Killing bugs and other soon to be neglected Manly Duties...

My husband is currently packing up his things to leave me in a flight of fancy that will foretell our future as husband and wife.

Okay, melodrama!

He's actually just leaving me for five months to partake in a great opportunity to strike fear into the hearts of Bank CEO's across the nation!  He's going to be an auditor for F.D.I.C.!

I'm quite happy for him.

I'm quite miserable for me.

Why?  Let me shed some light:  I have to sleep in a cold bed alone, there will be no one there to guard me from the purring/nibbling/drooling antics of a hyperactive overweight Himalayn, I will have to clean up cat puke (why is it always ORANGE???), I will have to empty the litter box, I will have to kill and dispose of the still-wriggling bodies of creepy bugs with too many useless legs, and I will be the one who has to lug the bins to the curb on trash day!  Me!?  And in my delicate condition!  Okay - so I'm not pregnant - but I'm lazy  - and that's pretty delicate if you ask me!

So, as the days of "manlessness" surround me, I will have to dig deep for the "Inner Xena: Warrior Princess" and start doing things by myself, for myself and with myself.

Wait - that went weird.

Sigh.

 

And so are the days of my life...

Have you ever had a "fat day"?

 A day when nothing fits right, nothing looks right, so, in desperation you throw on whatever has been shoved to the depths of your closet?  You end up at work wearing a sweater that has "fuzzed" all over your chair, desk and co-workers and a pair of old cords that make awful "swish, swish" noises when you're walking down the hall, sparks flying from the friction of your thighs?

To add to the faulty fashion faux pau that is corderoy pants, I have bags under my eyes that heroine junkies would be jealous of and my cheeks are semi-permanently rubbed a delightful shade of "influenza red" due to a late night with the dear hubby...

Not that minded the late night grope-a-thon, but this morning, by the light of day, I just kept thinking (while smearing on concealer under my puny eyes) - why couldn't we have just waited until tonight when the idea of sleeping in followed by a repeat of the previous night's performance would have been a potential possibility?!

It's official, then.  I'm old. 

At 26 I am quite possibly the oldest twenty-something gal out there.  Wanna know what I did the other night for "fun"?  I watched the end of a Lifetime Movie of the Week. 

The last nails in my coffin of youth? 

When I rush home from work to catch Matlock on TBS. 

When Tapioca pudding starts to taste good. 

When Ben Gay starts to be useful. 

When going five miles over the speed limit seems dangerous. 

When I start clipping coupons. 

When I willing purchase a cardigan with animals knitted on it. 

When I start to sleep under an electric blanket... in July. 

When four PM is dinner time. 

And, finally, when I start dressing a 20lb stone duck that sits outside of my house in seasonal attire.

Until I meet the aforementioned criteria, I will just consider myself "wise beyond my years."  Now, pass me my Ensure, please.

Mornings suck...

Woke up, yawned, punted my cat across the floor, and after some apologies, went to take a long  lukewarm shower (hot water isn't doing so good right now). Getting out, I washed my face, brushed my teeth, put some goop in my hair and wrestled my contacts (well beyond their expiration date) into my eyeballs.

Plopping down on the carpeted bathroom floor, I grab up my trusty 1875 watt blow-your-head-off hairdryer and started the tedious task of turning 20 lbs of wavy hair into soft, managable straight hair.

 I shut off the dryer after about three minutes of fluffing to extricate my hairbrush from Phoebe (the aforementioned unwilling furball/football) who had decided it was her new boyfriend. I wiped off the cat drool and curled it around a piece of hair. Flipping back on the dryer - I waited.  Nothing happened. I flipped the switches a few more times, prayed for a miracle and then yelled some rather profane statements while I flung the appliance around the room, banged it on the counter and probably resembled swamp thing on a bad hair day.

Phoebe ran.

I then spent the next 30 minutes on all fours, in front of the space heater, trying to dry my hair with convection and sheer determination.

Harry, my husband, walked in on me, in my underwear (sexy oh-la-la granny panties) and on my hands and knees swinging my head back and forth, trying to keep up with the oscilating heater.  He left without saying a word.

Thirty minutes later, I was slightly dizzy, half-dry and was sporting a half-curly, half-frizzy afro.

Ten minutes later, I had stuck in some curls with a curling iron and slightly tamed the frizz. I am now at work, a little damp and wondering what could possibly happen next.

I realize that that last statement was a bad idea as the sky blackens and I am quickly reminded of Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds".

One is pecking at the window, mocking me and my fuzzy head.  More than likely he is staring at my head a la "bird's nest" and thinking of how to decorate when he moves in.