Here I sit, a bloated whale, stuffing my face with crackers when what I really want is wine and chocolate. (Is it bad to start drinking at 11am?) I'm typing v-e-r-r-r-y s-l-o-o-o-w-l-y because my hands are happier scrounging the bag of salty snacks than they are tapping this freaking keyboard.
I'm clearly, CLEARLY, in self-destructive mode at this point.
My friend, "Flo" (you remember her, you met her in 5th grade health education class) has not yet arrived though all her party guests have settled in comfortably: Zitty Zoe, Short Temper Stacy, Screamer Sally, Binge Eater Betty, Compulsive Bather Cindy, Lethargic Lucy, Procrastinator Polly, Fretter Frannie, and, the star guest, the caterer of this miserable, masochistic affair, the generous to an overflowing fault ... Muffin Top Molly!
Wait...we interrupt your regular whiny programming for this important rant...
A telemarketer just called. Is it me or are they working overtime now? I must have had 20 calls a day in the last week. Next one, I'm going to reach through the phone, twist and tear their intrusive tongue right out of their opportunistic mouth and feed it to my dog. (Even OTR, I have standards.) So watch out, this mama's jeans are pushing and poking her flabby stomach and she is looking for anyone, ANYONE, to take her anger out on!!!
Now back to our regular programming...
Painters, fumes, and a general mess, have me running from my house. My computer is still having mysterious, intermittent, drive-me-craaaazy connection problems. I'm homeless, technologically challenged, and a-big-fat-grouchy-whale.
When trying to induce labor, doctors advised me to walk uphill, have sex, stimulate my nipples (ewwww!). Is there anything, ANYTHING, I can do to help get this peri-menopausal, MoFo Flo party started?!
I dare anyone to suggest stimulating my nipples. I dare you. Grrrrrrrrrr.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
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