Thursday, March 27, 2014

All The Single Ladies

It's my Friday night, Reader, even though it's only Thursday for the rest of you working stiffs. I've actually got a day off from Tiny Town to TCB. In which TCB means shopping and getting my nails did. But first, I'm going to pick My Mister up from the airport at the god-awful-early hour of 6:30 a.m. or something sinful like that. Don't tell me I'm not a good girlfriend. I won't believe it. 

My Mister has been in sunny California for the week, being an exhibitor at some sort of trade show for some venture he's cooking up. I had big plans while he was gone.  Here's what I discovered:

  1. I'm too frightened in the house by myself to watch my favorite t.v. show, Walking Dead. I tried to turn it on Sunday night, but realized that was just tomfoolery and I'd never get a wink of sleep, so I've left it in untouched in the DVR where it shall remain until his return. We'll be watching it by 7:15 a.m. tomorrow morning.
  2. I made a huge mistake - HUGE - by watching a documentary-type thing about the Cheshire Murders, which is the true store about the well-to-do family who was home-invaded and then vagina-invaded and then all three of the females were killed while the poor dad had to hop his way out of the basement, and that's the only way he survived. I found out far far far too many details, details I did not need to know while I was alone in the house. The break-in happened around 3:00 a.m., and let me tell you, I was on high alert the closer that hour got. I was a jumpy jumping bean the first few nights alone, and it still freaks my shit out when the cat goes from napping in a curl on my lap to bolting upright and staring past my shoulder. At nothing. Or is it?? I don't know, but she did it tonight and I was afraid to look over my shoulder for a good ten minutes, and when I didn't get bludgeoned in the head I figured it was safe. It was, obvi, or you wouldn't be enjoying (ahem.) this right'cheer.*
  3. I'm very lazy when left to my own devices. I like to blame My Mister for my lazy lazy ways, and I had big plans to be 10 lbs. skinnier this week from all the time I was going to log at the gym, and none of that happened. Not even a minute. I did eat steak one night and enjoyed a pizza tonight by myself in front of the telly. I consider that a win. A different type of win, but hey, who makes the rules on winning anyway. Oh, that's right, Charlie Sheen does. Since I didn't have a week of hookers and blow, maybe it wasn't really a win after all. Hm. 
  4. My house is much much much cleaner when My Mister is not around. This place is nearly spic & span. I spent an hour one night this week straightening it all up and giving the floors a quick whore's bath, and it looks shiny and nice in here. I've even made the bed every morning and it's super nice to come home to a tidy place. 
  5. I had oatmeal for dinner last night. At 10:30. In bed. Loved it.
  6. The cats are bored out of their gourds without their daddy home during the day. They have knocked more shit over this week than ever before. They pulled the curtains down off of the window Tuesday night. They knocked over the hamper today, some towels were in the foyer when I got home, and the baby dragged the lid off of an angel food cake and helped himself. And that's just what I remember. Every night I've had some sort of a cat-astrophy to clean up when I've gotten home. 
  7. It took very little time to become accustomed to sleeping diagonal in the king sized bed. I hope I can learn to share again.
That's my wrap for the week. I will be happy when My Mister comes home, despite the dirtying of the house. At least I think so. Maybe.

*right-cheer. Read that in the voice of Andy Griffith, please. It will be much more fun that way. 

Monday, March 24, 2014

The Lies We Tell Ourselves

Hello, Hello, Reader! Or maybe by now you're my Non-Reader, and I'm only typing for my own amusement, which is generally the case anyway, so no diffs. 

I'm only here because I'm procrastinating going to the gym, and I've run my usual gamut by now - must eat first, now must digest, but only for 20 minutes then I'm gonna hop right up and hit it, which turns into it's so comfy, I deserve a short nap, and then I might as well catch up on a show I never get the chance to watch, which brings us right here, to 9:00 p.m. and I have a small niggling thought in the back of my brain that thinks I'm really going to get up, put on my gym clothes and drive my ass to the gym. Right after I'm done here. 

That is really going to happen, never, Reader. 

We both know that. 

It's this, then Hammer Time, which in my world equals Jammie Time. I'm gonna hammer my fat ass right into my jammies. Good job, Me, I really know how to come up with absolutely any excuse at all not to work out.

But that begs the question, Reader: If working out was so gol'darn good for you, why wouldn't our bodies crave it, the way a thirsty man crawling across the desert craves a cool glass of water or someone being smothered by a pillow over their face craves air?? 

Because it's not that good for you, that's why. It's just a bunch of working-out propaganda that's spewed by the tennis shoe industry to get you to think it's good for you. 

Well, I'm not falling for it, Sir! If a body was supposed to run in place and bike to nowhere, we would thirst for it! Or gasp for it!  I'm not thirsty or gaspy.  My body is instead craving the pillowy softness of my bed. I don't even have to barter with myself to get in it. 

So anyway. I've just realized that typing up, "it's 9:00 (p.m.)" and "going to the gym" are two of the dumbest things that could go together. Ever. Because 9:00 is bed time. Said the old woman who collected cats.

Thursday, March 6, 2014

My Hole.

Here lies before you, Reader, the evidence of the Holy Ghost.  Witness the Hole Line Up. 

I've put a piece of toilet paper under the holes so you can really appreciate them. 

The teensy hole in the blue shirt was something I discovered today as I was looking in the mirror, discerning just how noticeable the giant coffee spot was on the front of my shirt that had spilled there on my drive in. For an 8:30 meeting. With a lot of people.

The coffee spot was very noticeable, in case you were wondering. 

I "hid" the teensy starter hole by scrunching up the sleeves. 

I was pretty much a hot mess. 

But back to the business at hand, or should I say elbow. 

Notice how they're all right there, in the same spot?? I've really done some examining of my desk space and don't see an obvious hole-maker.  

My Mister checked my elbow for sharp and pointy parts, but determined that while they were a bit scaly, it didn't seem to be hole-making worthy. 

So that leads us back to the original explanation. Ghosts in the closet. Who think my elbow needs freed from their cotton constraints.