Aug
11
August 11, 2006
Soooo…have you ever done a load of laundry, then left everything in the washing machine too long afterwards until it manifested an odor that might be best described as “sour” , as in “what in the name of jam-coated biscuits is that sour-ass stench?” – then, thinking you could remedy the situation without wasting a bunch of detergent and water on another load, put everything in the dryer with, like, fifty Bounce fabric softener sheets, then later you unload the whole pile in a really big hurry and end up sort of forgetting about that little fragrance issue and throw on your shrunken-to-a-sausage-casing-yet-still-cool MP(3) shirt and run out the door because holy crap you’re late for work and about five minutes into your drive you realize that your shirt doesn’t smell so great and ten minutes into your drive you realize that your shirt smells really really bad and twenty minutes into your drive you’ve got all four windows open because dear god, dear god, there is no escape from the appalling effluvium that your shirt is producing, and so your only option is to stop at the one semi-affordable store in the mall near your office, a Gap, and dig through their racks of forty-foot-long POLO shirts and weird Flashdance-era scoopneck long sleeved HORIZONTALLY STRIPED monstrosities and find a single, solitary t-shirt that is frankly one full size too small and probably 5 years too young but fuck it, at last you don’t smell like a whale carcass washed up on a hot summer beach and left to fill with mysterious gases until it eventually explodes in a gore-shower of rotting dead flesh and fabric softener sheets?
Just me then?
As far as mornings are concerned, this has just not been my week. If I’m not locking myself out of the house, I’m dressing myself in the Stench of Satan. I’d say something breezy and offhand about how at least I haven’t fallen down a flight of stairs or been attacked by angry dung beetles, but the day isn’t over yet.
Also, some of you are downright wimpy about a little human tail action. Even JB was begging me to delete those photos, because wah wah wah freaky. People! Let’s not be close-minded, here. Think of the usefulness of a tail, for sweeping off your chair before you sit down, for waving hello to a friend…sure, the naked, hot-dog/penis/turdlike tail isn’t so wonderful to look at, but if it were covered it might not be so bad. What that guy needs is a nice little Swarovski tail-sheath, then instead of a gross fleshy protuberance he’d have a sparkling fashion accessory.
In other news (ah, I can feel the palpable waves of gratitude), I have a Roomba now, thanks to HollowSquirrel, who was generous enough to offer me hers. “I never use it,” she told me. “That thing sucks as bad as a ten-cent whore on nickel night.”
Okay, she didn’t really say that, but she didn’t much like her Roomba and saw that I was all in a lather about them and so now I have her old robot vacuum. And thus microscopic flakes of her family’s DNA, which I can now use to biologically re-create them as clones in my own house, bwah ha ha ha HAAAA–
I’m sorry, I don’t know what my problem is today. I think it’s my shirt.
Anyway, I have used the Roomba in one room so far, our bedroom, and I am quite pleased with the results so far. The floor under the bed was totally dusty and after the Roomba was done: no dust! Awesome!
I don’t yet know how the Roomba will work on the rest of the house, but really I’m not sure if I even care, because I am greatly entertained by its cleaning process. It toodles around in this beetlelike manner, sweeping a weird little antenna arm around, and bonking gently off various surfaces. It scared JB a little when he walked into the bedroom, didn’t see it anywhere, and suddenly it was motoring out from underneath the chest of drawers and into his ankle. Best of all, it makes a happy little electronic sound when it’s done, which is just so cute – I don’t care if it is programmed by the U.S. government to change its primary directive from “clean” to “disembowel” in times of martial law, as JB seems to think.
So thanks, HS! I already like the Roomba, even if the cat is terrified and the dog is worried and the husband is suspicious and the boy is a little too interested in its cord.
Aug
9
August 9, 2006
Let me ask you something: why do I see so many search strings for “sundry mourning”, “sundrymourning.com”, “all & sundry sundrymourning”, etc? Is it because someone can’t remember my URL so they’re looking for me via google, or are they hoping to unearth some shameful secret about me from another site, like “I heard the chick from sundrymourning.com has a tail”?
Well, fine. Fine, you want to see my tail? Fuck it, I’m not keeping this to myself any longer, you were going to find it on the internet somewhere, so FINE, here you go:
Yes, that oddly masculine buttock is mine. And that’s my….uh, tail, emerging like a fleshy Armour hot dog from the vicinity of my left butt cheek, and I’m not ashamed, dammit, and–
Actually, if that were really my tail you’re fuckin-A I’d be ashamed. God, look at that thing. It’s totally freaking me out. You think it has muscles and stuff, like can it be wagged, or used in some prehensile manner, perhaps to hold an umbrella, or?
Also, speaking of internet weirdness, I hate to take up valuable space I could be using to post poached web photos of human deformities which may or may not be real, BUT…for the reader leaving me comments signed with my first and last name, or my work email address? Quit with the passive-agressive lame-ass “Hey Linda I know who u are OMG!” crap and either grow some fuzz on your peaches and say hello, or piss off back to your World of Warcraft night-elf-strokefest. What am I supposed to be over here, impressed?
Anyway, moving on to awesomer subjects (shut up, if “liveblogging” is an acceptable term, then I declare “awesomer” King’s Fucking English), I’m pretty sure I’ve isolated Riley’s first word: backpack.
Okay, it’s more like “ba pa”; I suppose I could be mistaking those sounds for “backpack” when in fact he’s trying to say “Gônoprojatontri Bangladesh” – but come on, the boy consistently crawls directly into the sliding glass door, I doubt he’s got a grip on his South Asia countries just yet.
He’s been making those “backpack” sounds for a while, usually when we get out the backpack carrier and repeatedly ask him “Do you want to ride in the backpack? Do you? You DO?” (which has resulted in the dog losing her tiny Chiclet brain altogether every time one of us puts the carrier on now, because who thinks they’re going for a walk? SHE DOES! SHE DOES!), but yesterday on the way home from daycare I randomly asked Riley if he would like to go in the backpack when we got home, and he clearly said “Ba pa?” in response.
My money’s on “da da” as the next recognizable word because god knows his dad hoists the sun every morning and blows the moon out every night as far as Riley’s concerned. Maybe I’ll hear “ma ma” someday in the future after he moves on to “da ee” (doggie) or “bahl” (bottle) or “aheedehstahbiahem” (antidisestablishmentarianism), if I’m lucky.
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