(Could also be subtitled "If this doesn't make you giggle hysterically, you have no sense of humor and might very well be missing part of your soul and I'm afraid your kind is no longer welcome in these parts, pardner.")

Go. Now.


Then back to the irregularly scheduled programing of "where I've been, what I did, and how I'm going to manage to come up with a way to whine about it". You're coming back for that, right?


runnin' like a girl

Just got this in my inbox:

Which means that on Sunday, October 19, 2008 , I (along with my sucker sister who simply can't turn down a dare, especially if you preface it with anything to do with "double dog". And 20,000 of our closest friends.) will shuffle to the start area sometime between the ungodly hours of 4:30am when it opens and 7:00 when the race begins, then voluntarily run for 13.1 miles before stopping just the other side of the finish line to puke on the shoes of some hottie hot hot fireman in a tuxedo as he hands me a little blue finisher's box. Yeah, I know you're jealous.


why i can't say everything that flits through my head

Last night as I was painting in our bedroom (a lovely shade of gray (grey?)by Behr called "Anonymous", thanks for asking), something that Dr. R said on our first meeting popped into my head. I'll have to paraphrase because, you know, it's been 4 (or is it 5) weeks ago and there are days when I struggle with remembering exactly what I had for lunch by the time I get LG down for his nap. What I remember him saying was along the lines of

No one ever wished on their deathbed they had kept a cleaner kitchen.

As is often the case, my response timing S-U-C-K-S sucks, so I probably just nodded at this tidbit of wisdom. Or tried to straighten the pictures above his desk with telekinesis. Is that like some kind of therapy test? If you don't gouge your eyes out or leap up from the couch and hurtle the therapist in an effort to straighten them out, do you pass on the treatable crazy scale? But I digress.

So last night as I couldn't help but giggle (do you begin to see why BG offered exactly NO resistance when I said I wanted to go into therapy?) when the most perfectly perfect response popped into my head.

Perhaps you would if you were dying of food poisoning.

Now I just need to figure out how I can get him to make that statement again. Then BAM! I'll hit him with my snappy repartee and we'll giggle like school-girls. That's assuming, of course, that I remember why I wanted him to say it and don't get distracted by that damn piece of frayed carpet over there by the door. Would it be a breach of patient / doctor etiquette if I took a small pair of scissors with me next time?