because I really can't get enough of myself

Husband has this new thing where he WANTS me to hit the garbage cans when I back out the van in the morning. He's been taking the garbage and recycle cans and spacing them a good 3 feet apart from each other in the street near the end of our driveway, leaving me a tiny crack to back through. Two absolute truths Husband should know, seeing as we've been married for about 5 billion years, is: #1- I have no depth perception.  It wasn't that great before the Glaucoma, and now, non-existant.  (This I have proven by the numerous times I've hit our wall when pulling the van into the garage.  Dents totally count as proof.) #2- A chimpanzee could drive a car backwards better than I could.  I just don't posses that particular driving skill.  (That and parallel parking.  Which requires backing AND depth perception, so that's probably why.  Also I was too lazy to ever actually learn how.) I think it's totally rude that Husband is setting me up like this.  I mean

Sometimes I have to let out a loud, " buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh ," and then shoot puffs of breath up at my forehead to blow my bangs around for awhile. I mean, what else is there to do?  Really?  Life is so dull these days, I have absolutely nothing on my to-do list and I've already managed to scratch my butt in sufficient amounts.  I wish there was a toilet to clean or something. Ok, no.  Trust me - I have PLENTY to do.  I hardly even ever have time to scratch my butt.  In fact, if I had more to do I would probably just lapse into a catatonic state do to overwhelmedness. Maybe the bang puffing is like mini-catatonic-ness. Probably. Makes sense. And in other news... Last Christmas (you know, like a month ago) I got one of those pedaling things that you put under your desk so that you can be a dork and work out while actually working.  Except that my knees hit the slidey keyboard  ledge each time I pedal.  So I have to slump really low in my chair, which isn'

The other evening we had a Kirby vacuum salesman knock on our door.  He offered to shampoo an entire room of carpet for FREE.  So, of course , I let him in.  RIGHT AWAY.  (Have you seen my carpet lately? ick.) But Husband got all worried.  He started making rogue phonecalls to  the neighbors and put his baseball bat in the hall closet.  You know, just in case the Kirby vacuum salesman turned out to be a raging psychotic killer or something. And you thought I was the paranoid one. After he decided that the guy was a real salesman and not a raging murderer, Husband started feeling bad about having him clean our carpet when we knew we'd never buy the vacuum.  But I'll give it to the sales guy - he was persistent.  We had to say no about 50 times during the course of that cleaning.  Even when he discounted the $3,000 vacuum down to $1,000 with no payments until April, we still said no. Husband kept saying, "I feel guilty making you clean - we're really not going

The aid on Monkey's bus is convinced that my name is Sheila.  This confuses me because it's the same aid that was on Opie's bus for 2 years.  And just suddenly my name is Sheila?  Not that we're all big on knowing each other's names and stuff (I think her name is Kory) but every day since Monkey's started school she says, "See you tomorrow, Sheila!"  I'm not really notorious for paying attention, especially when I'm also welcoming home the Monkey and shuttling him into the house, and the first few times I was called Sheila I wasn't sure if that's what she had really said.  Then, after that, I thought, "Maybe if I don't respond she'll just stop the whole Sheila thing and move onto not remembering my name."  But she still says it.  Every day.  And now it's just WAY TOO LATE to correct her.  I mean, what would I even say?  "See ya, oh and by the way, you've been calling me Sheila for a couple of month and

I'm 30. (Sorry, I couldn't finish that paragraph because I was too busy cringing.) THIRTY!!!!!  GAH, how did that happen?!! So I've officially realized that life just gets worse from here.  You know all those tv shows and movies and stuff who show women living glamorous lives and being all hip and awesome well into their 50's?  IT'S ALL LIES. How depressing. You know, I totally squandered my youth.  I took it all for granted.  Like in high school when I was like, "Oh my gosh, I'm SO FAT, ugh, and look at my nose!" (read that in "valley-girl" teenage style for maximum effect.) SOMEONE GET ME A TIME MACHINE NOW.  I have a previous self that I need to go punch and call stupid.  And then maybe I'll mention how my boobs drag on the floor like caveman knuckles if I don't wear a granny bra.  So then maybe I'll actually enjoy being young (and skinny, and big-nosed, with perky ladies). So yeah, if anyone wants to send me an