My moment of brilliance starts by me making tea. Tea at the moment is not a complicated sort of deal since I have run out of loose leaf and am back to using Oolong tea in bags.

I found a lovely little thermal mug in a neat shape on my way to making tea. It's small at the top, then ballons outward. I was happy to find this, because often I make tea or coffee for an accompaniment to whatever it is I am doing. Surfing through Stumble Upon, looking through Deviant Art, and lately, painting or writing. So this little mug will help me keep my tea and coffee nice and warm, because I am a picky whore and like hot things hot.

So, I do my tea-thang, yo. Put water in microwave, heat, remove from microwave. Pour into cup with tea bag and bring it back to the computer. I sit down, put the little two-holed cover over it and settle in to paint a bit and browse in between. All is well.

OR IS IT?

A few sips here and there go well. I filled it a little too full and it floods the cap a little. No big deal, right? So without paying attention I tip it. A lot further than I should have. After that, I really didn't think because:

a) I had a mouthful of blistering hot tea
b) I wanted it out of my mouth THAT. VERY. INSTANT.

So what did I do?

Open my mouth and spit it out into my hand.

SPIT BOILING HOT TEA ONTO MY HAND.

Which I promptly flailed and shook it about as any idiot realizing they had HOT TEA in their HANDS.

This of course, meant the rest of the HOT TEA landed on my right tit.

I now have a burnt mouth, a burnt thumb and forefinger, and a burnt right boob.

BRILLIANT.

Have you had a moment of 'brilliance' lately? What did you do?

Soon, I shall go with Shawn to a place filled with people he works with. I have dressed up accordingly and will attempt to distract them from my fat with my boobs.





Also, thank you rachaelwynter I got your chrissymas card! <3

Several disjointed thoughts I have, such as why is it when everyone else has gone to bed and the house has gone still, I can HEAR silence? It's very odd because there really is no other sound like no-sound. That hissing, static drone of--nothing.

My birthday is coming up on July 2nd, and Shawn's father's birthday was yesterday. Because everyone had to/has to work/Shawn's mother getting laid off/the realization of the cost of caring for a diabetic without insurance/ I will be cooking his (our) birthday supper Sunday.

Today, I will pre-cook the meat loaf and the macaroni and cheese with four kinds of cheese because I don't want to have the hassle of cooking for eight people on Sunday.

This way, all I have to do on Sunday is prepare the red 'taters for their bake in rosemary, olive oil and garlic.

Shawn says he'll take me to Tai-Tai on July fourth, but I don't want to go, for a number of selfish and non selfish reasons.

We can't afford it.
We can't afford it.
Fuck it, I'm getting old and birthday's fucking suck fuckity fuck fuck it.
I want to stay home and sulk this year.


Maybe that's half the reason I've been in such a desperation to create something recently.

I will be twenty nine years old this July, 2nd, one year away from the big 3.0, where horrific tales of hairy chins, larger moles, willy nilly birthmarks, deepening voices and night sweats with day chills begin to circulate.

I have a love/hate affair with aging. I cannot wait for the grey or white hair and I cannot wait for my laugh lines to deepen but I don't want the pile of negative shit which starts and I certainly don't need an extra reminder that I am hurtling happily through life toward a permanent dirt nap to which my consciousness will dissipate and my brain will no doubt become a delicious side course for zombies. Or worms. Whichever.

Maybe I'm just not looking forward to my boobs drooping any further, because if these puppies are pummeled by gravity anymore, by the time I hit 50 I'm not going to have torpedo tits, I'm going to have foot warmers.

in this journal. Really, I named it 'Hooray for Boobies!,' and where are they? Where are the boobs?

Rose-Kim Knits have assisted me in bringing on the boobs. Here they are:




Nothing says cozy, better, than a knitted boob pillow.

EDIT: THEY WEREN'T REAL BOOBIES. IT WAS A PILLOW WITH KNITTED BOOBIES ON IT. OH MY GOD PHOTOBUCKET.




Shawn, Artisan of Song, man of poetry, loving husband, often tells me to, bring your boob blanket to me. Another way of him saying, gee honey, it'd be great if you'd cuddle up to my back as we sleep.

I think I'll get him this instead.

My mother in law, Phyllis, is such a wonderful person. She's the lady who stood in the doorway and talked to my husband casually for five minutes after surprising me in mid shirt change. I had to hold my boobs for the entire conversation.

She also had some interesting ideas on how to work a dog collar, and is currently digging away happily in the garden.

I really appreciate the help, I do. But every hole I dig to expose roots so that I can pull them up later is filled in by her attempt to go work in a spot right beside mine. Because it would make TOO much sense to work on the same ball of roots someone else is, y'know?

( A little history to better explain my disbelief )

So, on with the show, yesterday I am interrupted for whatever reason from finishing washing dishes and I drop the dish towel over the side of a kitchen chair. When I return, she's in the kitchen doing whatever it is she does, talking to the dog, aliens, or her own personal jesus--and I notice, hey! The dish towel's gone.

I look about the kitchen, which is really small as well as rather difficult to lose a bright red dish towel in. Sos I ask the mother in law where might the towel be.

"Oh! I put it on the floor beneath the dish washer because some times it leaks. Here, I'll get it!"

This isn't where the heavens opened for a single beam of light to fall on my head where I finally realize how seriously different my ideas of clean and hers clash, no. It's when she holds up the still slightly damp-from-me-drying towel that's just touched the floor tiles which is rarely ever mopped unless I do it -- with this clueless, happy go lucky helpful look upon her face. And the best response to all of this that I could have possibly brought forth was a long, drawn out, "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww."

I believe that's when my mouth attempted to twist itself from my face and she blinked at me in a I don't understand manner.

"The towel," I stammered quickly, explaining. "The towel was on the floor. The towel was on the floor, I can't continue drying clean dishes with a towel that's on the floor. That's just gross."

And yes, I understand how utterly juvenile in addition to a touch anal this may seem to some people. But let me explain something: the dog pees. I mean, the dog pees on everything in the kitchen he can lift a leg too, most ESPECIALLY the floor. There was NO WAY in all that is holy and good I was going to wash the dishes with a towel that may have come in contact with radio active dog pee.

What was more alarming was the fact that I think she's dried dishes with towels she's stuffed under the washer before. D: Her confused reaction and then dejected shoulder slump as she shuffled near confused out of the kitchen was telling.

Next week, I'm going to don a nun suit, wear a giant pentagram necklace and flash my ankles at passing motorists.

Because it makes about as much sense as Shawn's mother does to me most of the time.