Sunny but icyWell, in a surprising binge of efficiency, here I am writing a second post.
Frustration is the topic of the day. As a woman who is counting down the remaining ovulations of her life, having a husband who is, frankly, napping at this crucial time is exasperating. With forethought, I could have considered a much younger specimen. Though given my dubious level of attraction, he would have had to have fairly odd taste. Then there is the problems inherent with reproducing the species with someone who may not have the maturity to stick it out through the tantrum years (I'll let you know when they stop).
There are definite advantages in living with someone who has a opinion on whether Cousin Itt and Thing were both from the Adamms or Munster families. ("Who are they?" ask the children.)
Further, from the disinterested vantage of my 40s, I would not like to have to start listening to [insert name of musician from last decade here]. Eighties pop music was generally pretty crap and I would be surprised if there has been any improvements since then. I slander the eighties, you say? I provide the following proof - the master work of Haysi Fantayzee:
I feel fine
No it ain't no crime.
I was dreamin' of a demon and I ate a dime.
The dime floats
The colonel boasts -
Send 'em up the hill boys, this ain't no joke
No chance - no chance - no chance - no chance.
Shiny shiny bad times behind me
|Strawberry jam fantastic, cumquat marmalade nasty and bitter|