SuperCrotch

You know how when you were a kid and you’d eat an apple and you’d recite the alphabet for each twist of the stem and then whatever letter you were saying when the stem twisted off would be the first letter of the last name of the boy you were going to marry? Remember that? Yeah, that was an awesome game. You know what other game was awesome? MASH. Remember MASH? You know…Mansion, Apartment, Shack, House? Because of those games, I was convinced I was going to marry Mark (hottt!) or Jason (to the max!) or Corey (totally bitchin!) or the other Corey (gag me!). I didn’t marry any of those suckers, but the jokes on them because guess who didn’t end up being a pig farmer’s wife like everyone thought she would???

Shit.

Y’all. I can’t come up with a decent blog post to save my life. Every day I sit here and I’m all “Okay, today’s the day! Today’s the day that you finally write that amazing blog post that will go viral and everyone will know who you are and you’ll finally have to come clean and admit to your family and friends that you are Miss Yvonne because everyone keeps talking to you about her and you can’t stand them not knowing that YOU are the genius behind the blog!”. And then I write crap like that first paragraph up there. About apple stems and MASH. Seriously. Help.

I think I’m stuck on account of all the graduation junk that has been occupying my brain for the last few weeks. The Kiddo graduates on Saturday and I’ve spent all my free time obsessing over party details. The menu, the cake, the drinks, sleeping arrangements, transportation and parking, where to hide my vibrators from my snooping mother, etc. I spent the whole weekend cleaning the house. The whole HOLIDAY weekend, y’all. I should have been at the lake…I should have been at the movies….I should have been drinking! But it’s okay because my 18 year old son did all those things for me. He’s a giver, that one.

*sigh*

I’m trying to keep the crazy at a low hum so that Captain Carl doesn’t divorce me, but it’s hard to keep a good anxiety attack down. And when I’m not freaking out, I’m blubbering like a baby over old photos of the Kiddo. I’m a mess.

The Captain has really stepped up to the plate and has been helping me a lot. I’m pretty sure it’s on account of my wacko scary eyes and random weeping. But I don’t care because my sprinklers are fixed, my floors are getting cleaned, my lawn has been edged, all my pictures have been hung and the party menu has been taken care of. I seriously love that guy. I should give him a blow job to show him my appreciation, but you know…...meh.

P.S. Renty lost his job and is now wandering around my house wearing nothing but silk Superman boxers with a big “S” over the crotch and black socks all day long. It’s about as sexy as it sounds. Help me, Baby Jesus.