I am at work on an essay that I hope evolves into a poignant and evocative offering fitting of the season: a work that subtly reflects who we are and who we endeavor to become, one that softens the sharp edges of our differences and unites us via that delicate tether that defines the human condition. This, as you might imagine, is an elusive task.
Hence, until this humble observation comes to fruition, here is a photograph of lighting fixtures that look like boobs.
Your humble hostess is full up with housewifely duties, hence an appropriate housewifely repost from 2008 with the original comments intact. Enjoy.
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According to this, stay-at-home moms are worth nearly $120,000 a year.
Really?
Dunno, but here's the real skinny on the stay-at-home thing:
This is the best gig around. Believe me--I know what I'm talking about. The other day, for instance, I screwed the Goat silly (what other job lets you do that on the clock?), then changed the sheets and pranced around the house in my undies while doing the laundry. I was laughing my head off the whole time.
The attire seemed so perfect that I got a cup of coffee and sat down at my computer. The morning light was streaming through the window and I turned around for some reason and saw that, at the right angle, my boob was perfectly outlined in shadow on the floor. Since my camera was on my desk, I took a picture of that.
Then I thought maybe I could come up with lyrics to "Boob Shadow" that could be sung along to the tune of Cat Steven's marshmallowy classic Moonshadow:
That was boring, but got me thinking music so I synced my iPod in preparation for a five mile walk, which I took while listening to music and Dan Savage. I didn't feel like cooking I asked the Goat to take me out to dinner. He did.
That's a typical day. Different days mean different stuff, but lunch is always totally effing great. Sometimes I have leftovers, which is fine, but usually I make myself a sandwich. I don't eff around, either. I'm talking mayo/lettuce/fresh lunch meat and chips on the side. I always cut the sandwich and pull the two halves apart so it looks attractive. I set a dill pickle on the side of the plate. I have a Diet Pepsi or better yet, a club soda with a slice of lime.
This shit totally rocks.
Sometimes I don't feel like doing anything and I just lie in the middle of the floor, blinking at the ceiling. Naps are good too. If it's hot, I nap in the front room on the leather couch, which feels cool. If it's cold, I make a nice pillow/blankie nest on the big couch in the family room. Sometimes I snore when I nap. Sometimes I diddle myself and then fall asleep.
So that's what it's really like. But hey, if someone wants to pay me $120K for this, I am totally down with it.
The only subject the Queen shall have shall be Sexual Education.
The Queen's entire body shall be anointed with precious oils by the handmaiden's of the Queen, who shall then draw the excess oil from the skin of the Queen by slowly and gently passing a portion of whale bone over the landscape of the Queen's voluptuous corpus.
The Queen, having further considered the implications of the Queenly Oil Anointment Procedure (such as how to employ the excess oil), shall withdraw the previous decree and instead anoint herself with Suave Mango Mandarin body lotion.
The Queen Shall determine which words Shall And shall Not be Capitalized.
There shall be a monument erected in honor of the Breasts of the Queen.
Per the Queen, the word Breast shall only be capitalized when used In reference To the Queen.
The Queen shall be served massive bowls of Ruffles Reduced Fat potato chips and cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer by a shirtless David Muir.
The Queen shall consider the employ Of Bejeweled Marital Aids.
Using the word "Bejeweled" amuses the Queen.
The Queen shall take her chocolates on queen-like furniture such as expansive chaises upholstered with luxuriant tufts of purple velvet.
The chocolates of the Queen shall include (but not be limited to) fun-size Butterfinger Crisp.
As evidenced by my scarcity online this week, I am doing major housecleaning. In doing so, I have unearthed my father's collection of vintage "art" postcards, sent mostly to him by his father.
Per the back of the following entry, which is otherwise blank, this one is titled "Ecole De Fontainebleau" by Anonymous and is apparently displayed at the Louvre. As I recall, it was also duly displayed on our avocado green refrigerator for several months when I was a teen.
I am moved to found a new country. I shall name it Shitkanistan.
In my new country of Shitkanistan, everyone will drink sauerkraut juice and wear comfortable shoes. Gooseliver and onion sandwiches will be popular. Women will wear men's socks and large competent brassieres.
Shitkanistanians shall be tolerant people. If the hockey people want to come over and throw octopuses around, they shall be welcome to do so. If Sarah Palin travels to our shores, the National Choir of Shitkanistan shall sing a stirring rendition of the Shitkanistan National Anthem upon her arrival. Then we shall offer her heaping platters of jellied pigs' feet and pickled eggs.
I shall name the capitol Rublinka. I shall live in the shining city of Rublinka, in a great palace with one hundred onion-shaped roofs, each swirled in shimmering stripes of gold and scarlet and azure blue.
Shitkanistanians shall enjoy certain entitlements, wondrous parks through which our swaddled tots may run and play, public steam rooms and mud baths, and free hair removal kits and breath lozenges.
