I Am Mutant... Hear Me Roar!

Or rather, smell me coming.

What? Huh?

I am mutant. I believe this for many reasons, one of which I will share with you here.

I don't have extra toes, extra nipples, or extra Halloween candy stored above the stove which I dip into every morning before breakfast. (One of those may be a lie).

I don't turn green when I become enraged, although lately I have been very ragey/stabby, but I just mostly get sad. It's like the SADDEST Hulk-A-Stephanie you ever did see.

But I digress.

No, my mutant-status has been achieved through one thing: My Armpits. (Okay, fine, TWO THINGS, shaddap).

I have discovered that typically before I get to the end of my deodorant of choice, my armpits and sweat gland-y system have adapted and mutated to no longer respond to the anti-perspirant properties.

It's like how upper respiratory infections spread through animal shelters because the infection mutates faster than the antibiotics/antibodies. But with less cats and slightly less mucous.

If I am ever so lucky as to have SUCCESS WITH A DEODORANT! for a full container's worth, I swear-to-mother-effing-Jebus that it is, without a doubt, unquestionably and mysteriously a  flavour  smell  blend  perfume-y.thing  formulation that has been DISCONTINUED by the manufacturer.

With less enthusiasm & facial hair, but definitely more muffin top.  Via

It's like my pits and Secret are out to get me. Orange jasmine? Check. Baby powder coconut caffeine? Check. Ylang ylang lavender concrete rose blossom? Tea tree antibiotic lemon zest candy cane-infused menthol? Check. Every fucking time.

I go to Walmart, Shopper's Drug Mart, the grocery store. NOTHING. I ask the clerks who give me a side glance and tell me to keep moving, that they never carried the deodorant in the first place.

Swear.To.Gahd.

Anyway, I have officially run out of new brands to try, so if you know me offline, you've been given fair warning.

Married and smelly.

That is all...


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How To Turn Your Neighbours On While Raking Leaves

It's a sunny November morning.

You're feeling feisty, and looking for trouble.

What now?

Sexy leaf raking.

Directions:

STEP 1: Go braless. It's 1:00pm on a Saturday, so it's not like you would have a bra on anyway.

STEP 2: Always, ALWAYS be sure to be sporting black socks. As you put on your white dollar-store flip flops.

STEP 3: Pants! Don't forget pants. You don't want to get arrested or anything crazy. My recommendation? A nice, faded navy blue pair of men's Scooby-Doo branded pajama pants. Only you will know that a peep through the men's button crotch holds a Sultry leaf-raking Saturday surprise.

Scooby caught a glimpse. Didn't think he was the pervy type.

STEP 4: Cover yourself up with a dirty burgundy hoody. Great Dane drool on the sleeves is optional. (Depends if you can rock it or not, and only you, dear friend, can make that call).

STEP 5: Grunt. A lot. I really mean A LOT.

STEP 6: Wheeze a bit, and brace yourself on your Scooby-covered knees.

STEP 7: Play with your messy, bedraggled hair. Belch if you so desire.

                   Almost done.

STEP 8: Get out the rake and begin raking. Quit part way through to come inside and eat Halloween candy that you never handed out to the neighbourhood kids.

Grr, Baby. Grr.

DONE.

Also?

You're welcome. Just wait for the date requests and restraining orders to start rollin' on in.


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Throw Cushions... What The Hell?

If you have:

A) Kids
B) Pets
C) A Lazy Streak
D) Inability to redo the same futile thing over and over and over

Then please meet  my  your nemesis.

Throw cushions.

Dear readers, you know what I am talking about. Those decorative little square pillow things that only EVER get placed on your sometimes-made-bed when you think there is a chance your house will be toured, or some Nosy Nelly might open your bathroom en-suite door and get a full view of your bedroom.

You know, the sometimes bedazzled, sometimes fuzzy, sometimes glitter/sequin covered pillows that just SCREAM "chew the shit outta me!" to your dogs/cats/mousal uprising (for you, gotjack28!).

Because every home needs more shit like this.

I hate those things. They can't be washed. They get in the way when you want to snuggle with your significant other. (Unless your significant other happens to BE said pillow, in which case, that null and voids the last comment).

They are so... I don't know... grown up? And you have to have a certain level of sophistication to match them to your stuff.

My house is pretty much a mish mash of college-dorm-meets-furnish-the-house-quickly-and-nicely. The nicely part was contributed to by The New Husband. The rest of the shit is just mine.

But I have no time for cushions. I need to blog. And dilly dally.

Dilly dallying = no time for throw cushions.

Our new bed-in-a-bag set came with throw cushions. They've been placed on the bed twice, methinks.

It's true.

Throw cushions are for suckers!

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