Good help and good t.v. are hard to find
When P got in from work yesterday, I told him that many of you seemed to think that he looks younger now than he did four and a half years ago. In the words of the late Mac Davis he said, “I can’t wait to look in the mirror ’cause I get better looking each day”.
That’s not really what he said.
What he actually said was something about the poor lighting of the photo and how it didn’t expose all his gray hair, but between you and me, I think he’s been dipping into my stash of Oil of Olay because his skin has never looked better.
As for me, I’m trying to eat a little healthier these days because the temperatures have reached the mid-80’s here this week and all that sunshine is a constant reminder that I will donning the equivalent of just my underwear in public before I know it and taking the walk of shame at the neighborhood pool.
Oh how I regret all the cheese I ate to get me through the long, mild winter.
So last night after dinner, I decided to eat blackberries for dessert instead of my usual handful or fifteen of M&M’s. And, really, it was almost the same except for the fact that I didn’t find them to be at all satisfying or comforting. In fact, I think I felt a little rage towards the blackberries for not melting in my mouth like the Valentine’s M&M’s that have treated me so well throughout the month of February.
Or maybe my healthy fruit snack (NATURE’S CANDY!) rage was misdirected and the real target of my anger was ABC and their stupid “Women Tell All” episode of “The Bachelor”. How many times now have I watched some “Bachelor” programming where they trot out Trista and Ryan as proof the show works?
I’ll tell you.
TOO MANY.
But I’ve never been more grateful for the invention of the DVR because what could have been two hours of my life I’ll never get back, turned out to just be one hour and three minutes. Modern technology has allowed me the luxury of rotting my brain in moderation.
On a totally different subject, when I walked through the door on Saturday night after getting back from North Carolina, I noticed that my kitchen island was completely covered in crumbs and various clutter in the form of a lot of catalogs that sell cheap ammunition. Then I carried my suitcase into the bathroom and saw that our sinks looked dirty and the shower door had grown some sort of film.
I made the decision right then and there to fire our maid. Not to talk ugly about someone, but she is horrible. A chimpanzee on Xanax could do a better job of cleaning our house. I couldn’t believe she would let it get into that kind of condition. It was shameful.
And then I remembered that I am the maid.
I wish I could fire myself, but I don’t know if I could find anyone else who would be willing to clean my house in return for a cold Diet Coke and all the change they can find in the couch cushions or the pockets of P’s jeans.
Needless to say, I’ll be spending the next few days trying to get my house back into some kind of order. While eating blackberries. And hiding my Oil of Olay from P.
Oh, and maybe downloading some Mac Davis songs on iTunes.
