Tuesday

I am currently watching American Idol. My husband is grilling burgers. I've had 1 1/2 glasses of Merlot. I know that once he's inside the channel will change. He will look at me with disgust, sigh his disapproving sigh, and promptly change the channel to something lame like Trick My Truck or Ultimate Fighter. (Ok, I DO like Ultimate Fighter, but I have to half-way protest to balance out his hatred for American Idol.)

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When we say "Pull my hair!" during sex, that means to LIGHTLY tug and pull slightly. That DOES NOT mean grab my hair by the roots and try to pull it all out in one swift motion, because the wig selection these days is TO DIE FOR. I'm half bald now, thanks alot. Christ.

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Bogart. Gah, Bogart. Smelly and flea-infested, no matter how often we bathe or medicate him... still poops in the house from time to time without reason... begs to sleep in the bed with us but then cowers away when I reach out to grab him... wags his tail at company but then bites them the minute they try to pet him. Poor, poor Bogart. Oh little chihuahua of mine, either get hit by a car already or fucking get a grip.

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I am an animal lover, I SWEAR.

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We're going to a strawberry festival on Saturday! I was all excited until I learned that I am not eligible to run for the Strawberry Queen pageant. WTF? I am over-age (23 or under, psh!), married (only unmarried whores need apply!) and have had a child (no damaged goods, please). I can't even run for STRAWBERRY QUEEN, y'all. Is life even worth living anymore?