Dreaming of a white Christmas.

24 Oct

Really white.

My flesh has gone from goddessy-bronze to Frosty the Snowman-white faster than you can say “a monkey’s uncle.” (I’ve never understood that phrase). I’m looking less and less like Jessica Alba and more and more like Snowden as the weeks progress. It kind of snuck up on me. All of a sudden I realized that I had to switch makeup shades if I didn’t want to look like Snooki from Jersey Shore. That’s when you know it’s time to hit the tanning bed.

On the bright side, I guess I could use my ghastly white complexion to my advantage for the Halloween season. I could just be a ghost, or, like I said, a snowman. Or I could be Jennifer Love Hewitt in I Know What You Did Last Summer. That’s always a hit. People would recognize me right away.

Nothing entertains my dog except tying treats up into a shirt. Nothing. Is this real life? Is this nightly “wild dog” routine ever going to end? I’m not understanding this split personality thing with the canine. During the day and well into the afternoon he is the sweetest, cuddliest little furry angel. Adorable, drowsy, lovable. Then, 7 or 8 pm rolls around, and he becomes possessed by the devil. Suddenly the bolting, livid rampages ensue, tearing up everything he can get his sharp little mouth on, biting like a pirana. SIGH. I’m going to start paddling his ass. It’s the only way. Tough love. I think that’s what they used to call child abuse back in the 50s.

Why is it impossible to eat spoonfuls of soup without it dripping all the way down your chin? Seriously. I have adapted a new soup-consuming technique in which I bring the spoon to my mouth, hunched completely over the bowl, with my mouth facing straight down toward the floor in an effort to avoid the inevitable soup-drip down my chinny chin chin, but to no avail. Short of noisily slurping my soup out of my spoon like a baboon, there is no other solution. Is there a hole in my bottom lip? What’s happening? DOES THIS HAPPEN TO ANYBODY ELSE?!?

Sorry for yelling.

No I’m not.


“Those are some nice shoes you’ve got on there. I think they’re mine.”

“What? How could they be your shoes?”

“BECAUSE, the guy at the counter last night gave you mine by accident.”

“Well—-THAT’S really weird.”

“No, what’s really weird is that you put them on!”


3 Responses to “Dreaming of a white Christmas.”

  1. Hannah October 26, 2010 at 12:32 am #

    I like the quoted conversation at the end.

  2. Liz October 26, 2010 at 4:16 pm #

    Bueller becomes possessed by the same dog-demon around the same time every evening as well. He’s almost 2. It never stops.

  3. Tabitha November 11, 2010 at 12:59 am #

    Lol I think thay soup drip happens to everyone!

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