So…this week has been totally bor-ring. Uneventful. Pretty much…blah. So basically, I got nothing to write about. Seriously, I think I just fell asleep typing those sentences. Yep, there’s drool on my face. And…lemme check. Uh huh, a little on my shirt.
So let me think for a second.
Oh, I cleaned my kitchen yesterday. And apparently I’m very selective—i.e. lazy—about this, because when I stuffed my broom under the chair by my refrigerator, out came a bunch of yuck. With a dead spider stuck in the center like it was wrapped inside a lint cocoon. And the spider had a red stripe on its back, which made me sooo glad it hadn’t crawled toward me or my children while it was still alive. Because I’m certain if it had chomped onto any of us, we’d currently be slithering up the sides of buildings using only our fingertips as guides. With red masks on our faces. With white, webby junk shooting out of our wrists. And then I’d have to clean that up, too. No thanks.
Next time, I’ll just leave the crap under the chair.
Normally I work two or three days a week, but because lately teachers are calling in sick at record rates, I’ve worked every day this month. I’ve had just about enough of it. Work stinks. Work is worthless. Except for the paycheck (and the kids, whom I l-o-v-e). Which kinda makes it…not worthless. But only three weeks until summer, so I think I can make it. I’ll letcha know in a couple weeks. But if you see me walking through my neighborhood in a robe, fuzzy slippers, and carrying a textbook, you’ll know I cracked. Lost it. Went nuts. So just drive the other way. But before you go home, swing by a coffee shop and buy me a latte. You can hand it to me real fast and keep driving. Throw it at me if you’d like. But if you choose to stop, I promise not to start babbling unintelligibly about math and broken pencils and vacations to Fiji. Swear on my life.
But could someone please take me to Fiji??
Anyway. Moving on.
My cat has never been fatter, and I’m not kidding. Like, when I was pregnant a few years ago, I remember she put on some sympathy pounds (which was nice, since my husband stepped up his jogging routine around that time and LOST weight. I’ve never forgiven him for it. And I won’t until he starts two-fisting some Snickers bars, pronto.) But the cat is out of control. This is beyond being able to pinch an inch or two. Every morning she walks into the kitchen and whines. And begs. And pounces on my head to threaten me for food. And it doesn’t matter that her bowl is already full. She wants it straight out of the bag, because apparently that’s where the good stuff is. And she eats it fast, then throws up half, then plops down in the center of the only strip of light coming through the living room window. She is fat. And she is lazy. And she is happy.
And what they say is totally true. Pets really do tend to turn into their owners.
Oh. Oh! Jessica Simpson. We’ve GOT to talk about this. Maxwell Drew? For a GIRL? Were all the feminine names already taken in her family? In a delirious bout of sleeplessness, did she reach for her third cup of coffee early one morning and think, “I love my Maxwell House. I know! I’m gonna name my daughter after it!” And Drew? Really?
Let’s consider this for a moment. Let’s say that I’m married to my husband (which I am) and we break up (which we’re not. Why? What have you heard?). Fast forward a few years and I have a baby (which I won’t. Ever again. I’m Done. Finished. Stop asking me about it.) Wouldn’t it be a teeeeennnsy bit weird if I named my daughter after my ex-brother-in-law? Wouldn’t it make you go, “hmmmm?” Or at the very least think, “Well, that’s kinda odd.”
My younger sister posed this scenario to me, and I tend to agree. I mean, if my ex-husband (again, only hypothetical) named a baby after HER I would be so ticked. I mean, if he wanted to name a kid after someone in his ex-family, it darn well better be me.
Though I guess if Jess had named her baby Maxwell Nick Lachey, things might have been a tad uncomfortable on the home front. So next time, Jessica, stick with a girl name. A normal one. Like Apple. Or Shiloh. But for the love of sweet daughter’s everywhere, please dress her in pink.
One more thing: The Voice is down to four, and I’m having a hard time deciding on a favorite. But I think I’ve narrowed it down to Opera Dude and Rocker Chick. And of course, Adam Levine. Who could star in the whole dang show by himself and still get me to watch every week. I’d vote for him for sure.
So…that’s about it. Lots and lots of exciting things going on around here.
It’s a glamorous life, and someone’s got to live it.
‘Til next time—