Realm of Overwhelm

Some Pamper Friday this is, unless you consider it a barrel of yuks to suffer panic attacks and the inability to breathe any deeper than those quick, shallow breaths they teach women in labor to take but that no one ever does except for in the movies because it’s patently ridiculous:

“heeheehee….. hoohoohoo….heeheehee….. aaaahhhhhrrghhh!!!”

“She’s laughing at me doctor. I know it.”

“Nonsense, son. I know you’ll find this hard to believe, because it looks like she’s having so much fun, but she’s actually envisioning a combination of hot pokers and your eyes. Uh, you may want to back up a couple steps.”

There’s too much to do today. I know, because I just made a list and this time it’s not just my inherent laziness flapping its lips: it’s a real long mutha. You should see it. Adding to the joy - truly, in “normal world” - is the fact that we got a new motorcycle yesterday, a something-something Virago with so-and-so miles etc. All I really remember about it is that it looks super cool, has a dark blue gas tank, lots of shiny chrome, and provides me with a very comfortable passenger’s seat for optimum ass-cushioning. The stress factor applies in that Scott leaves tomorrow and subsequently, wants to take a long ride today before he has to store his new pretty away for several weeks until he can get back to it (insert joke about me here).

Remember the list? Clothes have exploded from every nook and cranny of our bedroom, proof that rooms do indeed have butt orifices because all the clothes smell of them. Room asses. The aroma rising from these piles is a rousing medley of mold, stale sweat, dust, and intimate scratching. The whole place looks like those damn yankee Union soldiers moved in, destroyed everything, and forced us to make all our clothes out of the drapes so we could go begging for money. And now even our paisley velvet homemade dresses smell bad. Laundry’s, like, somewhere in the middle of the mother list.

Tonight’s Jesse’s graduation. For the traditional parental present-bestowing ceremony, he has made the less than conventional request for another tattoo. If we celebrate every milestone in his life this way from now on, I figure by the time he’s 40 he’ll be able to hire himself out for parties, which may have been a viable career option had we started when he was, say, ten, but we blew it by waiting too long. Damn. I guess there’s just no avoiding that college.

Obviously, I’m typing as fast as I can to avoid actual work, like an idiot. I love you all to distraction, or - come to think of it - maybe the distraction stems from the fact that we have only two episodes of Buffy’s season 5 left, and absolutely no time in which to watch them before Scott leaves. Not even one minute. It could be that. Either way, though - my love is true. Heeheehee. Hoohoohoo. Aaaaaarrrgh. kiss xo