'come with me friday, don't say maybe'
So, yeah, it's Friday (Happy Friday those of you who like to cheer "TGIF!" and/or are all "Did someone say Friday? Oh, no! It's Beer Day!" or stuff like that), and I'm a little bereft of ideas. It's been a rather random week, and because of that, I thought, "You know what the people want? They want random. You've deprived them of the random for a long time, Doll Face!" and I said, "You know what? You're right. I'm going to give them the random. For them. I will do it for them!"
And then my Tool Man peeked up from playing Space Fight on Facebook and asked, "Did you say something?" because I apparently said that last part outloud and he got a bit excited when he heard the word 'give,' but I told him to just get back to playing with his little computer friends because I had tales of whimsy to write. For my little computer friends. So. Yeah...
Anyway, here we go:
- I don't really refer to myself as 'Doll Face' when I talk to myself in my head. I use a variety of endearments, some of which include 'hun,' and 'luv,' and (most common) 'Hottie O' McHottenshire of the Scottish highland O'McHottenshires.' You may call me whatever you wish.
- Yesterday I was watching some cartoon program with my youngest son before we ventured down for his school bus. All was delightful and charm, and then one of the older, wiser characters told the younger that their goal today was lowering the expectations of women, because if you get their expectations too high, you'll never get them off your back. Hold up!! This is what is going on on cartoons today? This is what's being taught? What the hell happened to wily coyotes trying to drop anvils on pesky roadrunners and snarky, closeted rabbits? Why, back in my day, cats and mice played friskily with one another. They didn't pull this type of thing out of their hats! Get off my lawn, you pesky new-fangled cartoon characters! Ever the wise one, Tool Man wandered through the living room and said, "What's the big deal? It's true, you know." And that, my little computer friends, is why Tool Man plays with other boys and their pretend space ships on the computer.
- I kid, I kid.
- After the cartoon self-help lesson, I walked with my son down to the corner to catch his bus. After the heinous bus driver my kids had last year, it's like I'm living in an adorable sitcom world this year. My son's new bus driver is waving to us and grinning broadly as he pulls to the corner, and offers a charming "GOOD MORNING TO YOU ALL!" when the door swings open. It makes me want to jump on the bus and give him a huge hug, but I wasn't kidding the other day when I said the driver is my old 7th grade math teacher, and I'm afraid if he sees me up close, as I tend to hug up close, he'll toss out some random geometry question, and if I fail (which, without question, I would), he'd deny safe passage for my first grade son. I've done parent pick up and drop off. I still break out into a cold sweat and shakes when I drive by the school parking lot, even on weekends. I don't want to go through that hell ever again. So I flip my hair a little bit so it's covering my face (Because yes, I look EXACTLY like I did when I was in 7th grade. Only cooler. Sure), adjust my sunglasses, and bid him a good day as he pulls away, thanking him for not being jaded about a bus full of noisy, bouncy kids.
- And wishing I could be a little less jaded about them, too, but working in the kid's department at the book store has broken me, people. I swear. OK, maybe it's not the kids, but it's the parents. Or the parents who wander in an hour later after their kid has destroyed the department, then announce loudly, often in some sing-songy baby talk voice that makes me want to stab myself in the thigh with a fork, as they're yanking their kids out of there that they can just leave the mess they've made because someone (ME!) will pick it all up (or have to return it because it's been destroyed). Deep breath. Deep breath.
- I dig kids. I really do. I just don't dig the kid's department all the time. Because I also dig grown ups who don't wander into the kid's department, especially those who don't call me stupid.
- Speaking of hair, I was getting tired of stepping on my bangs as I attempted to go about my days, so I got my hair cut Wednesday night. My appointment was late in the evening, which is when no good typically happens out in the world. Because I had a hot date planned to come home and put pajamas on and watch television with Tool Man (do not be jealous of our molten hot love!), my stylist decided I should look super fancy. Which is the polar opposite of what she typically does if I get my haircut in the morning and have truly grand plans mapped out for the remainder of the day. Anyway, she cut my hair so I could see now, blew it all dry, secured it into a huge ponytail atop my head, then proceeded to curl waves into said ponytail. By the time she removed the Scrunchee and let my hair fall (nay - cascade down my shoulders like rivers of rich, succulent amber fire), I had big, flouncy hot girl curls. I was, to say the least, delighted! I tipped her handsomely, then made a quick stop at the nearest Kum & Go to stun the clerks with my hot hair and quench that fire with a Diet Mountain Dew. Googly eyes! Success! I got home, ready to bring the thunder with my Tool Man. Ten minutes later, a new space ship secured, he turned away from his computer game, locked eyes with my amber waves of fire, and announced, "You've got porn hair!" Little computer friends, I have seen some porn in my day. I've seen what goes on in the hair of some of those on porn. I didn't have that aspect of porn hair, thank you very much. However, if Tool Man meant that my hair appeared to be like that of the BOOBS! of a porn actress - that is, enhanced beyond the realm of safe, comfortable, and/or natural - then yes, I did have porn hair. So I gave him my patented come hither look, which, apparently, wasn't as enticing as earning space ships, so Tool Man went back to protecting the universe from evil doers. Two days later, my hair is now flat (or, in porn terms, my hair is now flaccid), and I hope that the people in the pretend world of Space Fight feel safer.
- I've rambled long enough. Oh, I see you, all shaking your head and saying, "No! No! Go on! We love your ramblings!", but I'm hungry, my house is a holy mess, and I'm going to tell you that I plan to rectify both those matters (when in reality I'm going to likely sit around for a bit longer and psych myself up and watch shows on the Food Network. Or listen to the Jonas Brothers. Seriously. I can't stop thinking of that cute Joe...).
- Oh, but before I forget, the above ramblings? They're really just overdrawn musings on what I probably already rambled about on Twitter this week, and if you aren't already part of this time suck brigade, I say good for you! Hold strong! But! If you are, and you want to sit in the dark of your mom's basement and yell out, "Show me your tweets, Doll Face!", you can follow me there by looking for me under FADKOG. I'm sure I'll marvel you with my random pronouncements of how bored I am, and how I'd take a punch in the face if someone were to share a frozen Snickers with me.
Don't be scared of me. I wish you nothing but a happy weekend. Try not to think about me too much. I'll be around. We're good. I heart you all so hard. Now how about giving me some random in the comments!