More Random Stuff

This is the squirrel who hates me.  He was waiting for me when I left the house this morning.  He sits on the broken branch and makes loud noises at me.  (I'm pretty sure it's something like, "Get away from my nuts, house bitch!" in squirreleze.  Or something like that.)

You can see it in his little beady eyes.  He waited for me to come out in the morning so he can chitter at me from this tree.

Wait.  Here's the more realistic shot:

Onto something else.

Whoops.  Random subject change.  I suppose I should warn people but hey then the blog would be predictable and that would be boring.

Pain in the Ass Man made a brief reappearance this week.  (Pain in the Ass Man is also known as HIM the man to whom I'm married.  I'm not supposed to mention his actual name in the blog in case Chinese communist spies are reading it or so he won't be overly embarrassed.  One or the other.)

I forgot the cape on this one.  Plus he's got hair, which well,
he doesn't.  He is bald Pain In the Ass Man.
(But it's cool.  Bald is good.  He's like a rocket scientist
Kojak without the lollipop.  "Who loves ya, baby?")

I went into the bathroom (not my bathroom) and noticed it was stinky poo.  (Here's where I'm going to embarrass my 8-year-old daughter.)  Okay.  Someone had not flushed the toilet.  I said to HIM, "The upstairs bathroom is stinky."  Without hesitation, HIM said, "I don't use that bathroom."  One needs to consider the statement.  He snapped it out like Indiana Jones with a red-hot whip.  "I don't use that bathroom."

Here's a better image of PITAM.  (Pain In The Ass Man.)

Here it is in bold and red and over sized:



"I don't use that bathroom."

But HIM does use that bathroom.  In fact, I had seen HIM using that bathroom the night before I had to scrub the toilet with extra-strength stink-be-gone.  (Twice.  The toilet cleaner smells like Pepto-Bismol.  I swear to God, the toilet cleaner smells like Pepto-Bismol.  I could do a whole shtick on what the business developers were thinking when they decided that people want toilets that smell like Pepto-Bismol.  I mean, it didn't say on the friggin' label that it smells like Pepto-Bismol.  I wouldn't have bought it if it had said that.  But I digress.  I done digressed.  I done be digressing all over the place.)  (At least I don't have to clean up after digressing.)

Back to the above statement.  "I don't use that bathroom."  This is not true.  HIM does use that bathroom.  Maybe not as much as the other bathrooms, but hey, HIM is an equal opportunity pooper.  What happened above was that HIM automatically threw his own daughter under the bus.  "I don't use that bathroom." means that only our daughter uses that bathroom.  If she is the only one to use that bathroom, ergo, she stunk it up.  Ergo, it's her fault.

There's something about a talking toilet that just
appeals to me.  You could program it to say
things like, "Hey, were you born in a barn?
Shut the lid?" and "That's gonna need
a double flush."

I wasn't really mad at this.  I think I was more irritated that the toilet wasn't flushed.  But when HIM said those immortal words, I felt obliged to blog about it.  It wasn't something I had a choice in.  I had to do it.  Automatically.  HIM automatically blamed someone else.  (This is what the police called the Some Other Dude Did It defense.  The police is used to this.  Am I comparing myself to the police in my house?  I suppose I am.  My own husband is so afraid of me that he automatically tosses our daughter to the wolves.  "It was three other big people who peed in the toilet and left it unflushed, dearest sweetie honeypie.  I can describe them for the sketch artist.  They ran in, peed in the same toilet and then ran out.")  Who got to clean the toilet?  Well, it wasn't some other dude, that's for damn sure.

Enough of that rant.  What else is there?

I know!  I know!  I'm on Diet No. 1 of 2013.  Oh, that crazy first diet of the year.  You mean so well.  You have such good intentions.  Then you go by Buffalo Wild Wings and remember they have Garlic Parmesan Boneless Buffalo Wings on sale and it goes to hell in a hand basket.

Haha.  I haven't gone by Buffalo Wild Wings yet.  I'm on Day 2 of Diet No. 1.  You see I have to see the doctor at the end of the month and if I go in and I haven't lost weight I will have to explain to him why I haven't lost weight.  I will have to say things like, "Um, err, four fat people rushed up to me and force fed me Cheetos and Chunky Monkey ice cream." or "Aliens did it.  Instead of probing me they fed me biscuits and gravy.  Lots of gravy and it was good gravy.  I had an IV of gravy.  In fact, I just had an IV of pure lard."  (This is a lot like "I don't use that bathroom," except with weight.)  Do you think I want to say these things to a medical doctor?  No, I do not.  Also I want to live past 50.  And my last year of fortysomething is coming up.

Diets suck.  They (HIM and Cressy) wanted pizza tonight.  I had three pieces.  (Which isn't on the diet.  Or at least it isn't on any diet that I know of.)  Plus the kid wanted donut holes.  At least the moron cat doesn't eat stuff that tempts me.  And the squirrel is outside laughing at me.