I feel like I would use a lot more creative techniques if I were in charge of interrogating and/or punishing prisoners in a penitentiary, like forcing inmates to have hour-long conversations face-to-face with someone who has coffee breath, or watching old, fat people eat lunch in nursing homes. I think this would save on tax dollars, and be much more effective than traditional methods.
I don’t know what came over me, but I spent almost the entire day in cleaning-mode. I was a full-on Merry Maid. I did three loads of laundry, did Trent’s laundry, put AWAY laundry, organized and stored Christmas wrapping materials, shined the mirrors, made the bed, cleaned the sink, scrubbed the toilet, unpacked my overnight bags, unpacked Trent’s overnight bags, put away all the Christmas presents, folded the blankets, vacuumed, grocery shopped, started a load of dishes, and ate a Snack Pak. SIGH. Things are looking good around here.
If I lived by myself, I would live like a barbarian. Clothes piles higher than the Empire State Building, a messy array of shoes crowding the doorway, dishes stacked up in the sink reaching the mesosphere, hair covering the floor…it would be atrocious. Like unfit for an animal. It’s funny how things change once you have a “mate.” Doing little domestic household chores make me feel like I’m doing something really selfless, like working in a soup kitchen. This is good news though, because otherwise I would be an unbearable housemate.
Or addicted to Adderall.
Either way, our living area is now spotless, organized, clean, and smells like the Keebler Elf’s bakery. MMMmmm….delish.
I wish PetFinder was more accurate. When I enter “welsh corgi” as a search term, that does not mean I am looking for a welsh corgi/great dane/rat terrier/schnauzer mix. I mean, when I order spaghetti at a restaurant, am I ordering a chicken gyro with mustard on a hambuger bun covered with pasta sauce? No.
I have the knees of an 80 year-old man. I don’t know when my tendons and joints started pretending to be Bob Barker, but it’s starting to affect my daily life. I sit indian style for twenty minutes, and my knees are squeaking like a rusty door hinge. I sit normal on the couch for an episode of Two and a Half Men, and my knees are tighter than John Basedow’s abs. Do I have arthritis? Is it possible? Is arthritis contagious? Hmph… Looks like I’ll be hitting up my dad for a Celebrex prescription. I wish I had health insurance.
I am a Big Sexy Hair products user. Their volumizing line makes me, if it’s possible, even more dashing than I already am. Instead of having my mom fill my stocking with hundreds of pounds of chocolate this year like she normally does, I asked her to get me products that I use constantly but don’t feel like buying for myself, such as mascara, chapstick, eye base, etc. One of these items was Big Sexy Hair “Spray & Play.” My mom was a degree off, and accidentally purchased me “Spray & Play Harder,” a product that hardens like cement once applied. For starters, my hair is too long for such a firm-hold type of spray. Secondly, this product smelled distinctly like eggnog. This would have been fine, had my father not tried to make me drink a glass of 80% Bacardi Rum and 20% Andersen-Erickson eggnog the night prior. I gagged at just the smell. Long story short, I no longer have this hair spray.
One day. Three notes. Done.
Me: “Who’s an old male actor?”
Richard: “Rodney Dangerfield.”
Me: “Is he old as fuck?”
Richard: “He’s dead.”