Site design: Skeleton
We’re beyond playing bridezilla. The highlight of the day is not cleaning the cave or filling the salt shaker. Now that we’ve crawled out from under a rock, let it be known we’re here for the mountain! We can worship at the self-altar and don’t have to eat our stress. We’ve learned to live alone and like it, pump gas, have our own checking accounts. We may have to pay for the first round of drinks ourselves, but we can go back and have sex with an ex and then be on our way. Or we can stay at home, tell blond guy jokes, and eat Randy Candy M and M’s until our faces turn as lime green as the cover over the chocolate. We can start a mag and name it “Play Things,” marry another man or a woman. We can go skinny dipping, dog sledding, throw our bras at the moon if we want. You’re still allowed to hold the door for us, but stop slamming it in our faces.
I’m not angry with you but with many other items in the past. Here’s a list of what makes me, like Humpty Dumpty, fall down and go boom: Evening darkness crunches me once it arrives each night. My heart goes to a low echelon. I feel like I could collect only one dollar for it at a consignment shop. I hate vacuuming. I practically tumble over the wire every time I yank it from its cage. Obviously, women usually vacuum. If men did, I’m certain one of them would have invented a cord that automatically changes to an in-out position according to one’s movements. I hate turning clothes right-side-in after they’ve been laundered. My temper falls from grace. Next on my list is washing my hair and then having to set it with a curling iron. Moving furniture makes my spirit soar at first and then tumble. I moved five pieces around this week, dragging them from to room. This morning I moved each one back to its original spot. Even a small set of silver candlesticks had to “return home.” Let’s take a look at people who always criticize the toils, efforts, and labors of others and who never lift a finger themselves. So long. You can go fall off a cliff as far as I’m concerned. My stream rushes with more. Shall I call a neighbor to see if I can borrow a Prozac to settle down? I said Prozac, you’ll notice, not your typical cup of sugar. Hear me? Let's see. Where was I? Oh yeah. Let’s get back to my hair. So fine that it never has lift, I feel like I look like a hippopotamus every morning after I set it. Sorry, hippos, but you ain’t my role models. Although my days of jogging with a kid in the baby carriage and the golden retriever on a leash to my left have gone by, I’ll never forget how few people would wait to let us cross the streets ahead of them, and, while I’m at it, guess how many items a person who wouldn’t let me go first had yesterday in the grocery store? Fifty. I had one. Need I say more? Talk about fallen manners and lack of courtesy. And one last item before I depart. I’m left-handed, so I always seem to turn on left faucets first. Hey you, Mr. Right-Handed inventors, please design more faucets that flow through the middle. To be continued…Tee Hee—I’ll talk about filing my nails.