I don't care how much you love someone, how long you've been together or how many bodily fluids you've swapped- having someone breathing their skanky-assed middle-of-the-night "look how well I'M sleeping" breath in your face when you've been wide awake for three hours is just plain rude.
That's o.k though, I had homemade white-bean chili tonight and I am feeling gassy. I would never dream of farting in your presence when I'm awake, but I will take great pleasure in knowing that i will probably be toot-toot-tooting away happily in my wine-induced slumber.
Smell that, sleepy boy.
Sunday, February 4, 2007
Remind me again, how cold IS a witch's tit?
I am wearing pajamas. Still. All day now.
Actually, I took a shower & changed into new jammies about an hour ago.
I even ran to the Holiday Store for magazines wearing said outfit.
Don't care.
People and Glamour were calling my name and my motorized bitch/car had a fresh jump (too cold to go & get a new battery- I can wait). When I need magazines, I need magazines.
I usually make fun of people that do this, and in fact I did just that yesterday at lunch at Punch Pizza with some douchebag that was wearing obvious jammy bottoms (thin cotton, striped, drawstring waist) and a pastel sweatshirt. But, c'mon, running to your local ghetto gas station in said outfit is fine- if not expected- but going to lunch & ordering a bottle of wine seems a big enough event to PUT PANTS ON for christ's sake. If I go through the trouble on a -20 degree day to put a bra and reasonably good jeans on, I don't want to see your ugly, lazy ass with your dingle-dangle rolling around in your kleenex-thin pants while I'm trying to eat my Vesuvio pizza and drink my Saturday afternoon glass o'vino.
I may need a Sunday-evening glass to help erase that memory.
Or two.
Actually, I took a shower & changed into new jammies about an hour ago.
I even ran to the Holiday Store for magazines wearing said outfit.
Don't care.
People and Glamour were calling my name and my motorized bitch/car had a fresh jump (too cold to go & get a new battery- I can wait). When I need magazines, I need magazines.
I usually make fun of people that do this, and in fact I did just that yesterday at lunch at Punch Pizza with some douchebag that was wearing obvious jammy bottoms (thin cotton, striped, drawstring waist) and a pastel sweatshirt. But, c'mon, running to your local ghetto gas station in said outfit is fine- if not expected- but going to lunch & ordering a bottle of wine seems a big enough event to PUT PANTS ON for christ's sake. If I go through the trouble on a -20 degree day to put a bra and reasonably good jeans on, I don't want to see your ugly, lazy ass with your dingle-dangle rolling around in your kleenex-thin pants while I'm trying to eat my Vesuvio pizza and drink my Saturday afternoon glass o'vino.
I may need a Sunday-evening glass to help erase that memory.
Or two.
Friday, February 2, 2007
Fuck you, Mr. Goodwrench
My car wouldn't start today.
She's a cranky bitch, my sexy-yet-elderly mode of to & fro.
Yes, it's -20 windchill and that's to be expected with my oldish car, whom I love as if she were a beloved 3-legged dog with mange. She is physically deteriorating and looks like she has a bad case of puberty acne, but she's paid for (for a while now) and usually doesn't let me down.
I feel kind of trashy and poor though, trying to get her started. All my neighbors can hear me trying over and over, thinking if I just stroke the steering wheel just right...
Why is it that though I possess (in no particular order): very good job, nice house, great moral barometer/husband, good shoes, friends, etc... yet when I am in a situation like this (generally car-related) I feel like I need to git' on back to the trailer to join my baby's daddy for some malt-liquor-swillin' hee-haw-style humpin?
Actually, come to think of it, that would be way more fun than work.
And it is Friday...
Trashy is as trashy does.
She's a cranky bitch, my sexy-yet-elderly mode of to & fro.
Yes, it's -20 windchill and that's to be expected with my oldish car, whom I love as if she were a beloved 3-legged dog with mange. She is physically deteriorating and looks like she has a bad case of puberty acne, but she's paid for (for a while now) and usually doesn't let me down.
I feel kind of trashy and poor though, trying to get her started. All my neighbors can hear me trying over and over, thinking if I just stroke the steering wheel just right...
Why is it that though I possess (in no particular order): very good job, nice house, great moral barometer/husband, good shoes, friends, etc... yet when I am in a situation like this (generally car-related) I feel like I need to git' on back to the trailer to join my baby's daddy for some malt-liquor-swillin' hee-haw-style humpin?
Actually, come to think of it, that would be way more fun than work.
And it is Friday...
Trashy is as trashy does.
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