Right now, you may be asking yourself why Addie would want to post under the influence, and your consternation is understandable, so I’ll tell you why. Because I love you all like a fat kid loves cake, and you’re been good boys and girls all year long, and you deserve a treat.
Here are my rules of PUI:
- I get to say whatever I want about anything, which probably goes without saying since I usually do that anyway.
- Once this post is published, I will never, ever go back and edit it, no matter how much a typo or nonsensical phrase is bothering me. This one is a big deal, trust me.
- I get to use all the salty language I like, so if that sort of thing chaps your hide, you should probably go ahead and sneak on out of here.
Now that we've got that straight, I'm going to cover a few items in the order in which they occur to me. I realize that writing conventions dictate that I should tell you what I'm going to tell you, then tell you, and then tell you what I told you, but this isn't a five-paragraph essay, I didn't make an outline, and I don't think any of you are developmentally delayed in any way. This is totally extemporaneous, so work with me, will ya?
Let's start by talking about Christmas Newsletters. You know what I'm talking about, because when you get one, you ask God what you did wrong to deserve to find the literary equivalent of Taco Bell diarrhea in your mailbox. If you yourself distribute a Christmas newsletter, I'm going to ask you to please reconsider this blatant affront to your so-called loved ones. These letters suck, and they probably love you too much to tell you to your face.
I get one every year from my MIL (yes, she lives just across town, and yes, I'm aware of her every move much as NORAD is aware of the movement of every single aircraft traversing the airspace of the good ol' USA at any given moment). Here's the coverage we received this year:
Garrett and Adrienne still live in Atlanta, and Garrett's trophy shop is doing well. Jared graduates high school this year, and Tyler is two years behind him.
The rest of the letter goes something like this: I went to Michigan to see tulips, I went to a conference in New Orleans, I sprained my ankle, I pooped once and saw corn I didn't remember eating, etc. (Ok, ok, that last one wasn't really in the letter!)
Here's my idea for an entertaining (albeit not altogether true) Christmas newsletter:
Well, another year has gone by and I've still failed to achieve my full potential. I've been thinking that perhaps I have some sort of parasite that is preventing me from reaching my goal of world domination. My psychiatrist and I are seriously considering increasing the dosage on my medication (the anti-depressant, not the anti-anxiety), but the last time we did that my ass expanded to about twice it's normal size. The upside is that although I was fat, I wasn't too bummed out about it.
The kids are well and happy, although their academic achievement leads me to believe that neither of them will be setting the world ablaze with amazing scientific discoveries. As for the dogs, we've recently discovered that Bruno and Hoover love bleu cheese, imported beer, and licking each other's ding-dongs. We thought we were getting greyhounds, but I think we may have actually adopted Gay Hounds. In any case, they're just great, and I love the way they howl when I sing It's Raining Men.
See what I mean? Nobody is interested in this sort of stupid, boring minutia. I call to the stand Stephen of Plus Est En Vous, who has informed me via comment that my last post was so boring that he sustained a mild concussion upon being lulled to sleep and subsequently striking his head on his keyboard. I would launch into a grueling examination of the witness, but I have to agree with his contention. Nevermind, Stephen, you're dismissed on the grounds that I can't poke any holes in your premise.
On another note, I have to warn you all against following the procedure I described in the post entitled Dog Language Barrier. I just performed this act with Bruno, who responded this time by jumping on my back and humping me. Seriously. I removed myself from this menage a dog, and he approached me as I sat on the couch and grabbed my leg and proceeded to go to town, whereupon I called him a pervert and squirted him with water. The language barrier is hereby broken, and apparently rubbing your head on your dog's side means, "Go ahead and hump me, big boy!". Who knew?Let's move on, shall we? I'd also like to talk about my favorite new store at Perimeter Mall, Martin & Osa. Lord, how I love this store! G and I are both totally smitten by this offshoot of American Eagle Outfitters, whose target demographic is grown ups with jobs. As Bob Barker & Drew Carey would say, The Price is Right and the clothes, as I would say, don't make me look like a garden variety idiot. If you have this store locally, please go spend some money so they don't go out of business.
Speaking of G, he and I are celebrating our 18th wedding anniversary on Monday, so I'll just take this moment to say that I love this guy more than cashmere, diamonds, and a perfectly cooked steak. Suffice it to say that without the rays of sunshine that literally shoot out of his ass, my life would be dreary indeed.
Two more items:
- I suspect that the employees at JoAnn fabrics are part of some undead army of terrible customer service zombies.
- In 2009, I intend to find out who keeps putting those community newspapers on my driveway, and I'm going to cuss them out.
Well, that's about it for now. If you made it all the way through this post, go ahead and award yourself 500 bonus points, and have a drink on me.