Kill the zombie turkeys by masturbating with the stolen used-underwear

Those who know me in the real-world understand that I choose to live in a "bubble" that consequently leaves me oblivious to current issues.  I find the news to be too depressing, and I get quite rageful when the news anchor goes from talking about some gruesome and tragic death to a light-hearted story about a water-skiing squirrel.  When I'm eventually murdered or die in some sort of freak-news-worthy accident, please kill the news anchor who reports on it then follows up with a weather report where they complain that it's too hot, too cold, too wet, etc.  Unless it's armaggedon, that asshole has nothing to complain about compared to the tragic-loss of yours-truly.

When it comes to newsprint, I generally stay away from my city's paper because (according to what I heard from other well-informed individuals), our local journalists are about as talented and insightful as a drug addict in withdrawl (no offence to any addicts reading this...).

One day this week though, I went to the local newspaper's website to discover the following hot-topics deemed news-worthy (aka, front page) for my area:

First, let me please say that I live in a CITY.  We don't generally have free-range turkeys running about.  What concerns me is the follow-up which states that a turkey flew into a pickup truck and caused damage.  What the hell kind of fucked up turkeys are these?!?!  I'm thinking that they are in fact ZOMBIE TURKEYS, and thus the title should read "Zombie Turkeys Coming to 'Gobble Gobble' Your Brains". 

Way to fail us all, local journalists.

More interestingly, and hopefully much less fatal is the front-page story about the stolen underwear.  Why does this make the news????  Unless it's been discovered that used underwear doubles as a suitable weapon against the zombie-turkey apocalypse, then I don't want to know about the panty-fetish of one of my fellow citizens.

I think we know who stole the underwear...

Can we please note that story #1 is about a tragic death, followed by a story about masturbating.  I believe I'll call this a case-in-point. 

Back to the bubble I go...

**UPDATED: And this is why I don't play sports.

As indicated by my last post, I may not be much in the kitchen, but I try to be a good wife where it counts...the golf course.  To celebrate Canada's birthday, the husband asked if I would like to join him in a round of golf to which I agreed, thinking this is the perfect opportunity to work on my tan.

He comes from a family of obsessed avid golfers, and I?  Well, I'm trying to adjust as best I can.  The thing is?  I don't like things I'm not good at - and when you're playing with people who kick-ass, you feel like someone should take one of your irons and beat you with it to put you out of your misery, and to simultaneously give the club the best action it's seen all day.

Today however I didn't really care how poorly I was playing because,well....

This is your heel.

This is your heel on golf.

What the fuck?!

The worst part about this is that I didn't even get to pop it myself.  Popping and peeling is the only respectable thing about bubble blisters - especially one that size.  The stupid thing popped and peeled itself with the support of my sock and golf shoe, who were also the culprits of said blister.  I feel like I've been robbed.

This kind of shit?  This is why I don't play sports, my friends.

****UPDATE:

This has become the blister 2 days later.  This?  Is not attractive.

Undomestic Goddess

I will never be considered a Stepford wife, possibly much to my husband's dismay.

Last week a woman at work brought in some banana bread and brownies for the rest of us to gorge ourselves on.  She almost instantly started identifying the 'flaws' of her baking, pointing out that it's too dry (which it wasn't...it was delicious, and quite frankly? Beggars can't be choosers).  At one point she even mentioned that her hubby commented on the dryness of the baked goods.  When I almost choked on brownie upon hearing this she explained that it was because he has gotten used to a certain standard when it comes to her baking, and can now readily identify anything that doesn't make the grade.  This?  Is her first mistake.  Her second mistake is baking anything from scratch.  If it doesn't come from a box, I don't know what to do with it.

It seems as though subconsciously my approach has been to bake as little as possible so that husband appreciates the few times that baking does take place, regardless of how bad said baking might be.

 Unfortunately for him, the same approach applies to cooking.  Every week I generate a meal plan that outlines what our dinners will be.  Sometimes the execution of this meal plan is a little lacking and it takes little to no effort to support a plan for ordering in or dining out.   For the most part, the meals cooked at home are simple - partially to accommodate my equivalent 5-year old palate, and partially to accommodate my/our laziness.  Once in a while I will take on a 'big' meal - a vat of chili, a cauldron of spaghetti...but even these satiate my rebellion against domesticity as I know that this one-time commitment to preparation will provide enough excess to feed us for a week or two.  And indeed it does.

I honestly and truly can not wait for the day that we bring in enough income to justify paying people to clean up after us.  Don't get me wrong - we don't live in filth or thrive in squalor, but when I have time to be at home, I can most likely be found curled up on the love seat reading young-adult-pornography.  Mind you when that glorious day comes and the cleaning staff are on their way to our doorstep, I will most likely be found cleaning because I couldn't possibly have the cleaning-people thinking that we keep a dirty house.

Not every Stepford wife will be top of the charts in the looks department, but it certainly isn't for lack of trying.  The dedication to grooming, accessorizing and keeping up appearances seems exhausting.  If I'm not going to or coming from somewhere, darling husband is most likely looking at a wife who looks like she just got electrocuted thanks to the frizzy hair and yesterdays make-up relocating about an inch lower than where I initially put it on.  It may also be a few days before I remember what that razor and tall slim aerosol can in the bathroom caddy is to be used for.  I wouldn't say that I'm an Amazon, but "smooth as a baby's bottom" would rarely be a term used to describe me.

Despite these things, husband stays by my side.  We just celebrated our 2 year wedding anniversary (9 years together) in a last week at the all-romantic zoo (a place where a teacher-friend of mine recently said "Oh!  I just took my grade 2's there last week!").  Stay tuned for a re-enactment of the zoo festivities using "grow-your-own-safari-animals".