Heat of the Moment

Due to the fabulous margarita-melting temperatures we have had around here lately (103, 104, 105) I have had occasion to hear some interesting hyperbolic similes, metaphors, and other creative figures of speech to describe the severity of the heat -

Hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk.  I have not personally tested this culinary method, though my family has been known to make “dashboard pizza” a few times. Besides, I don’t even like fried eggs.  And is there BACON??????????????

Hot enough to make you sweat like a whore in church.  My first impression of this phrase caused me to wonder if the whore was wearing a hat!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Hotter than blue blazes.  This one has been uttered frequently by MyPoolBoy – I am not really sure if it means anything in particular, other than perhaps a vague reference to the blue portion of a flame that is heavily dependent on an oxygen-rich environment and low soot emissions.  And it is usually temperatures that are in the multiple-hundreds so this is inaccurate also. (Wikipedia- did you seriously think I knew that sh1t off the top of my head?)

Hotter than Hell.  This one has given me more than one moment of pause for reflection and consideration.  Hell.  Really?  Several points to this claim are flawed.   I suppose they could mean Hell, Michigan, which I generally think of when it gets really cold and folks send around pictures of the signpost with icicles hanging of of it to show that Hell froze over.




Taking into account that the typical high temperature for Hell, Michigan during the month of June  is in the 80’s according to weather.com then following THAT logic, one can, in fact, claim that it is hotter than Hell.

If they are referring to the Hell that, as children in Vacation Bible School we learned is “down there,” then maybe Hell is in Australia.  Maybe Perth.  The record high temperature in Perth, Australia is  115 degrees.  In which case I would have to argue that it is NOT hotter than Hell if Hell is “down there.”

Variants that I have heard are hotter than Hades and hotter than the hammered-down hinges of Hades. (Or Haiti?  Maybe they said Haiti.)  This makes me think that we’re talking about a mythological “underworld” which would be located somewhere in the vicinity of, oh, the molten iron inner core of Earth.   9800 degrees. And we are NOT hotter than THAT because it would cause face-melting like the Nazi dudes in Raiders of the Lost Ark after they looked in the Ark or spontaneous human combustion or some other Ripley’s Believe or Not sh1t like that! Following this logic, we could not be hotter than the hammered down hinges of Hades because in order for a hinge to withstand such heat it would have be able to to be hotter than  9800 degrees to maintain its shape and integrity to be hammered down enough in order to keep its occupants in their rightful places.

See?  That’s the price you pay for sinning you sinful sinner!  Just look at this whole heat wave as training and conditioning for later. And go get me another margarita.

Nonaward

To all my fellow TAKS-grade teachers at our campus - I am so sorry none of us got a "fun" award at the ceremony on Friday. As the glorious certificates were passed out one by one, it became sadly apparent that we had forgotten to have "fun" these last few weeks. We all shook our heads and clucked our tongues and repeated our never-failing mantra, "We don't have time because we teach TAKS." Perhaps it was the overwhelming pressure of the test that kept us from publicly ridiculing each other. Maybe we just couldn't think of anything creative and cute because teaching in a testing grade sucks all the creativity out of you. (The Martha Stewart Award? - DEFINITELY none of us!) It could be possible that we were so busy hi-jacking the potluck luncheon with pizza delivery that we didn't really give a sh1t about receiving an award. Since we were remiss in recognizing each other for our accomplishments such as Glee Club, Verbal Abusiveness, Hasselhoff Interpretive Dance, or Hot Flashes, I have come up with one blanket award to get us all at once. *Sober up! I'm not giving you a REAL blanket, ok?*

Drum roll, please..............

All 12 of us are the lucky recipients of the...............

Jaded Apathetic Can'tthinkofanything Kindoflazy Slacker Half-a$$ed Indifferent and Tired award!

Yes!!! We are all receiving JACKSHIT!

I am happy to offer this distinguished accolade as my end-of-year gift to you all. Please feel free to share with your loved ones how you received JACKSHIT this year at school. Wake the dog! Phone the neighbors! You got JACKSHIT!

As part of your award, you may save the JACKSHIT logo below and paste to your social networking profile to let everyone on your friends list know what 175 days of teaching school could get you if you apply yourself!

You may be interested in an additional service I will provide. For the nominal fee of $9.95, I will notify the local news agencies via note-tied-around-a-brick-through-their-window that you have received the coveted award of JACKSHIT! Please note that I carry less than *let me check my purse* $6.72 in change and there will be no refunds if you are dissatisfied with my service.

Because you are now in an elite group of others who have received JACKSHIT, you are also eligible to purchase (for a nominal fee of $19.95) all sorts of JACKSHIT paraphernalia. We are happy to offer this year's JACKSHIT awardees a document file of a certificate that you may print yourself.  It is emblazoned with the illustrious JACKSHIT logo and may contain your name if I can remember it.  (Since I didn't think enough of you all to get you a real award, do you really think that I care if I get your name right?)

*** BTW: I just totally spelled paraphernalia without any mistakes popping the red line underneath from teh the spell checker***

If you insist on having an actual tangible award sent to you, then (for the nominal fee of $31.95 - the precise cost of a large bottle of Deep Eddy vodka) I will get the closest scrap of paper and a crayon or pen or eyeliner pencil or whatever and, with no regard to color, accuracy, or scale, I will scrawl the dayum circle-with-a-line-through-it picture on the paper for you. 

Now.  Go forth and enjoy your summer!

MEMO To: DonnyCat Re: Rubbing Me the Wrong Way

DonnyCat,

After numerous failed attempts to make you understand that there are moments when your 14.6 pounds of affection is misguided and unwelcome, I am submitting these new "Cat Rules" in effect immediately.

1) If I am doing yoga, DO NOT RUB AGAINST ME!
2) If I am putting lotion on my legs, DO NOT RUB AGAINST ME!
3) If I am trying to sleepily meander my way down a dark hallway at 5 a.m. to get to the kitchen for coffee, DO NOT RUB AGAINST ME!
4) If our juxtaposition is such that your tail is near my head, DO NOT RUB AGAINST ME!
5) If I am in the bathroom and I am seated on your white drinking fountain that we humans call the toilet, I would appreciate you and the dog and the other two cats staying out. I appreciate your support and concern, but I'm ok in there by myself, and I think I can handle it on my own. Really. Because, although y'all just go out in the middle of the yard without a care in the world as to who witnesses your bodily processes, I would prefer a bit of privacy and that you DO NOT RUB AGAINST ME!

Sincerely,
Your Human

The End

Ok. So there is yet another whackaloon predicting the end of the world 

I am SOOOOOOO not prepared for this. If it is truly the Rapture, then I'll be gone and I'll be worrying for nothing, but if it is merely an apocalypse I am NOT ready.

Here is my tentative to-do list for tomorrow after I go pick up Lurch.

1. Figure out what to wear. I have not one solitary thing in my closet that would be new and exciting enough to welcome the end of the world. I must go shopping.

2. Have the right shoes. After making the HUGE mistake of wearing heels to the bomb scare a few years ago, I am NOT getting caught standing around or walking anywhere, much less running from zombies and the like, in shoes that are pretty but not practical. It is difficult to find a pair of shoes that will fill both of these requisites. I must go shopping.

3. Stock up on some food. Right now the best we have to survive on is 2 cans of salmon, some spaghetti, half a box of Frosted Cheerios, 3/4 bottle of Deep Eddy vodka, 4 bananas, some pimento cheese, and a case of beer. Good Gawd, that's really sad - it's like frat house food. There are some tomatoes in the garden but they are still pretty green, and if the apocalypse has any nuclear undertones whatsoever, those tomatoes will be all radioactive and shi+ like Attack of the Killer Tomatoes or something so we can't eat them anyway! I must go shopping.

4. Make playlist on my ipod of end-of-the-world-themed songs:
Rapture - Blondie
End of the World - Skeeter Davis
It's the End of the World as We Know It - REM
All H3ll's Breaking Loose - KISS
Only the Good Die Young - Billy Joel
Jessie's Girl - Rick Springfield (because it will be the national anthem when I take over as Princess of the Leftover World.)
When It's Over - Loverboy
Freaks Come Out at Night - Whodini (in case there ARE zombies)
Dead Man's Party - Oingo Boingo and
Last Dance - Donna Summer

This is a good start, but one of my ear buds to my ipod is smashed and has wires hanging out of it precariously so that I might actually SURVIVE the apocalypse and then be accidentally electrocuted by my ipod while listening to my end-of-the-world-themed playlist. Which would suck. Cuz then I couldn't wear my cute new post-apocalyptic shoes. I must go shopping.

My other option is to wait until the world is actually in the throes of its post-apocalyptic chaos and then just go loot all the stuff I need.

Fast Times

The most Jeff Spicoli conversation I ever had with one of my children:

Chunk: We need a snack. 

Me: I know.  You know what would be good?  Bagels and cream cheese.

Chunk: That would be good.

Me: Hey my car is fixed we could take my car. 

Chunk: Yeah.

Me: But I don’t think I have any money in my purse.

Chunk: I just have a dollar. 

Me: Oh.  Well let’s just watch Kitchen Nightmares. 

I swear – we sound like a couple of stoners. 

I Would Like to Thank...

First, thanks to the student who gave me the bag of Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies for Teacher Appreciation Week this morning. They are gone. Along with this week's efforts to lose weight.

Next, thanks to MyPoolBoy for the beautiful bottle of cheap Merlot that accompanied the box of dishwashing detergent back from your trip to the store. Unlike the cookies, it is not gone yet, but I'm working on it. Perhaps this will deter any further suffering that you might incur due to my current hormonal state, including the unfortunate play-by-play I related to you this morning concerning my menstrual cycle and its surrounding conditions and/or circumstances. (Sorry 'bout that!) BTW - the wine has been opened, the Cascade has not.

Finally, thanks to a Facebook friend for sharing the link to this clip. I must say that although nothing ever leaves ME completely speechless, this little gem left me scratching my head and barely managing to muster a "wow" from an already compromised state of semi-consciousness this evening (remember - Milano cookies + Merlot + hormones).



I hereby solemnly vow to Felix that this fabulous ditty will be our anthem for karaoke night at the coast this year since we always sleep together and there are plenty of stories to tell about THAT - Keebler Elf dreams, kicking, clothing arguments, David Hasselhoff dreams, and presumed phone sex. Pee-peeing the bed is about the ONLY thing that hasn't happened yet!

Anyway, I tracked through the related videos on the sidebar of this one and discovered that this effed-up little VonTrapp family actually were a big hit throughout Europe in the 80s and 90s. How did I miss this? Without a doubt, Moses/Gandalf/Father Time as your back-up singer is a pretty big score!

So, clicking on the sidebar videos led me to a fabulous video of a song of theirs called "One More Freaking Dollar." Which I hereby declare my undying, unadulterated, unabashed, and unsober (Merlot, remember?) love for. And the lead singer on the video is a cutie. Except at that point of his life he was also JAILBAIT and that would make me a sinner of some sort.

Upon further clicking I discovered that he cut off the Sebastian Bach hairstyle and grew into a legal-sized man and was still a cutie. And a monk. Like, a monk in a monastery, not the TV detective. That FOR SURE makes me a sinner.

Spin It to Win It

Well, we were discussing gynecologists at our  poker table – because we love to gross out the men and make them all uncomfortable and distracted so that they can’t concentrate and we can beat them.  Especially if we are too drunk and/or ADD to know what is in our hand. 

One of the girls was talking about how an ob/gyn she went to was rude and she finally had to switch doctors.  I told her that I hoped she ate some beans and cabbage and then went to one last appointment with him before she switched. 

Our discussion included a story of a doctor misdiagnosing the flu as endometriosis, and I said that it was just a FLUke.  Cuz I’m funny.  And/or drunk.  And then I was told “thank God you’re not a doctor.”

At this point I pondered how one could make such a haphazard, random, guess at the ailments of some poor unsuspecting soul.  This is what we came up with.  In my “Thank God You’re Not a Doctor”s office I could construct a “wheel o’diseases” where the patient could cut down their waiting room time by simply spinning a big roulette wheel or one of those giant wheels like on Wheel of Fortune or The Price Is Right, and what you get is what you’ve got. 

Except I’d have to have a game show host on my payroll and that would look a tad unprofessional. 

A more simple solution would be if you could pay your office visit fee directly into a slot machine and pull the arm:  Common Cold, Common Cold, Gonorrhea! 

Oh, so close!!!!!!!!!!!!  Pick up your prescription on the way out. 

Chunk – You Are a Moron

1:45 a.m. REALLY??????????????????????????? 

You know, there is one rule, and the rule is very simple:  Be home by the designated previously-agreed-upon-ETA, or you may alternatively elect to contact one of your two original biological parental figures via email, text, or an actual live voice phone conversation.  You did none of these. NONE. 

And then you go and stay out too late and make me imagine that you are dead and/or horrifically mutilated in the proverbial ditch and not only are you dead and/or horrifically mutilated in said ditch, but you took your friend WITH you to be dead and/or horrifically mutilated in the ditch.   And your little friend that was spending the night? Well, he DID text his parents to tell them where he was.  In the meantime, I was worrying about TWO kids and not just one.  Why the h3ll do you think I’ve been so freakin’ happy about your older brothers moving out?  It is because I don’t have so dayum many offspring to keep track of now.  I know for a scientific empirically observed fact that some animals eat their young.  And it is just because the mothers don’t want to keep track of a whole litter of puppies or kittens or baby rabbits (whatthehellever you call a baby rabbit).

And just so you know, if you ever ARE dead in a ditch, I expect you to contact me via Ouija board to let me know that you are dead in a ditch so that I don’t stay up half the night waiting for you. 

So, there you have it.  You are officially grounded.  Yes, my little friend, you are grounded.  Ground-dead.  I know your poor sleep-deprived father who had to go drag your stupid butt home told you that you would be grounded until you were old enough to drive at age 16, but I will settle for just until you are 15 – which is in a week or so.  Because all kinds of child psychologists tell you to never threaten a punishment that is so long or harsh that you will not be able to follow through with it. 

But actually I think I can manage to top the “you are grounded until you can drive threat.” 

Therefore, as an ADDTIONAL punishment which will assuredly last a lifetime with no further involvement from me, I would like to leave you with the sordid, mind-scrambling, childhood-ruining information that I still have sex with your father.  

Now it’s YOUR turn to be sleepless.

Under Construction

So -- my adorable little pink beemer convertible had its fuel pump go out this week. $200 and 45 minutes of labor later, it is thankfully up and running again. To "make do" until the part we needed came in, I was able to trick the engine into thinking it had a regular normal working fuel pump by lifting up the back seat and banging on the top of the fuel pump with the butt-end of a flat-head screwdriver before turning the key in the ignition. This made Duckit pretty much wet her pants laughing.

See - to me there are three basic rules to any home improvement or car maintenance project:

1) Home Depot should offer marriage counseling services.
2) You repair things with tools; you FIX things with a hammer.
3) This is the one that MyPoolBoy hates the worst - All tools have the potential to BE a hammer - such as the butt-end of the flat-head screwdriver that I needed to use to get the fuel pump underneath the back seat of my car to jiggle enough to send gas to the engine.

Rolling Along

Thunderdrunk, I mean, Thunderduck stumbled in sometime late last night/early this morning after a day out on the lake with his buddies. When he came in he greeted the PetBull and then retreated with her to his room.

Whereupon he began to sing Army songs.

And tried unsuccessfully to get the poor dog to join in.

So of course he's hung over, and he came in and asked me if I had any Tylenol or aspirin. I handed him the last 2 Tylenol that I had, but I swear to GAWD I wish I was on some sort of freakish female hormone prescription or the pill - cuz I SOOOOOO would have given him that instead as payback for the Canine Army Choir.

Oh H3ll, Alma Mater

 A BannedCamper posted a lament that she was tired of her university calling and asking for donations from her for the alumni fund. Really.  I mean we’ve already paid THOUSANDS of dollars to them in tuition, and now they want MORE?

First of all, they need to look and see what your major was before they call.  Liberal arts or education majors have VERY LITTLE MONEY.  Worse still, liberal arts AND education majors (like me) have NO MONEY.  Blood.  Turnip.  Get it?

Other gals offered some seemingly practical advice such as:
“Put them on the blocked list.”
“Look at the caller ID before you answer.”

No. No. No. No.

These call banks are manned by undergrads on work-study programs who A) just need to make a quota of contacts by the end of their shift and B) are probably still hung over from the kegger at Zeta house the night before in addition to being hopped up on Folgers Crystals, Red Bull, and NoDoze from studying for mid-terms after the kegger before they had to show up for their appointed duties.

Here’s my advice.  Talk to them. Start off with, "Thank GAWD you called. I sat next to this dreamy guy in my sophomore statistics class and fell hopelessly in love with him, so I signed up for every class he had the next 4 semesters. I was able to find out where he worked, and I would drive past it every day.  However, by the time we graduated he had a restraining order on me, but I think it has expired by now, and I would LOVE to get back in touch with him because I have been thinking about him all these years. I still have pictures of him all over my house.  Do you think you can help me find him?"

This Post is in Need of Emily Post

What is the etiquette or hygiene guideline for taking a drink into the bathroom with you?   You can't leave it on a table or someone will slip a date-rape drug into it and then you have to do the whole "but you drugged me and brought me home and now you're saying that I'm annoying and you've changed your mind" routine, and that never turns out well.  Or, worse still, you can leave it on the bar and the bartender will think you are finished (ha! Me leave a drink unfinished?) and clear your glass from the bar before you return.

I surmise that since the beverage in question is an alcoholic beverage, the alcohol would theoretically kill the germs that might come into contact with it in the restroom. Hmmmm..... GHB or CDC? Decisions, decisions.  So, where does one SET your drink once you have entered the facilities?  I ended up setting my Long Island Iced Tea on the little soap dish dippy area on the sink while I peed like a racehorse several times this evening (vodka = lack of bladder control + diminished sense of personal well-being).

You know, you learn all these flippin’ rules about hygiene when you are little.  Rules like: cover your mouth and nose when you sneeze, don’t eat the yellow snow, wipe from front to back, etc. etc.  No one in a Baptist family ever talks about “drink in the bathroom” rules, nor was this topic covered in my high school health class (they were all so worried about us getting knocked up during some drunken moment of misguided teen angst and lust that we didn't get any PRACTICAL health advice that pertains to imbibing!).

Here’s a great idea.  I’m gonna invent something with a drink-holder that attaches to you somehow… specifically designed to hold your drink while you make a potty run.

Oh wait.  I’m too late.  That invention has already been created.  It is called a BOYFRIEND.  There is a slightly less reliable and more expensive version of this invention called a HUSBAND.  The latter of which I have.

But I think mine is an older model that doesn’t come with the drink-holder attachment.

Facelift Complete

I am now the owner of a PINK CONVERTIBLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

Oh Boy Oh Boy

I have watched this about 14 times today and I CANNOT stop laughing!!!!!!!!!!! Animal is the best part.

What Are The Odds That This Is My SECOND Post About Raccoon Sex?

So.  We were making fun of MyPoolBoy’s annoying poker friend from a while back cuz I saw him on a news clip about the county next to Mullet County.  And they interview HIM as a representative citizen of the community.  Which caused us to start discussing the “Deliverance-y” way of life that is rumored to exist in that neck o’ the woods.  Thunderduck and his crew began to elaborate upon the range of amorous combinations that exist over there.  Typical goat and sheep jokes – you know the drill.  Then I made reference to the raccoon sex blog I posted way back when, and that was enough for him to launch a reenactment of what he deemed to be the way it happens. 

It went something like this: “That might be a goat, but he’s kinda little and he ain’t got no horns. And he was wearing a mask.  He was my masked stranger of the night.  I waited up all night for the masked stranger.  I got some deer corn outta the deer feeder on the lease and sprinkled it on my windersill and then made a little trail like in Hansel and Gretel into my room so he had to come on into the room.  Then I got a box…. and I waited fer him…..”  
This brilliant entrapment mastermind is the second of my offspring who has enlisted in the armed services to serve and protect our nation.  I swear if I catch wind of him trying to trap “insurgents” with deer corn and a box I’m defecting to somewhere else until 2012 when I finally take over as Princess of the Post-Apocalyptic Leftover World.

Check It Out

MonsterInLaw sent me some birthday money in the form of a check.  I hadn't gotten around to spending it until just this week, but I was thinking that I SHOULD have messed with her in the process of enjoying my little spending spree. (BTW, I got some new clothes and an old-timey laundry/washer/plunger thing for the laundry room - so, thank you again MIL!). 

Because she lives in TheMiddleOfNowhere, which is a suburb of BFE (Bum F*ck Egypt) in the county of Podunk, she banks at a local bank where EVERYONE knows yo' bidness.  I have decided that NEXT year, if she sends me a check I will write in the memo line to express my gratitude AND create a stir.  It will be something that will cause her to get razzed by every teller at her bank (all 2 of them), and perhaps get a few strange looks in the grocery store.  Like:

For  Services Rendered 
For   Sex Change Operation  
For   Bail Money  
For   New Tattoo  
For   Exorcism  
For   Lip Piercing   
For    Blackmail Payment 
For   STD Antibiotics   
For   Pole Dancing Lessons 


Her only real chance of escaping me was 24 years ago when the preacher said "If there is anyone here who can show just cause...."

Yea Team Go School

For all the Lucilles on college t-shirt day 

Or for QueenB (just because it is her favorite saying) 

Can't. Breathe

I am laughing so hard. Mascara running down my face.

School Is a Social Disease

So.  Last week I got really wiped out on Thursday and ended up not feeling well enough to go to school on Friday.  Then Duckit got sick today and ended up getting having to stay home with strep for TWO days.  I told her strep just stood for Sick & Tired of Redundant Education Policies and that she wasn’t really sick but she should stay home anyway cuz at least STREP would look good as an excuse.

So then Bi+chslap and I started coming up with some REALLY good acronyms for excuses which can cause me to call in sick to my job.  Excuses related to venereal-type ailments.  Afflictions that no one would question if you called in and claimed them.

STD – Sick & Tired, Dammit

CLAP – Completely Losing All Patience

CRABS – Children Really Acting Bad & Stupid

WARTS – Worrying About RTI Totally Sucks

HERPES – Had Enough of Ridiculous Public Education Sh1t

AIDS – Attitude In Downward Spiral

CHLAMYDIA – Children Having a Lack of Appropriate Meds Yielding Distress In Adults

SYPHILLIS – Stupid Yelling Parents Hysterically Insisting Little Lucifer Is a Saint

GONORRHEA – Getting Overwhelmed by Nonsensical Orders, Redundant Requests, & Hot-air from Educational Administrators

I decided the only cure is a dose of vitamin B.
Plus an accompanying dose of vitamin E.
Then an additional dose of vitamin E. 
And top it off with a small dose of vitamin R.

Off Like a Cheap Prom Dress

How to Be Stuck At Home

An instructional resource for your entertainment by WTP

Roll over and ask MyPoolBoy to turn the heated mattress pad back on for me.  Lay in bed while the sun rises.  Remark to the 2 dogs and cat who are hogging the lower portion of the bed that I never even get to see the sun rise on weekdays because I am usually inside the school building.  Stretch left leg when Littledog  jumps up to run to see Chunk leave for school.  Push Bigdog with right foot in order to gain enough space to stretch right leg to evenly distribute the stretchy sensation to both of my lower limbs.  Shove Cat over to MyPoolBoy's side of the bed and proceed to fashion a recliner-like fortress of ALL the pillows to make my own comfort a priority.  Close eyes and contemplate going back to sleep. 

Go ahead and get up because Bigdog has decided she wants to go outside to potty.  Open the back door and leave it open so she can let herself back in while I make a pot of coffee.  Close back door when Bigdog reenters the house.  Acquire a cup from the cabinet.  Shake half a package of Splenda into the cup.  Check fridge for milk.  Ignore the surprising presence of a nearly-full gallon of milk in the door of the fridge and get out the Bailey's instead. (I'm not going anywhere today.)   Add the precise standard measurement of a "smidge" to the cup.  Pull coffee pot off of hotplatethingy of the coffeemaker and pour coffee in cup.  Think to yourself: the h3ll with waiting.  Clean up mess that results from taking the coffeepot off of the hotplatethingy before it was finished brewing. 

Set coffee down on nightstand.  Go pee.  Look down and check out belly button piercing.  Promise self to change over to the cute rhinestone dangly instead of the plain silver ball.  Finish peeing.  Strip off all pajamas and get on scale in nothing but panties.  Mentally note the 0.2 pound weight loss.  Muse that this could be a sign from the universe to restart my diet and drink a protein shake for breakfast.  Go back to kitchen.  Notice the big box of Frosted Flakes.  Notice that I notice because it is calling my name.  Wonder where the saying "calling my name" comes from.  Think that I should Google it later.  Pour a heaping bowl of Frosted Flakes and procure the milk that I ignored earlier.  Go back to bed to eat cereal.  Eat a bite.  Shove Cat off of lap.  Eat another bite, using left elbow to persuade Cat back off of lap.  Eat another bite.  Invite Cat to the floor.  Insist Cat stay on floor.  Move Cat to hall against his will.  Shut door and tell Cat to shut up when he meows and interrupts your breakfast.

Take leftover milk in bowl to kitchen sink.  Tell Cat that NOW he can snoop in the bowl and give himself diarrhea by drinking all the leftovers if really wants it.  Go back to bed.  Drink coffee and channel surf.  Flip past news programs.  Flip past meaningful self-help infomercials.  Flip past gardening show.  Watch weight loss success story reality show.  Think I should have a protein shake for lunch.

Decide to check out an old sappy Hallmark frog prince Valentine movie that I had recorded a few weeks ago.  Click SELECT.  Fast forward past all commercials.  Drink more coffee.  Start thinking bizarre thoughts about the movie:  Roll eyes at the cliche scene when little girl decides to set frog free rather than euthanize it in the name of science for her dissection project.  Think about writing an obituary for a frog when he CROAKS.  HAHAHAHAHA!   Think about writing a blog post about frog obituaries.  Finish watching movie.

Nap about 30 minutes. Continue dishonesty-with-self policy by justifying that over one hour is ABOUT 30 minutes.

Wake up hungry.  Reheat leftover eggplant parmesan and spaghetti for an early lunch.  Repeat Cat shove, Cat elbow, Cat floor, Cat exile process through placing bowl in sink step.  Make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dessert.  Use too much jelly.  Wipe excess jelly off of bread onto a saucer.

Check email while eating PBJ.  Think about blogging.  Answer phone when MyPoolBoy calls.  Get pissed when he doesn't say anything at the other end.  Decide to hang up.  Look at screen to disconnect the call and notice that it is a text message, not a real live phone call.  Reply to text message.  Notice tips of nails need a touch up because I neglected to put a topcoat on them last time I painted them.  Think about redoing nails.  Set down computer and roll back over to watch Supernanny.  Yell at tv screen to bust those kids' butts.  Startle Littledog when I yell.     Have fleeting thought about getting up.  Ignore that thought.  See a commercial for Clean House.  Have fleeting thought about cleaning house.  Ignore this thought, also.

Blog about what I've done all morning instead.