Marc shared this delicious link with me, all about an upcoming Gears comic. What’s the word I’m grasping for…? What is it…? Oh right: FUCKYES.

Dear Hollywood: please don’t fuck this up by casting someone stupid in the role of Marcus Fenix, like a blond guy, a skinny guy, or Brad Pitt. Or DiCaprio. For real. Don’t be the douchebags I know you’re so inclined to be.

Hooollld me closerrr tiny laaancerrr….

Shut up, it was funny in my head.

Oop! How did I forget this?

So for my birthday, one of the things Marc got me was the food grinder and sausage stuffer attachments for the Kitchen Aid.

WAIT! Stop clapping and LISTEN, because it gets better!

We walked around Chestnut Hill, and asked a couple of the butchers if they sold sausage casings, but no one did. We stopped by the Italian market on Sunday, however, and they had the stuff in spades. I had no clue how much to buy (I was going to ask if they sold it by the linear foot, but thought that might not go over well) so I got two pounds.

We’re not sure if this is a laughably huge amount, or just right, but I guess we’ll find out when I either have to send Marc out for emergency meat, or emergency casing. Either way, I get to make my own sausage! Yay!

For those of you who may be in the market for such an item in the future, here is a tip: when approaching the butcher counter, do not rub your hands together, shift your eyes about, and ask for “fresh intestines”, because they don’t like that. And also, sometimes they will throw you out. :(

Also? They will apparently come sold in a big wet sloppy bag of innards. I’m really not kidding about that part.

Oh, and for those of you who may have read the previous entry, and are now thinking to yourself, “How did she ever get her hands on that fine prime rib of a man? HOW, and how can I steal him from her?”

It’s because sometimes he also looks like this.

And he’s farting while he’s doing that. So that’s how.

That is all. :>

The windows are in! Truh-lo, truh-lay!

It took them most of Friday, and a bit of Saturday morning, but they replaced the ones in front, and on the side, with bright new double-hung windows, and the two side-by-side in the dining room with a bay. The difference it makes in the room is pretty incredible: there’s a lot more natural light, and the room itself feels taller and wider.

Of course, now everyone can see in through the bay, so we’re like, “Hm. We should either cover that or stop walking around groping and massaging our naked bodies. Nah, we’ll just cover it.” So we’re working on that.

We also paid the guys a case of beer to remove the nasty old metal awnings, which they did. The only one left is the one above the front door, which we need until we’re ready to redo the facade. It’s such a huge relief.

Our next steps are:
1. Remove all the door and window trim, the columns, and everything on the walls
2. Patch all the sheetrock
3. Replace all the trim
4. Paint
5. Install the antique “tin” ceiling
6. Crown moulding and baseboard trim
7. Replace all the wall stuff.

A lot of it is time intensive, but fortunately the windows were the most expensive part of the project. The tiles shouldn’t cost more than a few hundred dollars for the entire room, so we’re not sweating it. One thing at a time.

I meant to take pictures, but forgot… I’ll try to take some tonight. I was browsing for photos on the old Flickr site, and was pretty floored by the difference. The previous owner would freak out if she saw the place now.

On Saturday we went to the Morris Arboretum and — as is our habit — got memberships for the year. It was totally a deal, though: we only saw about half the park, leaving some stuff for us to explore when it’s a little cooler, and some of the fall colors have come out.

Look at how hot and sexy and photogenic my husband is. JUST LOOK AT HIM.

Yes, that hot. Clearly worth a phone call to the police.

The sexy arm fold is killing me, I can’t look at it directly for too long. He should not be allowed to fold his arms and lean on something and have a soul patch. It just isn’t done, it’s like the trifecta of NOM.

Afterwards we went to Chestnut Hill and bought stuff, ate at Melting Pot, got Coldstone, and came home fat. It was a pretty great day.

Yesterday we caught an early matinee of Dark Knight, nabbed some Nino’s, and then came home to clean (a sorely neglected task, these many weekends past.) The house is sparkly and surprisingly hairball free, although it probably won’t stay that way for long.

While putting away some clothes yesterday, I went to hang up my new thrift store dress in the master bedroom closet, which is currently holding a lot of our formalware and out-of-season stuff. After hanging it up, I hesitated, noticed something on the floor, and quietly closed the door.

Then I calmly walked downstairs, and outside, where Marc was watering the garden. I’m like, “I don’t want to wig you out, and I may be wrong, but I think there is a bat in our bedroom closet.”

And he’s like, “Mm-hm, mm-hmm, I see,” and went to investigate.

Soooo we had a bat in our bedroom closet. It was a dead bat.

I called animal control last night, which rerouted me to the police dispatcher. When I asked what we should do with the bat (our neigbor across the street recently had her house and pets quarantined because one of the dogs picked up a dead, rabid bat in their back yard. I wasn’t sure if they wanted to test the thing, or what.) When I’m like, “What should we do with it?”, the guy’s like, “Uh, throw it out?”

Great. Thanks a lot, Desk Seargent Doolittle. Here I was going to bite its head off a la Ozzie Osbourne and make it into a fucking dead bat burrito. But I guess your idea makes more sense.

Our township is run by a bunch of douchebags, for serious.

ANYway, Marc put the bat in a box and disposed of it, because apparently it doesn’t matter if it’s infectious or not. To his credit, he did not at all lecture me about how it’s not “awesome” to have bats, which he would have been perfectly justified doing.

Now I need to go earn my keep around here. How was your weekend?

Marc is fine, and thank you to everyone who asked.

After blinding ourselves with our outstanding dermal translucency on Saturday, we opted to relax and unwind on Sunday by laying out in the back yard, eating fruit salad and burgers, and getting some sun. Guess which one of us put on sunscreen.

Right. The one who did not finish out the day the color of a ripe berry.

Marc was feeling sick on Monday morning, and opted to lay down for a bit before deciding if he wanted to go into work. I was afraid he had sun poisoning, but he’s all, “Me man! Me no get sun poisoning!”, and by the time I left for work he said he was feeling better, and would probably go in after all.

By 11 o’clock, when I hadn’t heard from him, and couldn’t get him on either his home cell or his work Blackberry, I tried calling his office to make sure he got in OK. They’re like, “He hasn’t come in, and he hasn’t called us, and we can’t get him on his phones, and OH MY GOD DO YOU THINK HE’S DEAD??” ( note: I may be replacing what they actually said with what was going on in my mind at the time. )

So of course I freaked out and left work, and while waiting for the train home I actually called the police and am like, “Will you please try to rouse my husband and be sure he’s not dead??”, because I was certain that I would get home 10 minutes too late to rescusitate him without permanant brain damage, and would have to make the heartbreaking decision to take him off life support, and then I’d have to arrange to have his ashes scattered over Las Vegas, and make sure his Mom got some also, and Oh God I hope she doesn’t make a scene at the funeral, because Marc would be SO MAD if she did.

ALL ACTUAL THINGS GOING THROUGH MY HEAD.

Longest. train ride. ever.

Anyway. About 10 minutes from my stop (kicking myself the whole way that I had to be all “Little Miss Gas Conservation” and walk to the train station, instead of driving, which would CLEARLY be the lifesaving decision) Marc calls my cell, and he’s like, “….so the police were just here.”

So he was not dead, in case you haven’t been keeping up with the story, and there will be no distribution of ashes just yet. There almost was, when I got home and nearly turned my happy, relieved, welcoming hug into a suffocating stranglehold, but for now he remains upright. (He was, however, interested to hear what I would have done with the ashes. For future reference: nix scattering them in the back yard.)

Apparently the wireless got turned off on his Blackberry, so work never got the “I may be in later” email from him, and none of the panicked phone calls got through, and the other cell was on a different floor, so he never heard it.

Also, now Gallows Township probably thinks we’re spastic lunatics, and unhappy about lawn waste collection. Getting construction permits is going to be a BREEZE.

I wasn’t the only one freaking out: apparently the people at work were contemplating driving up and down the main road to see if there had been any accidents. That’s how you know you’re loved: everyone thinks you’re dead in a ditch somewhere.

With that said, if you haven’t heard from me in awhile, and there appears to be a large sculpture of me in the living room, made entirely out of beef jerky: plz call someone, thx.

Oh, and we went to Hershey Park on Saturday, and it was fun.

Marc’s office scored free passes and a “buffet” for everyone. The buffet consisted of about four teenagers serving cold steamed burgers, so we mostly relied on the other concession stands that demanded actual cash money. We had a really good time all around, and are thinking about going back on some Sunday after RenFaire. The admission and parking would cost us a whopping $110, so it’s probably not something we’re going to do frequently.

Marc is hoping to score us free passes after emailing them with some complaints: the cold, crappy food, the hoarde of girls standing outside the showers and stripping naked under beach towels, and our two and a half hour wait for a ride called the Roller Soaker.

We can’t complain too much about the wait, because lines are lines, and what are you going to do. Our issue was the fact that (unlike elsewhere in the park) there were no signs indicating what the wait time would be, the entire operation was run by exactly three uninspired teenagers, and one of the seats was broken.

Imagine six disorderly cattle chutes of people, and coaster cars containing a total of twelve seats. Each time the cars roll up, two people from each line get to climb on board. Makes sense, right? Except one of the seats was out of order, meaning that on every other pass, only eleven people could ride instead of twelve.

This meant that cattle chute number six contained lots of VERY ANGRY people who — after waiting in line for TWO AND A HALF HOURS — now had to wait twice as long as everyone else to get a seat. This was especially bad when you consider that most people don’t go on the ride alone: they’re with a spouse, or a child, or a friend. So on the alternating passes, when only one person from the cattle chute #6 could board, you either had to go on the ride without your partner, or wait another 15 minutes for the cars with 12 available seats to come around.

At the end, we seriously wanted nothing more than to just get out of that fucking line, but having wasted so much time standing there already, we felt we had to justify the wait. The ride probably lasted about a minute, maybe a minute and a half, and the highlight was that you got to dump a deluge of icy-cold water on the crowds waiting below you in line. We were “done” with the entire experience after so long a wait, but hearing the people below us scream in horror as we doused them redeemed it a tiny bit.

I also went on my first rollercoaster ride in about 18 years. After we got off, Marc was like, “Ha ha, you screamed like you almost thought you were going to die!”

And I’m like, “…eh-heh… yeah, almost…”

OH! And also, Marc won me a purple hippo BEACAUSE HE’S AWESOME. He’s so fabulous. I totally jumped up and down. :>

Friday I’m home from work to oversee the installation of the new windows, and then on Saturday we’re going to visit the arboretum (hopefully the morning weather holds) and then maybe walk around Chestnut Hill a bit, before dinner. That reminds me, I need to look at the restaurant’s menu to see if they’ve gotten anything new since we were there last.

Anyway, time to run again. Boy you folks have been awfully quiet, lately… don’t make me call the police to check on you…

Sick husband + no telephone = anxious, panicky wife.

mmmhnnnn. <:/

I’m contemplating doing something drastic with the site / blog. I’m still formulating ideas.

July 4th weekend was fun and busy. Marc did the annual parade on Friday, and I stayed home to make my own version of samosas, which we later had with our yummy two-person cookout (a bottle of Knight’s Reward, samosas, chips, asiago cheeseburgers, baked beans, corn on the cob, peanut-butter cup and chocolate cheesecake mini-cakes.) We were big fat pigs, thanks for noticing.

I really messed around with the original recipe for the samosas, removing the peas and cilantro, replacing the ground beef with 99%-fat-free ground turkey, and serving it in baked phyllo shells topped with slivers of swiss cheese (normally they’re deep fried in a pastry dough pockets.) I think it’s safe to say that I’ve fucked with it enough to make it “my own.”

Neither Marc nor I have tasted actual samosas before, so I don’t know how close they were to being genuine, but damn they were tasty. I still have half the filling left in the fridge, which I really need to toss out, because I only had 30 phyllo cups on hand. Marc was eating them cold from the fridge for a couple days afterwards, which always makes me gooey and happy inside.

I did pick up a box of actual phyllo dough last night (I wonder how hard it is to make from scratch?) and I’m entertaining ideas for things to stuff them with. I’d really like to try something with lamb, but they might actually be too close to the “adorable” end of the meat acceptability scale. As you can see:

The chart doesn’t lie, people.

Mikecase put me to the challenge of making a Facehugger cake, which I’ve also been sketching out in my head. He had the rather brilliant suggestion of wrapping the actual alien around a human head, thusly eliminating my hesitation over sculpting the overtly vaginal underside out of marzipan. My next free weekend, I may be thusly distracted.

Saturday I bought a slew of new clothes at the thrift shop, and we spent the balance of the weekend cleaning and going through comics.

I’ve gotten the basement smelling less rank, although we still have to rip out that old carpet. We’re continuing to have problems with Saku and Maggie, but things have improved a little since we started closing them in the office together during the day. Saku is still confining himself to the kitchen, 90% of the time (and using the floor as a litterbox, which is driving me up the goddamned wall) but we’ve decreased the amount of time he spends on the counters themselves, and Maggie seems less inclined to chase him every time she sees him.

If we can eliminate the chasing altogether, I’m hoping Saku will eventually remember that there are other places to shit besides the floor. We’ve racked our brains about every other possible way to eliminate this problem, and this is the only thing we’ve been able to come up with.

My thing is: I refuse to have a litterbox in the kitchen. We tried it, it was horrible, and we’re not doing it again. For one thing, litter gets all over the floor. For another, it makes the entire first floor reek. As if that’s not enough, the other three cats go, “Hey, there’s a litterbox up here! Awesome, now I don’t have to go all the way down into the basement!”, and begin using that box exclusively. I had about three days of coming home to a reeking mudpie of cat piss and feces before I decided that was never, ever going to work.

Not to mention, it’s our kitchen. I don’t mind wiping down the counters six and seven times a day, but I draw a very thick, dark line at “relieving yourselves where we store and prepare food.”

The compromise we’re attempting right now: confining Maggie and Saku together all day long, making sure to give extra love and attention to Maggie, in case the aggression is jealousy based. We’re also keeping a squirt bottle handy, to nail her when she gets that “I’mma chase ‘im!” look on her face, and being consistant and firm about the counters. I’m thinking of moving a litterbox to the kitchen when I come home at night, and only leaving it there until bedtime (or until Saku “goes.”) If it’s not accessible to all the cats, all day long, hopefully they will be disinclined to use it, and only it, to do their business.

Seriously? I need pets with fewer issues. When you hear people say, “Why would you want a snake for a pet? Snakes are boring,” THIS IS WHY. This very fucking thing. Trying to outsmart four creatures with brains the size of lemons is a serious challenge for this hairless feeder monkey.

This Friday we’re going to catch Hellboy (and pizza) with some friends, and then on Saturday we’ve got an all-day pass at Hershey Park (!!!), with free food and all kinds of summery goodness. I hope the weather holds!

Next weekend we’re going out for my thirty-second birthday (Melting Pot, yum!), and I have no idea what else. Probably more cleaning and home improvement stuff — we’ve been on a real kick lately.

I’m due some retroactive pay pretty soon… I’m hoping I get it in before the end of the month, because I really need to make all the wedding reservations at the Ex Calibur. Go go accounting department!

I’ve got a shitload of work due before the end of the month — proposal books and award entries that have to be written from scratch, about stuff I know next to nothing about. So if I’m not around… well, I guess now you know why.

Hope you’re all well!

Stuff I did not expect to occur today:

Climbing 80 feet of construction scaffolding to take pictures of the interior dome at the Franklin Institute
So that was a little harrowing. Hopefully I didn’t offend the PM by how many times I said “holy shit.” Still, it was kind of awesome. You know that scene in Mortal Kombat where Johnny Cage is battling Scorpion? It was totally just like that, except with hard hats.

Having the fitness trainer at work ask if Marc and I were “ever” having kids and — upon receiving a no — having him grin broadly.
Childfree people in the house go haaaaay. Schweet. Now maybe he won’t kick my ass as hard.

Seeing a news headline that begins: “Angelina Jolie’s gynecologist held a press conference on Wednesday…”
Really? There was nothing else going on in the world today, that Angelina Jolie’s vagina commanded a fucking press conference so that we can keep appraised of how it’s doing? It needs a spokesperson now?

“How is the vagina doing, doctor?”

“Well, it’s smelly and stretchy, and it’s seen a lot of abuse, I can tell you that. A lot of abuse.”

“How much, exactly?”

“I can’t get into specifics but… there’s a circulation desk in there.”

“Can you divulge any plans they might have for it, doctor?”

“Circque du Soleil has been inspecting the space as the site for their newest show, Cööchí, but beyond that I’m really not at liberty to say.”

Seriously. >:|

I forgot to mention that I made more arepas last Friday (clearly this topic and the last are closely related.) I wasn’t entirely happy with the original recipe, so I messed with it a little, adding some spices, egg whites and vegetable oil, and extending the baking time a bit. They cooked all the way through, and were OMGsogood. Yummy crispy on the outside, soft and fluffy on the inside. MUCH better.

We stuffed them with scrambled egg whites, roasted red peppers, sauteed onions and cheese. Marc thinks I can get them even thicker, next time, so I’ll have to experiment. But seriously, yum. I can’t wait to make more.

I’ve been wanting to try out more diverse ethnic recipes lately. Marc’s a big fan of Mexican fare, but I need to research into something a little more off-the-beaten path than just burritos and tacos. Someone on a messageboard was talking about samosas, and now I’m salivating to make some of my own.

Typically they’re fried, but until I can find a good pastry recipe to bake them, I did find one that suggests making them in those tiny little phillo cups, of which we just HAPPEN to have two whole boxes. I may have to devote some time to that, this weekend.

I’m so ready for it to be Thursday at 4:40 PM, you don’t even know.

An actual IM conversation with my mother.

Mom: I got out of jury duty

Me: How did you do that?

Mom: They asked some questions about health and is there any reason you may not be able to do whatever… I told them I get migraines and the medicine is a pain med that tells you not to drive or sign legal docs. So they sent back an e-mail this morning and excused me.

Me: ….is that actually true?

Mom: If you read the real fine print it sometimes tells you ..until you know how this med will effect you be cautious working with heavy machinery, may cause drowsiness, that sort of stuff

….uh-huh. So now, according to my mother, she should have her driver’s licenses revoked, and also someone should really have power of attorney over her, because clearly she is in no position whatsoever to sign legally binding documents.

I’m honestly a little surprised that she didn’t say sitting on those hard juror-box benches would exacerbate her bedsores.

Oh, and also, she has skin cancer. We first found this out when Marc’s Mom called him while we were out somewhere. This is what I hear, as I’m driving:

“Hey Mom, I was just going to call you when we got home. Oh, Nicole’s Mom called you to talk? That’s cool, what did she have to say. …uh-huh. …uh-huh. ….wait, what? She has skin cancer? And her gall bladder is what now? That doesn’t sound…..Uh–Mom, I’m going to have to call you back, Nicole is swerving into oncoming traffic–”

In related news, I’ve recently purchased one of these, for home use.

That there is my face-stabbin’ knife. Ain’t she purty?

So anyway! Celtic Fling!

It was a lot of fun, we ended up spending about six hours there. We’d been dodging shitty weather predictions all week, and the weather was clear and beautiful througout the entire ride up. As soon as we got there, everything clouded over, and a torrential downpour started. Like, literally, the second we got there.

We had no umbrellas, and no coats, so we opted to kill a little time at my favorite place in the WHOLE ENTIRE WORLD, the Basket Warehouse (about a mile or so up the road from the fair.) What shoe stores are to other women, the Basket Warehouse is to me.

Poor Marc has completely given up any hope of not being bankrupted by that place. He just picks up the basket and follows me around, dropping things in as I squeal and hand them to him. We only really went in to see if they had umbrellas, which they did not, but we ended up leaving with a bunch of other awesome stuff.

It was still miserable and drizzly when we left the warehouse, and drove back to the fair. By the time we got there, the sun had come out again, and it was dazzlingly sunny and warm all over again. Just to be safe, we bought two ponchos as soon as we got in, but we ended up only having to use them once, for exactly 30 seconds, when a single stormcloud passed overhead. The rest of the day was clear and pretty.

As if that’s not awesome enough, as we were in line to get tickets someone offered to sell us two one-day passes that they couldn’t use, saving us $25 off the cost. So THAT kicked some ass.

We sat and watched one of the bands for a little bit (Celtic Spring, I think they were called? They were apparently finalists on America’s Got Talent.) It was only as we were leaving that I really regretted not listening to more music, but sitting in the sun for too long was really awful. Come RenFaire, when a lot of these bands will make sporadic reappearances, we intend to take in more of the shows.

We ate yummy fair food, I got my awesome cream-of-potato-soup bread bowl, and we didn’t even spend a ridiculous amount of money. I did buy a handmade ceramic canteen on a leather strap, for this year’s fair, and seeing all the cheaply-made costumes has made me itch to sew something again. I really need to make time to be crafty.

Our blacksmiths weren’t there, but they had a new guy selling liquor bottles (beer, wine, and vodka) with the tops cut off, and the bases turned into translucent-wax candles. On the bottles with two-sided etching or designs, lighting the candle would result in a silhouette being cast onto the wall. They were pretty awesome.

Marc and I have a kind of unspoken rule that we don’t buy crafts we can make on our own, and I convinced him we can totally make those. We’ve already got the glass cutter, the dremel (if we need it), and you can buy candle-making kits from Michaels. I have about a half-dozen empty wine bottles in the basement, that I was going to etch (as soon as I can figure out how to make templates… which reminds me…) so I think we’ll experiment with those.

We also stopped by the shop to sample the new wines for this year, and grab a couple bottles of our favorites to hold us over until the fall. Ooh, and some of that amazing powdered chai tea.

We didn’t go totally overboard, which is good, but we still had a really nice time, and came home with some good stuff. Oh, and also, there was a guy there wearing a t-shirt that said, on the back, “If you can read this… I just farted.” I totally died.

And that is all. :> Tonight a guy from Home Depot comes to do the final measurements on the windows. Now that Marc and I have gone through all the comics, it’s time to sort out what we’re keeping, and what he’d like to sell. He’s got some Punishers in there that I’m itchin’ to get my hands on, and then I will be SO GLAD to tear up that smelly carpet in the basement and throw it out once and for all.

No big plans for the coming 4th, although Marc will be marching in the parade, and then we’ll be retiring to burgers on the grill, and one of those two-serving specialty cakes from the bakery department at Giant.

It’s the little thing things. :>

Wednesday night we took the leap. We bought replacement windows.

Overall, there are eight windows and two doors in the house that need to be replaced: one in the wardrobe, one in the office, two in the basement (with the doors), and four in the living room. That’s not counting the two newer windows in the foyer, that also need to be replaced, because we may eliminate one or both of them when we move the front door.

There’s a double-hung window in the front of the living room, on the side, and then two side-by-side in the dining room. We knew, pretty much as soon as we walked into the house for the first time, that we wanted to replace those side-by-side windows with a bay. So that’s what we’re doing.

We’d been putting off the windows because, although drafty and hideous, the current windows are not broken. As we’re hellbent on hosting some sort of holiday shindig this year, it became our priority to finish the living room in its entirety. Most of what we need to do in the living room can’t get started until the windows are done… so there you go.

We’ve got half the cost of the windows saved already, and we’ve got 12 months of no payments, no interest to pay off the remainder. We’re told that it will be about 3 weeks from now when the windows are actually installed, and between that point and Christmas (although ideally Thanksgiving) we’ll need to complete the following:

1. Rip out the columns (yes, I know we’re the ones that put them in to begin with. Shh.)
2. Repair / fill in the sheetrock where the columns were / any gaps around the new windows
3. Retrim the new windows and the doorway into the kitchen
4. Paint
5. Crown moulding
6. Architectural panels on the ceiling
7. Replace the radiator (maybe?) under the bay
8. Radiator covers

We’re sure to get all that done in…….five months. Right? I mean… right?

It’s weird: knowing that this is one major project off our list (or soon to be, anyway) has really changed my perspective about the house. Not that I was viewing it poorly, before — quite the opposite — but suddenly it feels like a big chunk was taken out of our very long to-do list. It’s like suddenly seeing the house in small, manageable bites instead of one huge mound of delicious, syrupy ice cream, topped with whipped cream and those little crispy caramel crunchies, and uh…

Damn, I really want some fucking ice cream.

Anyway. More on that situation as it develops.

They’ve been forecasting rain, locally, all week long, every single day, and we have yet to see a single drop fall from the sky. I’ve been keeping an eye on the forecast for the Celtic Fling, with rain anticipated on both days, but Saturday looks like our best bet: 30% chance, with storms not predicted until around 3. If we get a really early start tomorrow, we can get in most of what we want to do by then, and then maybe take shelter and eat some nice cream of potato soup in a bread bowl before we head home. Ohpleaselettherebebreadbowls.

I’m really jazzed. I was just thinking about it this morning, while waiting for the train, and picturing pretty Celtic knots in my head. Also, did you know this: my husband is totally fucking hot. It’s true!

All right… time to grab some lunch and be vaguely useless.

And how are you?

It’s not even 9 AM, as I write this, and I’ve already gotten to use the phrase “feces-centric.” That, my friends, is how you know you are living the high life.

Since I started walking to and from the train station, in the morning, I’ve been getting a lot of guys honking at me as they drive by, or smiling and waving at me if they happen to be stopped at a red light. This would be pretty flattering if not for the fact that most of them are grizzled, toothless, and in some kind of beat-up pickup truck.

It’s just like being back below the Mason Dixon line, where for a short while I was hit on more than any other time in my life by random redneck truck drivers. Too bad I was still in high school, or I might have a double-wide right now.

Of course, maybe they just recognized me from this month’s cover of Scruffy Guy in a Truck Monthly.

My centerfold, posed in a stained Dale Ernhardt tank top, was to die for

In other news, Little Miss High Maintenance Mom of Twins — the one who previously asked me, “How do you fake laugh like that all the time? Your laugh sounds so fake. How do you do that?” — just told me that she has a great idea for my next Halloween Costume: Amy Winehouse.

Out of the blue. I wasn’t even talking to her. I’m walking by her, and she goes out of her way to stop me and say that.

Great. Thanks so much. Because I guess it’s not such a stretch for me to look like a coked out meth addict?

Hey! I have an idea! For Halloween this year you can walk around on your hands and be Dumbo the elephant… you know, using your giant, stretched-out labia for ears. How’s that floppy potato sack of a vagina treating you, since you squeezed out the kids. Pretty good? That boyfriend of yours ever get around to proposing to you yet? No? Even after you “accidentally” got knocked up? Huh. Well, I’m sure that’ll be happening any time now.

THIS IS ME HAVING AN AWESOME DAY SO FAR.

edit: I fucking love my husband. But you knew that.