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giant balls of ice
sometimes they fall from the sky
and then hurt your car
Check it… the wee one is quite pleased we had "pop rocks" tonight. He doesn’t mean the kind that explode in your mouth. He means the kind that explode car windows. (Our car windows are OK, though. Whew.)
a spike in my eye
alan thicke makes me wish this
over and over
I am so cranky it’s become comical. I grumble, I grouse, I accidentally trip on things. My clothes are ill-fitting and my showerhead still sees fit to attack me.
It’s mid-April and it was 104 today. I shan’t need to explain why this made me cranky.
I had to file an extension for my taxes.
My Old Navy doesn’t carry maternity clothes, thus there are no tank tops big enough to fit my gargantuan tummy. Though it is legal to go topless in Austin, it is not legal for me to go topless in the suburb where I live, meaning I must find tank tops that fit my gargantuan body.
I am out of Cheetos.
secret easter tryst
in dark closet, exploring
stolen bunny cake
easter day madness
non-stop talking, darting eyes
j. beans laced with meth?
pink spiral slices
ignore all Wilbur questions
eat very quickly
very many dyes
very, very many eggs
that no one will eat
helpful note for you:
deformed, trunk-melted bunny
faster than bullet
able to leap tall buildings
when toilet is near
I was thinking of getting these
flashcards postcards to help with potty-training and then I remembered we’re done with potty-training. Maybe someone else out there would like to give them a whirl.
The Wonder Woman one may spark some interesting conversation, but really, when is it too early to have the transgender chat with your kid?
here’s your opening
to make (lame) excellent joke
I just tried to type in http://www.bloglines.com and instead I typed in http://www.blolines.com.
Are the 80s that distant in everyone’s memory that no one can pay $4.95 for a URL and harness the internets for an extremely lame joke that might or might not include having a header created by a font that is made of lines of fake coke? And this URL could possibly satirize bloglines by allowing people to subscribe to other illegal-drug-based-misspelled URLs like http://www.crackbarrel.com and http://www.harrypot.com?
Wouldn’t that be funny?
No it probably wouldn’t be that funny.
To the person who found this blog by searching for "burnt orange satin sheets" I just want to say:
And if you find some let me know.
Also, if you find some, watch out for late-night electrocutions and the wily fingers of those who may share your sheets.
I was digging around under my bathroom sink the other day, searching for some shampoo (because the Redken shampoo I bought, which was supposedly for curly hair, really just made my hair flat and non-shiny and smelling like a dude at the airport with a pop-collared polo shirt and at least four technology devices hanging from his belt).
I found a sample of Suave for Men Plus Conditioner and a sample of baby shampoo, both of which worked just as badly as the expensive Redken stuff, but smelled considerably better.
More importantly, I came across my collection of Bath Gels of Horrors Past. They were in the dank back corner of the cabinet, lined up like stoic multi-colored ghosts. Of course, I couldn’t resist taking them out and morbidly smelling each one. With each sniff these awful, formerly dulled-by-time memories came rushing back to me.
Yellow lemongrass – first miscarriage
Blue lavender/mint – second miscarriage
Grapefruit – laid off
I had no idea that a) in a depressed state, I always buy bath gel (or someone buys it for me) and that b) I keep them like little tombstones.
I know I should throw them out. They’re getting old and I’m allergic to most of them. (Though they may smell good, bath gels are typically not worth the burning and peeling side effects I enjoy.)
Something won’t let me toss them, though. These memorials to past grief also make me feel better in a weird way. That I can chronicle my joblessness and fertility through Be Well bath gel is strange, but helpful. My bath gels show me how far I’ve come in the past few years; my little monuments to sadness actually fill me with gratitude. How mushy is that?
One day I’ll throw them away. But not yet. Until then, I’ll keep them in the back of my under-sink cabinet – a memorial to bad times and a reminder of how quickly things can get better.