Happy ValentiNe's Day

It's Sunday, I'm skipping church because my prayers have too many swear words, so instead I will give thanks here today.

First: It's above freezing!!! Time to remove the 17 layers of long johns and strut that ass! (please see photo). Of course with the thaw comes the odors which have been frozen into submission; it is hard to pick up after a dog when the warm nuggets melt a hole into the snowbank. Nobody really knows how much is piling up until the big thaw.

Also, there is no better way to find out if your roof is leaky than during a thaw occuring when there may be 2 feet of snow up top.

Next: The first Valentine's in recent memory sans Mr. Bunker! This is excellent news on a number of levels; most importantly of course that I don't have to listen to him say "Happy Valentimes". This tends to grate on the ears, maybe worse that a drunken crackhead having a yodeling contest with a pack of stray cats. Additionally, I don't have to swoon over a box of cheap chocolates and a gas station rose, nor do I have to even pretend that the leopard-print whatever in the wrong size that he usually picks up someplace off of a clearance table makes me want to do anything over than have a nice long vomit.

And: A few boxes of very fine chocolates which were given to me by a patient whose bit of asperity over a little amputation a few years ago seems to have faded. I also love the stupid little candy hearts with the stamped-on dumb sayings. I enjoy them almost as much as the fine chocolate; the kids will bring me a good supply of them which will spare me the embarrassment of having to buy them for myself.

No pestilence, rodent infestations, bedbugs, catastrophic events or eminent utility shut off due to non-payment of bills. Life is good!

except...one small problem that's hanging me up, preying upon my mind. Do leggings go in the hosiery drawer or do they go in the closet with the pants? I don't know, and I keep changing my mind. This issue is so draining.

Fairy Tale, True Love, etc.

Pay attention at the newsstand! The next issue of "Shit Parenting" magazine will contain a feature article about my soon to be ex lovah. The excitement about the forthcoming publication is nearly unbearable; I guess a little teaser is in order, so...
My shameless poor-excuse-for-a-hominid former mate has found the lowest-rent attorney in town; she's apparently hard-up for cash, and and even though they have about as much chemistry as Mr. Bunker and full time employment, they are gettin' ready to take this "rich doctor" down a notch. I'm sure they will continue to make a stunning pair until she figures out that he's got a major case of the crazies and that he is never ever going to pay her. He & this dollar tree advocate are really becoming about as irritating as a sandpaper thong during a long run on a hot day.

Here are a few things you might NOT want to do during a divorce as it may turn on you later in life when your sweet children morph into serial killers:

• Do not tell your children that mommy will probably be going to prison.
• Do not tell your 7 y/o son that his asthma meds are bad for him and are going to stunt his growth, just because your so fucking stupid you think steroids mean that he's going to sprout tits & menstruate.
• Do not bring your kids with you on your 10pm-on-a-school-night grocery store run because you ran out of beer.
• Do not tell your children that you're broke, and that Mommy has all the money when you call them during your European Vacation.
• If you wish to continue bragging about your daughter's stellar academic performance, try to understand that a science fair project takes more than an hour to complete (unless your hypothesis is that it takes your daddy roughly one hour to locate his ass after he is rotated 180 degrees in either direction).
• "Having a spare kidney" does not constitute a college savings plan.
  

I, of course, will continue to be polite, patient, and gracious as I do the stroll along the high road (high as in lofty elevation, not high as in stoned). I won't even make a crack about how retarded he sounds when he tells people that the "gloves are comin' on". See? Nary even a chuckle or smirk.

Pink-Slipping the Spouse

To summarize the last several months:

Mrs. Bunker and her chainsaw emporium have receded into the past. This not-so-sad demise was due to her ability to locate her long lost spine; this led to the abrupt dismissal of Mr. Archie Bunker, from whom the sad beat-down known Mrs. Edith Bunker drew her identity.

So then. After a 14 year relationship (married 11, 2 children) I finally yanked the stick out of my ass, packed up my clothes, and fled the family home with the kids as Mr. Bunker chased me down the street with a fistful of insanity. He soon came to his senses, and to my immense relief, it turned out he was going to be just fine with a divorce (I had been holding him back in so many ways) and he wanted to have an amicable spit; maybe we could even save on legal fees and use the same attorney...

The problem turns out to be that his idea of an amicable split involves him keeping everything and me getting out with my clothes (the other problem, of course is that he is an obsessive-compulsive, eating-the-paint-off-the-walls, sniffing-his-own-ass crazy person). This in some ways doesn't seem like that bad of a deal, being that it includes the vital provision of me no longer having to be married to his stupid ass, AND I got to take my shoes; shoes are important to me. Still, I was prepared to walk away holding my nose and my dignity until I discovered that you can't just walk away from a $2M house if you're on the deed and your spouse has taken $1.9M out in equity on said house. DRAT!

That was the first bit of bad news, followed-up quickly by his demonstration that he did not even pause for one nanosecond to decide whether or not throwing the kids into the middle of our dispute would be an appropriate strategy. Turns out, he does not find that sort of thing at all distasteful. The kids are old enough to understand that I am not actually out peddlin ' poon to the gals, but still. Their recent expansion in vocabulary is not going to be of any use to them in any academic sense; maybe if they have to to go to prison it'll be helpful but really not for a while; "carpet mucher" is just confusing to them, and personally I think it's a little out dated as far as slang is concerned; how about "dykenator" or "vagatarian"? much more interesting.


No longer having Mrs. Bunker to shoulder the brunt of my bitching has left a bit of a void in my life, but I have been advised to abandon her as she could cause me some divorce-type problems. So here I am, snowed into my cozy little apartment by the big blizzard of 2011, casting about for a new identity. All this while I have to spend time fending off charges of being the drug addicted, drunken, lesbian, child abusing, suicidal wreck being leveled by that baby daddy of mine.

The Big Day for Dr. P.A.

Grab your black-tie pasties and your top-hat, make sure everything's been waxed, plucked and bleached, and don't be late to the church! Today is the day!

That guy on the left who thought it was a clown/Elvis theme is feeling pretty awkward, I just know it. DUH. People can be so inappropriate.

Anyhow, this is the date upon which Dr. PA and her chosen purse-holder enter into the horror of joint checking. I still don't understand how she could decline my fine offer of a life partnership of collecting stray cats while wearing disco fab naphthalene scented designer clothes, but I tried. I put myself out there despite my heartbreak. I coulda been the one.

As a consolation prize, I am participating as a reader. Not just any reader either, HEAD reader. The boss of the readers, and mind you I will be keeping that other bitch in line.

Also, just kidding with that raunchy assemblage above, Dr. PA is far to refined and sophisticated to be hosting that tattooed gaggle of harlots. She is a petite little flower, not the more-to-love type picture above. So for real:

Status Changes

For Dr. P.A., "dressing up" involves wearing clean scrubs and her formal Crocs. It is therefore a stunning event to see her in shoes that look they should be paired with tassels and a thong accommodating bills of varying denomination.

And why all this glitter and glam? bitch is getting married, of course. I guess we have to maintain some cosmic balance in the universe regarding the misery index. I get unmarried, she gets married. Meanwhile Dr. Ginger's chosen one is preparing to birth the messiah. I'm nearly certain that they will be calling her/him Edith.

All these major occurrences within our office, and still people keep coming in to whine about their ridiculous aches and pains, as if we have time! so thoughtless.

But back to the wedding. Who thinks that having me as a reader of verse is a good idea? What if I throw back too much of the blue drank and start some kind on meandering soliloquy on my own experiences with the blessed nuptials?

Should I invite my lawyer to be my date? He is currently one of my favorite people, after all.

Naw. He'd charge me for the time, plus I've already got the outfit all picked out & pressed for Felix, the only man I'll ever love again. When I have him all dressed up & I'm bored and home alone, I'll make some sophisticated cocktails with White Zinfandel from a box mixed with 7up, then waltz around with him to some John Tesh tunes. Or Michael Bolten. No grinding though, that would be in poor taste.

No more "adult services"? Why Craigslist, Why??

Cripes, and just when I've found myself in need of some adult services! You know you can't count on those pathetic whippersnapper punk-ass kids if you're looking for something done well, such as, say, fine embroidery, quality typesetting, or refurbishment of the reliable old family sawed-off shotgun. These are services that absolutely must be provided by an adult.

But really. I'm no dummy. I do know that those aren't the services that were advertised in that section of Craigslist. That section was for peddlin' the poon, and I'm still upset, because as the current provider for ma bebbies, it only makes sense to have a back-up plan in place; a momma's gotta do what a momma's gotta do, those Xboxes aren't going to be buying themselves!

Clearly my life goes on as I continue to try to beat Mr. Bunker back into that giant Summer's Eve box from whence he lurched, knuckles dragging and so on. Who knew that when you peel back each layer of Mr. Bunker craziness, there's another layer of crazier? How can this be? How many layers are there anyway?? Isn't there some kind of reality show for him??? hello TLC, I'm talking to you. Or Bravo. PBS? Animal Planet??

I'm happy to relate that I now have all the basics that would be required for comfort in a college dorm room. I finally have a bed, and even wireless internet, (thank you Jacob) and a very fancy 22" flat screen TV. Soon I will have a dresser and my underthings will no longer be stored in milk crates.
It is ever so much more comfortable than my previous elegantly appointed domicile. So for all you cynics out there, behold, a happy ending.

Vomit, Curse, Hate

Because in real life that's what you do in a divorce. The Eat Pray Love blahblahblah is a very sweet concept, but sadly mere mortals cannot take a year off to go "find themselves" by visiting exotic locations and humping a few foreign hotties. Not to say it's necessarily a bad idea, it's just not terribly practical.

So.
To sum up the past couple of months: Mr. Bunker has officially been kicked to the curb.
At long last I took the kids and left him alone in the family castle with his busted up hoarders collection of old clocks, spittoons, and giant shitloads of other junk which he can sort through and rearrange to his heart's content as he continues to milk his "disability".

I am missing having things like, um, a bed, and a dresser and sheets and dishes and salt and pepper shakers, but it appears that I have excaped with my sanity and ma bebbies, so fuck you Mr. Bunker.

And that's MS. Bunker, thankyouverymuch.

Edith's beauty tips

Suppose you go for a semi-long run in some shitty shoes that are a little past their prime and you mangle your toenails all to hell. What are you going to do, sacrifice the whole sandal season??? I hardly think so. Since Chicago's sandal season is only like 2 weeks long, we can't trifle with limitations.

So if cosmetics are meant to enhance our natural beauty, drain the blisters, glue those bitches back on, and work with your natural palette.

Yes my toes are long and bony. I can swing through the trees and pick up the soap.

Cubs Win!!

There is really no excuse to turn down tickets to a Cubs game. Sure the team sucks, and I can't honestly say I'm a Cubs fan, but I'm a huge Wrigley Field fan. I lucked into some rooftop seats and for the crosstown classic, no less. I checked to see which hat suited me better; looked like it was going to be Sox black & white for a little while, but I went with Cubbie blue at the end because it matched my outfit better. I know. Call me names, I'll live. Below is a picture of the ONE pennant they won, and if you can't read it or don't know, it says 1906.

This is not a sports blog so I will not dwell on the details of the game. The important part is that the Cubs won, which means I made a good hat choice.

Now, for the salacious fun.

The main reason I was invited was because a civic minded congregant at my church wanted me to meet the hottie above. He's a member of our sister congregation out in the 'burbs.

He just sold his business for 2 billion, yes "B"-billion dollars. He wants to do some philanthropic type business, so our mutual friend thought it would be good for us to meet so I could find a benefactor for our little charity clinic. I think the toddler on his left could have been his date. If I hadn't had the beer I wouldn't have snickered, but well....what are you going to do? give her some graham crackers & set up a play date with my kids ?? heh heh. snort.

Stanley Cup and Other Sporting News

Apparently everyone on the entire planet gives a shit about the World Cup. My interest level thus far been wavering somewhere between miniscule and non-existent; this despite Dr. Ginger's overwrought ebullience.

The good news is that after a brief perusal of this month's Vanity Fair I'm beginning to experience a glimmer of interest. I'll have to review the article in it's entirely before I decide for sure. I guess it will depend largely on the degree of illustration.

Moving on to the other sporting news:

Thankfully our hometown Hawks spanked those friggin' annoying Flyers, the manners of their fans are abysmal. The ENTIRE CITY of big babies blamed everyone but Darth Vadar and Voldemort for their loss. The even booed our hero, No Teef Keef (six of his choppers were pulverized in an earlier game). Rude!

As pleased as I was with their victory, I would appreciate if they could conduct any future melees in the street on someone else's block.

Almost every single patient on my schedule canceled today, which is good because it was nearly impossible to get in the front door. A sweet little granny with a bad hip and a cane was one of the three patients who kept their appointments. Apparently she's been firmly beneath a rock and was unaware that the parade was scheduled to iterfere with her appointed time. She did manage to enlist the help of two young men (which means that they were less than 70) who gallantly escorted her through the crowd.

These pictures were taken from my office window, out of which I was hanging while wearing my fair-weather-fan jersey and throwing ticker tape. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

Summertime

Graduations, weddings, birfdays, gardening, summer camps, wardrobe changes, insect bites, poison ivy, school's out, fishing trips, family visits to the hillbilly kinfolk, all contingent on shaking the money maker to finance so much activity. I sat down with my calendar, stared for a while, and walked away feeling like I've been slapped on both sides of the head.
So much to cram into a few short months.

The fishing trip is the most exciting prospect, and I'm pretty sure I can piggyback it with a Seattle conference and call it business travel. Of course I'll have to round up my psychic, my brow tweezer, my shrink, my chakra fluffer and my sherpa because I don't go anywhere without them; who does, really?

OK, I admit that my inspiration for the last paragraph came from eavesdropping on the parents that one encounters at the local skating rink. This particular rink offers lessons to the many young, academically gifted (whether they want to be or not), all-round completely talented, beautiful and privileged young girls in preparation for their upcoming eating disorders. The mother involved in said conversation was distraught about how many nannies she could take on the European vacation; just one for the twins and the french tutor? or both twin nannies? Oh the painful dilemmas. If there is going to be casting for "The Real Housewives of Chicago" I would recommend they start their search at the skating rink or the nearby dance studio where the moms can also participate in the recital. What is up with all those giganto lips anyway? Do they have to plump up everything so that their geriatric husbands can find them?
bitchy catty me. sorry.

Chicago Architecture/Field Trip

I was the designated mommybot charged with chaperoning the third grade on their final field trip, which was a double-decker bus ride through our own fair city.

This means that I arrived drunk and passed a bottle of Jack around on the bus, and if one of the little tykes hesitated I said "shut up you baby, all the cool kids are doing it". Then I shank-eyed the teacher and told her she needed to learn how to control the little monsters, whacked her with my Gucci bag and passed out in the back seat with a lit cigarette. HAHA. Kidding. I gave up cigarettes long ago.

It is fun to be a tourist in your own town, because usually we're all too busy plotting our next crime to look up and enjoy the architecture, which in Chicago is truly magnificent. We had a perfect day to have both third grade classes trapped on one vehicle. This makes chaperoning relatively easy as they cannot escape.

If the kids were assigned to share the most memorable part of the tour it would be what is depicted in the photo below. And no, it's not the Aon building, nor is it the striking bandshell in Millennium Park. Try to guess.

Ok, I'll tell. It's the lack of the hat on the tour-guide's head.

Much to the delight of the third grade, his ball-cap blew off while he was in the middle of a Mies van der Rohe anecdote, those crazy German architects will getcha every time!

Of course the kids couldn't give a shit less about the architect story, but dude's Cubs had flew off and it was JOYFUL. Of course the fact that he demanded that the bus pull over and that he then proceeded to chase his hat in the wind through four lanes of traffic did not serve to quell the enthusiasm.

That is the part that will be remembered by the children of the third grade.

Just to share a little, here's the Hancock building, right next to Water Tower Place, aka "Where Oprah Lives".

The driver of the bus was obviously somewhat new to the job, because on the way back to the school (about 3 blocks from the Hancock) he managed to take a swing through the scenic projects. Maybe he was just trying to maintain some balance, I dunno. We did get a couple of salutes from the good folks in the Cabrini projects, fortunately firearms were not involved. Could have been bad for me, what being the chaperone I should have worn my kevlar after all, I guess

Why Chaz, Why?

I get it that she wanted to be a he; she had some gender issues and apparently always had a hankerin' for the ladies. She wanted to wear menswear with ties and big watches with altimeters and use aftershave. After she shaved. Her face.

I can live with all that; deep down she was a dude. My question, then is this: Why go through the whole reassignment thing then call yourself "Chaz"??? Chaz is the gayest gay name a gay ever had. Ever. To my knowledge, there is no straight man on planet earth named Chaz.

So is he a gay man now? That would take it to a new level of confusion for me.

The Clean Garage

t may not look clean, not exactly.

According to Mr. g.d. Bunker, standing there with his chest all puffed out, proud as an Amish kid with his first bong, it is all taken care of, cleaned up and sorted out. So rejoice &" just quit bitching"already.

Is it so horribly wrong for me to question why, if it's all cleaned out, can I still not park a car in there (four years and counting), or, for that matter, walk through it? In fact the only passage would be by using the ceiling joists like monkey bars & swinging through. Fortunately, I can do that with my toes; one of my more attractive attributes, although difficult if I'm wearing a skirt or carrying groceries. And the damn kids keep falling on their heads, those little assholes.

This is a minor detail which only the harshest of critics would notice, of course. You see, it's not that it's all completely cleaned out and finished, what do I expect a miracle?? However, it may as well be finished and clean, because he has gotten enough boxes and other types of containers that it could easily all be packed up and put neatly away. Duh! Problem solved.

The issue is, of course, that now in addition to all the shit that was in there in the first place there is also a tower of moldy moving crates, cookie tins, and hat boxes, so nothing has really changed. That is unless you're looking through eyes that are supplied by crazy brains, then you can see a beautiful transformation. I guess I've got some serious glue huffing to do.

Here is a random mother with her two glorious children in front of Soldier Field. This was for a little Saturday morning run. The weather was perfect, the course was along the spectacular lakefront, but that didn't help me with the last couple of miles. I was really only (hardly even) ready to run 6 miles, the extra four were some kind of cruel joke.

Unfortunately Mr. Bunker showed up to cheer us on and to reassure me that it's not so much that I'm out of shape, more just that I'm getting old. asshole.

He only came because he heard that they give away a lot of free stuff at the finish line; now he's got some Cliff bars and massage coupons which may now be added to his ever increasing heap-o-shit. He also grabbed up a few t-shirts even though they were not available in fat man sizes; he's planning on loosing a few pounds (so he can find a girlfriend) & expects that they will fit him soon enough.

I finished the dumb race and my legs still feel like they're on backwards. At least my kids were impressed--enough to fight about who got to wear my medal to school today, anyway.

I

Catching up!

This is one hazmat situation which occurred when Mr. Bunker attempted to demonstrate his culinary prowess. It looks like the semi-digested stomach contents of a mother swine post slop hork-down. Or maybe something that would contain possum or perhaps even a freshly killed pigeon still containing the BBs that felled it.
I tell him to pack up and get out and he tries to win me back with this mess? If you think it looks bad from this view, just imagine cutting into it and finding big lumps of hot greasy baked avocado. If the thought doesn't make the back of your mouth taste like you just puked a tiny bit then you're a stronger person than I.

Also, lets don't overlook the recent passage of Mother's day, when as usual, I got a brand spankin' new vacuum cleaner. Naturally I've been so overwhelmed with excitement that I've been rendered mute for almost a month. So many attachments, so little time!
This sort of feels like having someone shit on your head without even buying you a drink. Not that I would know, all wild speculation of course.


So anyway, whip my marriage with your pimp cane and kick it out a high window onto the ho stroll, because this stinky old trick needs to be put out of it's misery.
Outside of that everything's GREAT!

A Little Good News About the Recession

Probably you're wondering what possible good news could exist in this entire epic financial clustertaxbooblation. Well, leave it to me friend. I can hone in on a nugget of happiness (of the schadenfreude variety) faster that a starving feral cat can disembowel a soft fluffy baby bunny.

So then, here it is, the good news:
Most of the "Real Housewives of Atlanta" are broke!
Yes, it comes as a shock. This includes the radiant natural beauty Kim Zolciak (above). I don't know which is worse, her behavior or the fact that a I know about it.

She's a wretched home wrecking bimbo who was engaged to her sugar daddy. He financed all her excesses in shopping, shit parenting, cellulite vacuuming, and wig wearing. One bit of a problem with their engagement was that her intended was already married, and when the wedding plans fell through she announced that it was OK, really because it turns out that she prefers the company of women over men after all. Particularly in that way. Fancy that!

Her utterly vain & vapid existence makes me feel deeply intellectual and introspective; I suppose that's why I like her. It did always piss me off though, that she had so much money to piss away. This even though she had to quit beauty school as she couldn't keep up with the academic portion because there was to0 much chemistry to learn (truth! season two).

Anyway, the party's over, and I guess she'll resume her walk of shame to her hostess job at TGI Friday's, and maybe even score a few day shifts at a gentleman's club. She'll surely have to start shopping at Payless Shoe Source instead of Neiman's, smoke some generic smokes, and even wear the same wig for more than one week. Perhaps she'll have to fire her nanny so that she may more directly ignore her children.

Hard times have fallen on others as well; specifically all those ridiculous punks who scored bogus marketing positions after dropping out of the Public Relations program or the Criminal Justice Associate's degree at the local community college. How was it that they were making so much money anyway?? I know that this is getting to be long and I'm fully embracing my embitterment, but how is it that there were so many 200K jobs to be had by people who's main accomplishment seemed to be mastery of a TiVo? My Garsh!

With the temporary restoration of a more proper earning order, I can look down my nose, sip daintily from my china teacup, gently pat my lips dry with a crisp linen napkin, put on airs of superiority, all while I continue to pay for unemployment benefits of indefinite duration. And haul around a certain deadbeat collecting "disability".

In keeping with this glut of glad tidings, behold my new shoes!
Probably liquidated from Kim Z's collection, these are made by Jil Sanders and sparkle a little bit. They are a tiny bit uncomfortable, but we must suffer for our art.


This second picture was taken by someone (no names here) on my payroll with instructions to photograph the shoes. THE SHOES. Are there shoes in the picture? This is digital photography. Where are the shoes?? Yes my skirt is hiked up to prevent shadows on the shoes. So inapproprite, I know. Despite the glaring lack of shoes, I have opted to include it out of pure vanity because it looks like I have some mean kankles in the first picture.

Oahu Stairway to Heaven Hike & other nice things

This is Sandy Beach on Oahu, which is where you should go if you want to know what it feels like to go through a spin cycle in a Maytag. The beach is beautiful, the surfer boys who frequent the beach are also beautiful. The waves are a little too big, and even though I'm a good swimmer I was pretty sure I was going to drown a couple of times. The price of survival included having sea water drip out of my nose for the following day or so, and some sand which became so lodged upon my person that I could probably produce a grain or two right now if you give me a minute. My hosts found this tremendously amusing.

Next is Kailua beach. The warm water is some impossible shade of blue (not accurately represented by this photo) that I previously thought was restricted to interior designer's vocabularies and towels in fancy spas.
The sand is white and smooth, and it is rather awe inspiring to see it all in nature. The waves are small enough that the kids were allowed to frolic even though Mr. Bunker was certain an attack of sharks, jellyfish, killer whales or rouge waves was eminent; well almost certain enough to get off his ass instead of just shouting, but not quite (the sea breeze was noted to dampen noise in most appealing way).

We did several great hikes, but certainly the most memorable was the one known as "Stairway to Heaven".
This is closed to the public but I was permitted to participate because I'm sooo fab. Not really, but my friends who live there know the people you need to know.

"It's a great climb with amazing views, everyone wants to do this climb, you have to be in pretty good shape to do it, just grown-ups, no kids no dogs", "blah blah blah" and so on.

Most of the focus seemed to be on who had adequate cardio fitness to make it; I guess it's my own fault that I failed to mention that I'm afraid of heights which can come in to play if you are climbing ladders up the side of a fucking mountain.

The climb is almost four thousand steps up to the summit. The stairs were built by the Coast Guard for the purpose of sacrificing virgins during wartime. It starts pretty gently, and by the time I figured out that I was going to be scared, my stomach had already turned into a tight ball and fallen right out of my ass. This helped in that I did not need a snack for the duration of the climb.

When I got to the first landing I realized that I had made a terrible mistake and requested helicopter rescue. My very excellent guide, Joe, gently told me that I was acting like a giant pussy and would regret it for the rest of my life on earth if I didn't finish.
Not exactly those words you know, but that was what my ears heard. So I proceeded upward and soon found myself in a cloud which was helpful because I couldn't see how far up I was, however it made me so cold that I started to shiver and my hands got numb which made it hard to cling to the rungs. I made it to the top and scrawled my name in the book with my numb hands, so there is actual proof.

I survived and will probably be somewhat boastful, and act as if I just trotted up there instead of whimpering like a freshly Simonized American Idol contestant.

You can see everything from up there, even the "Swan" site from "Lost".

Where were you Sawyer, when I needed to be rescued?

The Episode where Edith Throws Archie out

OR does she shank him in the night and sweetly whisper,"it'll only hurt for a minute, and don't worry these aren't the good sheets?"

OR maybe she chops off his noodle, stews it with garlic and bay leaves, lovingly & deftly cuisinarts it with roasted garlic and cilantro, and passes it off as humus served on whole grain crackers?

OR they go to a romantic island, ceremoniously renew their wedding vows and begin a new chapter of their lives as soul mates? (that one made me throw up just a little)

Anyway.

I guess it's better to have all the drama at once, why drag things out? Boot the bonehead during my office start-up, then when it's done my home and office will be in strict adherence with feng shui and Zen and I'll hum a happy working song while enjoying my home which will be devoid of the mountains of clearance table shit which are the current bane of my existence. That and the being that continues to procure these goods during hours of the day that should be occupied by some (any) type of gainful employment. Please note that there is absolutely nothing appealing about a man home lounging in his boxers at noon on a weekday. NOTHING. Unless, I suppose, the man is Johnny Depp.

Vacation

Sorry, no provocative pics of Dr. Ginger. Not yet anyway. I think he's waiting for the big moving day to bare his chest while lifting those heavy boxes as Dr. PA and I get our manicures. I will be ready with the camera, and I'm not sure about his shoe size.

For a brief and shining moment it looked as if Mr. Bunker could be staying in chilly Chicago while me & the chirruns would kick back in the sun and surf. This nearly came to pass because his reverse business acumen, specifically, his failure to notice that one of his tenants (one of the two commercial tenants, the ones with the big rents) had not paid rent for an entire year.

How do you not notice that? More importantly, how do you not notice that and then proceed to endlessly and loudly impart your advice upon your spouse about how she should run HER business? bugger off already.

For one glorious night I went to sleep with some kind of weird tic that was later diagnosed as a tiny smile.My face didn't really have time to get used to it and I think I was scaring my kids. The scowl has now returned; at least people recognize me now. Mr. Bunker has dealt with his pressing business issues and is busy packing his mankini. yuck.

We are going to be visiting friends who happen to be vegetarians, which means that Mr. Bunker will probably be packing 23 pounds of beef jerky and salami, lest he go into some sort of beef and garlic withdrawal. I wonder if this will be noticed by the drug sniffing dogs at the airport.

The airport should be interesting because there will probably be some TSA agents jamming ice-picks into theirs eyes so they have an excuse to get away from that full body scanner when mah boo comes through.

Nothing like looking sexy on the beach!

The sad Troof about the menfolk

The hot dude who looks like he's bathed this month and recently groomed himself, and not let himself go entirely while his wife pays the bills, is most assuredly a great big homosexual.

Alternatively, the gent below is the one who will hone in on me every time. Guaranteed. He'll follow me around like a stray pup and send me flowers.

I'll spend time & money to go shopping with beefcake gay hottie that so that I look nice with the end result of appealing to someone I'd rather cross the continent to avoid. Why do I bother trying to look good again?