Broads are The Living End to our guys.
Helen, from "The Machinist’s Wife" said, “Middle aged women are the bomb, but one could argue that middle aged men would consider us the ignition.”
So true. Whether we’re up on a ladder, pulling weeds on our hands ‘n knees, or shimmying out of sweat-soaked barfgear, middle-aged women ARE hawt.

It’s In The Eye Of The Beholder and if you’re not confident of that fact you’re in denial, in despair, and/or indebted to a plastic surgeon.

I’ve teased Mr. Savant that sometimes I’m ashamed to love someone who’s dumb enough to think I’m attractive.

When it comes right down to it I know his attraction isn’t all about my physical allure. Mr. loves me for my charming personality and wit, cuz no amount of Bon Bons and Aqua Net can make up for bad genes and stacked decades.
I am hot, if by hot you mean not necessarily attractive to begin with, and aging poorly after a long and difficult life of bad choices.

Calvin (my daycare kid) noticed my hotness yesterday. Sweat was mingling with baby drool on my shirt. It was running down my face with bareMinerals for the attractive Amy-Winehouse-Needs-a-Fix Look that’s so popular. (It IS popular, right?)

Calvin simply stated fact, “You[‘re] hot Miss Kelly.”

Yes I am, Sweetiepie. Thanks for noticing.
It'll have to suffice 'til the kid realizes I'm dang funny too.