When you are recounting a conversation between yourself and another, please refrain from using the phrase, “So I says . . .”
You cannot cleave the word “another” to form the solecism “a whole nother ____.” It is either “another ___,” or “a whole other ___.” Please stop saying “nother.”
“Anyways” is not an acceptable replacement for the word “anyway.”
. . . Unless you’re writing dialect or you just want to seem clueless, in which case, by all means, have at it.
Otherwise, please stop it now. Thanks.
So I was searching Blingo (!) for “knitted panties pattern” because I’m feeling a need to be knitting some knickers and, well, that’s what I do.
Check out what I found: Knitting Erotica.
“So what?” you may say, “We get it, already, Mad. Knitting is sexy. Fine.”
You have to click on the link and scroll down, because at the bottom of the page is a photo of me modeling the panties I knit (and actually wear. . . oh, so cozy in the winter!).
This marks the first time I’ve accidentally stumbled upon myself whilst riding a big, hard search engine. Nice that I’m in a suggestive pose.
i’m taking my car to the shop in the morning. most likely danny the mechanny will tell me it needs a new clutch.
most likely it will cost me nine hundred dollars.
you know, because i made money this month, and the universe enjoys a good laugh.
i feel sick.
and not above blowing my mechanic for automotive favors.
Update: I may still blow him, but as it turns out, it’s not the clutch. Listen in:
Mech: Well, Maddie, it’s your lucky day. It’s the MASTER cylinder which drives the SLAVE cylinder for the clutch hydraulics.
Me: Hee-hee, that sounds dirty. So, um, can you WHIP it into submission? (Cackles…laughter breaking up phone line…can’t…breathe…)
Mech: Uh, I don’t know who makes up the names. It’s pretty weird.
Me: …Or pretty hot! Can you fix it before the weekend?
I think he actually gulped.
After a 22-hour long date with Joe involving NCAA men’s basketball tournaments, king crab legs as big as my arm, copious quantities of alcohol, cigars, weed and a crazy blowjob, I met my girlfriends for brunch. It was all very SITC but with less skin and nobody was wearing a trashy gold necklace.
Joe was making coffee that morning when I got a text message from Vix:
Vix: My tummy hurts. It’s been partying like it’s 1999 all week.
Me: You too? Dude, I don’t remember going to bed, and I’m starving.
Vix: Me, too! Should we have brunch?
Me: I’m leaving Joe’s place in 10 minutes and I’ll call you. I can’t find my shoes and there’s come in my hair. Let’s go someplace nice!
So, I think I really need to make plans to go to Chi-Town.
Several reasons, two of which are this person and this person.
Seriously, with copy like this, I’m inclined to stalk the hell out of Mimi just so I can give her daughter the skull and crossbones mini purse I knitted. Then we can do tequila shots:
On the other hand, a woman with true class (in the etiquette-book, not socioeconomic, sense of the word) would probably not have taught her flu-stricken daughter to lick her wrist and then throw back the little cup of cough medicine like a tequila shot. Four-year-old Nora’s dose is now too big for the baby syringe, and during this last illness I got tired of her taking eensy sip after eensy sip while complaining about the taste. So I demonstrated the proper technique with salt and my own wrist and a shot glass of water, and told her that “this is how people quickly drink something that tastes bad.” (But tequila tastes GOOD! protested my brain. Be quiet brain, we’re trying to parent over here.) Nora is a sucker for procedures and processes, so she learned the routine and now knocks ’em back like a big girl. We skip the lime, that’s just empty vitamins.
Mimi Smartypants would think that last comment I made on the previous post was damn funny.
And Amy, well, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to go to her place, eat breakfast, drink tea and color each other’s hair. Also, she could teach me the art of lipstick application, which, despite a stint at the drugstore cosmetic counter in high school, I’ve never seemed to master. Staying power, that’s what I’m talking about.
I’m tired. Overwhelmed by too much housework and not enough workwork.
Jack is home, whining, because 1) he is tired and 2) he is constipated.
It’s not funny. A constipated four year old is not funny at all. He’s freaking out, scared to poop, and my fuse, she is not so long.
I should go; he wants to watch a VHS (even constipated, the brother is ol’skool) and the only VCR is in my bedroom. I have to go hide vibrators and lube.
Many of you know that my favorite food is toast. I’m admittedly not that keen on bread, but dry it out a bit in a warming device and lightly brown and crisp the outside? Then put stuff on it?
Toast, along with my second favorite food, crackers, is awesome because it’s a clever delivery vehicle. I think toast can be served with just about anything and in my house, it usually is. Well, it is since I replaced my toaster, which fell victim to the Marcus Visits Madeline Rules Scandal of 2005.
It was dicey going without toast for a spell. Sure, I made due with the oven, but not being an Englishman in New York or anywhere else, I like my toast done on both sides.
(Sorry, Sting. Tell Trudi I say hi. After the tantra. Right, bye.)
I like openfaced tuna sandwiches on toast. Toast under a slice of ham, poached eggs, asparagus spears and hollandaise sauce. Chipped beef on toast (shut up, motherfuckers, it’s comfort food), toast with rosemary and garlic butter sitting jauntily on the side of my salad bowl. Tohhhhhhhst!
I’m putting this on my Amazon Wish List:
I need it. I need it more than anyone I know, and I will love it as only I can love a cookbook devoted to dry bread and its endless culinary possibilities.