Updates:
Plural, yes, so buckle up, my lovelies!!!
1) This month of being sedentary hath made me, how shall I say… of splendid abundance. “Potelé,” to use the charming French term. Indeed-y O, j’ai un peu trop de junk in the trunk. My bum has a predisposition to expand (or explode, as it were), and so I go to war!!! I have armed myself with super-duper supportive sports bras, and have even broken out those wretched orthopedic monstrosities of flashing silver and lime green (i.e. exercise sneakers). As promised, since my ankle has healed I have been bounding like a loon on my trampoline. How sad, I know. As a result, my ass muscles are constantly in rebellion, which is just swell given that my profession requires me to march around unabatedly like a wind-up German soldier-boy toy for 7 to 8 hours a day. It feels so marvelous, I cannot even tell you. But a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do!
Mes enfants,
There is a mouse in my house!!! I say this not only because it has an especially sonorous ring, but because, alas, it is la verité. I really don’t know what to do about it. It seems to me the rodent has as much right as I to be here. It doesn’t pay the bills, granted, but what gives me the authority to kick the poor bugger to the curb? It’s frosty out there! Also, I have named it Hitler. Really, I cannot explain away the twistedness of my thought process, but just so you don’t all think I have officially gone off the ledge, round the bend irretrievably, here is how I arrived at the horrid title. I once had a pet mouse named Napoleon. I was young, I don’t know… and she was a girl, to top it all off! Apparently my spastic qualities set in early. Anyway, I therefore thought it would be cute to maintain the tradition and name all my mice after dictators (yes, I am fully aware that this is sounding worse and worse. My brain does weird things sometime, I can’t explain it.) As you can imagine, Hitler was the first name that came to mind. I tried to immediately discard it, but the OCD part of me clung to the name with such might that I had to give in. So now I co-inhabit my home with a mouse named Hitler. Ah, good times!
Today, I was nearly home from my walk with Tchae when some rancher dude stopped his truck, rolled down the window, and said he liked my dog. Do fully grown farmer-men really go gaga (alliteration. Je suis en ecstase!!!) for little white fluffy dogs? I suppose only the repressed Brokeback Mountain type. J’espere that he does not wish to Brokeback it with my innocent little doggy. Doggy- get it? Hahahah and an abundance of fake laughs.
Salut, honey bunches of oats’s!
First off, let me clarify that my disappearance into the abyss of the unknown (i.e. lack of spastic communication) was the result of a visit to St. John’s College in Santa Fe.
My dear friend’s boyfriend has disappeared, wound his undies into an extremely tight bunch, it seems, and I have been advising her on how to both figuratively and literally coax his drawers out of their chastity bundle. Tada! Voila! And presto! Also, shabang!!! I should be the next Aunt whatever-her-face is, the one that people write to for advice. Yes, indeed, I have found my calling. Sound the horns! Toot the trumpets!!! She has just acquired two fuzzy kittens, so I told her that in times of desperation, there is always bestiality to turn to. Hohoho, how not-funny am I?
Speaking of cats: there is a mountain lion in town. With cubs!!! And it lives in my arrondissement. I know!!!
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Tapenade, and Pine Nuts