You know what makes a good blogger? Scratch that. A GURREAT blogger?
The ability to write about the mundane with FLAIR.
Nobody wants to read this:
Today, I got up at 7:30 am.
I showered at 8:30 am.
I watched Kathy Griffin on TV. She was really funny.
*Yawn*

I feel that I have lost that ability as of late. I am all Stepford and No WIFE. Maybe Betty Ford, at the rate I've been throwing 'em back. You know what tastes like ass? Metallic, hard to get the taste out of your mouth, ass? Red wine and kippered salmon. I mean, the wine connoiseurs? They're not just talking smack. Probably some very brave people with the taste of ass in their mouths decided to spare their feeble friends and enumerated any beverage/eatage combination that vaguely resembled ass. For that, I am thankful. Do I listen? No, considering that at the moment I am sipping on "Il Bastardo" (Thank you, TOP Foods!) and chasing it with mini bites of kippered salmon (Thank you, DH!)

It seems that I will not be renting him out. Hookers, and escorts and skanks, oh my! He would just feel so cheap getting paid for sex. Maybe he could get paid for playing golf, poor baby.

The job search is SLOW. With a capital SLOW. Can't a girl make a decent buck around here WITHOUT taking her top off? Although, as residing president of the IBTC (Itty Bitty Titty Committee, for you unscholarly heathens), I'd probably get paid to put it back on.

She works hard for her money, or lack thereof, anyway. Do you know what I fucking did yesterday? Helped DH build a POND. A motherfucking pond! I mean, do I look like landscapers r' us up in here? In all fairness, I helped dig. And secure the liner. And then I halfheartedly washed the rocks until Dh said, "It's okay baby, you go inside and take a nap. I know you don't like doing anything that gets your hands dirty." Humph. I'll just take my manicured and pedicured self ELSEWHERE.

I have also been living with the diggingest dog, which is literary children's english for: PAIN IN THE ASS DOG. He dug 8 holes in the yard the other day. 8 holes that dh then lovingly covered with topsoil, grass seed, peat moss, cow manure and water, but not in that order. I'm not green thumbs r' us, either. He knocks me over when I try to eat, scratches me when I won't pet him, and crawls on top of me when I'm trying to do something, like breathe. We're taking him to get the snip on Friday! Oh HAPPY! DAY!

Just between you and me, hon, I am so ready for this damn summer to be over. It seems to me like I spend all year trying to be responsible and forward and mature, and then I blow it all in three months. DO NOT GIVE ME YOUR PHONE NUMBER. I guarantee you I will drunk dial you at 5 in the morning (or somewhere thereabouts) crying about some injustice or another. Hello, my name is TCWH, and I can't get past the fact that I'm almost 30. Know what? I never call the people who say, "HEY! I drink too much too! Call me at 5 in the morning!" No, not me, I call my upstanding friends with real jobs who are asleep at five in the morning. Oh, insecurity. Thou art an ugly and insatiable mistress.

Eh, but that's some banality for a different day.

The world is FULL of injustices! I want to be a superhero when I grow up. But, not in one of those tight outfits. Maybe a nice, flowy, billowy one. With lots of stomach expanding room. You know, in case I need to stop and grab a bite to eat.

This may just be the longest blog entry ever, randomness and all. Away! I hope to get back to our regularly scheduled soon. Like September, deal?

P.S. You know what makes me feel really bad? When a kid with a ventilator and two hearing aids is bagging my groceries. It's an awkward situation. I know obviously he is capable, but I want to help. So I just smile, like an idiot.

Dork factor today: 10. Dh and I wore our Dave Matthews concert t-shirt (no, not matching) today. How! CUTE! Barf.