Your “tissue weight” material fools nobody (and makes me look like a prostitute since everyone can see my bra right through the fabric). If I wanted to wear a camisole under everything I buy from the Gap I’d just……

write a series of funny things to dave and the offspring on post it notes and then take pictures of the notes and scan them and write a post.

Dear Dave,

The dishwasher looks like it was loaded by a glue sniffing schizophrenic. Was it you?

hawkeye games

my hair

my weight

I know, I know, I’ve been MIA, and a totally shitty blogger (sorry Jules!) but I’ve been spinning my wheels and getting absofuckinglutely nowhere super busy keeping the offspring from killing each other and I haven’t been able to find more than two consecutive minutes to sit on my ass in front of this computer and think up witty and clever anecdotes to publish on the Internet.

First of all, I spent days gathering up all the superfluous crap in our entire house so I could have a garage sale and then managed to lose money on it considering I paid $20 in advertising costs and only sold approximately $10 worth of our shit. Fail. I had hardly any customers which is why I will not have another garage sale until hell freezes over or all the Real Housewives remove their breast implants. And the only reason I decided to have a garage sale in the first place is because not all of our old furniture sold when I advertised it on craigslist and some of it was still taking up a bunch of room in the garage and I thought, “Hey, I’ll unload this furniture and a bunch of our other crap and then our garage will be completely empty and sparkly clean and Dave will think I’m a goddess because he loves that fucking garage and will spend 45 minutes right before company is coming sweeping the floor because he totally gives a shit about where we keep our cars and our garbage can.” But as of this posting our garage looks like the city dump and Dave’s car is still not being parked inside it.

You’re probably wondering what the hell any of this has to do with the Yeti, right? I’m getting to it, I promise.

And I know, I said I wasn’t going to blog about Yeti anymore. I said I was going to remove all the posts under this label but I haven’t. Because something happened last week that made me think being thrown in the slammer for writing about and then going all columbine on my neighbor might be totally worth it. So, yes, I’m going to continue writing whatever the hell I want about the Yeti but I won’t be posting pictures because that seems to be more of the illegal part.

Seriously? I am pissed. And so mature that when I passed Yeti in her car today I made a face at her (but did not crash my car into hers on purpose so yay me!).

Here’s what happened. The other day, my roving photojournalist in the ‘hood’s husband (they live on one side of The Yeti) told me they found a dead squinny in their yard (and for those of you who don’t know, a squinny is what we call a ground squirrel here in Des Moines. I have no idea why). Then, a few days later, Lauren stumbled upon a dead raccoon in the yard of the neighbors on the other side of The Yeti.

A while ago it came to my attention that The Yeti believes there is some kind of mole infestation in her yard (though no one else in the ‘hood, including us, has seen a mole). She set out huge traps that look kind of like mouse traps but bigger. While the traps are certainly disturbing enough, I also thought I remembered my roving photojournalist in the ‘hood mentioning that the Yeti was using some sort of poison to kill trespassers moles but she’s in Hawaii and doesn’t have Internet right now so I have to wait until she gets back to see if the poison hypothesis is true or not. But, I find it unsettling that animals are totally falling over dead so the poison thing is probably true because the Yeti is like the poster child for neighborhood sociopaths, psychopaths crazy people.

Anyway, back to the dead raccoon. My neighbor, whose yard the raccoon was busy rigor mortising in, was not home so I called Animal Control and the Public Works department for her. Unfortunately, they will only remove dead animals if they’re in the middle of the road or something. I was all “So what you’re telling me is you won’t come get it?” and they were all “No, not unless it’s in a public area” and I was all “You know this probably encourages people to just throw dead animals in their trash cans” and they were all like “Uh huh.” So, anyway, if something dies in your yard you are S.O.L. on disposal assistance. Just sayin’. I also wanted to call the regular police and the fashion police because right after Lauren discovered the raccoon I saw the Yeti lurking in her backyard and she was wearing a fugly pair of red pants and hello? That is just wrong.

Anyway, as soon as my roving photojournalist in the ‘hood returns from Hawaii I am going to ask her about the poison and if I can prove that the Yeti is a serial animal killer I will be making some phone calls. I come from a long line of wildlife preservationists, conservationists, fuck animal lovers! and I will not stand by and watch the crazy Yeti kill everything displaced by our urban sprawl.

And I am thisclose to doing something to the Yeti that might land me in the slammer and I’m going to need someone to bake me a cake with a file in it so I can bust myself out.

Someone? Anyone?

(Am I right Kirsti Alley – insert photo??)

It was like fate poking me in the belly saying, “Hey chubby, give Dave the other half of your sandwich.

Dave wanted to make a sandwich using the broiler. Even though I knew how this would probably end I tried to walk him through the steps of toasting his sandwich.

Sometime around the fourth of July, Dave usually takes a week off work to spend at home with me and the offspring. Our household instantaneously morphs into a Jimmy Buffet song and I am usually “A Cheeseburger in Paradise” away from falling into a trans fat laden, alcohol flooded abyss where everyone’s treadmill is used exclusively for drying sweaters (okay you all know I don’t actually eat beef but Jimmy does not have any songs about chicken).

this phrase made my blood run cold:

suddenly I need guacamole like I need a heartbeat and Internet access.

I’ve mentioned on this blog that I try not to drink on school nights. But lately, starting with the week of the Kenny Chesney concert and cruising through the Memorial Day weekend, I’ve been averaging 3-4 nights of happy juice.

do. then talk.