A Brief Excursion Through The Shallows

My inlaws are in town and between entertaining family and my manic redecorating urges I just haven’t had time to write witty prose. I apologize.

If we don't abuse them they really don't feel like they've visited.

If we don’t abuse them they really don’t feel like they’ve visited.

However I thought that to tide you all over I would include a list of some of the thoughts that have graced my cerebral cortex over the past week–just a sampling of what it’s like to be inside my skull. You should be warned that some of these thoughts are inappropriate. Many are disturbing and nonsensical. Some of you might not want to know me this well.

Ready? Alrighty, here we go:

  • I’d be funnier if I was English…or black…or English and black…or is that like putting the positive sides of two batteries together?

  • When I die I won’t be able to suck in my stomach. I’m going to look bloated and saggy. I hope I don’t die naked.

  • What if I die in a public place and then everyone sees me crap myself and I’m not around to explain that I don’t normally do that?

  • How would I ever date again now that I’m so gassy? What if I found love again but the guy was offended by farting? I think Hubs will be my only husband. If he dies I’ll live alone and make pottery.

  • Is my face too old for my hair?

  • Is my face too old for my dance moves?

  • I should get derma planing. But what if they accidentally stabbed my eye and then everyone would know that I lost an eye because I was vain?

  • What if I got a boob job and died on the table and then my kids would always think that boobs were more important to me than they were?

  • Is my vagina attractive enough to do porn? What makes a vagina attractive enough to do porn? Is that a thing? Maybe anyone with a vagina can do porn.

  • What if I was decapitated and then my face looked like one of those sad Nixon rubber masks?

  • If I ever have to have chemo and lose my hair everyone will see all of the bumps on my head. I’d have to get a wig. I hate wigs. I hope I don’t get cancer in the summer.

  • Do I have too many moles to wear a backless gown to the Oscars?

  • Will the rats in the heating ducts give us all the Hanta Virus? Would Hubs get into trouble if he had to shoot one? What makes a suburban rat shooting legally justified? How do you repair bullet holes in hardwood floors?

  • What if I’m on a road trip and break down in a place where I can earn the money for my car repair by winning a pole dancing contest but I’m not wearing nice underwear? Or I’m bloated?

  • What if I’m in a car accident while on my period and I fall into a coma and then I get toxic shock because no one takes out my tampon?

  • What if my heart stops and they have to use the paddles but they forget to take out my nose ring and it burns off my nostril?

  • If I had to run for my life without any clothes on how would I contain the jiggle? I should become a self defense bad@ss so I never have to run for my life naked.

So there you have it: some of my thoughts. Yes, I worry too much about things that will probably never happen. And yes, I am at times alarmingly morbid, vain and shallow. I have occasionally endeavored to cut down on the sheer quantity of garbage that floats through my head. But then I worry that I’d be boring or, even worse, so happy and peaceful that I’d die like in Downton Abbey or that movie City of Angels. As a responsible parent I can’t let that happen. My children need me: f*cked up but alive.

I'm sensing a theme in these pictures

Torture is love.

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The Galloping Consumption

This is not a real post. Consider this an excused absence from my normal blog writing. i have what my father affectionately referred to as the Galloping Consumption, a term he applied to any respiratory illness that makes you doubt your will to live. Having spent six months in the hospital for tuberculosis, I consider him an expert in this area.

I’m in my second week of the Galloping Consumption. I haven’t been able to sleep, hold a conversation or even read a story to my children. Hubs is renting out my side of the bed and taking applications for a new wife and mother, should I finally blow a major blood vessel on my next coughing fit.  Meanwhile I entertain visions of myself in a cane-backed wheel chair with a lap blanket, being wheeled around by an attendant or lying supplicant on a velvet couch while Johnny Depp recreates Neverland in my sitting room. In my visions I cough with an English accent.

Now I wouldn’t publicly declare myself an optimist but I am prone to want to look at the bright side of a situation, so I can say that I’ve lost ten pounds, though most of it has been in muscle tone and breast tissue. I’m on the verge of obtaining the coveted lollipop figure that LA is known for. Rachel Zoe actually considered taking me as a client until she realized that there was movement in my forehead and declared me dead to her until I developed the good sense to paralyze my face with Botox.

However just between you and me, even a career as a geriatric super model isn’t enough to raise my spirits while I am coughing mercilessly through the night. I can be tough and resilient for short stretches but I grow impatient about hardship quickly and then I’m just irritable and nihilistic.

I’d be terrible at war. Sure I’d be focused and bad@ss for a couple of fire fights but then I’d grow weepy, start complaining about a lack of coffee breaks and finally I’d lie down in a fox hole and wait for enemy fire to claim me. They never would’ve made a mini series about my war-time heroics. So don’t hold out for Band of Brothers and One Sister. It ain’t coming.

Anyway, thank you for your patience. Normal posts will resume shortly.

Ramboob

(image via wired)

Flashbang bra holster demo, fast, and practical. – YouTube.

I gots to get me one of these!

Sure I don’t really need to carry a concealed weapon. I don’t move in dangerous circles, unless you count my husband and he has all but promised not to hold me at gun point, I hardly ever find myself cruising skid row to pick up crack-hoes anymore, and if someone threatened me I could always throw Conor at them and let his supersonic scream paralyze them long enough for me to kick them in the shins, take my son back (because I’m not a bad mother) and make a run for it.

Hubs has suggested that I carry a gun when I go trail running, for use against mountain lions and nature-loving lunatics, but I get so sweaty out there that I’d probably whip out the gun only to have it slide right through my grasp and into the paws/hands of the mountain lion/nature-loving lunatic. And no one wants to face an armed mountain lion (nature-loving lunatics tend to already be armed, so it’s a moot point). I’ve already ignored Hubs’s suggestion to carry water and a phone out on the trail, so I’d hate to break my record of rebellion anyway.

And chances are that I’d accidentally blow my nipple right off into my armpit, which is not the sexiest place to have a nipple. I read that in Maxim Magazine. That rule might not apply to 43-year old mothers of two and the readers of Maxim probably don’t care where I keep my nipples because I haven’t been cast in a Transformers movie or dated Jason Statham.

But I care.

Regardless of lack of need and inherent threat to breast tissue, I find myself wanting one because…and this is really the most important reason of all…

How bad@ss would it be to pull a gun out of your bra? I mean really?

Gripping that flop-sweat covered semi-automatic in my hand with my shirt askew and the holster sticking out at an odd angle like a third breast, I would look mad sexy! Maybe not to the nipple-conscious readers of Maxim Magazine, but I’m pretty sure that Hubs would threaten me with imminent harm at least once a day just so he could see me draw my weapon.

In this house nothing has more sex appeal than a woman with a loaded weapon in her Wonder bra. Even if she’s a 43-year old mother of two with a nipple in her armpit.

I’m gonna need a bigger bra.