6:05 – wake up, head pounding, throat sore, nose stuffed & running
6:06 – smack alarm blaring bullshit about something by some idiot to some other idiot
6:06-6:15 – snooze
6:15 – smack alarm
6:16-6:20 – stare at ceiling. Contemplate likelihood of boss having heart failure if I call in
6:22 – stumble to bathroom, turn on shower, examine chin for hairs
6:26 – finish plucking chin hairs – seriously, WTF?
6:28 – fish through cabinet for cold medicine, find expired bottle of Severe Cold, take hit
6:29 – Step into shower; scream. Giant dead bug in shower.
6:29:15 - EWEWEW dog eats dead bug
6:30 – 6:45 – shower while suspiciously eyeing drain for more bug-dinosaurs
6:45 – contemplate likelihood of boss firing me for calling in
6:46 – pull random items from dresser. Where the hell did that shirt come from?
6:47 – Damn, I need new panties, no wonder I never get laid
6:48 – why are all the socks white and yet none match?
6:49 – find one flip flop and one slipper. Close enough
6:50 – decide jeans make ass look fat
6:51 – remember ass IS fat; take off jeans
6:52 – discover all pants have shrunk in closet. Blame Global Warming.
6:53 – guzzle several doses of Tylenol Warming Severe Cold
6:54 – mmm, this stuff is tasty! Hit another sip to wash down three NyQuil liquid-tabs
6:55 – I wonder what this stuff would taste like with whiskey?
6:59 – like a melted orange popsicle! SWEET!
7:15 – drop VAMPIREHUNNYNOMNOMNOMNOM off at school
7:17 – Why is everything so swirly today?
7:19 – stop at CVS for more Orange Tylenol Tasty Delciousness
7:20 – CVS doesn’t sell whiskey. By 2 extra bottles of Tasty Yumyum & a curly straw
7:21 – DUDE. Those new laser stop lights are WICKED bright
7:23 – I’m pretty sure that chicken has six eyes
7:26 – Office lights too bright – unscrew all bulbs in office & hallway & throw away
7:35 – call 911 – someone has stolen all the light bulbs
7:542312 – Opficer Glugglug wants me to walk straight line
8_13 – Boss tells FUDDY DUDDY Glugglug that I am not usually naked at work
*:145 – shows what he knows!
8:26 – Promise Ofhisor Glub that I will not drive for 1412087 hours.
8:37teen – rolling chairs and stairs do not mix
8:40 – find tooth
8_90 – actually that was a candy corn
9:16 – Why the hell is it so dark in here?
(-23 – light switch broken, unscrew plate and stick screw driver in switchy bit to check electrically connection whatsit
9:25 – SONOFABITCH
9:43 – crack open new bottle of heaven
10-12 – count dots in ceiling tiles
12:45 – I can see up the paramedics nose
1:00 – sirens are loud WOOOWOOWOOOOOWOOOOWOOOOWOOOWOOO
1:01 – I should move right there is a amblience coming
1:46 – Dr. Nofun says that th4ree bottles of cold tastiness is too many
1:48 – Dr. Nofun claims he did not get medical license from University of Cracker Jacks
1:52 - it’s easy to pants people wearing scrubs
1:53 – wrist restraints? Not as kinky as you might think
2:15 – Hannibal Lector impression does not amuse nurses
2:40 – disappointed to learn cup of jello is not jello shot
2:59 – finally chew through left wristycuffywhtshit
3:10 – out run three orderlies, a nurse, security guard, pregnant lady and large penguin
3:12 – plaid dress has no back
3:13 – leaned you do not sit down in dress with no back, burned waffle pattern in booty
3:45 – seriously, I just need like ONE more dose of tylenloly and I’ll be fine
3:50 – out run cops, drop two bottles of tasty goodness – manage to hang onto 13
4:13 – 5:50 – no idea what happened, but it was Jesus says “Hi, Y’all!”
6:14 – wonder why new tattoo says “SHARK & KIKI 4EVAH”
6:15 – it’s kind of a cute likeness of Jay Leno though
7:59 – how did I get to Reno?
8:15 – I’m pretty sure these are not my socks
9:13 – unable to find currency exchanger to trade Deutschmarks back to pesos\
(9_15 – I mean dollars
9:45 – hail cab, driver only speaks Klingon – me too! America is AWESOME
10:10 – arrive at GreyHound bus depot – hum Mission Impossible theme – hide in baggage area
11:56 – wave good-by to Pablo, Jose, Maria, Conchita, Salvador and Larry
12:-- - back in bed…strangely tired. They should put a warning on that cold medicine.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
6:05 – wake up, head pounding, throat sore, nose stuffed & running
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Of the things I should not have done
Of the things I should not have said
Of the things I should not have felt
You are not one
If I could have been other than I am
If I could have known you other than you are
If I could have altered the path time took
What apology would have been needed?
There is no season for lament
There is no occasion for penitence
There is no latitude for despondence
Love does not regret the price it has paid
Love does not regret the tears it has shed
Love does not regret the hours it has waited
I do not regret you
Monday, August 25, 2008
OMG and then Erin, not my beloved, but the Other Erin, New Erin, wore like the exact same shirt as me! Only hers was green and didn’t have stripes and it was like, shorter, and didn’t have sleeves or a collar and I’m like, OMG we’ve got the same shirt and she’s all SQUEEEE LET’S BE BEST FRIENDS and I’m like, that’s so cool because my other best friend is named Erin and can we have chicken for dinner? But not that kind that I don’t like? The other kind? With the breading? Except not the thick breading, like the crumb kind? Like Nana made that one time? I don’t have any homework, for real, and Jose, the one with the mustache only works on Saturday’s now so I sent him a text to tell him that I wasn’t speaking to him and he said then why are you texting me and I said because it wasn’t me, it was VAMPIRE HONEY and he’s all what? And I’m like that’s my evil twin, GO TEAM EDWARD and OMG! I saw TEAM EDWARD shirts at Hot Topic, PLEASEMOMMMYPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE! Look! I’m making my puppy eyes! WHY AREN’T YOU LOOKING AT ME?
All with out taking a single breath or even slowing down.
But because I am a Good Mother, I always ask “What did you do at school today?” before tuning out. That’s called Interacting With Your Child, people. It’s very important and necessary to their development. So, on Friday, when I picked her up from the YMCA, I inquired firstly, why the hell was she wearing a sweatshirt when it was 110* (because, like GOD, because it’s COOL. It’s got like DRAGONS on it.), secondly, did she use white out to paint her nails? (yes) And it better not’ve been my white out if so (um, I’ll put it back!), and thirdly, what did she do at school. I even sounded interested, apparently, because instead of the usual dissertation on who is dating whom, who is hating whom and which teacher is like, SO MEAN she paused for a moment, head tilted thoughtfully to the side and said
We had a Chuck Norris off. AND I WON! Isn’t that like AWESOME?
Yes, yes it is.
I have never been more proud then to learn my teenage daughter, who in all likelihood has never watched any movie Chuck Norris is in (excepting Dodgeball), was proficient enough in Chuck Norris-ism to win a “Yo Momma” style Chuck Norris off. I mean, this is certainly a reasonable claim to fame, right? What future employer will not be salivating at the mere thought that they are employing the Westland High 2008 Chuck Norris Off winner? That’s like the exact same thing as a Fulbright Scholarship or, say, a perfect SAT score, right?
Maybe she should start practicing her inflection on “Do you want fries with that?” just in case.
Friday, August 22, 2008
So Lorrie is always giving away wicked cool stuff.
I have no wicked cool stuff.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
I don’t have a real blog today, but I do have some crap to tell you.
Yes, I am a real minister. Well, as real a minister as one can be when one is ordained on the internet. I think it’s ironic, too, just so you know.
So, remember how I’m an accountant? And I’m supposed to be good with numbers and stuff? And like totally detail oriented and super anal about deadlines and whatever? Right. So M’s first day of school was this week and I was SO SURE it was Monday, and I got her up and made sure she was dressed and at school on time and I dropped her off, looked right at the sign that says “First day! 8/19!” and then drove out of the parking lot congratulating myself for being like, the ONLY parent on time to the first day of school and then I’m all the way to work and hear an ad for something being “Released TUESDAY 8/19!” and I’m like. Oh. Whoops.
At least I wasn’t 24hrs LATE for the first day of school.
And guess what else? Miss “Got a “D” in Math” is in honor’s math and science this year. She’s pretty stoked about it too. What the hell?
Then, on Monday, I made pizza for dinner and we didn’t eat it all, so while I went to clean out the bathroom cabinet (side note, does anyone need 9 different brands of half used shampoo? Let me know) I left it on the counter and when I came back in the kitchen….gone. Turns out the puppy can reach the counter, so he helped himself and his brothers to a half of a family sized pizza.
For the record, puppy’s get wicked bad pepperoni farts.
I’ve had a headache since last Thursday, it’s making me super cranky.
Took M to the D-backs game last night. Why isn’t baseball more interesting? 3+ hours of watching grass grow and then 5 minutes of the pitcher trying to give the game away. At least it was $8 beer night.
I got my whole face sunburned at Deloris’s bridal shower (I’m her minister….hahaha. Poor girl. Just kidding. My ceremony is going to KICK ass. Especially when the Ninja’s attack and then Jesus pops out of the cake and vanquishes them using the bridal bouquet before joining me in a duet to “Genie in a Bottle” and then delivering a soliloquy about the beauty of marriage, ascending into “Heaven” and lighting the grand finale fire works show that spells out I Heart Matrimony in sparkly pink letters) But now, my face is peeling and that includes my scalp, so it looks like I have a dangerous and possibly contagious case of dandruff. And since I have only two colors of shirts, black to show off the dandruff and pink to accentuate my sunburn, I’ve spent all week looking like a “Don’t” which makes me cranky because when Tim Gunn shows up for tea (I’ve started stalking him since a certain Miss Winfrey got yet another restraining order) he’s going to be so ashamed of me and we’ll never get matching “Make it Work” tattoos and then my life will be over.
I just can’t get ahead. Pretty soon I’m going to be relegated to stalking people no one has ever even heard of. Like the guy who does the Maytag commercials. Although, he IS kind of cute. I bet *he* would appreciate it at least. HE probably wouldn’t even turn the hose on me at 2am when I spell out ‘I heart clean laundry’ with the lint I’ve stolen from his dryer.
See that? Silver lining to everything.
Monday, August 18, 2008
This year is a big year for weddings. I’ll be officiating at my first ceremony in two weeks and I’m pretty nervous that at some point in the service, probably between “Friends, Romans, Countrymen” and “do you take this man”, I’m going to blurt out “FUCK FUCK FUCKEDY FUCK FUCK”. Because I keep thinking “don’t say fuck, don’t say fuck, don’t say fuck” which of course means, I’m going to say fuck. That’s what I do when I’m nervous. I either turn into the bastard child of a thesaurus and an English Lit professor or I let my true colors out and turn into someone Britney Spears would be embarrassed to know.
I doubt that “I’m country, y’all” will appease the bride very much though.
Three weeks after I do my best impression of a Reverend is sister CK’s wedding in NYC. The experience should be a laugh a minute since the Sugar Plum Nightmares ™ are bringing a WHOLE LOT of whiskey. Because that’s what we do.
Two weeks after THAT my boss is getting hitched. In an effort to fit into his suit, he’s given up chew and beer. To keep his wedding night fresh, they’ve gone abstinent. Yes, he told me that. He tells me a lot of things. For example he told me that his lovely fiancé sleeps in the nude. THEN he tells me that he doesn’t sleep in the nude. Because he worries that at some point, on some night, he will scratch his booty and leave a skid mark on the wife’s gorgeous 2000 thread count cotton sheets.
This is not a scenario that ever would have entered into my mind. Seriously. Skid marks on the sheets? So, I do what I always do and run this story by the boys that I know. Sure enough, every single one of them conceded that it was reasonable to be concerned about that occurrence and to always sleep in skivvies.
Then, there is the boy that we’re going to call Mike (because it’s a nice, generic name), and Mike, well, Mikey is the dire warning that all boys would prefer not to be.
“This one time” he tells me “I picked up a chick at a bar. And she was HOT. Smoking hot. Banging bod, great rack, kinda dumb, but good at pool and a she could down some beers. So we’re at the bar, drinking, eating bar food, hanging out and then we go back to her place, right? We um, well, um, anyway and then I’m naked and she’s naked and she’s asleep on my arm, right? And then my stomach starts to rumble and I know I’m going to fart and I don’t want to fart, but you know, I HAVE to, so I do, only it’s NOT a fart, it’s a shart. So I’m laying there, with her on my arm and my asscheeks full of shit trying to figure out how the fuck I’m going to get out of there. Because I can’t just roll over, you know, because then the shit will squish out, but I can’t wake her up either, because you know, then she’ll know I shit myself, so I’m doing this wiggle move (does the wiggle move to demonstrate) trying not to shift the shit or wake her up (still doing wiggle move) and finally I free myself, but then I can’t figure out how to stand up with out sitting up, and anyway, I got shit on her bed. So I wiped my ass, got dressed and got the hell out of there”
I thought he looked familiar.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Basically, gravity and me are not friends. Never have been.
Um, Kiki (I can hear you thinking, you know…it’s my blogging super power) how can you and gravity not be friends? Gravity is wonderful!
You know what? MAYBE TO YOU IT IS.
But YOU don’t have a pepper foot, do you? No, I didn’t think so Mr/s SmartyPants.
Before I start ranting nonsensically about all the many ways gravity conspires against me, I suppose I should just get to the point.
The talented Lorrie was the first person to catch the reference to the Lewis Carroll poem in yesterdays blog, so I told her that she could have a prize and even thought I offered her pocket lint, she elected to take door prize number 2, some Andes mints. Now, Lorrie is a girl from The Big City and she sometimes mocks my quaint Wild West ways (like the letting kids run wild through the countryside/city/neighborhood part and the carrying a revolver everyday part), so I thought “hey! I’ll toss in some hilariously tacky tourist stuff”. Now, as a general rule, with the notable exceptions being maybe the penis gourd or the random life sized foam animals for target practice or maybe that copy of Joe Dirt, I do not have tacky crap at my house. Which meant I had to go and find some at the ghetto mall. Because the dirt mall is closed on weekdays, obviously.
So after taking the picture of the Ostrich skin tiger print elf boots with the sparkly vagina-looking spot on the toes that make it look like the wearer kicked a fairy in the hu-hu,
(note the matching belts & belt buckles!)
I wandered into the “gift” shop.
Typical of all gift shops it was CRAMMED with lovely, lovely treasures. So there I am, picking up and discarding spiders entombed in acrylic, resin “realistic” cow skulls and Kokopelli’s crafted from paperclips, I found JUST the thing I needed. Hot sauce. Better yet, DUMB ASS HOT SAUCE. Oh, yes, that’s its name. Way better than “Kick Ass Hot Sauce” in my opinion. So there I am, delighted with my own cleverness, I grab the bottle and in slow motion watch it fall.
And of course it shatters.
And OF COURSE it sprays my entire leg with hot sauce, coats my foot, fills up my shoes, hoses the lower shelf and begins, immediately to make my eyes water with the overwhelming odor of habanera’s.
And OF COURSE the more schmuck working runs over to see if I am okay, while my husband and his friend laugh their asses off in the corner, because this is, after all, not the first time I have done something to embarrass myself in a mall. So while the poor, skinny, underpaid, solicitous boy begins to mop at my saucy foot and apologize for the rudeness of his picante bottles, my only thought is “SCORE! Blog fodder!”
PS....when you spill hot sauce on your foot, it tingles.
PPS....if it's good hot sauce it will continue to tingle even though you've washed it and showered and it's more than 12 hrs later.
PPPS...if you get it on your hands, DO NOT RUB YOUR EYES even after you've washed your hands 6 times.
PPPPS...I can hear you laughing.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
I was relieved when I did not find you. Because no trace of you existed I could convince myself that you did not exist, that what happened was so long passed that it no longer mattered.
I did not, could not, would not, let it go.
You became a fairy tale monster. Mythic, horrific, contained.
I peered around corners expecting you to jump forth and rip my heart from my chest. I tiptoed through the forest of buildings you used to haunt for fear that you would materialize before me. That like a Jabberwocky, you would always await me, making every road impassable.
I mourned what was lost at the same time I added mortar to the walls of this fortress; bricking myself up one pebble at a time.
All the while with one eye on the looking glass.
I am not sure what I thought I would do if, when, I found you staring forth from my reflection. I believed I would feel anger. That every old hurt, real and imagined would rush righteously back, searing my heart.
Then, at last, there you were.
And I felt nothing.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Here in the desert, school started for most kids last week. But because M goes to private school she’s still got about a week left. Like the epically prepared people that we are, she’s just started her back to school shopping. Because her grandmothers are taking her. I know, SWEET, right? Grandma’s way easier to talk into stuff than mom right?
The text messages regarding this little adventure have flown fast and furious between the Gram’s, M and me.
Mom: Whattt can (M) wear to school?
Mom: Not helpful
Me: You’re welcome
M: MOM pls cn I hv dcs? AND EnV2?
Me: Yes shoes. NO phone
M: Ima B gud ths yr. PRMS
Me: Doubt that
M: UR NOT COOL
Me: That’s my job
Mom: Your kid wears shoes that don’t fit
Me: Good luck with that
MIL: (M) wants to buy school clothes at goodwill?
Hold the phone here, chickens.
This morning, MSN.com is running a lead story about school clothes for kids. They tout this article as being reasonable. So I’m thinking; “Ways to look cool but not break the bank”. I’m expecting to see Target, Steve & Barry’s and places like that. Clothes topping out around $40 per piece, because, let’s face it, 13 year olds are basically giant, slightly more ambulatory 3 year olds. Except messier. And with worse attitudes. And hygiene issues. And messier.
I about spit diet coke like a fountain when I saw their suggestions. Almost $200 for jeans? For someone who is going to write “I heart Nick Jonas" on the knee in about a week. I don’t fucking think so. Especially not in this economy. Inflation is up 8% in just the last quarter and that’s OVERALL. Some things, including cereal & milk are up over 10%, fuel for the car is a lovely $3 PER GALLON MORE than it was 3 years ago, there are 7 houses on my street alone in foreclosure. The jobless rate is at 5.5% and they’re recommending a $100 sweater for a child?
How out of touch can they be? The clothes aren’t even that cute!
It says that she values personality above appearance and understands that anyone can buy a matched uniform of conformity from Macy’s but a TRUE fashionista searches for inspiration in all that she encounters.
Sets the bar WAY low for her allowance too.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Last night, I had a really horrible dream. Not scary, but freaky. I woke up thinking that its message was so completely profound that I just HAD to tell you guys, that our very LIVES depended on my getting this message out to all of you so that we could act now to prevent the calamity that looms in our future.
Then, I completely forgot what it was, so we’re all going to die.
Sorry about that.
So, I’m sitting on the can at work, thinking REALLY hard about what this damn dream was while giving birth to a baby I like to call “Cheesecake Factory Chocolate Raspberry Cheesecake, Jr.” and when I’ve finished my “thinking” I flush the potty and wouldn’t you know it? It clogs.
There I am, watching the “water” creep dangerously close to the lip of the throne wondering if I it would just be easier to quit than have to admit that my giant turd over flowed the crapper. Being the only girl here, it’s not like I could really just walk out acting like it wasn’t me and then hope I didn’t meet anyone in the hall, because if the girl shitter is over flowing there’s really only one person to hold accountable and we all know who THAT is.
And remember how I’m not religious? Well, let me tell you, I prayed for a miracle like I was Saint Mother Theresa visiting starving one legged Calcutta slum orphans infected with malaria.
Dear Lord Baby Jesus, pleasepleaseplease do not let the toilet overflow and splash my pretty red shoes with shit-water. I promise to not consume more than 2000 calories at dinner ever, ever again if you just grant me this one wish, Love, your friend, REVEREND Kiki, ordained November 2007, AMEN.
Then, like Moses parting the poopy sea, the poo-water began its slow decent into the bowels of the municipal sewer system! When the water stopped running, I flushed again and like the true miracle it was, the last of the brackish water disappeared from view and LO, I saw that the poo was gone, and I knew the Lord Baby Jesus had granted my prayers!
Which is why, if anyone needs me, I’ll be at church praying for thin thighs, five million dollars, a never ending supply of designer purses, a closet full of red shoes and world peace.
See? I’m not TOTALLY selfish.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
I am the one that left that twenty clipped to your tarp. I've seen you there before, huddled against the building to keep cool or warm or dry. I have seen the way that you look through me, the same way I am sure that people look through you. I would have stopped to talk to you, but you don't look as though you are interested in my penance so I waited until you disappeared around the corner before I made my move.
I hope that you used it to buy something you needed like a hat or a sandwich, but if you used it to buy a Forty and a dime bag, that's cool too. I wanted to leave you a note to suggest that you call someone. Maybe a friend, maybe your mother. I wanted to tell you that as long as there is someone in the world who remembers what the back of your ears look like when you are fresh from the bath that there is still hope; that as long as there is someone who knows what your laugh sounds like when you are genuinely happy that all isn't lost. But I didn't have any paper so I clipped the bill to the front door of your plastic and pallet board castle and walked away.
After making an astounding $0.10 through advertising on my blog, I’m positively drunk with the thought that I have made actual, real, legal tender with my sparkling wit and hilarious anecdotes.
This means that I’m only about $49,999.90 cents away from making a reasonable living at blogging. So while I’m embracing my dimes worth of love, Kiki can’t live on $0.0003 per day. This leaves me only two options; I need to either produce better quality work or I need more advertisers.
I think we ALL know which of those are more likely to happen.
That’s how I wound up on Amazon.com, which pays you in either Amazon gift certificates or real money. But first you have to set up your Amazon.com associates profile. It’s not too difficult, you just fill in the bits and pieces with your information and I’m going along fine, because I’m a trained professional, people, I can spell my name with out even LOOKING at my driver license.
Just before they cough up the html coding for my side bar ads, they asked me possibly the hardest question I’ve ever encountered.
“Describe your web site in 200 characters”
ARE YOU KIDDING ME?
First off, having to describe this MASTERPIECE of literary genius is hard enough, but what kind of ads do you think;
Foul mouthed, semi-alcoholic neglectful mom who’d rather shop than cook and is allergic to cleaning so thusly enslaves her teenager for the purpose of generating bloggable events for her poorly punctuated website.
Would generate for me? I bet whatever it is, it would be porn though. Possibly midget porn. Which *would* be kind of awesome. But if, GOD FORBID they posted ads for books like “The Queen of Clean” I would NEVER, EVER forgive myself.
Which is why instead I put; I use the F word to blog about stuff.
Hopefully I get porn ads anyway.
Monday, August 4, 2008
I do not believe in washing my car. I’d like to say that it’s for some noble and earth conscious reason, but in truth it’s because I’m mental.
In the four years that I’ve owned The Juice, no one has messed with her. In contrast, my husband’s truck has been broken into twice, run into once and stolen once. Guess which one gets frequent trips to the car wash? In fact, the day they stole it, I’d paid $100 to get it detailed, the day it got hit, it’d been freshly cleaned as well. In my brain, this means that clean truck = bad things. Therefore, The Juice is and will remain filthy. I think it gives her character.
I do, however, try to cull the mess. No one wants to ride around in a dumpster after all, right?
Well, clearly when I say “no one” I didn’t take this guy* into consideration.
On one hand, you have to admire his tolerance for filth, because that can NOT smell good on days when it is 114*. . And what's with the 99c. Store seat cover? If your car is this filthy, are you really concerned about YOUR appearence?
But on the other hand, DAYUM. I need a gallon of Purelle, a Hep shot and a shower from just looking at it!
* Dude. You SO know this car belongs to a guy, because COME ON even the most slovenly of women are bound to draw the line at a seat someone has clearly vomited on.
Friday, August 1, 2008
I know that you all think that I, like the late Coco Chanel, have unerroring good taste and impeccable style.
Except that sometimes, I am less Coco Chanel and more Chanel the Stripper from Single Wide #4. When those times occur, it’s only fair that I hold myself up for mockery just as I have mocked others that sinned against fashion before me.
Because that’s just good blogging, people.
So with out futher ado, I present to you
WHAT I WORE WHEN I DID YARD WORK, BECAUSE IT WAS 110* AND I WAS REALLY, REALLY HOT, EVEN THOUGH I KNEW 1988 WOULD CALL AND BE ALL “YOU’RE TWO DECADES LATE, LOSER”
Doesn't look to bad from that angle does it? I mean, SURE, I'm wearing a visor, with the wrong initials, that I bought a Wal-Mart for a dollar and which has a really sexy sweat ring. SURE I'm clearly wearing a sleeveless shirt and OKAY; I may kind of skipped the gym for like the last week. Or month. Or whatever. Shut up, JUDGERS. Really, though, it isn't that bad.
Well, my pickles, brace yourselves, because it just gets better
Yes, that's right, I'm wearing SHORTALLS. I know. I know, okay? But they have so many lovely pockets for my cell phone, iPod, pruning shears, hair tie and flask. They're like, USEFUL, okay? Like a mechanics jump suit thingie.
And it's not like I'm not wearing a shirt.
Oh. Wait. I wasn't wearing a shirt.
That MIGHT explain why the "ice cream" man made three trips around the block and almost hit the same parked car. Twice.