Dear Diary:
Well, today really blew chunks. We got skunked again. Third time this year. Two dogs outside just after midnight and some stink rodent cuts a huge one all over the dogs, all over our house, all over my life. Spent the night in the family room with the dogs to contain the stench until we could get them properly deodorized and the ENTIRE day re-cleaning a house that I just cleaned yesterday.
Fuckity fuck fuck fuck!!!
So much for the “me” time. The gym, Starbucks, my book club book, working on my column, wasn’t gonna happen today. I did, however, get a ton of exercise via the repetitive housecleaning. So I got that going for me.
The most intellectual discussion I had all day was about why SpongeBob lives in the sea when he’s clearly a kitchen sponge of the ordinary 3M/Scotch variety and it should go without saying that he wears square pants because, hello, he’s square and you certainly can’t but round pants on a square sponge and let’s not even begin to contemplate why a sponge needs to wear pants or lives in a fucking pineapple.
And this discussion? Was not with a 4-year-old, as you might suspect. It was with my husband when we noticed how much the Tater Tot in the Sonic ads looks like the infamous cellulose celebrity AND then damned if I didn’t have this same discussion on a Facebook status with another grown man.
What. The. Hell.
I am supposed to be an empty-nester. Why do I live in a zoo, have an adult “child” who will likely NEVER leave and why-oh-why do I know so damn much about fucking SpongeBob? I am 46 and have no small children.
These are cosmic questions, dear diary. Ponder and discuss. Gotta run now. KThnxBye.
