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.