I Would Like a Tiny Kangaroo

This is the conversation I had with The Boy very early this morning:

Mama, can we get a kangaroo?

Sure.

Wait! What? Did you say kangaroo? (Suddenly I wondered if this was something I could pick up at Petco, or if I’d have to call a breeder.)

Yes, a tiny kangaroo.

Do they come in tiny?

I had a dream about a tiny kangaroo. It lived in my room and ate celery.

(Damn the celery-eating tiny things. Note to self: Get celery.)

How tiny, Son? Did it live in the old hamster cage or roam freely about the room?

It stayed in my room and never went anywhere else. It didn’t even poop.

Well, I guess the tiny kangaroo has that going for him, then. What was his name?

I dunno.

How ‘bout Hank? That sounds like a tiny kangaroo’s name to me.

No it doesn’t. We’ll just call him tiny kangaroo.


After this whole conversation, I got to thinking that I’m glad The Boy has those kinds of dreams that leave him excited and hoping for a tiny kangaroo. I think it says something about the kind of childhood he’s living. So even if he is a little bit silly, I’m all good with that.

Plus, now I kinda want a tiny kangaroo.

And Boy is My Face Red

Look... all I’m saying is I wore sun block yesterday. I wore an SPF 45, to be exact. And? I put it on twice, so that’s like SPF 90, right?

And today? I put it on, like, four times, so that’s like SPF whatever, right?

Be quiet. I am not in the mood to do the math.

I CAN do the math, I just don’t feel like it.

Oh, all right. SPF 180. Why do you always have to have your way?

So, anyway, I was saying I wore sun block. A lot of it. I suppose I should count my blessings that I’m not more burned than I am, if one were looking for blessings and all, but it’s hard to count yourself among the blessed when you have little blisters all over your skin and you look like a Ballpark Frank that has been left too long on the grill.

Here’s the thing - I was doing some planting in the yard yesterday, so I baked my furry blue body and singed off my fur in places. Then today, I was volunteering at The Boy’s school for their outdoor Track & Field Day events, where “volunteer” equals “guilted into showing up on the hottest damn day of the year.”

And now? I look like this...

...instead of this....
I find this troubling, don't you?

Furthermore, in a few days when I start molting and flaking and peeling and itching, I think it's safe to say there will be additional whining.

Wilbur, Is That You?

Yesterday I had the pleasure of attending a fraud conference with about 2,342 of my closest bank-y friends. At the conference we learned about how all you deadbeats are out there stealing identities to get money and such. (Not YOU deadbeats, the OTHER deadbeats.) (I would never say that about YOU.) (Unless you are stealing money right out from under my nose at Bumblefuck Bank & Trust, leaving me to look like a dumbass.) (Then I TOTALLY mean you.)

So, anyway, I arrived to this particular session a few minutes late, because that’s what I do, and spotted a seat near the back next to my buddy J that looked like it had been saved just for me because it had, so I took it. I slid into my seat, wiggled around and got comfy, J to my left and a harmless looking stranger to my right, and got ready for my eye-opening tour of the crime world.

And then IT happened.

I heard this horrible snot-snuffling, oinking pig sound, much like a snore, but the honk part and not the shoo, and it was RIGHT NEXT TO ME.

I did what any courteous blognut would do, and stole a sideways glance at my neighbor to the right of me to see if she was serious. She looked on unperturbed, as if it wasn’t really her, but I knew. Oh, how I knew.

And then I decided it was a one-time thing and returned my attention to the speaker.

And then IT happened again.

I heard this horrible snot-snuffling, oinking pig sound, much like a snore, but the honk part and not the shoo, and it was RIGHT NEXT TO ME.

I did what any compassionate blognut would do, and turned my head toward my neighbor to the right, leaving my gaze to linger there, hoping to make eye-contact and offer her some sort of Kleenex and cough-drop combination. She looked on unperturbed, as if she was used to this sort of thing and didn’t even realize she was doing it.

And then I decided it was a two-time thing and returned my attention to the speaker.

And then IT happened again.

I heard this horrible snot-snuffling, oinking pig sound, much like a snore, but the honk part and not the shoo, and it was RIGHT NEXT TO ME.

I did what any impatient blognut would do, and whipped out my phone to text my friend J on my left and find out if she was hearing this shit. She was. She was totally hearing this shit, too. I decided to catch her in the act.

And then nothing.

And still nothing.

And then I decided it was a three-time thing and returned my attention to the speaker.

And then IT happened again.

I heard this horrible snot-snuffling, oinking pig sound, much like a snore, but the honk part and not the shoo, and it was RIGHT NEXT TO ME.

I did what any nauseated blognut would do, and I got up and left the room. When I came back, I took a seat on the other side of J and left her to be one closest to that horrible snot-snuffling, oinking pig sound, much like a snore, but the honk part and not the shoo, because that shit was making me sick.

If you’re lucky, my next blog post will be about a different woman who sat near J and me at lunch today, and was obviously absent the day Miss Manners taught not talking with your mouth full.

I'm Doing Lazy Better and You Can Too!

I found a new favorite thing this weekend! Well, what I mean to say is the thing is not new, it’s just a new favorite thing for me. Know what it is?

MY COUCH!!!

I actually sat on it the other day, which rarely happens to me, and before I knew it, I found myself wanting to stretch out on it because it was ten kinds of comfy and it really seemed to like having me there as much as I liked being there. Now how ‘bout that? Who knew?

Also, I can see all of the comings and goings around here from the comfy couch and I don’t even have to strain myself with a dangerous turn of my head. What could be better? This whole thing plays right to my laziness, which, as luck would have it, I have recently vowed to do even better than I have all along. I’ve been lazy about being lazy, but NO MORE!!

My new plan is to just lie here on the couch and make everyone come to me. I will charge a small fee for my attention: five minutes of my time if you bring me one Diet Pepsi; ten minutes of my time if you bring chocolate; half an hour if I get a whole meal or you bring me a snack I can save for later, (and by half an hour, I mean 15 minutes because I don’t honestly have the energy to pay attention to anything for half an hour).

The only thing I haven’t quite worked out yet is whether or not I will get up to use the bathroom, or if I’ll just start peeing in a pickle jar.

I Need Your Mama - Tell Her to Bring Tums

My tummy is all hurt-y and I want my mama. Well, actually, that is not true. I want someone else’s mama that would actually be nice to me and hold me, and maybe even pet my hair. Please send me one right now if you have one.

Who knew that trying to quit smoking would lead to more eating? And why didn’t anyone tell me I would be hungry all the time even though I didn’t quit all the way yet because that whole stressful work thing happens to me, like, every day, and makes me really need to have a cigarette at nighttime when no one is looking. (It doesn’t count, Judgey McJudgerson.) (Nothing counts if no one sees.) (Duh.)

And then some other stressful stuff that can only be cured with beef happened to me and, combined with my lower-nicotine-level-induced, hungry-all-the-time, need for extra food, I found myself eating multiple cheeseburgers over the last couple of days. And now? I’m being attacked by The Not-Even-Real-Beef Gods so my tummy is unhappy and evicting its contents with alarming and explosive frequency because blognuts can not handle this much grease even though it makes us really darn happy to try.

And oh my God!!! Do you think I have Ebola? Or Ecola? Or whatever it is they call it when beef makes your innards turn to juice and run for the nearest exit?

Can someone please research this illness for me and tell me if I’m going to die. And make sure you send me your mama if she is going to be useful to me in a mama sort of way, okay?

Even Anderson Cooper Comes With Red Flags

So… I gots me this friend, we’ll call her Louise. Because she sounds like Susan Sarandon, so we’re going with that, that’s why, and what do you care what we call her anyhow? Geez.

No, you can’t call me Thelma. You already know who I am. You can just keep on calling me Blognut. (Although, now that I think about it, I do bear a striking resemblance to Geena Davis; only I'm not tall, and I'm round, and blue, and I have googly eyes. Other than that, we look just alike.)

Now where was I? Oh yeah, Louise. Well, Louise got herself a date with… well, with Anderson Cooper, only he’s not gay… and they had a great time. He was nice, thoughtful, funny, a good conversationalist, and very, very sexy. (Ok, yeah, that last word was mine, but that’s just how I see it because…hello, Anderson Cooper makes me weak.)

Louise really liked the guy and she didn't spot any of the usual red flags that reveal themselves when you meet someone like Anderson Cooper. So now I need your help, fellow readers, because I have charged myself with the task of coming up with a perfect little quiz carefully designed to reveal Anderson Cooper’s red flags – only I don’t have the first clue what questions to put on the quiz because I have been with Mr. Blognut since I was twenty and everything I once knew about dating, which was exactly nothing, is long gone. Also, because Mr. Blognut has no mysterious underpinnings at all, I am well familiar with every one of his red flags. Every.single.one.of.them.

Anyway, this is about Anderson Cooper, not about Mr. Blognut.

Here’s what I have so far:

How many pairs of shoes do you have? If you have more than four, please describe each pair and explain its purpose, because I need to know if you are really that vain, or you’re just active in several different sports. (Or, if you are a cross-dresser, you can stop here and go on home now.) (Unless Louise likes that sort of thing, then you can stay.) Really, Louise?

Boxers or briefs? Why?

What do you wear to bed? A night shirt, pajamas, or just a smile? (And if the answer is night shirt, you can go on home now.) (Unless Louise likes that sort of thing, then you can stay.) Really, Louise?

Let’s say your dishwasher and your TV broke down at the same time and you could only afford to replace one of them right away. Which would you choose, and why?

Swim trunks or Speedo? (And if it’s Speedo, you can go on home now.) (Unless Louise likes that sort of thing, then you can stay.) Really, Louise?

Let's say you have a whole weekend to spend with Louise, do you take her to a wine tasting festival, or a tractor pull?

Do you have regular curtains or blinds on your windows, or a Conferate flag? (And if it's a Conferate flag, you can go on home now.) (Unless Louise likes that sort of thing, then you can stay.) Really, Louise?

Okay, that's all I have so far – now your job is to leave a question designed to reveal red flags and/or fatal flaws in my comments so we can protect Louise like a proper friend would do.

I Looked Everywhere, I Swear It

Someone once told me that if you have a fat dog, you’re probably fat, too.

Frick.

I have two fat dogs.

So I took my fattest dog, Lewis, for a walk the other night and kicked both our double-fat asses for a few miles before returning home to watch him attempt to drown himself in a bowl of water. He seemed grateful for the walk and for the water, so I took him again last night. And even though my double-fat dog is kind of naughty sometimes, he tends to be a pretty good listener out in the park, so I let him off the leash to sniff around the pond and check out the scents. He likes to get a good snoot full of goose poop as often as he can, and although I do not understand this one bit, I no longer try to fight it.

There was one problem though; one teensy-weensy little problem that may land me in bad neighbor jail. My dog ran ahead of me about 30 feet and decided to build himself a little poo cabin five feet off the path. I marked this spot with my big, round, googly eyes, but when I got there with my little clean-up bag, I could not find the poop. I searched everywhere for the poop. It isn’t that I like collecting it or anything, it’s just that I know I have a responsibility to pick it up and I was perfectly willing to comply. But the poop? Was gone.

Secretly, I was elated. I mean, hadn’t I done my part by at least looking for the poop? It isn’t like I didn’t try to find it. I tried. So I looked around, all sneaky-like, to check for observers and finding a few, I made a big showing of unfurling the poopy collection bag from my pocket and scooping up… air.

What? I had to make it look good, I live here and I walk in that park nearly every day.

Well, okay, not every day, or I wouldn’t have two fat dogs and a double-fat ass, but that was not my point.

My point was that my dog has invisible ghost poop.