My built in shopping alarm kicked in this morning, waking me up at 6:05am. I thought about throwing a pair of jeans on over my pajama pants and a hoodie over my pajama shirt and going to Walmart. What? I did it last year and came back the proud owner of an eighty dollar camera. But laziness won out this time and I rolled over to go back to sleep. But then I couldn't go back to sleep. So I got up and made a pot of coffee. Then I drank most of the pot of coffee. I let Brian have a cup. He left for work soon after, because I think he wanted to get away from me. I'm so jacked up on coffee I know what Amy Winehouse feels like after a night of hitting the crackpipe. Is crackpipe one word? Crack. Pipe. I don't know. But I feel like Amy.
Which is good, because I sort of have a lot to do today as far as decking the halls. I thought I'd get some of it done yesterday but instead I sat on my ass most of the day. The food I made for dinner required almost no effort and I did that shit on purpose. Last year I thought it was important I make an entire traditional Thanksgiving dinner and by the time it was time to eat, it all looked disgusting to me and I barely touched anything until the next day. Not this year. I made the chocolate pie dessert of fabulousness ahead of time and stuck it in the fridge to chill (ha!). I ripped the tails off of a pound of jumbo shrimp and poured coctail sauce in a fancy little bowl. I dipped a pound of sea scallops in melted butter, wrapped them in bacon and broiled them for ten minutes. I doctored up a thing of Country Crock loaded mashed potatoes, heated up some rolls and some peas and BAM! Dinner is served. It was a beautiful thing. We ate, watched some telly and played a rousing game of Scrabble, which I unfortunately lost. It's good to be married to someone who has a good vocabulary, but that shit pissed me off all the same.
I'll now take advantage of my altered state of mind and pose a somewhat embarrassing question. I wouldn't do this if I was sober, so I'm taking advantage before I change my mind.
How do you feel about dirty talk? Not on TV or from your average thirteen-year-old, no - in the boudoir (that's bedroom for you non-French speaking folk). I've never been able to do it. Ever. I can't even write dirty shit without getting all flustered. I'm sad that if ever necessary, I could never fall back on a career as a phone sex operator. I just think I'd sound stupid if I ever tried to say anything. What if I got all into it and said something like, "I want you to blank me in the blank with a big hot hammer!" I mean, I don't think I could ever look at myself in the mirror again. Let alone look at him afterwards. I don't know. Is it that important? It must be if there are entire careers based on being able to do this.
I know. Step away from the coffee pot.
Happy shopping, if that's what you're crazy enough to be doing today.