It's not that I don't love y'all, but it's been a disjointed kind of day of rain, thus no Tunes Tuesday, but instead a disjointed post, a little stream of consciousness.
I don't like the color gold. Unless it's gold lame, in that case it's fantastic. I would really like a gold lame raincoat for some reason.
My hair didn't dry right today and now it's weird and wiry looking. I blame it on the rain.
Why did it start to storm just as the kids were getting off the bus?
Facebook has been buggy lately and it has really pissed me off.
I applaud the individual who took it upon himself to correct the grammar of one of the construction signs on Hwy 21. Bravo, sir. You are my grammar hero.
I am convinced one of my friends has a form of ESP. It's not a terribly helpful type of ESP, but still kind of cool.
The waist measurement should be the same in a particular size of Lane Bryant jeans, no matter if they are boot cut, wide leg, straight leg, or low rise. It makes absolutely no sense that the jeans are the same size and the waist measurement is so different that they will not button. Damn you Right Fit jeans!
I had a little deja vu earlier today. It was interesting.
Someone called me recently with what they said was good news. Good news is relative.
The interwebs is a magical thing. Frustrating and annoying, but magical.
I'm half-heartedly trying to get out of something next month. I am employing the tactic of embarrassment to convince my hubs he does not want me to go to his 20th high school reunion. I hate events with a passion. Most of my friends think I'm an extrovert, but they are wrong. I have told him if I go I will spend the entire evening bombarding a classmate of his with questions about her title as Mrs. STATE I LIVE IN because it's my new goal in life to become the 2010 Mrs. WHAT SHE WAS A FEW YEARS AGO. I need a sash and crown. And a scepter — I really need one of those.
The new House was really good last night.
The newly remastered Beatles albums are the bomb.
The hubs and I went to a brew pub on the lakefront Saturday night to watch the LSU game. There was a woman there with breast implants so large that the LSU graphic on her tiny t-shirt looked like it was being tortured. The S was so misshapen, it looked like a Escher drawing of a slide.
Real Coke is delicious.
Shopping for mattresses is a bizarre experience. You're supposed to lay on them as you would at home to test it out, but I don't think you're supposed to take your shoes off or anything. And like I'm going to lay there with the salesguy watching me. I'm going to go to his house and watch him sleep, then ask how he likes his mattress, all smug and snarky.
We went to Chevy's for lunch Sunday and all I could think about was how much our waiter looked like The Rock. I kept waiting for him to do that eyebrow thing, so I'd know if it were really The Rock and he was maybe doing some undercover work or something, but he never did.
Our garage currently smells like ant killer.
The hubs touched his goatee so many times Saturday that I told him I would get him a hamster, because he obviously has some sort of tactile issue.
I'm not really going to buy a hamster. I'd be the one to take care of it and we all know I'm not in the mood.
But I do want a cocker spaniel. I would name it Sadie.
I still love The Psychedelic Furs.
I forgot to eat lunch.
I'm downloading fonts from the interwebs for the new computer. No one needed design a font with letters made of penis drawings.
Stop thinking of penises.
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