This post has nothing to do with the title. Someone said that me yesterday and I thought it was too awesome not to use as a blog post title so there you go. And by "someone" I mean "crazy person stalking me named Tristachio". I once had a blog style duel to the death with her over who was more awesome. I won. She lost. She's never gotten over it. Now she IM's me every time I'm online and keeps saying things about my giant man hands and how she's my hypothetical love child and how our birthdays are one day apart and something something dutch rudder. Seriously, all those things have come up in our conversations. She's not right in the head, people.
So Captain Carl went to a whiskey tasting at an Irish pub with his brother, Mailman Mike, last night. He was all "I'll be home early, we're going with his girlfriend's dad blah blah blah". Four hours later he calls me and is all "Sorry, we had to stay for awhile and sober up and omg we got 8 shots of whiskey and omg it was amazing and omg blah blah blah" and I was all "Yeah, I did your kid's laundry all night and cleaned the kitchen, so that was probably just as awesome" and he was all "What? Wait, am I in trouble?" and I was all "No, I'm just sharing the awesomeness that was my evening with your drunk ass" and he was all "You told me to go!" and I was all "I'm not mad at you" and he was all "That means you are mad at me" and I was all "I'd like to stay on the phone and argue with you some more, but your kid's socks are ready to go in the dryer" and he was all "I love you?" and I was all "click". Then he came home and I was all "fold fold fold" and he was all "I'm totally not drunk oops I just tripped over nothing hee hee heeee!". Seriously though, I wasn't mad at him. Much.
I really need new underwear. Almost everything I have left to wear to work is getting worn out and also they're all granny panties. The last time I mentioned that I wear granny panties on this blog, I think it was The Peach Tart who left a comment like "Oh honey, noooo. Not granny panties". Yeah. Yet I can't bring myself to buy some new, sexy underwear because it seems like too much of a luxury. This is seriously the life I am leading right now. Where panties are a luxury.
Oh, and we're getting a new renter. She's 40 and bald. True story.
My First Huffington Post Piece
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