I have been scarce this week, have I not?  The blogging has been extra-light.  Zero calories, zero fat.  On the plus side, no aspartame for you aspartame-eschewing freaks.  [Insert an appropriate emoticon here so you know I’m just teasing you freaks.]

There just hasn’t been much going on except me pondering the meaninglessness of my existence.  Things were becoming so meaningless that I finally realized that my period was probably coming up soon.  That made me feel slightly better, knowing that the meaninglessness was at least partly hormonal in nature.  But it didn’t help enough.  I still have issues with feeling useless.  The obvious solution to this problem is to do something useful, but I just don’t feel like it.  Well, at least I’m self-aware.

I’m probably going to have that put on my tombstone:  AT LEAST SHE WAS SELF-AWARE.

I fed my children Chinese food from the Safeway last night.  I knew it was wrong, and I did it anyway.  You see, Elvis and I got out of speech therapy at 5 p.m., and I had a church women’s thingy to go to at 6:30 p.m., and I had to go to Safeway anyway because we always go to Safeway after speech therapy so Elvis can buy a soda and some shaving cream (whole other story) and also I had to bring an appetizer to the church women’s thingy and there was technically not a meal’s or appetizer’s worth of food in the house, SO–between shopping and traveling time, there wasn’t time to pick up anything else for dinner because Mister Bubby won’t eat chicken and we’d just had pizza on Tuesday and Princess Zurg had been eating it for lunch all week, and I served macaroni and cheese from a box for lunch to the kids who were at home, and the Family Dinner To Go was just there for $22.99, and I rationalized, you know, how bad could it be?  Especially for kids, who will eat freaking corn dogs and mac and cheese from a box (original flavor)?

Because I had forgotten, gentle readers, about the last time I had eaten Chinese food from a Safeway.  It tastes sort of like…not hell…more like limbo, I guess.  It’s edible, but it’s also a whole lot of “why am I eating this when I could be eating nothing?”  Mister Bubby said, “This is sort of disgusting.”  I didn’t think “disgusting” was called for, but in fairness, he did use the ameliorative “sort of.”  Well, whatever.  He was sort of “right.”

Anyway, I didn’t have to eat it (although I did, a little, just to see how disgusting it was) because I had this church thingy, and there were going to be appetizers.  So I went to the church thingy, leaving the kids in the questionable care of Princess Zurg (what she lacks in responsibility she makes up for with enough chronological age to provide me with plausible deniability in the neglect department).  Sugar Daddy was out of town; I forgot to mention that earlier.  I wouldn’t have gone to the church thingy, except that before SD told me he was going out of town, I told him that I was going to go to the church thingy, so he made me promise that I would actually go and not be a martyr and stay home because he was out of town.  So whatever, I went and stayed long enough to eat some appetizers, but then I went home because I wanted to get the kids in bed at a reasonable hour.

So this church thingy was technically supposed to be the Relief Society Birthday Celebration, even though Relief Society’s birthday is technically in March.  But who cares?  Some ladies in our ward volunteer at this women’s shelter, and they were collecting feminine hygiene supplies for said shelter–which I thought was the perfect way to celebrate the Relief Society’s birthday.  Big bins of feminine hygiene products on display in the foyer of our church–up yours, Patriarchy!  I’m just kidding.  What was I saying?  Oh, I had brought in the appetizer and was going back to the parking lot to retrieve my donation to the women’s shelter, and the Relief Society president said, “Mad, aren’t you staying?” and I said, “Oh, sure, I just left my tampons in the car.”  Which was kind of funny at the time, but I guess you had to be there.

Anyway, the theme of our birthday celebration–aside from feminine hygiene–was “Redefining Beauty.”  (There might be a joke here, but I doubt anyone wants me to go there, and anyway, I don’t have the energy.)  I don’t know if they successfully redefined beauty or not because I didn’t stay for the whole thing, just the food part, as I said.  But the food-eating area was decorated with charming signs about self-affirmation and crap.  One of them was that quote by Marianne Williamson that I abhor so much, misattributed to Nelson Mandela, as usual.  (Really, you would think a women’s organization could manage not to dis a sister that way, but no.)  Well, I let the gals at my table know that it was misattributed because I’m willing to come off as a know-it-all for the sake of sisterhood–and also as an excuse to talk about how much I hate that quote, but to my credit I did wait until after someone else made a snarky remark about it before going full-throttle.  Well, technically I did not go full-throttle, really only half-throttle because I was tired and I didn’t want people to think I’m as obsessed with my own failure as I really am.  But you know what I mean.

Another sign said, “What would you attempt if you knew you would not fail?”  One of the ladies at our table posed this question to the group for kicks and giggles, and I said that I would not attempt anything.  If I knew I would not fail, I would do or do not.  There would be no attempt.  So now I have another inspirational idea to mock, and for that I’m grateful.

What else can I tell you?  I attempted to read another book in the “romantic thriller” department, Cypress Nights by Stella Cameron, but I failed because it was just too stupid.  The serial-killer part was okay, but the romance was just a steaming pile of lame.  It started en medias res, with the man and woman totally hot for each other for no apparent reason, and the guy was named “Roche,” which…I don’t know how it’s supposed to be pronounced, but I read it as “Roach,” and I just can’t believe that’s a sexy name no matter how you spin it.  Also, he was kind of a jerk.  I mean, the relevant characters in romance novels always have to have Big Secrets that they’re hiding from each other because they’re afraid that if the other person knows their Big Secret, they will reject them.  The woman’s Big Secret is always a sexual hang-up of some sort.  The man’s Big Secret has some flexibility, but in this case, Roche’s Big Secret was that he had a really over-the-top sex drive.  Right.  Big Secret.  So he’s always thinking to himself, I have to hold back, I can’t scare her away, while simultaneously trying to touch her goodies every time he’s alone with her.  Well, at least he waits until they’re alone.  I guess that is technically holding back.  Whatever.  So while I was curious about who killed somebody in the beginning, I just didn’t have the stomach to wade through the rest of it.  I’m going to pretend the killer was Roche, even though it makes no sense, and that he was chemically castrated in the end.  Because I can.

I’m just upset that Marianne Williamson can write a book and Stella Cameron can write a book (lots of books, actually)–and why can they write books? because they don’t fear their own awesomeness–but I can’t write a book because I live in the real world, where people fail, and more specifically I fail, because I am good at a lot of things but none of the crucial things.  That is how I roll, peeps.  But I won’t lie to you–it’s getting a little old.  I realize that.  AT LEAST SHE WAS SELF-AWARE.

Well, on that note, maybe I should have some lunch.