1) Explanation/Apology?
Hey jerks, what’s poppin? Oh, me? I moved, and it almost destroyed my will to live. It turns out that A.) twelve Diet Cokes a day is actually not the same as exercising, and B) we have more stuff now than when we moved in. Actually, I’m just kidding. I’m only drinking EIGHT Cokes a day. And I thought that taking vigorous walks with the baby strapped to my back would be enough to help me move our cryogenic chamber and my great-grandfather’s tomb, which I should really stop moving and just throw up on ebay, but whatevs. I were so tired and busy chasing my little fuzz-muncher that it took days just to get the computers plugged back in. Now I can go back to my very important work as the Vice-President of the Leifettes.
Anyway, can I tell you that I just had an erotic dream about a squash instructor? I was talking to my friend yesterday about being in goo-goo teenager love with someone, which made me think about making out with people, which lead to my brain forcing me to make out with an incredibly hot squash instructor on a layover in Scranton. My brain’s pretty good to me, except when it says, “Hey. Are you sure you locked that door? Maybe you should check again. How about one more time? If you check seven times you can be sure it will be locked.” Or, “You should probably make the lead singer of that Spanish heavy metal band give you head, even though he looks scared of you.” THANKS a LOT, BRAIN.
B) Capitalist Freakout
So now we are having fun buying things to fill up the empty spaces here. Strudel eats it seventy-thousand times a day on the wooden floors, so buying a rug for the living room is a top priority.
Yesterday:
Me: “So I’m at Fred Meyer, and I know we said that we were going to IKEA this weekend, but I found a rug here, and it’s the perfect size and color, and it will fill up the space really well, and it has a cowboy lassooing a steer on it…”
Companion: “NO.”
Me: “Man, I have no bars in here. I don’t think you heard me. There’s a cowboy rug….”
Companion: “NO.”
Me: “DAAAAMNIT.”
I need to charge first and ask questions later. The cowboy rug could have had fights with my black velvet bandito painting and I just know that if I go back there today it will be snapped up. WEEP!
C. And Now She’s a MILF, Am I Right?
Franny’s dad, the vainglorious and ignoble Seattle Federline, has brought forth another spawn unto this poor world to carry on his legacy. It’s another girl, which is kind of a shame, because the most current research shows that sociopathy is carried through women.
One of the moms at Franny’s school dropped by my house (I now live so close to her school that this is freaking Wisteria Lane) and told me that That Poor Woman took one look at the whelp and declared that it was a “Frances.” SeaFed claimed that they had never considered that name, and that he had never thought of it before.
“That’s funny,” I replied. “Frances was on the short list to be “Franny’s” name.” The mom got a kick out of that. The fact that “Frances” was a contender for “Franny’s” name is the reason I call her Franny when I write about her. Ah, well. When I was married to him, he couldn’t remember what he had had for lunch by eight o’clock. Sometimes I wish had the gift of forgetfulness. You may absolve yourself of your own sins through the Power of Bumbling.
I sent Franny a bunch of tulips to congratulate her, and she sounded pleased. She said she’s keeping them on her dresser.
D) Destroy All Humans!
Finally, big ups to my companion, who insisted I go downstairs and WRITE SOMETHING, and even brought me eggs and hot tea. Strudel is standing at the top of the stairs shouting at me, because she can hear me clickity clicking. WUV companion, who can sense what needs to be done so that my brain doesn’t melt, turning me into a momomaton.
