On worrying that my dinner may taste like shit:
CSP: We can have a backup plan.
Grumples: Wendy’s!!
CSP: I believe that’s what it’s called, yes.
Grumples: Yes, it says so in all the commercials, “We’re Wendy’s, your back-up plan when your girlfriend makes a shitty, inedible dinner!”
Thankfully, the dinner was a success, and CSP was sent to work with the leftovers. Hooray!
This morning, while I was lazing about in bed thinking of all the ways I could perhaps maybe get out of work, CSP was in the bathroom having his morning pee when a loud crash happened, followed by giggling. Seems Brekkie really wanted to get on the sink, but is still unable to jump that high (Clementine can do this easily), and tried to take a shortcut by way of the toilet. Since the toilet lid was up to accommodate CSP’s peeing, Brekkie had to make a quick turn to keep from landing in the toilet, and ended up smashing to the floor, upending the water bowl that sits between the counter and the toilet, and somehow knocking down the toilet lid in the process. CSP was still peeing. Now peeing all over a closed toilet. He swears he didn’t walk away from it, but wiped it clean, but I have a feeling I’ll need to bleach down the bathroom when I get home from work.
Last week I finally went and had my bits probed to see why I continue to bleed and bleed and bleed. No polyps were discovered, but they took two vials of my blood to test for various fun things, including every venereal disease known to man (yes, every single last one, which is sort of impressive that they only needed two vials of my precious blood for that). My doctor also looked at my head, grabbed her pearls and fainted dead away at my hideous, balding scalp. When she came to, she said, “Yes, I can really see you’ve lost a lot of hair.” She said it in a very calm voice so as not to alarm me with the obvious.
I was sent on home with a blue piece of paper detailing how in approximately seven days I would be able to check my results online. That was a lie. I eventually had to get a nurse to call me back, who patiently told me how there was nothing wrong with me, everything was normal, and while I could hear her waiting to hear me whoop for joy that I am not HIV positive, nor syphilitic, I did not give her that pleasure, since people, I’m still bleeding in a really not-so-cool way, and at least an eighth of my hair fell out on to the laptop just while typing this post. (I believe the weight of which broke my “T” key.) I asked the nurse what am I supposed to do next, and she was like, why, child, what’s wrong with you…do you have DISCHARGE?
Heavy sigh.
Why’s he looking so worried? He has plenty of hair, and doesn’t even have a vagina.
When I’m not busy mopping up after myself, I have been taking advantage of my custody rights, and visiting my children. The kittens are still shy brats, but I managed to corner Horchata, and forced him to submit to pets until he purred. P2 just hid behind a curtain, and stared at me in terror. He’s the size of a miniature pig, so I don’t know what his problem is.
Here he is not bothering to even pretend that he’s been practicing the trumpet. He begged and begged for us to let him take lessons, and look what we have here.
At least he lives with his father, because I simply would not be able to deal with that shit. Do you know how much money we spent on that horn? He doesn’t even have the mouthpiece facing the right way. He’s been playing it with his ass to amuse his brother—I just know it.
Damn kids.
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