blogger prom jitters. and a few extraneous photos. you know. for kicks.

Or maybe I'm already going through the post-prom anticlimax. Which kinda blows, seeing as how I'm gonna have to fend off that particular suckitude on Sunday evening as well.

More likely, though, I'm just stupid-tired. We (only, the "we" = not me) painted the house this weekend. I did participate!, though, just not in the painting area of the task. I helped apply the "caulk." I'm super-good with "caulk," so it was logical to put some into my hands and get me going.

(I toldju I'z gonna brang the smut. There. There's your smut pie. Eat! Eat, ya fucking jackals! If you get this not-thinly-veiled movie reference, I will hug you extry-hard at prom, possibly to the point of making you uncomfortable.

It's what I do.)

Jack has been such a pain in the ass lately. There. I said it. He's borrowed from all buzzy creatures and created a whine so terrifyingly ear-paining, a noise that falls somewhere between fly/chainsaw, a noise that I can only listen to for s o v e r y l o n g before I snap and my face unscrews itself and is propelled with speed and agility toward the nearest precious, glass objet (and no, that isn't misspelled, it's *fronch*, people - le sigh) and both items shatter, only my face is slightly less the worse for wear, surprisingly. Who knew they made faces so goddam durable?

Not me. (Well, except that I'm kidding. My face doesn't look so good after being busted up by glass. Not that it happens. It just sounded interesting in my head. If you were in there, like you *should* be, you'd see what I meant. So get in there and stop looking at me like that. And while you're at it, please won't you bring me some cookies or something? I don't think I can go on much longer like this without a flavorful snacky.

I love a good snacky.)

Want some pictures of our freshly-poo-coated, er, painted house? (I realized after speaking with my good friend, Jen, tonight, who also happens to live in our neighborhood, that it resembles more poo-ish and less clay-ish, the intended color, only she didn't say it, I sort of blurted it, but she kind of agreed even though she tried hard not to, the good intention of which I totally respect and love her for, but dude, if it looks like poo, it looks like poo. It isn't her fault I picked poo brown for the paint color. Which is rad, and means that the neighborhood is probably laughing at us behind their oh-so-much-less-poo-ish walls. So I'll be painting poo-color-downplaying trim, a very rich, dark chocolate, next week when I gits back from tha big cit-ay. Super.)

Pitchers! On with 'em already!

(What conference? What packing? I know not of this. I have things to sew tomorrow, and a doctor's appointment, with the psychiatrist, to receive alms in the form of medicines that will make my adhd behave itself. What fun to try out on unsuspecting roommates! I mean, uh, on my family. Because, I'll be here all weekend. I'm not going anywhere. Brain, that is all you need believe. If you happen to hook up to your ocular tentacles, please ignore suitcases and makeup kits and the like. It's all -- a ruse. Practice for when I may actually go -- somewhere. You know. Places. To do stuff. And -- other stuff. Hush, now, brain. It's time to go back to sleep. Here's your blankie. Ignore the activity. You needn't be involved. You almost never are, anyway. Why should this time be any different?)

Pitchers! Yoo!

(Bonus feature alongside freshly-painted exterior; new, gorgeous maple door, w/sweet-ass stainless hardware, and - darn it all if they didn't throw in a buzzsaw in the form of a three-dimensional small child who insists on eating several-days-old hunks of refrigerated, hard-as-diamond bread and flips the buzzsaw on the "richter" setting if informed that said bread has been composted. Iow, if you paint your house soonish, and they throw in a child for free, just let it have the hard bread. It'll work the math out on its own as to why hard bread is the anti-delicious.)

(This child may also enjoy perusing the supple lines and details of the glimmering hardware. Because doorbell ringing and mailslot-peeking are yesterday's cardboard box in the kick-ass kid-fun realm, evidently. Especially when there's a dog on the other side of the door whose biggest thrill in life, aside from witnessing her blue bowl filling with small, mealy-brown, pebble-like objects that pass for food, is barking at passersby and the doorbell being rung. It's entirely possible that she wrote the original line that inspired the song, "You can ring my bell." Although, of course, in dog. So, sort of this: "Woof ow ow ow owwwww." You get the picture.)

(Our bottom-of-the-yard veg garden. It's even bigger, now. This was like, a thousand years ago, aka, last week. Or three weeks ago. What-the-fuck-ever. Like I care. The garden is the MAN'S job.)

'Cause it ain't just gonna make itself, people. Chocolate cake, btw, with crevices (heh) filled with freshly-canned strawberry jam, and topped with a chocolate whipped-cream icing that was supposedly a layering element, according to the recipe. Pffft. I make recipes bow low and prostate themselves -- wait, is that supposed to be prostate or prostrate?, because, I'm totally not looking it up. Fuck you, correct-word fanatics. Freaks. Anyway, I make recipes nervous just looking at them. (They're all, please don't try to make us. You never read the directions carefully enough, you're all slap-dash and hurryupmusthavechocolatebrainpokingoutofear and rushrush and suddenly, you have a thing that *resembles* cake, only it tastes like a big, puffed-up pile of baked flour, or something that may have been alright if it weren't burned to an exquisite horribleness that even the dog is *almost* refusing to eat. Well, except that she would never, because she'll eat bits of things that seem as though they *might* be food, so, yeah, no, she doesn't reject baked-pile-o-flour *nor* the burnty shit. She's pleasant that way.)

And then he handed me back my beer, after I took the picture, because honestly, who paints a house and drinks beer at ten o' clock in the morning?, and I returned to caring for my child and sipping Pabst delicately through a tube connected to my hat. I'm kidding. I would never wear one of those hats. They don't hold enough beer.

Those plants may even survive having been a) stepped all over while covered with a tarp to protect them from the paint, and b) planted, as shade-requiring plants, in a full-sun-exposure spot.

But probably not.

They tried to get me involved in their ridiculous bubbly shenanigans, but I explained that it's not nice to try to make mommy have to wear a beard anymore, ever since she finally got the old one surgically removed, and the flashbacks about the circus are almost completely faded.

(And then I caved. I'm such a post-circus-member-bubble-beard suckah.)