So I lied to you the other day, about only having eight teeth to chew with. I actually have twelve–twelve whole teeth, six on top, six on bottom. I don’t know why I thought it was only four. Probably because when it comes to chewing, twelve teeth isn’t as much better than eight as you would think. But I counted them today, as I was running my tongue over all the parts of my mouth that don’t hurt, and indeed there are twelve teeth, three on each side, top and bottom, and they are doing the best they can, dangit. They just can’t do it all.
To say that I “lied” is overstating it. I was merely mistaken, or misremembering. I did not intentionally mislead you in order to secure more pity for myself. More pity for me. Secure for myself more pity. For me. This is what the blog has come to, gentle readers. I shall now entertain you with my grammatical rationalizations. Prepare to be dazzled!
I had a pretty weird dream night before last. I dreamed that I was in a polygamous marriage and we were trying to talk our husband into buying both a minivan and a house. No, our husband was not Sugar Daddy; he was some dude I’ve never met before in real life, but he looked a little like Marco from Nightwish, only not so much with the beard. I mean, I think he had a beard, but it didn’t look like that. Also, this guy was not Finnish but American. I’m not sure what he did for a living, but it was probably not being a rock musician because I think I would have remembered that. What I remember is that we only had one kid, and I don’t know if it was mine or the other wife’s (this is the problem with polygamy–maternal uncertainty!), but we rode motorcycles and lived in an apartment with a very, very nice bathtub. Don’t ask me how I know, I’m just saying.
Our husband was not too keen on purchasing a minivan. It didn’t really go with his image of himself. I, on the other hand, was kind of concerned about how we were going to afford this upgrade in lifestyle. Then I woke up.
My real husband is in California this week, trying to help his mother sell her mother’s house. He is also trying to help her prepare to sell her own house so that she can move up here and live next to us. Not, like, right next to us. I mean, she’d do that if the house next door was for sale, but it’s not, so she’ll have to settle for something a few blocks away, probably. Anyway, yes, she is planning to move up here. She is supposed to do it this summer, but SD thinks it’s highly unlikely that she will be able to pull that off, considering all the work that needs to be done before that can happen. It makes me tired to think about it. I’m glad it’s him down there and not me.
I just started reading this book by Joy Fielding, The Wild Zone. I have read almost all of Joy Fielding’s books, and not just because if you’ve read one Joy Fielding book, you’ve read them all. I have literally read each one separately. Which is how I know that she’s been writing the same book for the last thirty years. Obviously, it’s a pretty good book, or why would I keep reading it? You know, she’s like my Taco Bell. Everything on the menu has the exact same flavor, but you know what you’re going to get and sometimes that’s just what you want, even though you know it’s not that great. But secretly you really do think it’s great, if you’re in the right mood.
Anyway. What I was going to say and why this is noteworthy rather than me just going blah blah blah blah blah because I’m bored and I don’t have a sister-wife to keep me company is that this book, The Wild Zone, is unlike any other book Joy Fielding has ever written. It is almost as if she didn’t write it. I am fifty pages in and so far there is not a middle-aged housewife with two daughters and a lawyer husband who is either cheating on her or has already left her for another woman. It is crazy! Crazy in a good way, though. It’s like Taco Bell joined forces with a Long John Silver’s or something–which actually happened in our town, I don’t know about yours. I don’t know that I’ve ever eaten at a Long John Silver’s. I might have, once, when I was in college, before I became a vegetarian. Or that might have been Skipper’s. Who cares? The point is, it’s a new experience for me, and I’m open to it.
What else? Mister Bubby’s teacher is going to take parental leave sometime in April unless his wife has a baby earlier than that. I am rather upset about it, actually. Not that I begrudge him his parental leave–okay, not that I officially begrudge him his parental leave–although I am somewhat surprised that the school district provides paid parental leave. I am assuming it is paid, or why on earth would a teacher take the last two months off of school? Unless he’s secretly independently wealthy or his wife has paid leave from her job or they inherited a generous sum from a relative or…the possibilities are endless, I guess, so maybe it’s unpaid leave after all. Whatever. I wouldn’t care, except that he’s MB’s favorite teacher EVER. This is the first year since, like, kindergarten that he hasn’t complained about school being boring. Not even once. So of course this is the teacher who has to go and have a baby. I swear, men are becoming as unreliable employees as women with their ticking biological clocks and crap. Bah! If I were so politically inclined, I’d turn this into a thoughtful discussion about how we view women taking parental leave versus men taking parental leave, instead of just making a dumb joke about it. But I’m actually just personally annoyed and don’t care about the bigger picture. Maybe another day.
Time to make the donuts, ladies and gentlemen. Those would be the metaphorical donuts. Or time to metaphorically make the donuts. Take your pick.