Posts
Okay, that's IT!!!
I've had it with the Gosselins. I never watched the show, but my kids did. (By the way, we allowed the kids free reign with the TV before our 'let's not have cable anymore' moment last fall, and instead of trying to find The Simpsons or MTV or porn, my kids would stay up until the wee hours on weekend nights watching The Food Network and Jon and Kate plus 8. Weird, huh?)
I get People magazine. There, I said it. I have a subscription so I don't have to stick it under the other groceries in the check out lane. Instead, I have it delivered to my home in a brown paper wrapping. But at least I don't get US or InTouch, because I have standards when it comes to my celebrity gossip. So every Friday, I let George the Superpet/dog/horse lay inside the front door so he can go completely batshit crazy when the mail carrier comes to the door, thus announcing that my People magazine has arrived and making the mail carrier wet herself. Sometimes the worst thing that happens in my week is that People doesn't arrive until Saturday, which means it is a particularly good issue and someone at the post office decided to read it before sending it out.
ANYWHO, my People magazine arrived on Friday, and Kate Friggin' Gosselin is on the cover, AGAIN!!! What was the breaking news story with Kate and her batch of adorable spawn and her lowlife-mid-life-crisis-American-Beauty husband? She got HAIR EXTENSIONS.
Yes, you read that right. Hair. Extensions.
And not just any hair extensions. Let me share the wealth of information about said extensions, because at $100+ per year for a subscription to this magazine, you're damn skippy I'm going to read every word. Kate Gosselin had celebrity hairstylist Ted Gibson (known for tending to the tresses of Angelina Jolie and Anne Hathaway!) work her 'do, and he said that after they finished giggling for 15 minutes about whether or not to cut her bangs, he did her color and extensions at what would normally come to a $7000 bill in his salon.
Not a typo. Seven Thousand Dollars. For extensions. Which I am sure Kate got gratis, because that's how she rolls, and Ted got about $20K in free publicity. Jon Gosselin has yet to weigh in on Kate's new look, but his on again/off again psycho love, Hailey Glassman, said she just adores Kate's new 'do, saying "she's like fine wine, better over time." To which she I believe she added, "And I'm like a fresh can of Bud with the date on the can, which is what her ex-husband is into drinking right now. Not old. Young and fresh, like me! With real long hair and actually 22 instead of trying to look like it!" Hailey's dad, by the way, is the plastic surgeon who gave Kate her free tummy tuck, so they met long before Hailey started bedding her husband. But Hailey apparently hit her expiration date because Jon has now dumped her and moved on to a much older, more mature 25-year-old who is also assuredly into Ed Hardy.
It's enough to make you beg for cold decaf coffee, lunch with the Pussycat Dolls, a full-on Brazilian, a subscription to Cat Fancy, ANYTHING, just to make it stop. Which I am actually considering doing to my People magazine subscription. It's sad when People makes you feel like maybe you are above that kind of "news". Because I am really not that far above it. I just want grainy pics of The Edge and Gavin Rossdale (which thank God there were some) and to look at dresses and houses I cannot afford, and see reviews on books I will never write. Is that so wrong?
It also makes me think about people who have eight children. There are the McCaughey's in Iowa, who had the McCaughey Septuplets plus one girl who became an insta-nanny to her siblings twelve years ago. The Gosselins, who were able to turn their six children plus two into a media empire. And who can forget Octo-Mom, who clearly has an Angelina Jolie fixation and eight babies plus six previous babies? Did none of these people watch Eight is Enough? Because Dick Van Patten would have sat their asses down and said, "Listen, don't do it, or you'll end up married to Betty Buckley and be responsible for the careers of Grant Goodeve and the Karate Kid and Buddy on Charles in Charge. They'll have delusions of grandeur. Stick with two kids and business degrees."
Don't get me wrong. I know people with very large, loving families (One of them has ten kids!) who can actually care for those children. I know people who are actively trying to have a baby who have struggled with infertility. I have friends who have darling babies solely because of in vitro. I'm not in any way against in vitro, or other methods of having children, and I know I have been incredibly blessed with my three awesome ninja kids. But the people I know who rely on science are responsible about it, and have doctors who are responsible about it with them.
It has to be tempting to have eight kids and have someone buy a house and a large van and nannies and tummy tucks and extensions and all the free Ed Hardy clothing and accessories one can grab. It can perhaps make one forget about all of the food and diapers and bathing and personal attention all of those babies will need. Who needs hugs when you have a production crew to get your fruit snacks? All one needs is a doctor willing to load you up with fertilized eggs and a production deal with a cable network and bam! Just add water and you have a Chia-Celebrity!
But as tempting as it would be, I'm not going to calve eight babies. That is SO First Decade.
RESOLUTION #5: Give birth to nine children.
My three children are now old enough to care for babies while I flit around the country doing interviews and getting my hair done. I would explain to them that we HAVE to do this to take care of our family, and that it will be good experience for them, with the added bonus of getting to be on the TV and in the tabloids and having no private time, ever. Maybe they can grow up to get their own reality show! We can call my show "The Wife Without a Life: A Dozen in the House Until I'm Nearly Sixty," subtitled, "Now, Where's My Free Shit?"
And then Kate Gosselin? You can get YOUR People magazine in the mail and see my face on the cover with my new free $5000 lip wax, and say "Not The Wife again! That's IT! I'm canceling my subscription!" Because that is the REAL reason I'm birthin' those babies. Vengeance will be mine, along with an upper lip as smooth as nine babies' bottoms.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Cold Mountain meets the Donner Party, Resolution #4
Friday, January 8, 2010
The wagon train has parked. We've picked up the last of the pioneers from school and brought them West to the homestead. We will camp here for the weekend. The temperature is reading at -10, but we know with the accursed wind it is colder. Pizza has been ordered. Netflix has arrived. We will camp here until Monday.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Dawn broke over the horizon, but none of us saw it. We just assume it happened, because by 10 a.m. it was somewhat sunny. While we were loath to get out from under the blankets, George the Superpet was barking to go outside for his morning constitutional. The co-leader of our expedition, Current Husband, yelled from the bed, "SOMEONE LET THE DOG OUT!" and the other members of our party yelled, "WHAT?!" and he yelled louder, "SOMEONE LET THE DOG OUT!" and they replied "HUH? We're not dug out?" and I said, "F@(*&%!!" and stomped out of the room to release the hound.
The last of the Toaster Strudel was eaten by the children while they made the coffee (Important Parenting Lesson: Teach the children early how to make coffee. You'll thank me later). Frozen breakfast pastries were gone, and coffee beans were getting dangerously low. The leftover pizza was eaten for lunch, and chips and salsa were getting below safe levels. The children couldn't seem to stop eating - microwave popcorn, chips, cereal, apples, bananas, it was as though a plague of pre-menstrual mothers was ravaging our kitchen cabinets. George the Superpet kept begging to go outside, and it was discovered that he was going out to eat snow because no one had filled his water bowl in the morning. Accusations were made. Fingers were pointed. The tension was mounting. Could we make it to Monday?
We stayed up late playing Scrabble, with the winner getting the last brownie. I had a slow start with a plethora of vowels, but came in with the Z and the Q to win that brownie by a mere 5 points. CH flipped the board in the air and stomped out of the room, cursing, while I ate the brownie in front of him and yelled "QUIZ triple word score, SUCKA!" (Okay, none of that actually happened, but I did win with the Q and the Z. For the record.)
Staples are starting to run low, and it is too cold to go to the general store. Members of the party have started to fight amongst themselves over who will clean the dishes and let the George the Superpet outside. We have decided against getting George the Superpet groomed this month so he can keep his shaggy coat as protection against the cold. When he is curled up in his chair he is starting to look like a Rack of Lamb.
Sunday, January 10, 2010.
The party woke this morning sometime before 10, but no one would get out of bed. George the Superpet taught himself how to use the indoor plumbing facilities. There was a subtle shift in the family dynamic. Without frozen pastry or sugar-coated cereal, I resorted to cutting up refrigerator biscuits and drowning them in sugar, butter, cinnamon and brown sugar and baking the hell out of it in a Bundt pan. I think I shall call it Monkey Bread. We gave the children the last of the orange juice so they could tell their teachers on Monday they had something of nutritional value.
Lunchtime came thirty minutes later. Our camp is out of the staples: Pizza, frozen microwavable items, sugary snacks, salty snacks, and pure sugar. People are fighting over seating areas on the radiators. Blankets are at a premium. Children are bored. I fix chicken wings, and now we are out of unfrozen poultry. Oldest Daughter is a vegetarian, so we give her celery and a peanut butter sandwich.
Dinner. We have to move on to pasta and meatballs. Our bodies are starting to show the symptoms of sugar withdrawal: irritability, chronic fatigue, rifling through the cabinets, and looking for leftover Christmas stocking candy. No one wants to actually go through the grueling process of putting on clothes and outerwear and driving to the general store. The house goes quiet. Eyes are shifting wildly from one party member to another.
Current Husband and Oldest Daughter look sour. Middle Son is being a little salty. Youngest Daughter is looking particularly sweet. Oh. So. Sweet.
RESOLUTION #4: Do not eat the children, no matter how sweet they appear.
Spring cannot come soon enough to the Heartland.
The wagon train has parked. We've picked up the last of the pioneers from school and brought them West to the homestead. We will camp here for the weekend. The temperature is reading at -10, but we know with the accursed wind it is colder. Pizza has been ordered. Netflix has arrived. We will camp here until Monday.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Dawn broke over the horizon, but none of us saw it. We just assume it happened, because by 10 a.m. it was somewhat sunny. While we were loath to get out from under the blankets, George the Superpet was barking to go outside for his morning constitutional. The co-leader of our expedition, Current Husband, yelled from the bed, "SOMEONE LET THE DOG OUT!" and the other members of our party yelled, "WHAT?!" and he yelled louder, "SOMEONE LET THE DOG OUT!" and they replied "HUH? We're not dug out?" and I said, "F@(*&%!!" and stomped out of the room to release the hound.
The last of the Toaster Strudel was eaten by the children while they made the coffee (Important Parenting Lesson: Teach the children early how to make coffee. You'll thank me later). Frozen breakfast pastries were gone, and coffee beans were getting dangerously low. The leftover pizza was eaten for lunch, and chips and salsa were getting below safe levels. The children couldn't seem to stop eating - microwave popcorn, chips, cereal, apples, bananas, it was as though a plague of pre-menstrual mothers was ravaging our kitchen cabinets. George the Superpet kept begging to go outside, and it was discovered that he was going out to eat snow because no one had filled his water bowl in the morning. Accusations were made. Fingers were pointed. The tension was mounting. Could we make it to Monday?
We stayed up late playing Scrabble, with the winner getting the last brownie. I had a slow start with a plethora of vowels, but came in with the Z and the Q to win that brownie by a mere 5 points. CH flipped the board in the air and stomped out of the room, cursing, while I ate the brownie in front of him and yelled "QUIZ triple word score, SUCKA!" (Okay, none of that actually happened, but I did win with the Q and the Z. For the record.)
Staples are starting to run low, and it is too cold to go to the general store. Members of the party have started to fight amongst themselves over who will clean the dishes and let the George the Superpet outside. We have decided against getting George the Superpet groomed this month so he can keep his shaggy coat as protection against the cold. When he is curled up in his chair he is starting to look like a Rack of Lamb.
Sunday, January 10, 2010.
The party woke this morning sometime before 10, but no one would get out of bed. George the Superpet taught himself how to use the indoor plumbing facilities. There was a subtle shift in the family dynamic. Without frozen pastry or sugar-coated cereal, I resorted to cutting up refrigerator biscuits and drowning them in sugar, butter, cinnamon and brown sugar and baking the hell out of it in a Bundt pan. I think I shall call it Monkey Bread. We gave the children the last of the orange juice so they could tell their teachers on Monday they had something of nutritional value.
Lunchtime came thirty minutes later. Our camp is out of the staples: Pizza, frozen microwavable items, sugary snacks, salty snacks, and pure sugar. People are fighting over seating areas on the radiators. Blankets are at a premium. Children are bored. I fix chicken wings, and now we are out of unfrozen poultry. Oldest Daughter is a vegetarian, so we give her celery and a peanut butter sandwich.
Dinner. We have to move on to pasta and meatballs. Our bodies are starting to show the symptoms of sugar withdrawal: irritability, chronic fatigue, rifling through the cabinets, and looking for leftover Christmas stocking candy. No one wants to actually go through the grueling process of putting on clothes and outerwear and driving to the general store. The house goes quiet. Eyes are shifting wildly from one party member to another.
Current Husband and Oldest Daughter look sour. Middle Son is being a little salty. Youngest Daughter is looking particularly sweet. Oh. So. Sweet.
RESOLUTION #4: Do not eat the children, no matter how sweet they appear.
Spring cannot come soon enough to the Heartland.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
It's Whoreticulture Friday! Resolution #3
Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word culture. Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.
Today's topic: Lady Love
I love The Bloggess. I love her rollers. I love her taxidermied hog, James Garfield. I love her ability to use the word f*ck in her blog. (I SAY the word, but every time I try to type it in the blog, the ghost of my deceased Methodist Republican grandmother pours a can of Boraxo in my mouth.)
When I say I love the Bloggess, I feel a little guilty, because I also love Jen Lancaster and Stephenie Meyer and Jane Austen and Thisbe Nissen and Lorrie Moore and Pam Houston. And those are just my writer crushes. What about Chelsea Handler? Gwen Stefani? Julia Roberts? My high school friends? My local posse? These tough questions bring me to my next New Year's Resolution:
RESOLUTION #3: Decide if I am a latent lesbian.
I'm only 18 years and three kids into my relationship with Current Husband, so obviously there is still time to switch teams. And it's not like I don't still love men (other than CH, who is obviously the love of my life, and I am banking on the fact that he doesn't read this blog) ((but if you do, honey, you are still legally bound to me, capiche?)). There is The Edge, obviously, but he's married and I have principles. Gavin Rossdale, also married, and rumored to have been bisexual, so that doesn't help my case. And I do love David Sedaris, but HELLO, he's gay.
How would CH react to this news? Let's harken back to the night I called a friend, only to find out from her husband that she was at a Melissa Etheridge concert. "I let her do her lesbian thing, as long as she doesn't bring it home," he said, to which CH responded, "I have the exact opposite take on that."
I've always been able to understand lesbians. What's not to get? It's two guys together I don't understand.
A night at home with lesbians:
GAL 1: "Let's get in our pajamas and watch A&E's Pride and Prejudice!"
GAL 2: "Okay! I'll get a bottle of wine and some nail polish! Let's do our toes!"
GAL 1: "Can I get you something to eat?"
GAL 2: "Oh, let me get YOU something! You're such a nurturer!"
GAL 1: "No, YOU are!"
GAL 2: "No, YOU are!" Giggles. Wine bottle opening.
A night at home with two husbands:
GUY 1: "Dude, give me the remote, Ultimate Fighting is on."
GUY 2: "I thought you had it. Why don't you look for it and get me a beer."
GUY 1: "Why don't you get ME a beer and some chips."
GUY 2: "We don't have any food. Why don't you go to the store."
GUY 1: "Why don't you go to the store, and show me your tits."
GUY 2: "I don't have tits."
GUY 1: "Why don't you go get some. And find the remote. And beer."
I mean, really. Is there any room for debate here? Although that is more about heterosexual guys. The gay men I know are actually quite lovely, and would watch A&E's Pride and Prejudice and get me a glass of wine. But let's bring it back to me and my issues, because this is my blog and there is nothing latent about my narcissism. Urban Dictionary might refer to this issue as a "lesbi-non" - a straight girl who is into girls, but has yet to come out. Is it so? Could it be?
Nah.
This is fun to talk about, I love to shock my parents, and I needed a topic for Whoreticulture Friday, but really, if CH is behind Door Number One and a woman is behind Door Number Two, I'm going with Numero Uno. A sleepover is fun, but as for knowing someone Biblically? You're Number One, CH! CH? He's sleeping. Nothing surprises him anymore.
I've named my squirrel. I've decided to move to a warmer clime (I am sitting on the radiator). I'm not a lesbian. So far, 2010 has been all about definitive action.
And Edge? I'm just kidding. Call me.
Today's topic: Lady Love
I love The Bloggess. I love her rollers. I love her taxidermied hog, James Garfield. I love her ability to use the word f*ck in her blog. (I SAY the word, but every time I try to type it in the blog, the ghost of my deceased Methodist Republican grandmother pours a can of Boraxo in my mouth.)
When I say I love the Bloggess, I feel a little guilty, because I also love Jen Lancaster and Stephenie Meyer and Jane Austen and Thisbe Nissen and Lorrie Moore and Pam Houston. And those are just my writer crushes. What about Chelsea Handler? Gwen Stefani? Julia Roberts? My high school friends? My local posse? These tough questions bring me to my next New Year's Resolution:
RESOLUTION #3: Decide if I am a latent lesbian.
I'm only 18 years and three kids into my relationship with Current Husband, so obviously there is still time to switch teams. And it's not like I don't still love men (other than CH, who is obviously the love of my life, and I am banking on the fact that he doesn't read this blog) ((but if you do, honey, you are still legally bound to me, capiche?)). There is The Edge, obviously, but he's married and I have principles. Gavin Rossdale, also married, and rumored to have been bisexual, so that doesn't help my case. And I do love David Sedaris, but HELLO, he's gay.
How would CH react to this news? Let's harken back to the night I called a friend, only to find out from her husband that she was at a Melissa Etheridge concert. "I let her do her lesbian thing, as long as she doesn't bring it home," he said, to which CH responded, "I have the exact opposite take on that."
I've always been able to understand lesbians. What's not to get? It's two guys together I don't understand.
A night at home with lesbians:
GAL 1: "Let's get in our pajamas and watch A&E's Pride and Prejudice!"
GAL 2: "Okay! I'll get a bottle of wine and some nail polish! Let's do our toes!"
GAL 1: "Can I get you something to eat?"
GAL 2: "Oh, let me get YOU something! You're such a nurturer!"
GAL 1: "No, YOU are!"
GAL 2: "No, YOU are!" Giggles. Wine bottle opening.
A night at home with two husbands:
GUY 1: "Dude, give me the remote, Ultimate Fighting is on."
GUY 2: "I thought you had it. Why don't you look for it and get me a beer."
GUY 1: "Why don't you get ME a beer and some chips."
GUY 2: "We don't have any food. Why don't you go to the store."
GUY 1: "Why don't you go to the store, and show me your tits."
GUY 2: "I don't have tits."
GUY 1: "Why don't you go get some. And find the remote. And beer."
I mean, really. Is there any room for debate here? Although that is more about heterosexual guys. The gay men I know are actually quite lovely, and would watch A&E's Pride and Prejudice and get me a glass of wine. But let's bring it back to me and my issues, because this is my blog and there is nothing latent about my narcissism. Urban Dictionary might refer to this issue as a "lesbi-non" - a straight girl who is into girls, but has yet to come out. Is it so? Could it be?
Nah.
This is fun to talk about, I love to shock my parents, and I needed a topic for Whoreticulture Friday, but really, if CH is behind Door Number One and a woman is behind Door Number Two, I'm going with Numero Uno. A sleepover is fun, but as for knowing someone Biblically? You're Number One, CH! CH? He's sleeping. Nothing surprises him anymore.
I've named my squirrel. I've decided to move to a warmer clime (I am sitting on the radiator). I'm not a lesbian. So far, 2010 has been all about definitive action.
And Edge? I'm just kidding. Call me.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
It's Resolution Month! Resolution #2
Blow, blow, thou winter wind
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship if feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze thou bitter sky,
That does not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As a friend remembered not.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship if feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
-Billy Shakespeare, "Blow Blow Thou Winter Wind" from As You Like It
Oh Billy, Billy, Billy. I understand that the sting of lost friendship hurts, and is perhaps less preferable to being cold, but DAMN, Bill, it's been zero degrees or less for days and I'm starting to lose feeling in my extremities. Let thy friends break up with me, I want to keep my toes! It must not have been THAT cold in England around 1600 or you would feel me, Bard brother.
I'm used to the cold - this is my 41st Midwestern winter - but it seems like the temperature usually ebbs and flows. Extreme cold one day, a balmy 30 degrees the next. Since around Dec. 20 our weather options are:
- Extreme cold.
- Extreme cold with snow.
- Extreme cold with ice.
- Extreme cold with snow, ice, cold and wind.
It's been so cold, this is how I look (and yes, I've been this bitchy about it):
This is how my superpet George, the dog/horse lounges around:
And Oldest Daughter has been appalled, because these trusty Borns, which were chewed by the dog/horse as a puppy, are my warm and sturdy shoes:
Every morning, if you listen closely, you can hear OD silently praying the van doesn't break down in front of the middle school so I would have to - GASP! - get out of the car in front of a herd of middle schoolers. And then I would break dance. And she knows it. But these shoes are all broken in! And they have the added bonus of being able to get salt and snow on them and I don't care! I can't give them up! I can't! I won't!
By the time March rolls around and it's 35 degrees and rainy it will seem like paradise. But I don't have time to wait for March, so my next resolution is to get the hell out of here.
RESOLUTION #2: Move to a warmer climate.
I'm thinking Finland, Norway, Antarctica, or North Dakota. Anywhere that holds a temp above 32 for sustained periods of time. Where I don't have to wear a bra to bed for fear of cutting holes in the front of my t-shirts. Where a sweater is not considered a "foundation garment". Where my toes stay pink and I can feel them. Where I don't keep drinking coffee, even if I am guppy-puking acid into my mouth, because it is the warmest thing I have. I am going to realtor.com. Right after my computer un-freezes. And then thy friends can visit to thaweth out.
And then Iowa? You will have lost another Heigh-ho.
Monday, January 4, 2010
It's Resolution Month! Resolution #1
It's been a while since Neil Diamond Month and Laura Ingalls Wilder Month, and the blogosphere is going mad with Resolution Fever. As I am always one to blindly jump on the Trend Wagon (see Wolf Shirt), January will be all about my resolutions for 2010. I would love to hear about your resolutions...if any of you have the moxie to do it. (Did you hear that? THUMP. Oh yeah. That was me. Throwin' down.)
Webster's defines a resolution as the act of resolving or determining upon an action or course of action, method, procedure. New Year's resolutions are frequently the act of waking up hungover and bloated and deciding the show cannot go on status quo.
There are generally three camps in the world of New Year's Resolutions:
I am firmly in Club Tres. But what the heck, it's the dawn of a new decade, right? Hope and Change are flowing with abandon, like so much red wine. Perhaps I, too, can be resolute and determined to achieve something this year. I do have a Wolf Shirt, which means I am capable of anything, and I have my trusty stuffed squirrel, whom I have named. See! One resolution accomplished!
RESOLUTION #1: Name my squirrel.
Webster's defines a resolution as the act of resolving or determining upon an action or course of action, method, procedure. New Year's resolutions are frequently the act of waking up hungover and bloated and deciding the show cannot go on status quo.
There are generally three camps in the world of New Year's Resolutions:
- The people who make reasonable, attainable goals and achieve them. I look at these people much like I watch the British Parliament on the BBC or chess tournaments...they look smart, seem to know what they're doing, and they're fascinating, but I don't get it.
- The Resolution Snobs who say, "I never make resolutions, I think they are stupid." These people KNOW they don't have their shit together, but instead of admitting they will fail, they just say, "I'm above it." Very crafty.
- The people who earnestly make resolutions, truly believing they have a chance of really losing that weight or drinking and swearing less or getting organized, and by Valentine's Day they are drunk and weeping into a box of chocolates because they can't find the f*cking water bill.
I am firmly in Club Tres. But what the heck, it's the dawn of a new decade, right? Hope and Change are flowing with abandon, like so much red wine. Perhaps I, too, can be resolute and determined to achieve something this year. I do have a Wolf Shirt, which means I am capable of anything, and I have my trusty stuffed squirrel, whom I have named. See! One resolution accomplished!
RESOLUTION #1: Name my squirrel.
Say hello to my little friend...Todd "Hot Nuts" Epstein!
Thanks to everyone for their help. There were so many great names to choose from, but these components came together the best to represent all that is squirrelly about this crooked-dead-mounted rodent. He is Todd for Bill Murray's character on SNL who gave Gilda Radner's Lisa Lubner Noogies. He is "Hot Nuts" for my brother-in-law at Christmas (Long story.) And he is Epstein because I do have a Beatles theme for all of our pets (the exception being our Yellow Lab, Sugar, God rest her soul, who was named for the Grateful Dead song Sugar Magnolia), and the Beatle's manager and fifth Beatle was Brian Epstein.
Whew. Now that is done. I will celebrate by having an effing glass of wine and a chunk of pumpkin cake while I procrastinate on paying bills because I can't find them. One resolution accomplished, 27 days left in the month. I can already feel the power.
Whew. Now that is done. I will celebrate by having an effing glass of wine and a chunk of pumpkin cake while I procrastinate on paying bills because I can't find them. One resolution accomplished, 27 days left in the month. I can already feel the power.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
