I skipped pilates so I could read sewing magazines at Barnes & Noble and kick back a pumpkin spice latte…and possibly a scone.
When I ordered my drink, I flubbed up and asked for a “spunkin latte.”
And lest we forget, it’s not over! More days of butt kicking ahead.
Jojo turned FIVE (the big OH-FIVE) on Thursday. 
His birthday party with friends is tomorrow. My parents are visiting. Mr. Squirrel continues work on the basement…there’s actual progress. I am allowing some feelings of excitement at the prospect of shoving all the toys in the living room down the freshly painted stairs into the basement netherregion.
Jojo and The Nugget have conspired to try and drive me nuts through alternating games of WILLFUL AND EVIL DISOBEDIENCE and PURE AND UTTER CUTENESS. They are my Precious Moments without the chalky feel and unbalanced noggins. I must go recount the favor bags and make a list of things to do tomorrow. And YES, showering is on the list.
Alternate title: Why I’m Returning The Jeggings.
They didn’t even make it into the suitcase. Which, incidentally, got lost after I flew three different airlines (THREE) (SEPARATE) (AND NOT-YET-AT-LEAST-MERGED AIRLINES) to arrive five (cinco) hours late into my 20 year high school unfortunately-non-musical reunion.
But who really cares when you’re traveling without kids and you’re in need of a serious mental health break from the ones driving you into crazytown.
Back to JEGGINGS!
Apparently, these babies make me look like I have “two triangles for legs…or the world’s skinniest ankles.” (Thank you, dearest husband) They are sooo comfy though, but that’s no excuse, right?
*STILL*TO*COME…my 20 year high school reunion. To sum it up: the only way it could have been better is if more people would have come; and, I’m SO happy I went.
I Facebook searched on my psychiatrist today. I don’t know why. It’s not like I would Friend him.
I mean, I would if he weren’t my psychiatrist. He’s very nice — a little overly quiet, but very kind, intelligent and he laughs smiles appreciatively at my jokes.
I think he’s probably very fun and funny once you get to know him. Of course, I only know him through my 20 minute medication management appointments. And let’s be honest — I do the majority of the talking.
Which. Actually. Is pretty unusual, I think. I’ve heard of a couple other psychiatrists who don’t allow talking — they’re there to manage your meds, not listen to your problems. I think the exact phrase was “I’m not hear to listen to you whine.” If my psychiatrist said that to me, there’d be a big “patient told me to ‘go fuck myself’” in my file, which wouldn’t matter because said file would be shoved up that doctor’s cornhole.
Nope, not my psychiatrist.
But seriously. His profile picture.
*sigh*
It’s like a 70s porn portrait — sweaty shirtless happy young man with mullet and moustache. Or perhaps he played the role of the unfortunately-edited-out third Duke brother…you know, not the one who got to slide across the hood nor the one who commanded the General Lee. The one who had to dive through the window to the cramped back seat. He was always snarkin’ back there, taking too long to get in and out and basically cost the network hundreds in advertising dollars and sporting the mullet and ‘stache that the other didn’t but WHATEVER, he just IS the third Duke. I’m calling Uncle Jesse and you can’t stop me.
Clearly, I had to mention it to him this morning. I mean, you don’t put that up as your profile picture and then pretend to be surprised when your friends (or patients) kid you. You’re asking for it.
Oh, and apparently, it was from 1988. Really? Shit. He probably wrote down that I’m a stalker in my file.
