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?

New World Order

Before
and
After



Now that Dr. P.A. is scheduled for marriage, she's at long last figured out how use hosiery for good instead of evil. Not that the white cotton gym socks weren't sexy in their own way, like, in some alternate frat-boy dirty-laundry parallel universe type of way, but look now-- You so so fancy!

Since her days of being the token fashion eyesore are apparently on the dwindle, AND we have the high-end luxe Dr. Ginger on the payroll, we're moving our show to a dazzling new office.
We've outgrown our current space and besides, Ginger's all, like, "well where's my desk" and "I need a window with a view of the park" blah blah blah.
(Maybe save some of those old gym socks P.A., just in case we ever need to muffle the Ginger)

After a few grueling months of looking at office space & listening to whining realtors, we've found our happy place. This is extremely exciting; we are now poised to take over the world.

The ink's almost dry, the deal is finally proceeding since we sort of ditched the devil's spawn realtors who were killing us slowly while they quibbled over the commission. Yes, I know times are tough, and I appreciate you learning my kid's names, Mr. Gucci shoes, but time to quit being such a giant frenulum (not the one on the tongue) already.

On the first of May we move to our new office where Dr. PA won't have to sit on my lap and Dr. Ginger will be allowed to have a chair of his very own (sorry to have to represent you with a picture of a femme, Ginger, but it's in keeping with the theme).

First Chicago, then the world!

So I'll take my current viable practice, borrow myself out for equipment, sign a long lease, mire myself in debt, then have Obamacare descend on me like a ton of bricks. YAY!

Trollops! Everywhere!

All these awful tramps after my sweet baby boy. What's a mother to do? How can a six year-old be expected to hold up against their trashy womanly wiles?? The current offender is nearly 3 full months older than he! I'm sure there are laws prohibiting this sort of outrage.

Last year it was that promiscuous little JAP Syndey; not in an exotic Asian "Jap" way, but rather the "I wanna got to Miami" and Bat Mitzva type JAP (that would be "Jewish American Princess" for anyone who is reading in Indiana and truly stumped). In order to correct this awkward situation I explained all about how, if he married Sydney, he would be forced to go to medical school AND he'd never have Christmas, AND the joys of bacon sandwiches would be a sweet gustatory memory of the past. In addition, we went and observed behavior and services rendered at some of the high-end salons up on the north shore until he fully understood that he would never, ever, be able to afford her.

The year before it was the Spanish diplomat's strumpet, Maria. A few carefully thought-out calls to the embassy about the obvious FACT that the trick was some kind of Jr. Al Qaeda operative-in-training...why else the olive skin and the long jet black hair? And come to think of it, her chair was always facing east. Coincidence?? I think not. Well anyway, that particular little running sore finally retreated back to her own land.

This year the offender has surfaced. LANIQUE. Draw your own conclusions. She's tall and exotic and easily the smartest girl in the class. I told The Boy that it's just fine so long as all he wants to do is copy off her paper, but now I'm seeing these little googoo eyes, and I'm just sick over it! SICK! She's been perfectly agreeable until about yesterday, now this warped seduction. Pretty soon she'll be wanting to come over so they can ride bikes together. I'm sure the moment that they're out of my sight she'll be showing him her knickers. Appalling.

Don't worry honey, momma will check out all your girlfriends for you, momma won't let anyone dirty get through (please review Pink Floyd Lyrics, "Mother")

Lanique's dad is some kind of pro-athlete type, and although I'm sure I could whip his ass, I'm not positive about my boy. I don't know if being a teacher's helper once a week is enough. It could be that I need to be there more. This motherhood thing is difficult, new challenges all the time.

Today's Clearance Offerings

Yup, I've allowed Mr. Bunker out of the house with cash money again. Damn.

Eight boxes of Bayer assburns, to which Mr. Bunker is severely allergic. In the absence of such an allergy, this stuff just serves to upset everyone else's stomach (hence it's placement on the clearance table).

Two Glade air-fresheners, "Holiday Cookie" scent; vile (see parenthetic statement above).

Three bottles of shampoo that smells like congealed vomit with tones of spoiled salmon and Limburger cheese.

One wad of napkins from the coffee shop.

The astute observer is surely now puzzled and having doubts that the Advair and Ventolin (prescription only) were found on the clearance table. Well, bully for you astute observer, they were indeed not on the clearance table, but rather on top of the newspaper box outside the store in a radio shack bag; who wouldn't want to get their meds off the sidewalk??? Free! Fancy That! Now we just need someone with COPD who can use it. With the savings achieved by stealing the napkins, we'll probably be able to make the mortgage. Hawk the Advair, and we'll be sittin' purdy.

Inflicted with the SADS

No, its not SADS like "Seasonal Affective Disorder Syndrome", that's for pussies. And no, it's not "Sudden Arrhythmia Death Syndrome", that's for stiffs. It's just SADS because that's what happens when you get through January and February and your fuckin' whiskey's still all frozed up. It's hard to drown your sorrows when you can't get the good stuff outa the bottle. On the bright side, it makes for a good weapon just in case someone might want to give one's deadbeat spouse an affectionate tap on his skull. Probably just as effective as that prison trick I learned involving a sock and some pennies, never discount intelligence gleaned from those prison bitches!

Anyway, I have determined that part of living in the great north is leaving for a week or so around this time of year. It is important to see the sun, otherwise you will start eating the paint off the walls while watching some crap like "Judge Judy" while clad in garments made of way too much elastic and velor.
So it's time to beg steal or borrow my way to someplace where the sun shines for more than 16 minutes a week.

Now one of the problems is that since my sandals and little halter dresses have been packed away for like, one million years, my pedicure is a little ragged. It's going to take a little grooming on a few counts for me to be "beach ready", know what I'm sayin?

Dear Dr. Divine Empress FK, are you finding the green more pleasing?