We got our dog a pet bunny. Not on purpose. It was very much an accident. Still, that’s what happened, and now here we are.
This is my lap at home.
ALL THE TIME.
Someone please bring me coffee and a bedpan. I’m not moving anytime soon.
So what happened, you ask? Fine; I shall tell you. Here’s the long version.
My kid has a friend, and the friend’s name is Rowan. ...
In a grand fit of laziness or misguided frugality this morning, I decided I could rebrew my coffee grounds from yesterday. I figured tea leaves are good for more than one cup (although I feel certain there are Tea Afficionados out there who will set me straight), therefore, why not coffee?
IMPORTANT: You cannot brew coffee grounds twice.
You can’t.
Truly. ...
Folks, if you have a partner to flirt with, might I recommend you take a page out of Greg’s book and gift your significant other a personalized trophy?
Look, no one on Planet Earth doesn’t want to be recognized for their fine work. Or, without the double negative, All the People want to know they’re doing a good job. Yes? Yes. Of course, yes. Which is why a trophy is the perfect medium for appreciation. It’s an award. It’s a forever keepsake. And, personalized appropriately, it shows how well the giver knows you. How deeply you’re seen. How well you’re understood and valued. ...
I moved my couch last week, which is always a big mistake. Huge, really. And in retrospect, I can think of no worthy justification. Just literally none.
I mean, moving it for a party so more people will fit? It seems like a good reason to displace furniture, but now that I know what sort of dust and allergens, biohazards and malice I’ve stirred up, I really should’ve just let traffic flow suffer. Let people trip over the couch arms. Risk folks being trapped in the living room with no good exit strategy. But I failed to conduct the proper cost/benefit analysis for Couch Moving, even though I have excellent raw data that show the precarious predicament we always face. ...
Someone left an exercise bike on my front porch.
I don’t know how long it’s been there.
It just appeared sometime after I left the empty paint cans out to dry fourteen months ago, and before today, when my son decided to prove my neglected garden box is truly decrepit by ripping it from the earth and depositing it next to the front door.
F Your I, that kid didn’t tell me he would be digging up my garden. He just left the rotting wooden frame for me as a decoration, as if to emphasize to anyone misguided enough to visit exactly how green my thumb is not. This is my kid who experiences disability and often has a hard time expressing himself verbally. This one isn’t too hard to interpret, though. I’m pretty sure he’s saying, “Guys. Guys. Guys. My mom is SO BAD at gardening, she doesn’t just kill the plants. She kills the container, too. YOU SHOULD KNOW THIS BEFORE YOU KNOCK. I AM TRYING TO HELP YOU.” ...
I’m really not to blame here.
Hawaii’s to blame.
After all, I have terrible ideas and am historically irresponsible. A quick search of the internet by Hawaii would have revealed this and more. So the fact that Hawaii failed to avail itself of a simple online background check before allowing me on her beaches demonstrates negligence on her part, and everyone knows negligence = culpability. ...
Hey, BIG NEWS. I got dressed today. To my shoes. In Not Pajamas. With everything right side out. BEFORE NOON. I have thus been awarded the following trophy.
GOT DRESSED!
To be clear, by “I’ve been awarded,” I mean I awarded it to myself which is only appropriate as I’m the Governing Body that oversees Dressedness in my home.
You may remember last month, when I accepted trophies in myriad categories including Smothered Zero People With a Pillow and Injury Free Workplace: 60 Minutes. Well, this trophy was available to me then (in a burst of unbridled optimism, I’d ordered it for myself from the Trophy Store), but the time never seemed right to bestow it, partly because I avoid getting dressed whenever possible, and partly because 1. Getting Dressed, 2. Remembering I’m Dressed, and 3. Taking a Photo to Prove I’m Dressed was two steps too many. My three steps looked more like 1. Getting Dressed, 2. Getting Undressed as Soon as Socially Feasible (i.e. upon walking one step in my front door), and then, 3. much later, going, “DAMN. I FORGOT MY TROPHY AGAIN.” ...
