(precurser: I wrote this "yesterday," but then it rolled over past midnight. Hence the faulty date.)
In honor of Mother's Day and also my birthday, both of which are today (I think the universe is trying to send me a message. Nice try, universe.), let's talk about my recurring baby hunger.
Sometimes I see a chubby baby and my stomach starts to rumble.
My baby swings run on a monthly schedule.
Oddly enough, they often come without any hunger for a man.
Let's skip that part. Somebody just snatch me a baby.
I have fallen victim to the "how about if I just get married and start
having babies so I can be done with school" mentality.
Let's face it. Babies are cuter than my math textbook.
However, that victimization has only happened once.
Usually, this mentality makes me want to vomit, or (ironically enough) kick a baby.
Often, I try on baby first names with the last names of men I will one day wed.
(Bale, Li [Shang Li--straight up Mulan style], Emery, etc. etc. etc.)
I never share my baby names with ANYone.
Even my own mother is a risky confidant.
One time I shared my baby names with a roommate.
She threatened to steal them. She no longer exists.
A double celebration was way better than any loner birthday party, so Happy Mother's Day to the incredible woman who gave me life, as well as all you other people out there who didn't give me life. I guess you're a'ight too.
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Will someone please tell me to get a life?
I should have been job hunting all day.
Instead, I cut and pasted for ages whilst baking on my white-trash deck in order to bring you the new header. Good thing our backyard is completely exposed to the street and all surrounding neighbors, and the deck is 30-feet up in the air so all objects thereon are by default pedestalized.
I used to sunbathe only after draping towels, blankets, and tablecloths over all sides for privacy (even though I practically dress like a nun when getting friendly with the ultraviolets). Then I moved out and got four female roommates. Now, back home, I have to remind myself that little boys don't think it's normal to change with the door open or skip freely from the shower to the bedroom whilst nakedly belting show tunes.
What privacy?
I used to sunbathe only after draping towels, blankets, and tablecloths over all sides for privacy (even though I practically dress like a nun when getting friendly with the ultraviolets). Then I moved out and got four female roommates. Now, back home, I have to remind myself that little boys don't think it's normal to change with the door open or skip freely from the shower to the bedroom whilst nakedly belting show tunes.
What privacy?
I do live such an oh-so-charmed sort of life.
'Whaaaaaat?' Moment of the Day:
"Laura, girls don't like boys who like girls, do they?"
-Lil' Brudda
(I secretly only added that segment to the end so I could use
underline,
italics,
and bold
all in one convenient location. Again, oh-so-charmed.)
"not valentimes!"
"what we gonna get?"
"several boys!"
"how we gonna get 'em?
"mock U.N. medals?"
"wearing unflattering clothing?"
"voodoo? is it voodoo?"
No, unfortunately it is not voodoo this time.
Fortunately, it is wearing unflattering clothing.
In my defense, the 80-year-old lady behind me in line when I purchased this beaut told me she thought it was lovely that girls these days were still wearing such flattering and chic dresses. She was worried that they might have gone out of style. Oh, cute, silly lady. You had no need to fear. I'm glad I could put your mind at peace about the wellbeing of the world today.
Judging by the ginormous flower on my wrist, it is likely that I wore this gown to my senior prom once upon a time.
It is unlikely that I actually arrived like this. Too bad for the rest of the children at the dance, my date was a respectable young lad and I felt the sharp pangs of guilt as I tried to rip myself from the door-frame and into his car without changing into something more socially appropriate. My conscience won out in the end, as it usually does in real life but less often in writing. Blight that party-pooping conscience (the previous sentence is a probable example of incorrect use of the thesaurus when seeking out a cooler word than my brain wants to dig for).
To this day, I regret that I did not get to bust a move in this baby. Sincerely. Regret. Maybe one day a new strapping young lad with more knowledge about my true character and less care for social norms will sweep me off to a formal whilst wearing it. (Not him. Me. Or him, I guess. That would be good too.) Probably he will be mustachio'd. Speaking of mustaches, I have a pending post dedicated to the wearing of them. Keep your eyes peeled. It's a gem.
(As an unnecessary aside, whenever I say "What time is it?" in a scratchy voice and someone proceeds to respond "Summertime!" I get upset. They're supposed to respond "It's Valentimes!" High School Musical is less than and most certainly not equal to Teen Girl Squad. Don't worry-- I recognize this is a personal problem. I'll get over it.)
Every morning I wake up, apply my Old Spice deodorant, do some push-ups (insert manly grunt here), and run upstairs to lather on my father's cocoa-butter lotion (if I'm going to inhale cocoa, I see no reason why I shouldn't coat my body with it).
Sometimes I want to date myself.
Sometimes I want to date myself.
Plus, who couldn't use another cliché pyramid picture in their life?
This last week, I was filling out job applications when I came upon a question asking if I had any special skills. I really hadn't a clue how this question was important to that particular job (canning. all day. everyday. this summer's going to be brilliant.), so I thought I might get bonus points for creativity by answering:
skills: nunchuck, computer hacking, etc.
For some reason, they haven't called me back to offer me the job yet. Huh. This comes as just as big a shock to me as not getting an "A" on my math final even though I answered one of the problems by drawing a goat eating a lollipop and the final problem by writing my professor a note (Dear Dr. Fisher, HAGS. From, Laura). Yes, that actually happened.
Today I discovered another surprise skill festering in my bones. My little brother went to his high school prom, as did my chaperoning parents, and I thought I'd try my hand at constructing their corsages/boutonnieres, since I did a bit here and there in my floral design class last semester. I guess that makes me qualified or something. Here's a looksie:
(My parents are cuter than your parents)
So they're not your ma and pa's traditional dance flowers, but you could have guessed as much from past readings. I'm not much of a traditionalist. Because I love you, I will make some for you anytime, cheap. Even the more traditional kinds. Just say the word and spread the word. This is an exceptionally good deal because, personally, I like these better than anything I ever bought for my school dances and they're half the price. That's like four times the value. But as you can tell from the title, this might just be because I am vain. Or if you really understand the title, it has nothing to do with being vain and everything to do with watching really dumb movies altogether too often. Anyway.
Boutonnieres: $5
Corsages: $10
Spelling ridiculous French words correctly without using Google-search: Priceless
email me if interested and willing to travel to Orem for pick-up: 1simplaur[at]gmail[dot]com
I don't even care if you don't follow me openly or at all. Actually, you really should follow me openly and at all because I have a crush on all my readers, but I'll still love you if you don't. Aaaaand, that's a wrap.
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