Last week, Rich bought the Fatboy Slim Greatest Hits cd and it’s been in my skull ever since. It has been a soundtrack for driving, typing, running, and pretty much all aspects of my day. I highly recommend it and it is providing the framework for my lengthy update. It actually says on the cover "includes Weapon of Choice, Praise You and tons of songs you've heard in movies." Any album with Christopher Walken making kitty paws on the cover is worth every penny.
Funk Soul Brother, check it out now
My older brother recently broke up with his girlfriend of five plus years and it’s been hard on him. It’s frustrating for me as well, because I think my brother is awesome and want him to be happy, but I know I’m pretty biased about the whole thing. I also know my brother is a bit of a weirdo and not your average guy, so it can be hard to deal with all of his quirks. A recent example would be that he found a particular floor lamp that he liked at Target on sale but wanted to build a taller one by Frankensteining two together. So he bought 20 of them. I told him that maybe he’ll meet some nice girl at Target and she can get him an employee discount. So if you’re interested in a 6’ 5” balding electrical engineer with a fetish for collecting stuff and a heart of gold, just let me know.
Everybody needs a bosom for a pillow, everybody needs a bosom
My spring cleaning seems to happen mostly in the fall. This past Friday night was “socks and underwear night.” I bought 22 new pairs of underwear and 18 new pairs of socks. It was incredibly satisfying to make a giant pile of all the novelty socks and ratty undies to throw away. But all his purging has brought to light my lack of bras. I am a victim to Victoria’s Secret and no other bra will suffice. I tried on nearly a dozen bras over the weekend and they were all horrible. At one point I accidentally put back on the bra I wore into the store and thought, “oh, finally, one that actually feels good!” Oh. So I’m doomed to $40 bras from a store that generally annoys me with its advertising. Curse you, Victoria!
This the house that funk built (I see you baby - shakin’ that ass)
There’s a new house under construction only 1.2 miles from our current house (I measured) on which I have a bona fide heart-throbbing crush. I feel like I’m 16 again, only instead of driving past the house of a boy I’m pining for, I’m just pining for the house hoping it will notice me and ask me out if I drive past it enough times. The double-wide driveway, the walk-in closets, the island in the kitchen, the large yard, and the front porch are all taunting me. And just like driving by that boy’s house in my youth, going by the house and not calling it home makes me more upset than before I even knew the house existed.
After I get home to my own house with the dog fur tumbleweeds and the tiny little rooms and the tiny little closets, I become incredibly mopey. I curl up in the only piece of furniture not covered in cat hair and moan about how all the nice houses are either occupied by people who will never move or die and all the other houses are a billion dollars and stupid and ugly and how we’ll be stuck in our post-it note yellow house forever.
But Rich did some advanced house cleaning with me over the weekend, and we bought some new cabinets to store some the random crap scattered around, so I’m feeling a bit better about it all for the moment.
And the sign said long-haired freaky people need not apply
We’re going to an SCA event this weekend that originally I was really looking forward to, but have run out of time and energy to do all that I had hoped to accomplish before showing up. So again, my fun on Saturday is dependent on a shitload of work for weeks and weeks and weeks beforehand. Maybe my mood will improve before we get to the campground five hours from home at 2am.
slash dot dash dot slash dot dash dot slash dot dash dot slash dot com
This is going to be a very long week at the office. It’s only Monday and I’m already exhausted. It’s just the combination of 894732 things coming to a head all at the same time. Two systems need testing at the same time, two completely different groups of folks are visiting for meetings, and I’ve got to train a site on something I’ve forgotten how it works myself. But hell, I’ve got until 2pm tomorrow to figure it out again, right? How bad can it be?
I’d like to celebrate you baby; I’d like to praise you like I should.
Rich rocks. He cleans the litter box almost exclusively and for this he should get a medal. He doesn’t do it because we made some deal or because I traded that for mowing the lawn. He just cleans the box because he loves the kitties and it needs to be done. While I’m not going to give him a parade and it doesn’t earn him blow jobs, I’m truly appreciative of it. I feel appreciated too and that makes for a happy house. So yeah, he may actually get blow jobs for cleaning the litter box, but there’s not a strict if X, then Y sort of formula for it. Rich always says “don’t use sex as a weapon” and the same is true for kitty litter. Or as Fatboy Slim says ... Umpin and bumpin’ and thumpin’ and bumpin’
And and and and and and and and and
