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.