Mona started out okay, some quips about grammar and current events, and then she started talking about herself, yammering on and on, blahblahsnore....
1) I was filling out the paperwork for the day camp center this morning and the payment sheet said, “If paying be credit card…”…and I had to wonder…when did pirates start opening day care centers?
2) If’n ya’d offer some music that doesn’t sound like it was churned out of the Plastic Music Ditto Boyband Goodgirlgonebad Factory, I might just buy some of your CDs, mister.
3) My own company is joining the soul-suckingness of corporate greed and sending our customers “Begin Christmas/Holiday shopping NOW” mail. I’m so embarrassed.
4) 13 years old, 6 ft 8 inches, 256 pounds…uhhh…steroids?
5) I thought body-parts factories were the stuff of Frankenstein and late-night black-and-white movies.
6) Bizarre Medical Condition #4,138.
7) I have a hard time spending money on myself. Worse, I feel bad if I spend time on myself. I can’t justify spending $80 on highlights and a haircut when that would buy, gee, shoes and lunchboxes and school supplies for the kids. Days off ‘For Me’ (which I’ve done two times in my life) turn into either ‘Get the raging stomach puke flu’ OR ‘Rush around and do errands for the house, for the kids, for school, and then pick up the kids early to spend time with them and have them RESENT you for interrupting their play time.’ If I accidentally fall into nap-dom on the weekend or at night before tucking the kids in (and believe me, this has happened exactly 4 times in the last year), I self-flagellate by staying up late and cleaning out the magazine rack or sorting household items to give to charity or straighten the kids book shelves (of which there are a dozen-hundred). I keep reading articles about ‘hot moms’ who get massages and go on personal vacations and get manicures and take time-outs for themselves. I might as well be reading about how Martians tunnel underground to open super-warehouses full of sponge cake and meatballs, so much I don’t understand. My ‘bright idea’ to take a dance class this fall was squashed when I learned it was held on Wednesday nights only, which happens to be a night both Girl-child and Boy-child have sports, AND Sergei has council…and then I justified it by telling myself, “Well, belly-dancing means you have to SHOW your belly, and believe me, you’re just NOT ready for that.” I guess what I’m sayin’ is that I’m bitching about something seemingly out of my control, but probably isn’t. Am I done bitching? You bet. Will I bitch again? Absolutely. Just wanted to git that off my chest. I. Don't. Like. Mondays.