Oh no! I haven't posted in over a month! I'm sorry! I can't think of anything worth blogging about. Over the past several weeks I've started a few but then just got bored with them. If I get bored with them, you'll definitely get bored with them. After all, no one is more amused by myself than I am.
First I was going to post a rant called the Skeezeball Awards where I went off about sleazy adulterous men like Eliot Spitzer (who looks like an Orc by the way), but just thinking about the whole thing made me so angry/upset I decided to drop it.
Then I was going to write about my experiences at this Cardiac Rehab Conference I went to, but this was as far as I got before I got bored...
Cardiac Rehab Conference Day 1
Woman 1: I am leaving my kids alone for the first time to attend this conference.
Woman 2: Oh that must be very hard, I just called my kids over the last break. (Directed at Woman 3) Do you have children?
Woman 3: Yes, I just called and checked in with my husband. (Directed at Guy 1) Do you have kids?
Guy 1: Yes I have two young boys. They are quite the handful.
Woman 1 (swinging her head toward my direction, opens mouth to ask, frowns doubtfully, cuts herself off short and turns back to Woman 3): Tell me about your children.
Inner Bridget: I have a gerbil! Her name is Penelope. She does tricks. She can leap from the floor of her cage to the roof. What can your kid do? Nothin!
Then I distinctly remember having something funny to blog about, but I just can't remember what it was. Shoot.
Oh and by the way, I finally had to pay for that freakin fence, and it is all fixed up $72.24 later.
Could have been worse I guess.
I guess I'm going to cop out and post an excerpt from the book I've been working on. That's kind of fun right?
So my main character writes an advice column called From One Dysfunctional Woman to Another, and that's what this is from...
Chapter Three of Refusing to Settle
From One Dysfunctional Woman to Another
September 5
My advice for you today is simple; all women should disband and live without friends. It’s just not worth the trauma. Yesterday I made the mistake of answering my phone at work. It was my friend (ex-friend) Helen with the dreaded news that she had made plans for us for that evening. Since when did I allow other people to start making plans for me? I am not four years old. I do not need someone setting up play dates for me.
First of all, she told me it was a “Girls Night Out.” What an evil little title that is to give to any occasion. Why? Because it’s a blatant lie. No one ever really means just a night out with the girls. If I had my way, such an event would be a relaxing occasion with pizza, movies and maybe a glass of wine (I know you’re supposed to drink beer with pizza, but I hate beer…deal with it). We know better though, don’t we ladies? A “Girl’s Night Out” is a stressful night of dodging bullets in the form of men shot at you by all too eager friends. It is a way for the pretty thin girls with noncommittal boyfriends to taunt their slightly (I do say SLIGHTLY) overweight friends by making sure they know they are not as pretty and require assistance with obtaining men. If it truly was just a night out with the girls it would not matter what I wore. Clearly this was not the case as Helen practically laid out an outfit for me (once again, I am not four).
In order to fully impress upon you the importance of my advice today, I will now recall the events of last night. I found myself sitting in a shady club with “the girls” and wishing I were at home, or grocery shopping, or maybe even in prison. Yes, I think I would have preferred prison (minimum security)...
3 comments:
Your fence woes remind me of the time I swirved off the road and hit a mailbox on the opposite side (how I accomplished this I have never quite figured out). I was driving along when I hit a patch of slush and ended up circling 270 degrees, landing partway on the front lawn of someone living on the other side of the street. Granted, I was indeed traumatized. The mailbox was gone--buried under about 3 feet of snow on the ground. To this day, I have no idea where I knocked it. What I do know is that the woman who owned the house was extremely annoyed at the prospect of not being able to receive mail because she was without a mailbox.
Cost: $125 for work and the mailbox itself. It's still there, and every time I drive by it, I feel taunted.
I wonder if the night-out clothing which Helen chose included any "argyle." What do YOU think, Katharine?
I've hit a mailbox too! I backed right into it. Luckily it was the mailbox of my rich friend and so they refused to let me pay for it. Everytime I picked her up/dropped her off it was there to humiliate me.
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