My friends, this blog is in serious trouble.
Husband and I—the people you’ve come to rely on as your semi-weekly sources of wit and dazzling conversation—are getting to be really really astonishingly boring.
Don’t stop now – keep reading!
Let’s start today with something good: I have a clean front door—no gross sign!
The inspection was actually before Christmas, but there was a lot going on at the same time and what with one thing and another I didn’t get around to telling you. Partly because—in the manner we’ve come to expect from Sham Property Management Inc, LLC—even after the house “passed” and everything was “done” the final step took for goddamned ever.
I’ve got some possible Meth Ghost news to get to, so I won’t bore you with the details.*
Because I am a delightful mass of contradictions, no one can predict which technologies I will embrace the instant they are available and which ones I will shun until a loved one drags me, kicking and screaming, into the century of the fruitbat.*
Example: though I complain about delays of microseconds** everywhere else in my life, I will beta test any game that appeals even a little bit. I also howled in frustration when my phone wasn’t one of the first hundred or so delivered. But I only agreed to download the goddamned parking meter app because A) the meter charged my card double the day before and B) I forgot my wallet and it was my turn to pay for parking again. No choice there, and I was getting shame for not having already done it.
Also, I only just got an Echo for Christmas.
If you are a married person, or a person who is in a long-term relationship, or a person who loves someone very much…
Or even just a person who loves a good laugh at the expense of another human being…
I cannot recommend enough the experience of being The Driver for someone who is having an outpatient procedure requiring general anesthesia.
I know, I know… you need me to back up.
I really want to give you something special today. I want to start 2019 off with a bang, you know?
But here’s the thing: I’m sick as a fucking dog* and dealing with some serious post-holiday blah on top of it all.
This was our first Christmas with Offspring as a (welcome! So very welcome we almost didn’t let him leave) “visitor” rather than a permanent installment in our home, and now my holiday season has an official end: the day he leaves. Always before, I was content—determined, even—to keep my tree and my carols and my lights going as long as would be permitted by Husband, the neighbors, and local laws. But when I hugged Private Squdgee Booboo goodbye (and went right back to bed because his flight was at bullshit o’clock) I had no further desire to light the tree. It’s not that I’m over Christmas, it’s just… it all looks sort of sad now that he’s not here. Like a Who house after the Grinch left; all hooks and wire and crumbs.
Offspring is sat next to me, waiting for me to hurry this one along so I can go die in front of him. Again.
Oh, did I not mention one of my favorite Christmas gifts? I got many things I’ve been wanting, and Husband is no doubt a little butthurt that his outstanding choices in the video game department (Spiro and We Happy Few are currently burning a hole on my shelf) are not seeing any action due to Offspring’s breakout hit, Ark.
I’d heard of this game yet somehow didn’t insist on owning it. There’s so much wrong with me.
Holy shit, I am now taming and riding (and yes, hunting) actual dinosaurs! Lucy Grove Jones, I think of you every time something adorable pounces me and feasts on my entrails.
Anyway, we’ve decided that the best thing would be for me to make my way to someplace called Herbivore Island… which really should be a viable start location but apparently that’s not the way the game is meant to go. Death is an integral part of the experience, and you must die a minimum of 817 times before you accomplish anything. Also, I’m still waiting to get güd.
So. I need a quick, lazy post for New Year’s Day. Quite the challenge… unless, of course, someone out there has been exceptionally generous with their googling!
If you thought we were done Christmassing around here you’re not just wrong, you’re Elf on the Shelf levels of wrong.
Shoutout to Hot Mess Memoir for her Elf shenanigans
Also, you must be new here. Welcome!
