just some blurbs

Peace is mine today as J is home. Recently there has been a large gap of many many miles betwixt us; I’m joyous to report that said gap was closed when he returned from work. My heart twas all jumpity and I flung myself into his arms. I proclaimed my love for him, then my hate, then my love, then I flung a chaise lounge at him, then I told him again he is my true love.

Footlong is having an enjoyable Summer weekend. He has been watching cartoons on our media viewing screen whilst snacking on pitas stuffed with spinach, Limburger cheese, pickled herring, and capers. Eat anything and everything he does! A bit of creativity was ours today as we embarked on an art project! Footlong, given scissors and markers, set out to redecorate his bedroom! Wondrous drawings adorn his walls presently and he also turned his Versace kids comforter into a cardigan. He then built proceeded to build a Blu Ray player out of a bra, toenail clippers, a strand of Christmas lights, 6 AA batteries, and a feather duster.

6-inch is growing. And babbling. Like a brook. A beautiful brook. That babbles. He is constantly on my hip and I catch myself wondering why I feel like I have a 22 pound tumor given my propensity for severe medical problems and I get all excited then look down and realize it is my youngest babe on my hip. At that moment I feel both love for him and disappointment that medical drama is not mine today. Mostly love though. Really. I swear. I am in charge of brushing his MST*  (*many small teeth) which is so hard. I don’t curse, except for when I do, but if I did curse, which I will, I’d say that he needs to step up his game and brush his own fucking teeth. It really detracts from my computer, phone, and iPad time. And then he wants to eat. Again. And then urinates and defecates in his disposable….er….cloth diaper. After caring for him I’m only getting a good 14 hours a day online at best.

Tomorrow is Fathers Day! I am grateful to J for giving me two sweet male babes. That said, I’m getting on a plane tonight to go to Antarctica and won’t be back for three weeks so I told him he has to watch the boys, cook, clean, etc. I’m doing humanitarian work with the The Human Fund. For the native Antarcticers. To bring them the word of God. And fresh drinking water. And murals. You can enter to do a live Skype chat with me and the poor Antarctic people I’m going to help; to enter leave me a comment telling me how wonderful, selfless, and God-like I am and all the ways that I am better than you. After you comment make a $1000 donation to The Human Fund via my PayPal account, and then I’ll chose a winner.

Still can’t wait to tell you about my good news! And there may be some bad news too. I don’t know if I want to blog about it. I probably will. But I may not. It’s weighing on my heart. Perhaps I will later. Perhaps I won’t. I dunno. I’m decidedly undecided. But hopeful. Buoyed by my family. And strong.

I’m off to Sears to return a faulty chainsaw. I tried shaving my bikini area and it crapped out. Again, I don’t cuss, except for when I do, but if I did cuss, which I will, I’d say that fucking thing just couldn’t cut it. Literally. I have a dream that one day I will find an implement to shave my bikini area.

This is a badly written piece of fiction. My bikini area doesn’t need a chainsaw. The Human Fund is from “Seinfeld.”

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12 thoughts on “just some blurbs

  1. Snort, this is so hilarious, especially after Jm's cryptic post today. I love hearing about all the structures that Foot long builds, and all his engineering accomplishments! I hope the Antarticans are grateful to be graced with your presense! I hope to skype with them (and you) once you arrive!

  2. Skirts, I don't know where I come up with this stuff. Seriously. I've always been good at improv; in this case I sit down, think about the main points I want to hit (shaving the bikini area, Footlong's accomplishments, the distance between me and J), and it just comes out. They were out of weed whackers, btw, so I just picked up an electric sander; we'll see how that does.

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