This weekend I said �no thanks� to boredom and got a life. Friday night Jackie and I did laundry. It was pretty boring. I won�t try to make it interesting.
Saturday, Salsalita and I took our spawn to see Spy Kids 3, which left me with a migraine. But the kids had a nice time. Don�t waste your time with those 3-D glasses because the only one that would enjoy them would be Timothy Leary or Gary Busey. Trippy.
Then, we took the demon children swimming. I sun.
Then we went to Denny�s where they proceeded to act like complete sh*ts. Sigh. But they got grub and we didn�t have to cook. Yay!
Saturday night, Lisa and I put on our nighties, and later, Mr. Sweatpants and Rufus show up to watch Final Destination 1 and two with us. It was almost like a double date, until I remembered that my date once considered becoming a priest and already acts like one.
I�m tired of living in �The thorn Birds.� I want to live in �Wild Orchid�.
About Final Destination, all I have to say is at the end of two: they didn�t have to go there.
Sick folks. Good flicks.
Sunday, I cleaned my house for five hours. In my daughter�s bedroom, I discovered that she and Jacob had: shaved my deodorant into little pieces, washed all the Barbie�s hair with lavender soap so I have none, poured out all her hair barrettes, coated the carpet with broken waffle cones, and generally had run amok.
I told Jackie that she is grounded until Wednesday from any friends coming over and that she has to start helping Jacob clean his room before she leaves and vise versa. I�m not putting up with this any more.
All in all, it was a pretty good weekend.
Sometimes I get stuck in a rut with the music in my car�s CD player. I�m always running here, running there and the same house CD has been in my CD player for 3 weeks. There�s only so many times I can listen to house and then I want to start plucking out my eyelashes to relieve the pain.
Yesterday I finally put in my Prince �Hits� CD. I love Prince. Deeply.
I would�ve married him, but he chose that damn Mayte. I�m mad. I still haven�t forgiven him for marrying someone normal and not seeking out a goddess like me.
All women are goddesses, don�t ya know? Men should see this, but they don�t. Most of them seek out the vapid, selfish, fake-tan, superficial fake blondes and try to have a deep relationship with them. Um.
I�d rather date somebody with some level of intelligence, regardless of hair color. I�ll tell you why.
Once upon a time, back when I was a young, hot thing, I met this really hot Norwegian/American sailor. Blonde curly hair, gray blue eyes, and a nice rippled six-pack on his torso. He was beautiful and I was hooked.
I staked my claim as soon as I had the chance.
So me, young hot thing, and he, young hot thing, dated for like, a good 3-4 months. We do what young hot sailor�s do. We get married to practical strangers. At the justice of the peace.
We mate. We confuse love with lust.
Oh, but we swore we had something real spiritual. A real psychic connection because we would like read each other�s intentions, thoughts and expressions. We had so much in common; sucky childhood�s, wacky brainwashing religions that we were raised in, and the military. We understood each other.
Only, we later discover that the understanding is akin to a person who speaks Japanese trying to understand, say, someone from Zimbabwe.
It was a big mistake.
I never knew that our �connection� depended on my ability to lose my baby weight, in like, 7 days after birth. Day 8, when my daughter had been in the world for 8 whole days, I still resembled a sumo wrestler. I was no longer the sexy little pixie he married and he just had to mention that his sister had fit back into her pre-pregnancy Levi�s the day she went home with her newborn.
I mean, she weighs 80 pounds soaking wet.
A look of pure �die asshole� escaped from me before I could help it. It was too late. Even though I never thought it or said it, Uranus concluded that I must like being rotund and before I had a chance he was dipping his wick in candlewax other than mine.
From then on, I felt like I was raising a 13-year-old instead of my husband. I had to fight with him about cleaning up his Ewok villages so that I wouldn�t trip over them while walking with the baby. I had to tear him away from his X-Men comics to wash the bottles or change a diaper. That is, if he was home. Many times I found out his ship had docked for the week and he didn�t come home. I didn�t mind being with a young man because it had its pluses, but I felt like we were just playing house.
It was hard.
And we won�t talk about the Nasty. Because by the time my daughter was six months old, her father had communicated he�d rather hit it with a drag queen that be with me again.
His fantasy was busted.
After a while, the effects of the love goggles wore off. I found out I�d married a moron. This was a man who would drop his drawers for anything with a vag, except me.
This was a man who wore my wedding dress to the Rocky Horror Picture show.
This was a man who hit on my best male friend, who was gay.
This was a man who told his family I�d told him I was pregnant and that�s why he married me in the first place. But Stevie Wonder could see more than 18 months between our wedding day and Jackie�s birth.
Unless I�m an elephant, I didn�t have a gestation period of almost 2 years.
This was a man who had an affinity for my pantyhose. He never paid attention to me unless I was wearing pantyhose. In which case before I could blink I�d find him attached to my leg like a dog on a fire hydrant, panting and slobbering and wearing a dazed look in his eye. Gross. He�d stroke them and softly whisper to himself, �Pan-ty-hoss-ssse� actually lisping, while rubbing my leg and licking his lips.
I�d shake him off saying, �Come on, now� and dragging him across the room, still attached to my leg.
My husband loved me for my pantyhose.
I don�t get it.
So, in conclusion, already having the �Alpha� male, I�m now ready for Mr. Emotionally healthy. Having already had an empty relationship with someone who only wanted me for sexual reasons, I am now ready for Mr. Friend/Buddy/Pal.
Mr. Sweatpants, God love him, stimulated my mind but physically left me in the Sahara desert. I have the sex life of a Eunuch. I�m going for the sainthood now, the patron Saint of Accidental Abstinence.
So, I�ve had Mr. Alpha (and he left me for a girl who looked 12 years old, flat up and down), and I dated Mr. Sweatpants (who loves me in a disturbing �Father Figure� sort of way, but not sexually) and I got no booty.
In conclusion, I�m now ready to date a friend. A guy I can hang out with, watch sports with, act stupid with, and regularly get booty from. Sounds great.
Preferably younger than 33, older than 24. Cute, funny, patient.
Speaking of, there�s a really babe-I-liscious guy at work. Now, I�ve put a lot of work into what I call a babe these days.
Here�s what a man must have to be a babe:
1) cute smile
2) no prior felonies
3) a sense of humor
4) brains are nice too
5) nice butt
6) nice package
7) must wear boxers, no underwear with their names on it (this has happened to me)
Should I just ask Mr. Smoldering out? He is really cute. I would tear him up too�..he wouldn�t stand a chance.
9:50 a.m. - 2003-08-04
Recent entries:
What you missed - January 16, 2012
%%older_entries%%From hell - October 19, 2010
%%older_entries%%a rant from a few weeks ago - August 17, 2010
%%older_entries%%Tired - June 20, 2010
%%older_entries%%A beautiful lie - March 11, 2010
%%older_entries%%
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