Where’s yer Happy Faaace!

I heard her before I saw her. “I need some body warsh!…Putis, where’s the body warsh?…I sure hope they have some body warsh…I want some”. And after seeing her, I expect she does. A few bottles should do it. Funny, when I notice a certain demographic of the populace, they seem to have a uniform look to them. They have similar hair styles. Those long, mybloggers lank locks. Usually with a dye demarcation line halfway down their hair, no doubt where they were seeing if the blondes yellow-haired do indeed have more fun. Clothing must be tight in all the wrong places. Stains mandatory. Camel-toes optional.

I often wonder if any small kids have been traumatised by an approaching vagina. Seeing something like that coming at them, knowing it has to have a life-form of its own. Then I start wondering if anyone has come up with a flap protector/hider. Think a feminine and dainty codpiece. Hmmm. I can see the infomercial for them now.

Do you insist on separating yer piss-flaps by wearing yer jeans too tight?
Well if yew do, have I got a product fer yeeew.

I also often wonder [I sure do a lot of wondering at times] how seemingly intelligent girls can consistently buy scrub pants and tops that are a size too small for them…“Oh Look Ginny, it’s a butterfly on crack!”…Oh how we cackled as we wheeled by the squatting, lower-back tattooed nursing aide. Lucky for Ginny she was sitting down, as her cackles turned into a coughing spasm. Good thing I was wheeling her to the gathering place for the smokers, she could catch her breath while she waited to be taken outside.

One of my favourite aides was working today. Just looking at her makes me smile, mainly because I liken her to a character of the comedic actress, Magda Subanski. PixieAnn Wheatly. Same body shape, same hair, same happy like stupidity. Often as we pass by in the hallway we’ll both break out in a dance routine. She gets on dowwwn while I move like I’m spastic. My husband reckons I dance like a praying mantis…all arms and legs. Therefore I like to accentuate it with a few leg kicks and arm flings. Today she greeted me with, “Here’s my little Aussie” which is funny in itself as I’m a good foot or so above her.

Perhaps, she thinks I’m her pet?

My mother-in-law came home with a new [for her] car last night. Most impressive. What’s not impressive is that we’ll continue to hear my father-in-laws incessant talk about it. If he isn’t repeating what a good deal it was [yeah fer now he‘ll think that, just wait til the first repair or maintenance is needed then it‘ll be, shouldn‘t have brought that stupid car!] he’s asking me when I’m going down to get one. FFS someone please buy the man a new tee-shirt, that’ll get his mind off it and I won’t have to listen to his retarded speech pattern. He just goes on and on and on.

He can not stand for anyone else to get something and him not. Regardless whether he needs the “something”. My husband is right, he IS like a little kid. He’ll even store up the value. “Mom and Mamie got a new pair of shoes, maybe they’ll buy me a new fishing rod? Right?!”. He doesn’t mention it’s to replace the one he messed up last fishing trip. He doesn’t fathom that you reel the fish in, there’s no need to go walking backwards. I kid you not. Depending how much line he has out, ascertains how far back he half trots-half stumbles. Hollering, whahuhing and laughing excitedly, dragging the pole, the line and sometimes the fish.

I would like to say they broke the mould when my father-in-law was made…but knowing what’s about me, I highly bloody doubt it.

Hee. Eek!