Rainbows and Labyrinth

Well, shove a horseshoe up my ass and call me "Lucky."

Yesterday, I learned I got the mentor of my choice for first semester, I received a random e-mail from someone complimenting my real-life work, and I saw a double rainbow.

A double rainbow.

There is nothing funny about any of that. I'm just literally so excited about it that I can't keep it to myself, and it's my blog, so I get to brag.

Also? I gained 90 pregnancy pounds and I have very few stretch marks and only a few of those pounds left.

See? Lucky. Brag. Brag. Brag.

Leaving a comment on another blog this morning reminded me what a weird kid I was. (It doesn't take much.) Her blog post involved a fantasy boyfriend and a fantasy dog. I'm pointing this out, so when, at the bottom of this post, I show you the type of dog I want, you won't say, "Well, that was random."

Because this blog is anything but random. It is a carefully worded, well thought-out plan of ...

OMG! My mother-in-law is bringing over short ribs for us to grill tonight!!!

*sigh* Summer tastes like corn and barbecue sauce ...

Which?  Reminds me of this time we went over to our friends' house before any of us had kids, and BFF made PHubby cupcakes for his birthday. And the cupcakes were decorated with candy corn because PHubby loves candy corn more than he loves Jesus, me, and sex, combined.

(Clarification: Not like he loves having sex with Jesus and me, together, in a threesome (or would it be a trinitiy?); just, if you take the sum of the separate love he has for Jesus, sex, and me, and compare it to his love of candy corn, candy corn wins.)

We were inebriated in the way that makes you think super deep about stuff. As I ate my cupcake, I spent a long time staring at the bowl of candy corn on BFF's table, and, suddenly, I realized everyone was staring at me. I took this as a cue to share my innermost thought at the moment, so I said, "Scarecrows have candy corn fingers."

Because that was the exact thing I had been contemplating for five minutes. It just made so much sense at the time, and I had never thought of it before.

Let's just say no one else found it as fascinating, and much laughter ensued.

PHubby and my friends are assholes, kind of.

Back to the action: I was a weird kid. I know you probably couldn't guess that now, seeing as how I turned out so normal and professional. If you had to choose three words to describe me, I bet they'd be elegant, poised and collected.

That is what you all think of me, right after you get over the fact that I rarely use the serial comma.

(Let me tell you something about the serial comma: the only reason you like it is because your teachers taught you it was proper, and fourth-graders are know-it-all assholes.
I've edited teachers' work. Granted, I was editing high school science teachers, but it's important for the world to know that one of those eight or so teachers I edited was a decent writer. ONE.
I couldn't believe the rest got through a middle school ditto, let alone a four-year institution of higher learning.)

So, surprise, surprise, I was an odd child. It's what happens when you live in a rural area as an only child.

When friends came over to play, they loved to play dress-ups because my mom gave me all her old prom and homecoming and bridesmaid gowns to use.

Once we were dressed up, we'd play one of our favorite pretend games - to have boyfriends and kiss them for 20 minutes on end.

Sometimes, the boyfriends were in the air. Other times, they were opposite ends of my bookshelves. (Insert "woody" joke here.)

When we couldn't agree on who would get to have David Bowie as Goblin King Jareth from Labyrinth ...

Moment of awed silence, please.

... we would each pick a fake boyfriend name - careful never to pick the name of a boy in our class because ew, boys are gross.

My preferred name? P.

Guess who has two thumbs and married a P? This guy.

My luck just keeps coming.

And here's the dog I want:

I'mma name him Rick James.

I don't know anything about the breed. At all. I just want one, so I can make fun of its fur.

But we won't get him a companion, because Rick James likes to smack a bitch.

Love you!

XXOO!

 - Sarah P