My Weak-like Week

A few bits of news to relate and since I'm a girl and we like to make lists a la the "Sparkles" episode of "Southpark" I shall relay my passing events in numerical-form:

1.  After a rather harried trip to NC with his grandmother, Harry returned with the sniffles.  I quickly made funeral arrangements and called the insurance company to make sure I'd get the nice fat check since he's obviously DYING and stuff.   So when  he stood up after eating, walked three steps to the right and let out a belch that lasted for 10.4 seconds I thought my cash cow had come in.  I was pretty sure that was the sound of a dying man... or frog.   Instead he turned to me sheepishly and said, "don't put that on your blog..."

2.  After my sister left my house Saturday night the large water I drank at the movie theater hit me.  "I have to peeee!"  I announced and headed toward the half bath off the kitchen.  "Uh - don't go in that one,"  Harry said while placing a meaty palm on the white door.   "Okay, fine," I said and started to waddle toward the bedroom.  "Uh," he called after me.  "Uh- baby?  I wouldn't use that one either..."

I turned on him and shouted, "For god'ssakes!  If you have to go - use ONE bathroom!  Don't spread it around like some sort of - of - POTPOURRI!"  He then giggled so hard that he added more aromatics to the spicy blend of Harry already wafting around us. 

3.  Harry's congestion means only one thing to me - I'm destined to be beat up as bad as Rocky in any of the Stallone-y movies.   Throughout the night my husband will toss and turn and steamroll me like I'm a lumpy pillow stuck in his path of comfort-achievement.  So in the wee hour of the night on Sunday I am none too surprised, but just as pissed as ever, when I feel a size 13 man foot contact with my thigh.  HARD.  "Godda- all to HELL! That's it - go sleep on the damn couch!!!"  I yelled to my sick husband who sadly picked up his box of Kleenex, blankie and pillow and retreated in a phlegmy fog to the couch in the basement leaving me to rub my leg and pray for death.  His or mine. 

4.  Feeling bad for kicking me like a football in a dead heat, Harry hovered over me last night.  I was grumpy, cranky, mean and just not a happy camper as I beat my pillows with my fist and grumbled into the mattress.  Throughout the night I would wake up and be livid that it was not yet morning. Flipping around, jutting out my knee or smushing a blanket between my knees, my dear hubby would follow my every move and tuck the covers around me.  Like a graceful bull fighter besting the angry burro he would sidestep my sleepily tossed fists and feet and cover up my exposed skins.   For eight hours he was the Spanish dancer and I was the bull in a china shop. 

5.  Harry gleefully relayed his conversation with Autorama today. 

"Can I change my email address, too?" he asked the salesguy on the phone. 

"Sure.  I can do that for you."

"I want to change it to harryshivel@mac, you can do away with the hballs address," Harry relayed to the salesguy. 

"Oh.  Wife take away your 'balls', huh?"  

My husband found this hilarious.  I just wanted to know why he was talking to Audorama peeps and how much it was going to cost me. 

And that's about it.  I'm sure there was more - but I'll save those for the upcoming Thanksgiving post, cuz ya know it'll be a doozy!  

Everyone have a great T-day if you're here in the States - if you're not - well just go out and eat too much and then take a nap - same thing!!!

:)  

Infamously Yours...

Huntington, WV is dubbed "Unhealthiest City" 

Holly responds with a resounding: "Pbbbbbbbt!"

For pete's sake. 

Just when WV was starting to kick the hillbilly stereotype and people from the other 49 states were just beginning to recognize us as an actual state and not just "Western Virginia" - then THIS article had to come out and push us back down the rungs of the idiot ladder!

The article, in a nutshell, uses old data to declare my hometown as filled with fat-laden hilljack who prefer to gum hot dogs with their toothless mouths while sneering at "pretty city" folk who drive up in their shiny automobiles! And the (soon to be former) Mayor just nods and grins at the fool reporter who laps it all up like one of Paris Hilton's many tiny dogs!   Mayor Felinton (hereinafter known as "Idiot Boy Who Was Hopefully Misquoted" basically says "Well, you're right.  We're fatsos but c'mon - have you seen how poor we are? And how we have no teeth?  Now there's the real problem. 

Dude. That's like saying "Nevermind the pink elephant in the room - look at the dragon hanging from the ceiling - careful - it'll singe your nostril hair if you get too close!". 

So, my rebuttal is as follows:

Yes, we may be a tubby society, we may enjoy our foods, our deep fried cheese and whatnots, but we'll smile at you while we dab the grease from our chins. We'll hold open the door for you with our meaty mitts if you're behind us in line.  We'll let you merge in traffic as we rev the engine in our giant trucks and SUV's.   

And our grins are genuinely genuine if not orthodontically-challenged.  So I'll take my kinfolk as they are - without the plastic coating that other communities seem to staple to their wallets and bodies.  I'll take real over fake, manners over "mine" and a hot dog, deep fried to a golden brown over a prime rib any day.   

So Huntington, WV is too unhealthy for that "reporters" taste?  

Well then - get the hell out

And don't let the panhandle hit you in the ass on the way out. 

Hmph. 

  

Movie Moochers and Pesky People!

I saw the new "Bond" movie tonight.
I quite enjoyed it even though the evil couple next to me decided to insert their own running commentary!!!
Seriously, it was like a really bad version of "Mystery Science 3000"!

About mid-way through I was seething and barely able to sit still as I flung my chubby legs in the direction of the girl to my left everytime she opened her mouth to interject what was obviously such an important statement that couldn't be left until AFTER the flick, no, it had to be said RIGHT THEN.

You know these people. These are the ones who have to complain, loudly, about the line in the grocery store and then have the nerve to argue over a ten cent off coupon when they're finally at the head. They are the ones who ask the assinine questions just to hear themselves talk. The ones who can't let it go that their candidate lost and the ones who fill your inbox with the smiling angel emails that warn of your immediate death if you don't forward it on in 2.3 seconds.

I know these people.

I loathe these people.

So, as Bond knocked on the door to a beautiful Italian villa the woman next to me said, in a normal, non-hushed voice, "Oh - he was in the first movie!" I leaned over her, my breasts heaving, eyes wild and I clutched at the armrest and said in a loud voice "UH HUH!". I then nodded and grinned at her until she leaned away.

She didn't speak for the rest of the movie and scuttled away as soon as the screen filled with the credits.

So, if you are in line and you hear a loud couple complaining about the rude gal in the theater, yeah, that was me and - I'm sorry.

No. Not really.

:)

Feeling Better! And Dirtier!

Sooooo....  we all know I'm a dirty ol' woman, right?

I'm 30 - but still - old. 

Cougar-territory -I'm verging on here, right?

So why am I completely giggly over the video at this link?

Maybe because it has a video of an

UP CLOSE NAKED DANIEL RADCLIFFE. 

Obviously - this is not suitable for work - but for those curious - go click.  

It's the real deal - so to speak...

:)  I would embed it here - but, well, I'm too busy re-watching it at the moment.   

Loved that play, I did...  

hee hee

Kick me While I'm Down, Why Don'tcha?!

After recovering nicely from my oral surgery, I awoke this morning to find - my insides had been liquified by an ill-advised take out order from THE OLIVE GARDEN IN BARBOURSVILLE, WV!

It is now 1:20 pm and I've been up since 5:00am as a rainbow of colors have appeared of my own making. Not twenty minutes ago I THREW UP DOWN MY OWN SLEEVE. I knew better to recline in the chair and as I struggled to free myself - I didn't make it to the bathroom.

So I covered my mouth and sprayed the carpet and walls with nothing but regurgitated blood-red Gatorade.
I made it to the toilet a bit later only to move from it to the sink as a new problem presented itself inconveniently.
Again - DOWN WITH THE OLIVE GARDEN IN BARBOURSVILLE, WV!!!!

A change of clothes later and a reverse kool-aid stain around my mouth, I am back in my chair, sittting unreclined and gingerly as I wait for the 2 hour mark to approach so that I can check out what color makes an appearance from my innards.

Silver lining? It was every half hour!

Poor hubby had to scrub the carpet while I sobbed in my chair, but that's love, right????

Who you Gonna Call?

Gillian's school pictures came in and although they scanned for crap - I had to share them with everyone so you all can see how completely grown up she's getting!

I only stole two (although I was sorely tempted to cram the whole lot in my purse and run like hell!).

















I mean, seriously, am I biased here or is chicky the cutest thing walking 'round WV on five-year old skinny legs???!!!

Well, ya know, everyone says she looks just like me so, ya know, ahem... hee hee




And here's a picture of my dear sis who brought the rugrat of my life to me!


Aren't they just 'dorable!!!



So there's my preachy, gushy, and pride-filled post about the cutie that is Gilly-beans.


Gotta love her.
Or do what she says.
Either way - she'll more than likely whap you upside the head with whatever electronic toy is closest.
:)

Sexy Noodles and Bathing Beauties

Thank you guys so much for all the helpful words of encouragement and for sticking by me through my traumatic surgery. I'm doing much better but still am not totally up to solid foods. Which leads me to today's story.

For some reason, along with my tendency to not be able to sit around and do nothing when I'm hurt or sick, I also get increasingly, um, wanton of physical love.

So yesterday, even though I was sweaty and gross from two days of wallowing in my own pity party, I decided it was high time that Harry molested me. I didn't think that he'd care that I had on no bra, no makeup and that my hair accessory of choice was a scrunchie from the 1980's so I jumped up (translation: I flopped around in the brown recliner until it un-reclined and flung me toward the brick fireplace) stopped in front of him and pulled up the front of my brown, ribbed tank top.

I wiggled, jiggled and giggled and was only slightly surprised that it did not yield the lovenesting session as I had hoped and instead left him gasping for air as he laughed and guffawed from his own respective recliner.

Huffing, I pulled my shirt back down, tucked a greasy hair strand behind my head and stomped into the bathroom. After tending to my business, I stood before the sink and stared at myself in the mirror, frozen with my mouth hanging open and my hands stuck in the flow of the cold water.

I had a mushy pasta noodle stuck to my upper chest.

Needless to say I showered this morning for a good hour just in case other mushy foods were stuck to other parts of my body that I was unawares and would then jiggle in front of my poor husband.

:)

How NOT to Make Pancakes

There's some fatal flaw in my chemistry that makes me repel against pain and assert a fierce sense of independence when I've been hurt or just been through a surgical procedure.

A few years ago I fell while on campus and broke my elbow, face and my front tooth. Even though I couldn't raise my right arm above my shoulders I still insisted on washing my own hair. Forty minutes later I had lathered up one side of my head and rinsed it out figuring that was good enough. I drove myself to work, blatantly ignoring the hands "at ten and two" rule that all good drivers follow and ran the cash register by using my left arm and asking people to bag their own designer impostor shoes. I made it work and therefore cemented my stubborn streak in place.

However, this morning when I decided I wanted to make pancakes I refused to let Harry help me. I grabbed the mix, the milk (only slightly expired) and an egg. Turning from the fridge I felt the egg fly from my hands as if it had decided to reclaim its birthright and land on the floor in a squishy yellow streak.

When Harry came running in a few seconds later he looked at me, calmly greasing up the griddle, and then to the eggy streak in the floor. Silently he began cleaning up my mess and then took over the pancake making festivities, slowly ushering me to the table and presenting me with first a happy face pancake man (I ate his eyes first) and a heart.

The moral of the story?
Don't try to make pancakes when you're hopped up on pain killers as you can accidentally egg your own house.