My Latin sucks, but you get the gist.
So, apparently I stood in line for an hour with a hyper two-year-old to vote for an only semi-decent candidate who I was reasonably sure would lose and sure enough did all for nothing because; by the way; now, don't freak out, Jerry; MY VOTE DIDN'T FUCKING COUNT!! Neither did yours if you live in Boulder County. The County has until tomorrow to certify the results, and last I heard they were holding off until then...
Bastard. And yes, I mean W. I'm sure this is his fault somehow.
Apparently I am the bane of the existence for the worker at Qdoba that assembled my chicken soft tacos. Or, ok, maybe he's an asshole to everyone who comes in and makes him do his fucking job.
The new workout that my trainer gave me is totally kicking my ass, and not in a good way. Me no like being sore. That's recent Punkinhead-speak and it's spreading like a bad rash: "Me no like ___." Right now she only likes Hello Kitty, her Gigi, and whichever parent is not available at the moment. Of course, she's got strep so I can hardly blame her.
At least she's not waking us up at night any more. She does that freaky thing of standing by the bedside staring at me silently until I think, Whaaas 'at? and then I about wet the bed when I roll over and there she is.
That's the only silent thing the child does. She even hums in her sleep all night.
I decided that to make up for my new bulging man-arm muscles I should wear girlie bright red polish on my toes. Of course, no one can see them through the motorcycle boots. Quite a picture I paint of myself, eh?
I wonder how many promotions, proposals and propositions
If you think real hard, you'll see how this particular anectdote fits with the next story of the night. Tonight at dinner The Great mentioned (casually hopeful), "You know, a good way to wake people up is to drop chocolate sprinkles on them."
And finally tonight, another mouse story to share. After noticing the emerging mus musculus theme, BB told it to me Green Day Night and his wife called today to confirm the details. It goes something like this: she heard the trap under the sink go off and thought, Ok, so hubbin' has a little disposal project for tonight. But then she heard squeaking (not at all what you want to hear after a trap goes off) and a tiny little shuffling, scrabbling noise...
Well, she didn't wanna look, but wouldn't you? Sure enought, the iniquitous, foul-smelling, disease-ridden little fucker had been caught by the back leg and was dragging the trap along trying to escape.
After some screaming (ok, there's some fiction for you and I'm not pointing it out again) she grabbed the salad tongs (ahem, notice the recurring duality in the theme, Mr. K? I think there could be a master's thesis in here somewhere.) and picked the little bugger up by its trap.
(Damn, I'm just realizing that I forgot to ask Mrs. BB what the mouse's reaction was when she did that. I mean, it's about time we heard the mouse's point of view here, huh? Did it look at her? Did it squeak? Did it try to chew its leg off? Now that would be cool...perhaps she can flesh out the story for us in the commentbox. Oh, God, that was bad. Apologies all round. Not enough beer tonight for good judgement.)
But then what to do with it? She couldn't leave it in her yard for the kiddos, and she couldn't just flush it as others have done (the trap would have definitely stopped up the toilet) so she carried it into the backyard and flung it (yeah, like a cow) over the back fence to the yard behind her where there's a golden retriever. It had a fighting chance though, the trap came off in the fling.
Can't you just see that in slo-mo? Man, life is good.