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I found a spoon in my washing machine yesterday. Yes, amigos, I am laundering the flatware now. Impressed?
Today the kids have no school. Elvis has been out of school since Wednesday because of parent-teacher conferences. We had his conference yesterday. Apparently he is doing well enough. The teacher did mention that he has a penchant for inappropriate outbursts, including the phrase “Poop in a bucket!” (Which, in case you’re wondering, the other 6- and 7-year-olds find hilarious.)
On Wednesday the kids have no school again because of Veterans Day. I am wondering how Veterans Day observance has managed to survive all these years on November 11 without being relegated to a Monday or Friday to accommodate the insatiable American appetite for long weekends. It must be right up there with Christmas and New Year’s. Good for them!
This morning instead of sleeping in, I just stayed in bed pretending to sleep while Elvis demanded that I count all the days of the month of every month of the year on the 2009 calendar (plus four months in 2008). This was very difficult to pull off. I’m not saying I succeeded or anything.
I had a somewhat disheartening tap class on Wednesday. Last week I was under the impression that I had finally mastered pull-backs (single, off the heel), which was awesome because I’ve only been trying to do them for the last three years with little to no success, and I had mostly decided that I was just too old to learn some tricks, but when I was finally doing them with consistency last Wednesday, it was like I wasn’t too old and a whole new world of tap-ability awesomeness was opening up to me. Then I went to class this last Wednesday and darn it all to hell if pull-backs weren’t just as difficult as they always have been. I did manage to do a couple of them (rather weak ones), so I suppose I just need to practice more. (Exaggerated eye-roll with tongue hanging out.) Where was I going with this? Oh yeah. I did find comfort in the fact that I can still do the type where you clip the toe and land on the opposite foot, but big deal, any trained monkey can do that. (Mild eye roll, no tongue.) My instructor also had us attempting to do double pull-backs and pull-backs off the toe, which ushered in a new era of suckitude for me. I was quite relieved when she told us it was time to work on turns instead. And I hate turns! On the other hand, once the turns were over, I was able to enjoy the rest of the class.
See how awesome this blog is when I talk about the stuff that matters to me? Tap dancing and monkey pull-backs? Does it get better than this? You’d better pray it does.
Actually, I have to go now because I’m expecting some friends to come over and I should probably pick some stuff up off the floor so the kids have more room to make a mess. Or something. I’m going to leave you with this gift of pure awesome that a friend gave me yesterday.
Enjoy the weekend, gentle readers. Adieu.
P.S. Girlfriend, having been unceremoniously awakened by her brother’s calendar shennanigans this morning, is now attempting to take a nap on the couch with her feet in a garbage can. Yes, the garbage can is also on the couch. No, there’s nothing in the garbage can besides Girlfriend’s feet. What kind of people do you think we are?
I hate going to swim class. So does Girlfriend, incidentally, which is why it’s so very easy to stay home instead.
Speaking of Girlfriend, I have Mister Bubby to thank for teaching his baby sister the word “crotch.” It’s not like it’s a bad word or anything…exactly…but it’s still disconcerting to be changing a diaper and hear this sweet little-girl voice protesting, “No! Not my crotch!”
It’s kind of funny, sure, but at the same time, disturbing.
Seriously, how many words out there are grosser than “crotch”? Insert disgusted emoticon here.
As long as I’m being disgusting, I’m going to say that I’m losing my patience with Elvis’s joke-of-the-last-six-weeks-or-so, which is him saying that he’s going to poop in various places or on various items. This is partly my fault, I’m sure, because in an effort to stop saying, “Crap!” so much around the children, I started saying, “Poop!” instead–which is not, technically, much better, except that it sounds better to hear a kid repeat the word “poop” than it is to hear him or her repeat the word “crap”–but because it’s not remotely satisfying to say, “Poop!” when I’m upset, I had to embellish it somehow, and I ended up saying, “Poop in a bucket!”–because “poop in a bucket!” is much worse than just regular old poop, thus conveying the serious nature of my annoyance. Anyway.
So Elvis started repeating “poop in a bucket,” which was…not as bad as him repeating the “crap!” thing, but still not good, especially when he would say it out loud in church while the sacrament was being administered. So, okay, I have stopped saying, “poop in a bucket,” but Elvis has not. More to the point, that is not his only catch phrase–and here is where I take some of the blame off of me and spread it around to Mister Bubby and also Sugar Daddy, for that matter, because they are always talking about poop in places where it ought not to be. Thus Elvis walks around all day, threatening to poop in the trash can, poop on the floor, poop on the toys, poop on the paper, poop on the tricycle, poop on the telephone, poop on the computer, poop in the bookcase, poop on the piano, poop on the spaghetti, poop on the magazine rack, etc., etc., usw.
The other night he woke up wet because his pull-up had leaked, and the whole time I was changing his bed, he would just lazily murmur, “Poop on the sheets…poop on the training pants…poop on the shoes…” even though there was no poop on any of those things. It was all just talk.
“That’s enough,” I said, as I tucked him back in to his dry, never-pooped-on bed.
“Poop on the enough,” he said.
Yeah. Whatever.
Now I really have to go to the swimming pool. Which I originally typed as “poop,” just so you know. That’s what my life’s about, kids. You should be grateful I don’t blog more often.
Today I was driving down the street and noticed an older gentleman walking on the sidewalk. He had long, flowing white hair and a goatee–and no shirt. I thought, “You, sir, seem like an interesting character. Unfortunately, our paths will most likely never meet again.”
But one can always hope, can’t one?
I took Girlfriend to swimming again today. The novelty appears to have worn off. She did not want to go at all today. She didn’t want to go at all Tuesday, but on Tuesday I said, “Screw it, I have too much work to do to bother with forcing a three-year-old to go to a Mommy & Me swim class that her mommy doesn’t even want to participate in,” and we just ditched swimming altogether. I didn’t feel like I should ditch two classes in a row–I mean, we did pay for this class, and the money’s gone either way, so we may as well “enjoy” it. Can I just reiterate for the record that I was against this idea from the start? Okay, that’s done now. So, yeah, today I forced her to go, and the good news is that she didn’t scream the whole time we were in the pool. She didn’t participate in the class, particularly, either–but at least we’re not throwing all that money down the drain, you know? Right? Right.
Which reminds me, the other day we were getting ready for swimming, and as I was putting on my bathing suit, Girlfriend got one look at me topless and started laughing her head off. Then she pulled up her own shirt and said, “I’ve got little ones!”
Glad to know I can still impress the three-and-under crowd.
I picked Mister Bubby up from school the other day, and he asked if he could play Empire at War when he got home. I said he could, after he did his homework and practiced the piano. He said, “Wow. Deja vu!”
I love it when the kids learn new expressions and proceed to use them at unexpected times.
When I was in California, I played this game with my dad: Pandemic. I’m not much of a board game player–or an any-game player–but I quite enjoyed this one. It has kind of a steep learning curve, I suppose–there are a lot of variables to work with–but obviously it couldn’t have been too complex if I managed to catch on.
Anyway, the object of the game is to rid the world of disease by finding cures for the various plagues and wiping them out. Players don’t compete against each other but against Disease, which is a refreshing twist, I think. So everyone wins, or everyone loses. (Except for Disease, of course.) I didn’t think it would be the sort of thing my dad would go for, being that he’s very competitive and at least half the fun of playing games, for him, is sticking it to the other players–but he quite likes this game also. So if you’re looking for a fun new board game, I recommend Pandemic.
Thus concludes the shilling portion of this post.
I have nothing else to talk about now. I’ll try to write up a new edition of Mad’s Book Club for tomorrow. More fighting-kitty books, not so many serial killer books, and plenty of other treats in store. (Plenty = four or five.)
Gentle readers, adieu.
I am wondering how so many people manage to accidentally “reply to all” when they really mean to just “reply” (to one) because I can only ever manage to accidentally “reply” (to one) when I really want to “reply to all.” I have to make an extra-special effort to “reply to all,” regardless of which e-mail account I’m using. What is the e-mail service I should use if I want to accidentally “reply to all”? Just curious.
My three-year-old was walking around the house earlier, singing a song about being a peacemaker. I assume she learned it at church (because she sure as heck didn’t learn it at home). Anyway, a few minutes ago she walked into the room and said, “Mom, can I be a peacemaker?”
“Uh, sure. Yes. Yes, be a peacemaker.”
“Can I have a hat?”
“You need a hat to be a peacemaker?”
“Yes.”
“A peacemaker hat?”
“Yes.”
“Hm. I’ll have to look into that.”
“Can I get a haircut, too? A haircut like Elvis’s?” (Referring to her brother, not the King of Rock ‘n Roll.)
“Ah…we’ll talk about that later.”
I do not want to get her hair cut like her brother’s. Her brother has short hair. Her hair is very long and pretty, and I don’t care if she’d rather have it short. She’s three and it’s her lot to suffer. Anyway, I don’t believe she needs a haircut to be a peacemaker. A peacemaker hat should be enough for now, I think. I just have to figure out what that is.
My short to-do lists have been working well for me. Right up until today, that is. Today I was thrown off by the fact that Elvis is home from school for the second day in a row with a mysterious illness. He was up during the night on Sunday, complaining of a stomach ache. He was loath to wake up Monday morning and was still complaining of stomachache. Then a couple hours later he seemed just fine. Then he wanted me to play Sisyphusball with him, but I wouldn’t because even if he wasn’t sick, I still kind of am sick. Sick in the head of playing Sisyphusball. I said I would play catch with him, which he tolerated for a few minutes, but then he decided he would rather play Sisyphusball by himself. The only problem was he couldn’t get the ball on the roof. That was when I knew that he was really sick, despite the fact that he had no fever and ate a perfectly good lunch and didn’t complain about his stomach hurting again until evening time.
(*Sisyphusball–a game in which one throws a ball (or two, or seven) onto the roof to watch it rolll back down again; variation: one attempts to throw a ball over the roof multiple times but is not guaranteed a break from play once this is accomplished.)
He requested to go to bed early, which isn’t that unusual for him–he works hard, he plays hard, even in illness–but he woke up an hour or so later with a fever (or at least what we assumed was a fever because we don’t actually have any operating thermometers in the house these days, and we have to rely on the old hot-or-cold method, which isn’t medically reliable, but it was all we had, so there). He went right back to sleep, and in the middle of the night he was no longer hot but was awake for some reason I couldn’t determine, except that he seemed to want to be drawing pictures of garbage trucks and spelling things. He didn’t demand my participation, so I didn’t offer it, but I was well-aware of him being awake. Girlfriend didn’t sleep so awesomely herself. Did I mention that they were both in bed with me? No? Anyway. Um…where was I? I didn’t really sleep well myself.
Oh, yes, so I woke up and knew that I had to keep him home from school again because you can’t send them to school if they’ve had a fever in the last 24 hours, even if it was only a “fever” in the “I’m too lazy to go out and buy a new thermometer just so I can get your exact temperature” sense, and anyway, what about the diminished ball-playing skills? I couldn’t ignore them. Seriously, it wasn’t just that he couldn’t get the ball over the roof, but he was having trouble getting it on there at all. The child was obviously medically compromised. And he wasn’t waking up, anyway, so I resigned myself to keeping him home again, even though I knew that it would probably result in him making a miraculous recovery by 10 a.m.
He was throwing the ball on the roof earlier, incidentally, but I don’t think he’s gotten it over the roof yet. He also didn’t scream his head off when I refused just now to fetch his ball from the neighbor’s yard. That indicates to me that he has not quite made a full recovery, even though he stopped complaining of stomachache at about 9 a.m.
I have decided, however, that unless he throws something up or loses the inclination to ask me to spell the various kinds of juices in our refrigerator, I’m sending him back to school tomorrow, no matter what.
As I write this, I think I’ve not made a very good case for my son being sick, but when you consider how much I really didn’t want to keep him home and I kept him home anyway? I must have my reasons.
I still need to unload the dishwasher. The very short to-do list is mocking me today. You know what I do to items that go unchecked? I take a Crayola marker and black them out, like they never existed. Just like the old Soviet Union used to do with stuff (like people). It’s my Soviet Union to-do list. And unlike communism, it works.
I should probably unload the dishwasher anyway.
My high school reunion is this weekend, and while I did remember to color my hair last week, I still have not gotten a haircut. We’re getting down to the wire here. A haircut is an ever-riskier proposition, but I feel that I can’t leave it undone. Currently my hair is at the optimal length for Unattractiveness That Cannot Be Mitigated By Other Factors. It wouldn’t be such a big deal, but I realized the other day that my looks are all I have going for me these days. I’m a failure professionally, and everyone my age has kids, so how can I impress my fellow Classmates of ‘89? By not being fat and bald. I guess.
I also need to decide what I’m going to read on the airplane. I have a lot of books on my to-read list, but I don’t really feel like reading any of them. I just started book six of the second Fighting Kitty Book series, but it’s a library book and I’m against taking library books to airports. We all have our quirks, and that is one of mine. Here’s the list of books I actually own that I still haven’t read yet (that I also haven’t given up hope of ever reading):
Assassination Vacation by Sarah Vowell – Technically started, but haven’t really gotten past the prologue.
The Movie-Goer by Walker Percy
The Wings of the Dove by Henry James
Runaway by Alice Munro
1776 by David McCullough – Really a long-shot for this trip, but technically I still mean to read it, especially since my children gave it to me for my birthday, like, two years ago.
The Stolen Child by Keith Donohue
Set This House on Fire by William Styron – Started, got through the first few chapters, spilled grape juice on it, bought it from the library, read some more, and gave up. But I’m finishing it, dammit! I am. Someday!
Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides
Gilead by Marianne Robinson
Pride and Prejudice and Zombies by Jane Austen and Seth Grahame-Smith – Seems the obvious choice, and yet I can’t must up the enthusiasm I ought to feel. (Remember: I am not currently right in the head.)
Smilla’s Sense of Snow by Peter Hoeg – Technically started, but haven’t gotten past the first chapter. Or second chapter. Really can’t remember, and the last time I picked it up was only last week. I’m having some difficulty getting into it, apparently
March by Geraldine Brooks – Supposed to read for a book club, so yet another title with guilt attached. But they all have guilt attached! And this one I technically haven’t bought yet.
I haven’t even mentioned the books I’ve borrowed from friends that I haven’t read yet.
Now is the time to cast your votes for which guilt-ridden book(s) I should read on the plane. Do not suggest other books to me! (Unless they’re serial-killer books, of course. I’m always up for one of those.)
Deciding where to eat lunch
Sugar Daddy: We could go to Baja Fresh.
Mad: I don’t think I’ve ever actually eaten at Baja Fresh.
SD: I prefer to call it “Ba-jay-jay Fresh.”
Mad: Please don’t say that again.
.
Elvis’s new words
“Toshiba”
“Magnavox”
“Amaranth”
.
Elvis’s new aphorisms
“Don’t touch people’s trash cans.”
“Don’t poop on the iPod.”
Princess Zurg analyzes pop culture trends
.
Princess Zurg: Mom, do you think that even though the Jonas Brothers aren’t very good musicians, they still might be good at other things?
Madhousewife: I’m sure they have other talents we don’t know about.
PZ: Yeah, like maybe they’re good at sports, or drawing…or math. Yeah, math. Maybe they play music so they can get better at math.
Mad: I’m sure that’s it.
Later…
Princess Zurg: Mom, why are the Disney bands like the Jonas Brothers and Hannah Montana so popular?
Mad: Disney made them popular.
PZ: Oh, right. Heavy marketing.
.
.
Driving home from the beach, taking in the scenery
.
Sugar Daddy: Woah, check out that house!
Madhousewife: That’s awesome.
SD: Purple with a metal roof!
Mad: It’s awesome.
SD: Can we buy that house someday?
Mad: Yes.
.
.
Random quotes out of context
.
Mister Bubby: “Bugs are just idiotic fools.”
.
…and…
Girlfriend: “He kicked me! He kicked me in the crotch!”
.
.
Princess Zurg gets in Mister Bubby’s face
.
Mister Bubby: Mom, Princess Zurg won’t stop making face jokes!
Princess Zurg: Your face won’t stop making face jokes!
Madhousewife: Okay, that’s it! Enough! No more face jokes! No more face jokes until after dinner!
Sugar Daddy: Your face is after dinner!
.
Princess Zurg on music
.
PZ: Did any of the Wiggles ever date Dorothy the Dinosaur? Because they sure write a lot of songs about her.
Mad: Well, being how they’re different species, I kind of doubt it.
PZ: But one of them COULD have dated her.
Mad: Yeah, but that would be weird.
PZ: The world is pretty weird these days, Mom.
Mad: That’s true.
.
Princess Zurg and Mister Bubby on what girls like
.
PZ: Does Disney think that the only boys girls like are the ones that look like girls?
Mad: I don’t know.
PZ: Because girls like other kinds of boys.
MB: Yeah, like the ones that are really attractive, and have really nice brown hair…
PZ: Yeah–
MB: And who can play the piano and the harp…
PZ: Right–
MB: And whose favorite food is pho…
Mad: I think MB is describing himself.
PZ: MB thinks he’s SOOOO attractive. I don’t like boys who think they’re SOOOO attractive.
MB: Well, I kind of am.
.
Yes, we can!
.
PZ: Who passed gas?
MB: I think it was Barack Obama.
PZ: MB, you can’t blame everything on Obama.
MB: Yes, I can.
.
Yes, he can.
* My husband offered to make me a grape soda float the other day. I thought he wasn’t serious. He claimed he was. I still didn’t believe him. (Experience has taught me not to believe most of what he says, especially when he claims to be telling the truth.) Then he made himself a grape soda float. He made one for Elvis, too. Some of it splashed on my hand and I licked it off. It tasted like vanilla ice cream topped with Children’s Tylenol. WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS??? WHY???
* If you’ve been wondering where I’ve been, wonder no longer. Where I’m going is nowhere, fast.
* I can’t seem to let go of this fantasy I have about everyone I know leaving me the hell alone for a week.
* My three-year-old hasn’t had a proper bowel movement in at least three weeks. That was when I started keeping track. I’m afraid the real figure is something more like six weeks. Time flies, etc. We’ve given her laxatives and suppositories. It’s an ongoing problem, so before you tell me to take her to the doctor, let me assure you that she’s been taken, many times. She even had an x-ray once to inform us that she was indeed chock full o’ crap, just as we suspected, and we ought to give her more laxatives. Her pediatrician said, “I know. I consulted the G/E people, and that’s what they said. Just keep stepping up the laxatives until something gives. [shrugs]“ This is modern science, kids. But what we have here is not merely a failure to poop; it is actually a refusal to poop. It’s a triumph of the will. Don’t worry. I’m all done talking about it. For now.
* Three things that shouldn’t last three hours but often do:
1) Movies
2) Church services
3) Children’s birthday parties
* I’ve already been informed that I need a vacation. I’m just going to step up the laxatives until something gives.
* I have a ton of dirty clothes to wash. (By “ton,” I actually mean more like 700 pounds. Not an actual ton.) I haven’t been able to wash the dirty clothes because I’ve had more pressing laundry issues, like the ton of dirty towels that keep piling up on a seemingly-hourly basis. (In this case “ton” is an actual ton because of the water weight that dirty towels have.) Is it wrong that I should make wet, dirty towels a priority over (relatively) dry, dirty clothes? It will be when the underwear runs out. Which is why I have to go do laundry now. I actually should have been doing it all morning, but I was too busy making breakfast and mixing impotent laxative cocktails.
* Someday I’ll write a real blog again, but I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.
Correction: I have nothing I want to blog about. I’m trying to escape from my real life right now, so I don’t want to blog about how Elvis is turning me into an extra-super-industrial-strength crazy person by coming up to me every one and a half minutes and demanding that I throw a ball up on the roof for him. That is his favorite game, Throw The Ball On The Roof (TTBOTR). He likes to watch it roll down. He also likes to see if you can throw it so high that it rolls down on the other side of the house. That’s what he loves the most. But now I’m making the game sound more interesting than it really is. On Monday I played TTBOTR for an hour and a half. He threw ten kinds of fits when I finally said I’d had enough. His need for TTBOTR is insatiable. After TTBOTR-ing for an hour and a half on Monday, my arms were too sore to play it at all on Tuesday. Also, Girlfriend was throwing up every 15 minutes or so, so I felt like I had a good excuse (aside from being so out of shape that TTBOTR-ing makes my arms hurt). He did not appreciate that at all. And he never stopped asking.
That’s how we spent Tuesday. Girlfriend threw up every 15 minutes, and Elvis demanded to play TTBOTR every minute and a half. I was strong, though. I said no. It’s easy to be strong when you’re cleaning up barf and your arms hurt like hell. Elvis would come up to me and say, “Mommy, throw the ball on the roof.” I’d say, “No, I’m not going to throw the ball on the roof.” He would squeeze my bicep with both hands REALLY REALLY HARD and say, “Arms all better.” I’d say, “No, they’re not.” Then he’d spit in my face. Not to be rude, just because he likes spitting. For the sake of brevity, I won’t include all the times he asked me to watch him pee, too. Also, I said I wasn’t going to blog about this.
Last night I finally took Princess Zurg bra-shopping. What a nightmare. I’d forgotten how tedious it is to try to find a bra that fits. I remembered that it was tedious, but I’d forgotten just HOW tedious. If I go on about it any longer, you’ll get the idea of how tedious it was. Maybe one more pointless sentence and you’ll have the flavor of it. No, make that two more. On second thought–or is it a third thought?–I should probably keep going until you beg me to stop. Only I can’t hear you because it’s the internet, so I’ll keep going. DO YOU HAVE THE FLAVOR YET? The good news is that PZ is not as well-endowed as ye olde bra calculator said she was. The bad news is that she wears the same size I wore when I was pregnant, only she fills it out better. (If only I’d known, I would have saved all my pregnancy-era bras and we wouldn’t have had to go bra-shopping at all!)
I felt bad because I knew PZ did not want to be shopping for bras. She was afraid someone she knew would see her. I said I would carry all the bras, and she could pretend she didn’t know me. She thought that was a fun game. (Story of my life, kids!) Incidentally, if there is anything more tedious than going back and forth between a dressing room and the lingerie department and trying on 47 different bras, it is going back and forth between a dressing room and the lingerie department and waiting for an eleven-year-old to try on 47 different bras. But I’m sure you have the flavor by now!
I thought I would try blogging about current events, but I don’t know any current events. Now that I no longer listen to talk radio during the day, I don’t hear the news anymore. Or if I do hear it, it’s because my talk shows that I listen to on podcast have mentioned it, and by then it’s, like, a week old. I ought to learn more just by surfing the interwebs, but I’m not reading any news or opinion sites lately, so I still don’t know anything. The only news I get is celebrity gossip via the supermarket checkout and also the little blurbs on the screen when I log into my e-mail account(s). I understand that the Gosselins are separating. Do you know that up until about two weeks ago I had no idea who the Gosselins were? I knew they were famous, but I didn’t know why. Turns out they had a reality TV show. Turns out that 9 times out of 10 when I don’t know why someone’s famous, it’s because they have a reality TV show. Anyway, I kind of feel sorry for the Gosselins, but when I think of the kind of world we live in where people bring cameras into their homes to record the intimate goings-on of their family lives, I don’t care if you have eight children you need to send to college–I kind of want to punch you in the face.
I must say, the appeal of reality TV eludes me entirely. Isn’t there enough reality in, you know, reality? How much money do you think I could get for letting them broadcast footage of Elvis spitting in my face and me screaming, “GET AWAY FROM ME! GO AWAY! THROW YOUR OWN FRACKING BALL ON THE ROOF! AAUUUUGHHHHHH!!!!!”
I didn’t even know Ed McMahon was dead until about a half hour ago. And that was only because I read a news item that Conan O’Brien paid tribute to him. If Conan O’Brien hadn’t paid tribute to him, I may never have known the truth about Ed McMahon, God rest his soul.
Seriously, who doesn’t like Ed McMahon? The world is poorer without him.
The other day we rented a Wiggles DVD from the Blockbuster. It’s the one with Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter. That’s a propos nothing, only it reminded me of this one time I read a blog by this woman who was disturbed because she found herself having sexual fantasies about one of the Wiggles. (If it was one of you all, I’m sorry if I’ve brought up a humiliating episode of your life. Rest assured, I have no memory of who you are. Feel free to confess, though. Just because I don’t like reality TV doesn’t mean I don’t have voyeuristic tendencies.)
Anyway, I was trying to remember which Wiggle she had the hots for. At the time I read the blog, I didn’t know the Wiggles from a hole in the ground, so it’s no wonder the information didn’t stick with me. I seem to think she was crushing on the yellow shirt or the blue shirt, which made it either Greg or Anthony. I think Anthony might be the best-looking out of all of them, but actually, I’m partial to Murray (aka red shirt). Jeff is nice, but only in a goofy, non-threatening way. Not that any of the Wiggles is threatening. I dunno. Greg seems so subdued. His presence is very soothing to me. If any of them was going to turn out to be a serial killer, I’d guess it was him. Not that I’m accusing Greg of being a serial killer. He’s left the band anyway. His replacement, Sam, doesn’t seem like the serial killer type at all. Not that that means anything!
So to answer your question, do I find myself having sexual fantasies about any of the Wiggles? Not yet.
The comments section is now open for voyeurism. Confess your most embarrassing personal information, or ask me something embarrassing that I will probably refuse to answer, unless I get really desperate for blog fodder. Which, by the looks of things, should be any second now. Go!
I have been blogging at By Common Consent, but it is all Mormony crap. For those of you who enjoy Mormony crap, you can read all of my Mormony crap posts here.
I realized today that I haven’t taken my eleven-year-old daughter bra shopping since, like, ever. She had to start wearing a bra when she was eight, and she wasn’t too keen on the idea, so I just bought her some of those sports bra-type trainers at the Target, and as she…ah…grew, I just got her L’s instead of S’s or M’s. Then she got some hand-me-down bras from her older cousins, and we’ve just been making do with this motley crew of support garments ever since.
To be perfectly honest, I just haven’t been giving the matter any thought whatsoever because I have a lot of other stuff on my mind on a daily basis–not all of it important, mind you, but, you know, other stuff has been rattling around in the old bean, and it’s not like I’ve done a great deal of bra-shopping for myself over the last decade, and she gets kind of embarrassed about this stuff and prefers not to mention it if she can possibly help it–so it just never occurred to me until this morning that Princess Zurg might be getting a tad uncomfortable and should probably be properly fitted and suitably outfitted (insofar as one can be said to be outfitted in underwear) at long last. So I got out ye olde tape measure and plugged the numbers into ye olde bra calculator.
And then I said (and I quote), “Holy crap!“
You could fit three of me in there. (Assuming I stuffed, which of course I do.)
Of course, that’s just the calculator. We’ll see what ye olde bra shoppe tells us when we have her try on the actual unmentionables. But still.
Have I mentioned lately that when I started this blog, SHE WAS SIX???
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