I can not think of anything more annoying than when you’re taking a shower and the timer for the sprinklers go off just as you lather up and the water pressure goes from hot and hard to freezing cold and limp.
Oh! Wait! Yes I can!
When people try to come up with cute little sayings with the word (or part of the word) “blog” in it!
“I’m blogstipated!”
“Blogo’riffic!”
“Blogtastic!”
Am I the only one who finds this blonnoying? I swear, I’m not trying to be blogstrovsial, or a blitch, those cute little word manipulations do not normally bother me, but lately, I’ve been seeing them every where and I swear, if I read one more post containing a blog-word, I may consider bloverdosing to commit blogiside.
It felt good to let that out, I just hope I didn’t bloffend anyone.
Bloving on…
I haven’t thought about The Dent much, but I’m pretty sure that’s because PigHunter took the van for the weekend to go camping. For “The Record” I was dead set against it, because he used to take the Ass-tro van and that thing would come back smelling like a burnt wood and fish juice.
And I don’t like my car to smell like fiery fish juice.
I just got the cigarette smell out of the car and I just know I’m going to spend the next few weeks trying to get the smell of “camping” out (also compulsively and obsessively looking at The Dent.) and do you know why I don’t to go camping?
I’ll tell you why—because I hate the smell of burnt wood.
I know there are people who love the smell of a fire burning. My Grandparents were some of Those People.
They used to have a little house in the mountains and I’d stay there almost every weekend, because I loved staying with my grandparents. However, I hated staying there in the winter, because they constantly had a fire burning in the fireplace. The smell from a wood burning fire makes me sick. It makes me so sick that I get angry inside. No, seriously, I feel rage as I’m thinking about it because I’d be trapped in that house with that smell.
And that smell would penetrate my skin and my clothing and my hair and it didn’t matter how many showers I took, I’d still walk out of that house smelling like a fireplace. (And when I was 16, it was VERY IMPORTANT to me that my hair smelled like Heavenly Flowers and NOT like Burnt Ashes.)
I suppose I’m in the minority with my hatred of Fires. Most people I know love to get a fire going and enjoy the warmth from the fire while sipping on a cup of hot cocoa. Me? I’d rather bundle up under some blankets, crank up the heater and read a good book while still managing to smell like Heaven.
Or should I say Bleaven
Har.

One would think that writing a recap of my time in Chicago would be Real Simple, but that has not been the case.
Because my life is complicated (and by “complicated” I mean the complete opposite of “Real Simple”.)
Hopefully I’ll have something up by tomorrow (as if anyone will still care by then. Please? Still care.) and then we can all move on to more important stories, like, The Crazy Old Lady Who is Stalking Me and Who Banged on My Window Today.
.

It is Wednesday night. Do you know what that means?
It means my parents are at church and I can play on their internet!
Technically, I have access to The Internet, but, not really.
I have yet to set up my computer in the room that we are staying in and my dsl modem (hells yeah I ordered my own DSL) will not arrive until May 16th . So, that means the only internet connection available is the one on my Mom’s computer, which means I can only use it when she’s not here, or when she’s talking on the phone in another room.
Excuse me for one minute.
Clear browsing history.
Clear cache.
Delete cookies.
Ok. What was I talking about again? Ah, yes, the fact that I am a wimp who doesn’t want my parents to know that I have a blog.
How old am I again?
I know it’s only a matter of time until they find it, because my mother finally learned how to use “google”.
Last night, she was all “I think I have a *insert infection that I am not willing to name in case she googles it again* and I’m going to google it!”
I’ll admit, I panicked a little and started to recall if I had ever written about *insert infection that I will not name*.
“Let me look it up for you!” I shouted as I practically knocked her down to get to the computer first.
If she ever googles “Aerobic Dancing” I’m so screwed.
I just had a conversation about this with my sister last week. She asked if I was ever going to tell my parents about this blog. She asked me if I was tired of “hiding.”
I don’t feel like I’m hiding. (as I’m clearing “browsing history” for the 15th time in 2 minutes while listening for a car pulling up in the driveway) For me, it’s more about feeling like I don’t have to tell them everything that I do in my life.
They would not approve.
They would be offended by the things that I write.
So, what benefit would it be to me or to them to tell them about it?
I know there are people reading this who don’t understand what the big deal is, but you don’t know my parents.
They are good people, but they have ZERO tolerance for anything that does not align with their beliefs.
I was 30 years old when my parents found out that I “drink devil water” (thank you for ratting me out, SON.) and OH MAN, you people do not understand what I had to listen to for days and even now, five years later.
Maybe I am hiding, but I think of it more as “choosing not to deal.”
Does your family know about your blog? If so, does it affect how/what you write? I know that if I KNEW my parents were reading, I’d certainly feel the need to censor myself.
And, honestly, is that what you want?
I don’t think that it is.

So, I have this “friend” who is a little worried because whenever she works out, her under boob sweat smells exactly like yellow cake mix.
She is concerned that it might not be “normal” so she asked her husband, who thinks he is very funny but is actually NOT and he told her that she was probably just “sweating out” all of that “extra caramel” she gets on her “fancy lattes”.
I told her I’d ask The Internet, because that’s what a good friend would do.
So, um, is it normal for underboob sweat to smell like yellow cake mix?
My friend really wants to know.

I love Flickr. I mean, I love Flickr. I usually spend my early morning alone time– which lately has been at 5am because suddenly, my boys is all “5 in the morning is a great time to start your day!– browsing through my contacts photos and also the photos from the 365 Days group.
This morning, I realized something very profound while browsing through the photos.
Eye close up photos make me feel uncomfortable. I’m not talking about a close up of both eyes, I’m talking about a close up of ONE eye in which you can see all of the tiny red veins and moisture and that little red bump thingy in the corner of your eye. I do not like to see those things up close and personal like that. It doesn’t matter how beautiful the eye is, either. It just creeps me out.
Perhaps my issue with The Eyeball can be traced back to the time that I had to cut open a COWS EYE in 6th grade science class. I will never forget the feeling of that thing staring at me just as I was about to slice it open.
GAG.
Also, men who take close up pictures of their nipples? Please stop. I get all vomitty inside when I see that little erect Man Nipple surrounded by pube like hairs. To be honest, I feel slightly violated by close up Man Nipple photos.
But then, I have issues with nipples in general. Just saying the word makes me feel all dirty inside.