Okay, I realize it has been a while since I last posted. I would like to think I have a good story or two to share since last I was here, and honestly, I do. But I don't really feel like writing any of them right now. And here's why:
It's too fucking hot. Seriously. Have you been outside lately? After lunch today, my car said it was 103 degrees, while I was moving. Not sitting still in traffic, but actually in motion. Now, granted, my car did not agree with the nearby bank, which claimed it was only 98 degrees. It boasted being cooler due to the large amount of cash stored inside, and everyone knows that large amounts of cash make anyone look, or at least feel, cooler. My car, being Swedish, probably went by the heat index instead, which is a more accurate interpretation of how it, or I, felt out and about in the heat. It was too hot to go anywhere or do anything, so I went home to sit in the sweet sweet air conditioning.
When I got home and peed, I felt instantly cooler, temperature wise, just having my panties down at my ankles, so I took them off and sat around in just my sundress. I felt comfortable and free, the way your pubic hair does when you go skinny dipping and it floats merrily like seaweed in the ocean current. Or so I heard. But then I decided that taking my kids to their piano lessons this afternoon sans skivvies might traumatize the other children, most of whom attend Job Bones school (The name was changed to protect the innocent. Think about the children. And their God.) and thus have never had their own panties off, ever. I had this mental image of me bending over to pick up S's cracker crumbs, or crossing and uncrossing my legs, not unlike Sharon Stone, and showing the other budding musicians the abomination to the Lord I keep under my dress. And now you have that mental image too. Sorry about that.
As an aside, on my drive home, I passed yet another person on a moped. I refuse to believe he was driving one because he "cares" about the environment. I tend to think of mopeds as a form of transportation for only two classes of people: those with mental retardation who need to get to their bagger jobs at the grocery store, and those with multiple DUI's. And I love the little moped license plates, the small rectangle ones that say MOPED on them. They remind me of the personalized license plates you could get for your banana seat bike back in the 70's, when kids had normal names with normal spellings, like Mary and Jeff. Anyway, this guy was amazing, because not only could he drive his moped, but he was also picking his nose and smoking a cigarette at the same time. And he did those two things with the same hand! Talk about multitasking! And I bet he was hot too. He couldn't even roll up his window.
What was the point of this? Oh yeah, it's hot.
No comments:
Post a Comment