Hey y’all. So instead of writing PNW’ed today, I nicked off to the wading pool with the girls and Franny’s interesting new friend, who says things like, “I can’t STAND to see a messy bed.” After I said, “You girls worked hard so you should have a snack,” she replied, “But YOU worked the hardest.” She’s EIGHT, y’all. I may be keeping that one.

But I did have time to sit on my can after the girls went to bed and found videos!

Inside Britney’s head

Suddenly I want challah bread

This girl is pwning the fuck out of this guy. Eat crotch fumes.

In OTHER news, my companion has made himself a mint julep, and drank half of it, and reached the “COME MERE AND GIVE ME SOME FNUGGLES” stage in FIFTEEN MINUTES, people. I think he had a rough week. He always calls himself a “light touch” but he means he is a lightweight.

Now he is singing Dire Straits. Don’t tell him I said so, but I think he’s DRUNK.

I am doing laundry. But you know what? I AM DOING IT JOYFULLY. I am a good hosewoof. Hooray, mismatched socks. A challenge.

In Other News

Also, a nice lad from Wales came to the door selling books to pay for his education (so he claimed). My sister began telling my companion the awesome story abut how she and my mom were visited by many lads in the summer with accents, “And you ALWAYS buy the BOOK!” she said. “Because of the ACCENT! But you never actually read the book. But you DON’T CARE.”

“Well, I think I will use these books,” I said. They are cool natural world encyclopedias. People are always all, “The Internets are going to make encyclopedias obsolete,” and I’m all, “BITCH, my kids are going to learn how to use books first, and won’t be allowed to use the Internets until they’re 30 anyways.” We’ve been looking for books like these.

I pried and found out that the guy works six days a week, and like twelve hour days.

“So you are not seeing the city at all,” I said, pryingly. “And you are not old enough to drink here?” He looked at me piteously, yet stoicly. “Call me and we will have you over for drinks. I am SERIOUS. This is a CRIME. Cost of admission is cool stories about places I’ve never been to.” He agreed. I hope he takes us up on it. Because I am BORED, people. My friends are gone. And I am glad for said friends, because they are doing what they should be doing, namely, being as far away from me as possible. But still. Bored. So bored I am entering writing contests. Yug.

And now, whiny. And hating myself for neing whiny.

ANNND, SCENE.

In Other, Other Other News From Brothers From Another Mothers

My sister’s birthday is tomorrow! YES PWNAGE. She is going to Canadia and exercise her legal right to drink responsibly there, now that she’s turning 19, which apparently is a rite of passage for all Northern-bestated youths. I wouldn’t know. When I was 19 I was already married and probably swallowing heroin balloons on my birthday.

I am taking her to breakfast tomorrow at one of my favorite grad school breakfast haunts, which should be dead because school’s out and we’re going early. Hooray!

I have this stuck in my head today. So it’s “Fill in the Blank! Fuck, Yeah!”

ANYWAYZ.

On Friday my sister came to dinner and we ate too much food from House of Crazy and decided to walk afterwards. We wandered and wandered, until we finally realized we were headed to Greenwood, home of the last Fred Meyer in town that is not so big it could swallow you whole. I like to go out with my sister with my tiny jerks in tow, but it was really nice to go off on our own.

We stopped at the really friendly comic book shop in Greenwood, Dreamstrands. I gave up comics when I got married four thousand years ago, because it felt kind of geeky and I felt like I was too old for it. I also felt like I hit the point where I couldn’t find anything I liked. I felt like maybe I should be spending my money on “adult” things, like colostomy bags and bailbondsmen.

When I started dating my fella back in 2003, I was pretty thrilled to see that he had stacks of comics laying around, and I thanked the Giant Head of Brandon Davis that none of them were Captain America, or something like Catrina, Queen of the BoobieMonsters. (To be fair, there was some Fred Perry.) But, he had more “literate” and funny titles, and ones with female protagonists who could see around their breasts. So I’ve gotten sucked back into it. Franny is very interested, too, and sometimes we read Amelia Rules! together.

I always like to see the guy who runs Dreamstands. He is very pleasant, a font of information, and usually has a little bit of that “GIRLS. There are GIRLS in my comic shop” thing going on, which is adorable. I like him. He gave us free movie passes for tomorrow night for Little Miss Sunshine. Woot!

Finally we traipsed over to Le Fred and bumbled around in the cosmetics section. I grabbed a tester can of Sally Hansen “Airbrush tan” and gave my lower left leg the business, to see what it looked like.

“Huh,” I said to my sister. “This stuff’s not showing up.”

“Hmm,” Morgan said, peering at the nail polish.

“Oh, wait,” I said. “This is the stuff that lasts a week. Shit!” I thought it was the instant stuff that washes right off.

“It says you’re supposed to blend it,” my sister said helpfully.

“But then I’ll have it on my hands. Crap.”

“Well, you are not supposed to wash yourself for six hours, so you can scrub your leg when you get home,” she said.

“Great. I are so dumb.”

Of course I forgot to wash my leg. And of course this stuff is bimbo-scented, so I got to taste bimbo scent as I walked around all night. When I woke up the next morning, I had the most interesting orange pattern on my leg, as if Lindsay Lohan had snuck in the middle of the night and humped my poor calf whilst it innocently slumbered.

Fake Bake: 1
SJ: 0

God, that turkey looks good. Now I want to go to Marie Callender’s tonight and get their roast turkey meal which is disgusting and delicious all at the same time and never has enough cranberry goo so you have to ask for more. I love Thanksgiving in July, especially when it’s 55 crapping degrees here. I am having special issues today. I just asked my fella to make me a peanut butter and bacon sandwich. I have PMS. Somebody please kill me. Or feed me. Whichever.

My consolation prize for my orange leg and my PMS-pica is my NEW BOYFRIENDS! How I love them. Back off, Ladies, they’re MINE.

Chapter One: Dyeing in Haste; Repenting in Leisure

I walked into my local punk rock barber shop to get some more dye and bleach to do away with these dag-assed two inch roots I was rocking, and I discovered they were out of bleach. How much to do my roots, I wondered to the stylists, who were sitting around bored on a slow Sunday.

“Fifty dollars,” said the colorist in residence. Holy shit. That’s a lot of lettuce. But I was pretty desperate. And I hadn’t had any color work done for like, ten, years, so I felt like I would give it a try. I made arrangements with my Companion to take the little Mitten away with him to finish errands and pick me up in an hour. Sweet. Just me and a magazine.

My friend Supa has been doing my hair for so long that I am completely spoiled. This woman took twice as long as Supa does, and does not appreciate the importance of the hairline. Bleach freaks want a fresh start with a completely Draco Malfoy-ed hairline.

So I guess I won’t be doing that again. I paid fifty clams for a sloppy bleach job, and twenty dolla for two bottles of dye. Normally I pay the twenty for dye and then ten for a box of DIY bleach kit, for a forty dollar savings.

The advantage was that she used volume 20 bleach, so my scalp doesn’t feel burned today. I should have had her dab on a little more up front as I was leaving, for the road. Ah well. It turned out fine with color on it, as you can see below.

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