2005-05-24
Random Observations
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The master bathroom is about 2 miles from our hot water heater, so every morning whoever gets up first (that would be ME) stumbles to the shower, turns the hot water on full blast, and gets back into bed to snuggle until the hot water makes it's way from Upper Mongolia into our bathroom.
Usually this takes about 2-3 minutes, enough time to appropriately annoy and wake up the snugglee, but not enough time to fall back to sleep. Besides, the clanging of the pipes heating up does not allow for the solace required to snooze.
This morning, however, it must have been at least 6 minutes and I felt myself drifting back to running through poppy fields with Ewan McGregor, when I felt an elbow in my side.
"Hey. What's up with the hot water?" growled HB.
"I dunno, Ewa.. I mean honey. Maybe the hot water heater is on the fritz."
"Or maybe you turned on the COLD water."
I staggered off to the shower and sure enough...
"Uhm, yeah. When did you switch the hot/cold water faucets around?"
"Polack." he says lovingly.
I don't know why I view being called a "Polack" such a compliment, but I do. After all, how many other ethnic groups got smacked around as much as polacks did back in the 8th grade? I'm not sure we get as much press time these days now that we have blondes, especially Britany and Jessica, but I, for one, miss it.
I am a proud Polack who still believes it takes several of us to change a lightbulb.
We are very thorough. And shut up -- what would life be without Kielbasa? Think about it.
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Heard on the way into work today, on live radio:
"I seen this guy..."
Yes. I "seen". Very high on my list of english-language-destruction annoyances. Right up there with "orientate".
What is wrong with people?
If you live in this country, learn to speak the language -- correctly. This includes you, too, Cletus. No, no, just because Nascar is experiencing a sudden spike in popularity among the rich and famous White Trash is NOT an acceptable dialect to use anywhere but in your trailer.
And Juan? You too. No, I'm NOT going to teach your kids in Spanish, okay? And no, Fatwikwa, not ebonics, either. You can get all up in my face and shake your f-to the izzle inger at me as much as you want, but it is not (notice I did not say "ain't") going to happen.
Learn. The fucking. Language. It's called English.
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A possible first: there was NOTHING on TV last night. Now that the Bachelor is over, my Monday nights are bleak. So, still a bit under the weather with the tuberculosis I picked up last week, I climbed into bed at 9pm and channel surfed.
Low and behold, I found "Doctor 90210". (Has) anyone seen this gem? It's a reality show tracking several plastic surgeons in LA. First of all, they are ALL nut jobs in their own right. Second, they way they perform surgery is downright horrific. My GOD. It appears that this particular show was about plastic surgery for post-stomach-stapling patients, and the way they grab hold of that extra skin around the belly and shake it and squeeze it and jiggle it about gleefully was downright obscene.
THEN, there's the guy who is doing a combo tummy tuck/boob job on a post-gastro-patient, and he's just flailing the excess removed fat around, holding it up like it's the winning lottery ticket, and then he (oh, I'm feeling faint) sticks his ENTIRE ARM up inside of her belly, right under the skin (you can even see the shape of his hand and fingers) and pops these obscene looking orbs of fakeness into her boob area. Then he squinches and pinches and rearranges them until they are just so and he says "LA!".
Sweet Chocoloatey Jesus give me air.
The finale is next week. Don't miss it.
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HB and I are going to a financial counselor to figure out What We Want To Be When We Grow Up (Subtitle: Just How Fucking Soon Can I Retire?), and it requires that we fill out our LifePlan, which actually asks, and demands the answer to, such questions as:
What do you want to be doing in 5 years? 10 years? 20?
Where do you want to be living?
What makes you happy?
What will you be wearing?
Will you be a size 4? or a 14.
Will your feet still smell?
Are you done with those fries?
Stuff like that.
It's extremely tedious and makes us have a "Family Meeting" during which we discuss, calmly, as adults, often through tightly clenched teeth, our Life Objectives.
Me: I hate my job. I want to retire when I'm 46.
HB: Uhm... that's next year, hon.
Me: Right, sorry. I meant this year.
HB: Uhm... that means we will have to sell the house, both cars, the cat, The BackMaster 4000 vibrator, and my golf clubs. We'll probably have to move to Kentucky.
Me: Where do I sign?
For someone who can't figure out what she wants to do tomorrow , let alone in any increment > What's On TV Next, this activity is very trying for both of us.
I'll keep you posted.
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Visions of me, retired:
(Credit for this pic goes to the Curvy Dangerous One)
xquzme at sometime today