things I've been pondering until less veiled posts appear
- You think those two, lesser known members of Poison are all "Whoo! Thank God our lives are perfect here in the shadows!" when they tune into Rock of Love with Bret Michaels every Sunday night on VI1? Rikki Rockett, I suggest you keep your nose clean, mister. Bobby Dall? Couldn't hurt you, either, to follow Rikki's lead. Oh, I'm sure you want action tonight, satisfaction, alright. But just take a look at those female impersonators on Bret's show, then think again.
- However, trust me, if Rikki or Bobby (or, for that matter, Ronny, Bobby, Ricky and Mike - cool it now!) had their own veiled reality show on television right now, I'd be watching it. You ever think about me on Sundays? You do? Sigh. That is so hot! Tell me what I'm doing when you think of me. Yeah? Oh, you know I do that! But when I'm done doing that, I'm on the couch, remote in hand, blasting through the above mentioned Rock of Love, Scott Baio is 45 and Single and then The Two Coreys and Gene Simmons' Family Jewels. Oh, I know they are lame, and I was never a Scott Baio or Gene Simmons fan, but seriously! I am a fish. Just reel me in. I judge myself harshly enough. Please don't feel it necessary to then add to my shame. Unless you think of me doing unspeakable things while doing so. But then, really, if that's the case, eww! Unless it's you. You would be ok, dammit.
- When I'm in the kitchen, I'm dangerous. Like Maverick in Top Gun, baby! "You're a real cowboy," I'll say to myself. Then I'm all "What's your problem, Girl?" Seeing how I'm gonna play, I then fire back, "You're everyone's problem. That's because every time you go up in the kitchen, you're unsafe. I don't like you because you're dangerous." Oh, game on, other me! Game on! So I'll get in my face a bit and yell, "That's right! Girl...girl. I am dangerous" I am this way after dumping a half cup of molton hot melted brown sugar and butter on my palm dumping monkey bread out of its baking mold last week. Nothing fun about melted sugar on your hand. Like that's not gonna stick. This kitchen trauma follows on the heels of the great "Brownie Frosting Massacre of June 2007" as evidenced in the accompanying photo. Frosting is an evil bitch sometimes. Holds a grudge when you just want to eat it straight from the can and not slather it all over baked goods. Consider this my warning to you.
- I think I might be a comma whore. I figure this beats some of the alternatives out there for me.
- How can you be one thing one week and something so utterly different the next?
- The new store manager? BORING. BORING. BORING. Doesn't talk. I hope my ex work hubs is suffering. I am. I miss double entendre. I miss hanging out. This having to actually work to earn my slightly higher than minimum wage pay is not what I signed on for!
- "Irony" - a one-act play staring me and my children, staged every day around 2 p.m. central time. House lights go up on a me in my bedroom. Noises abound as the sound of doors opening and closing release a haunting cacophony of agony. I sigh, then hunch my shoulders together and draws in a great, resounding gulp of air. Then - scene: Yelling from upstairs in my bedroom to my boys in the lower level of the house to please stop slamming doors. Except I may not have said please. And they can't hear me yelling, what with all the slamming.
Labels: no brownies were actually harmed nor sullied in the actual frosting process; you know how there are some shows you wish you never would have started watching? so why get mad when they're cancelled?