First. For those of you who firmly believe that your chubby babies and toddlers will never, ever become tall, gangly, awkward teen-agers…I am here to tell you the sad truth. They will. It will be sad, and it will be wonderful. Read my guest post about it over at OurMommyhood.
And now… here is the harsh light of day…
Confetti litters the carpet, trampled and flat.
Balloons drift listlessly across the floor, no longer possessing the fortitude to reach ceiling heights.
The prairie dog marching band ate the last of the chips, drank the remaining beer and called it a night.
The cleaning crew called in sick.
Oh wait, I don’t have a cleaning crew, I am the cleaning crew.
And I don’t buy into that whole whistling while you work thing.
Mostly because I can’t whistle. I sound like an asthmatic parakeet who stutters.
And I typically figure if you can whistle, you ain’t working hard enough.
Floors don’t clean themselves, you know.
I can’t find my tiara, and I seem to have lost a shoe.
And does anyone know why there’s a donkey in the guest bath? I mean, he’s lovely and all but I’m not sure he can find his way home in the state he’s in.
Did you know that confetti, when thrown in a raucous and rambunctious manner, gets everywhere?
And did you know furthermore, that when a prairie dog gets a few brewskis in him he turns into a lewd, loud, putz-ky dog?
And he had such good references too.
I suppose you’re always gambling when you employ musical rodents though.
And if anyone knows how the Subaru ended up in the pyrocanthia bushes…well…never mind, I don’t need to know how, but if anyone notices that they are short one compact car, it might be the one in my back hedge.
So the ticker’s ticked over, and the step by step march towards the next blogging milestone begins.
You know how I march best? Wearing a pair of electric-purple open-toed slingbacks with a kitten heel.
And a tiara.
Wanna join me?
This high-heeled post linked to “WordUp, Yo!” hosted by your friendly neighborhood Nerd Mafia. Of which I am now one, although to date I have not been told that I’m allowed to ice anyone. Which is, of course, the only reason anyone ever wants to be in the mafia is for the icing. And I don’t mean on the cake, if you know what I mean. So click over to Liz, Natalie or KLZ‘s joint to read yourself some more o’ dese blog things. ‘Cause I told ya to.