Bathroom Blogging

So, this is what it's come to.  I'm blogging in the bathroom.  Don't worry, as tempted as I am to go deeper into this topic, I will spare you.  

My sister has been nagging me about not posting often enough.  But, honestly, what do you all want to hear?  That I have to go to the bathroom?  Sometimes I just ain't got nuthin tah say!

Actually, that's a boldface lie.  I always have a little somesin-somesin.  So, in no particular order, and in perfect bathroom form, I give you my random thoughts on random things.

For instance, I was thinking that using my blog is an excellent way to learn  perfect one sided conversation fodder.  

Like; let's talk about my hair, you know the hair that hasn't been touched since Easters?  It's looking rather ratty and I must add, quite neglected.  I need to pick up a phone, make an appointment and get it cut.  Any comments?  No?  Well, then let's move on to another one sided conversation tid bit, my gut.  

I mean my muffin-tops that lately have been smooching up to a dozen lily, white, glazed donuts and a big, fat turkey tail.  I notice this plate of delicacies each time I put on my new jeans.  I'm talking about the jeans that I jiggle, squirm and excrete beads of sweat to get up over my buttocks.  By the time I get them on, I have forced all the fat from my ankles to my lower lumbar section to rest solely on top of the waste band.  If I get a wedgie or an undesirable scratch may occur, fahgetaboutit, ain't nuthin getting through the tight seal my jeans have formed.  My daughter tried to pinch my butt, and she got nuthin, she would have been better off tryin to file her nails than get any movement of flesh between my denim and me.  Tight jeans, gotta love the protection they provide.  

And speaking of tight, oh-by-gosh-by golly, I hate all my turtle necks.  The ribbed turtle neck has been my choice of winter uniform for nearly a decade.  I liked them for many reasons; they were long enough to cover my arms and conceal the coin slot that gets a bit elongated with the tight jeans, they provide warmth but not bulk so I can put on a coat without feeling constricted and they have those lovely slenderizing vertical lines.   But, for the life of me I can't stand to have anything pressing on my neck now.  I mean, it feels like those doggone things are cutting off the juggling in my freakin' jugular vein and my clavicular artery is being clavicularized!  This is a problem since 99.99% of my long sleeved shirts are ribbed turtle necks.

I'm out of the bathroom now, just so you know.  And yes, I washed my hands.

Continuing.  Changing subjects, but still one sided.  Are you with me?  Friday, Ellen, had a molar extracted.  It had wedged itself under another tooth and never erupted.  The procedure wasn't pretty.  I held her hand, rather she squeezed all the blood out of my hand, while the oral surgeon did all manners of atrocities to her mouth.  What a brave girl.  I thought about fainting a couple of times, especially when he pulled a long bloody string out and said something about the nerve...deep breath in, cleansing breath out.  Lalalalala, find my happy place, and I'm good.  

I finished Array Pottah.  It was good, not excellent, but really good.  I liked that she brought in nearly every character ever mentioned, but thought she was stretching it a bit.  The camping parts could have been edited down a bit.  Some parts seemed deliberately written for the silver screen.  I did enjoy it, but I like the earlier books much better.  But, I still recommend it.

I watched the movie, The Notebook for the second time and cried harder than the first time I watched it.  The part that gets me is when the old man tells his kids that he won't leave the nursing home where his wife is an Alzheimer's patient.  He says something like, "Listen kids, that's my sweetheart in there, and I'm not leaving her."  Ugh.  Clay and I have both had a grandparent that lived out the remainder of their days stricken with Alzheimer's.  One had a spouse watch the disintegration and the other's spouse had passed away before the onset.  What if one of us gets it?  What if one day we both get it?  Will we stumble around the house wondering where we are and asking "Who are you?"

And finally, Ike is almost six years old.  For crying out loud, who said he could get so big? 

Now, do you think this was worth your time?  Huh?  I didn't think so.  But, at least my sister will get off my ever-lovin'-turkey tail about posting something.