“Just one more? Please can’t we watch just one more?” I beg. “No Mummy. We’ve already watched three episodes. You’re done,” says Rissa. I look over to David forlornly. He shrugs. “The kid has spoken. It’s bedtime for Bonzo.” I throw myself across their laps, wailing in dissatisfaction. They are unmoved. As I am lying…
On the plus side? I’m 46 years old and still alive. If this were the Middle Ages, I’d be dead already, or close to dead, or, at the very least, a great-Grandma, with incredibly saggy boobs because they didn’t have proper brassieres back then. On the minus side? The part of my brain that is…
“Heather, what do you want for… HOLY CRAP!!!” says David as he sticks his head behind the shower curtain. He’s reacting to the shower wall, upon which I have left all the ‘extra’ hair from my head. And by ‘extra’ hair, I mean the hair that I regularly lose when I wash my hair. “Are…
WARNING: There will be foul language in this post. MOTHERFUCKING DWARVES.* I’m sorry, but… REALLY… REALLY?!? I’m sure that the lining of my uterus is chock-a-block with rich mineral deposits which can be sold at a premium on the Disc World, but I would just like to state for the record that I did…
“So what did you do in school today?” “We had a work period in English.” “Journal entries for your ISU?” “Yep.” “Oh, and in Geography we got to watch a video.” “What kind of video?” “A video about sewers. It’s called Crap Shoot.” “Seriously?” I burst into laughter. “Madame showed you a video about sewers…
Minuit, the oldest and most crotchety of our cats has a predilection for lap dances. Not the pervy receiving of… it’s not like she’s hanging around at the Brass Rail with $5 bills in her paws, waggling her eyebrows at the dancers. This cat, this 6 year old, overweight feline… she gives a kick-ass, albeit…
I’ve never been a real eyeshadow kind of gal. My eyelid landscape is less pastoral and more one bedroom walk-up. Sure, in my late teens, I went all out with the blue eyeliner and shadow, but lately, I’ve stuck mostly to some eyeliner on my upper lids. If I’m heading out for something fancy, something…
“Oh God… gag… gag… BLECH… shudder “What? What is it?” David asks from upstairs. “Putting molasses on top of peanut butter toast doesn’t help,” I say. “Anne-Marie was wrong.” I shudder, still gagging, as I begin to scrape the molasses layer off of my peanut butter. gag… gag… Two days ago, when I was complaining…
Blergh. “You okay?” I don’t even want to admit what I’ve done. “Fine. I’m fine.” David’s eyebrows raise. I’m sitting on the sofa in our petite grande room. I have a Rusty Nail in one hand and cheap-ass Christmas romance collection in the other. “I might have eaten bad things,” I mumble. “Pardon me?” “grumble……
We are in the Men’s Outerwear department at Sears. (David has finally abandoned his attempts to zip up his existing jacket with an XL paper clip.) “This one. This one is good.” David holds up a long, black parka. “You haven’t tried it on yet.” “Yes, but it LOOKS good. Good hood, good pockets…” David…