I've got random bits of fluff blowing about my brain box - kind of the cranial equivalent of belly button lint. I think I'll allow you to witness the expurgation.
Do you know just how hard it is to find the right pair of shoes? I've been searching high and low for a pair of tan stilettos. Can't find 'em anywhere, and I'm greatly peevish over it. I've found a lovely pair of taupe and white round-toed pumps that will do as a substitute, but... it's not the same. I've also been looking for a pair of navy and white spectator pumps, but alas... unless I want to spend well over 300 samoleans, I'm screwed.
#879 on the "Things I Hate List": Picking up after the WCM
See, the WCM has a lot of great points - he can do stuff.
He can replace a bathroom sink. He can fix a toaster-oven. He can rewire an outlet and install a ceiling fan. He can patch up a wall with drywall, install countertops, and change my oil (not, unfortunately, a euphemism). However, the one thing he can't
manage to do is clean up after himself. I am, oh, say, a wee tad bit passive-aggressive when it comes to cleaning up after
a 43-year old grown-ass man
him, so I don't. Tools litter my house. It's a mess. I hate it, but cleaning up after the WCM is a really bitter pill to me.
Slightly irritated by: (*gasp!*) Nigella Lawson
Ok, so I love, Love, LOVE Nigella Lawson, to the point of having an absurd girl-crush on her. She's a great cook, very literate and articulate, and possesses a curvaceously fabulous figure. I was thrilled to the marrow when Food Network began carrying her newest series "Nigella Express," and I've DVRed the episodes. It would seem, though, that my Nigella of old has fled the scene and been replaced by a plasticized chirpy Nigella-esque substitute. It's as though they took all of the good stuff about her and played that up to the point of caricature. It's exaggerated and almost, well, affected
#27,146 on the "Things I Can't Do Without" List: Kissing
So, this is on the TICDW list, but it should probably be on the Things I Really Miss list, since it appears that the WCM gave up kissing for Lent. In 2003. He's not big on the kissing, usually reserving it for either bribery or for when he has to (you know, during the Bi-Annual Shag). I'm rapidly realizing that I really, really miss kissing. Chewing gum to satisfy this oral fixation of mine just hasn't been cutting it of late. I think I'm going to have to tie the WCM down and not let him up until he kisses my lips numb.
So, the scale says I've gained 3 pounds. This is the first time in almost 21 months that the scale has registered a gain that's not water. And I know when it's water. I can't see these three pounds, and believe me, I'd know where they were - I scrutinize my body quite closely these days. I know where every sag and stretch mark is, where each contour should be, and the what the circumference of by big toe is (don't ask
). I don't see 'em. I'm not denying their existence, I'm just saying I don't see 'em. I'm feeling the impact of having the scale tell me about them, though, and I don't like it. I don't like it one bit. So, for the next couple of days, I'm going to have to give up cookies. And candy. And serious starches. I'm not, however, giving up my mochas - a girl's gotta draw the line somewhere.
I think I've got most of that fluff by now. I would go knit a sweater with it. Except I can't knit.
Labels: babble, navel lint, nonsense, peevish