Okay, so I can take a hint. Apparently, y’all didn’t find my story about my weird driving fears and my inability to drink a milkshake like big girl funny and when I spoke to the husband he was all, “well, everyone’s allowed a snoozer now and then. I mean, even God wrote Deuteronomy,” and then I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, because, you guys, I am kind of out of material. A very wise person told me that the husband probably needs to get himself a vasectomy because hoo boy, THE STORIES! Another very wise person told me that I probably need to go ahead and get myself knocked up because BAM! Nine full months of things to talk about and belly pictures to share. Another very wise person reminded me of all the stories that came out of cubicle life…I mean, if you’ve ever watched The Office and worked in an office, you know there’s just too much to write about. Fish smells from the communal microwave say what? People using the office bathroom without shoes on say what?

But alas, there are no surgeries or pregnancies or cubicles in my future. Oh no, there’s just, well, a lot of the same. My life is a little bit like Groundhog Day without the Sonny and Cher song, but that’s mostly because I haven’t had to use an alarm clock since Isabella decided that 5am was a perfectly acceptable time to start her day and to start watching cooking shows and/or Full House. Ahh Ahh Ahh Ahh Chity Chi bob botta. You think I’m a one-trick pony, don’t you? But, just so you know, I know all the words to the pokemon theme song too.

I mean, it’s not that my life isn’t exciting. I mean, just yesterday, we bid a toiletside farewell to a good fish last night. Josh gave a teary-eyed eulogy…”Junior was such a good fish. He gave me so much joy” and we even went down to Petsmart to replace the feeder fish that gave us such a happy two weeks. I filled my hands with a bigger bowl and some pretty stones and a plant and we were all set to buy a little fish to fill the void in Josh’s heart. Of course, we were all set, until this pimply-faced, dandruff-scalped, 13-year-old girl in a blue shirt came over and started talking about aquariums and filters and a financial commitment that I just not prepared to let this teenager talk me into.

I mean, I already have an expensive pet who needs things like surgeries and underpants extractions. I am not doing this again, pimple face!

Oh! and just today I got the pleasure of listening to my daughter read her entire Because of Winn-Dixie book out-friggin-loud, because apparently, that’s how she retains it. OUT LOUD. and then she takes notes, and then she eats cucumbers and peppers in between chapters and crunch crunch crunches in my damn ear and I really, at this very moment, can’t think of anything that drives me crazier than the crunching. (also equally as irritating…the slurpsucking of popsicles. MY EARS, they bleed) I did offer to teach her the African Anteater Ritual just to get her to stop reading.

Oh! and just this week I bought a shirt on ebay that I love so much I want to make out with. I actually already have the shirt in grey which I – sadly – paid full price for at J.Crew and I might even go out on a limb to say that I wear it every time I need to put on actual clothing that doesn’t zip up and have a hood or an elastic waist.

and wouldn’t you know…I bought the same shirt that was nwt (that’s new with tags for the smart people who don’t get sucked into ebay layman) in cream for $50 less than I paid for the grey one, which makes me feel happy that I got a killer deal but also makes me feel like a giant asshole for paying as much as I did for the original cami. Don’t make me tell you how much I paid for those damn True Religion jeans that I rarely wear because the rise is so low and not only does it announce to the world, “Hey! check out my fancy muffin top!” It also draws attention to my entire spare tire. Let’s just say it rhymes with shmalmost shmore shmundred.

Oh! and SOMEONE WHO SHALL REMAIN NAMELESS spoiled the ending of that Robert Pattinson joint Remember Me. Apparently, it’s got a twist that fits somewhere in between the predictable Shutter Island and the less predictable Fight Club. Well, now I can skip this one and go back to my fantasyland where Robert Pattinson IS actually Edward Cullen and not some guy who is allergic to vagina and is actually screwing Kristen Stewart. Who, ps, looks like she has a scary vagina. If I was dating her, I would probably also pretend to be allergic. And now that I hear that my Joe Jonas is actually dating Demi Lovato (hat tip to her), I’m almost all out of men-who-are-too-young for me to have inappropriate dreams about. How old is Taylor Kitsch again?

And now you are sitting there all, “good god, I wish she’d go back to talking about about milkshakes now.”

If you want to see more of me – and, I mean, obviously, you do – you can read my latest entertainment news over at Juice, my latest outfit over at The Urban Closet (I actually put some pants on today! Wheee!), my latest advice over at So You Want It, and my latest blathering over at Aiming Low.