My family is busy collecting dust. Hence, this post.

No matter how much I cajole or beg my kids and husband, they adamantly refuse to do anything interesting lately other than burp and breathe. The burping isn’t even anything to write home about. I can out burp all of them with minimal effort but who wants to read an entire post about my burping?

I didn’t think so.

Did I mention I can burp on cue?

Fine.

I have no blog fodder.

Therefore, I must make stuff up.

Or tell some little known truths.

I’ll leave it to you to decide which is which.

• I think peaches are gross. Not their taste, which I think is full of rainbows and daisies and sugared xanax, but their texture. And while you’d think I’d be all for anything covered in furry skin and fibrous flesh, since as a perimenopausal human I have quite a bit of my own, but I’m not. This is because I’m not in the habit of eating humans, much to my family’s relief despite their repeated complaints of UGH, SPAGHETTI AGAIN? CAN’T WE HAVE SOMETHING ELSE? A peach is fuzzy and I can’t eat anything fuzzy. Except stuff that I find underneath my seat while stuck in traffic. But only if I’m really hungry.

• I’m really hungry now but nowhere near my car.

• There is a quart size baggie chock full of colorful rubber bands on my desk for no apparent reason. I’m seriously considering counting them.

• I have missed ogling Detective Elliot Stabler on Law & Order: SVU for two days now because there are men painting our house and they can see me through our windows and I don’t want to give them the impression that I sit around watching manly men on TV all day long. It’s none of their business. And besides, they might tell Nate.

• We had a basset hound when I was young. His name was Maximilian but we called him Max for short. He had wonderfully floppy ears that got into his food and left a trail when he ambled away. He’d constantly wander far from home and when the bus would pull up in the afternoon, kids who lived three miles away would lean out the windows and yell HEY! IT’S MAX! He’d also steal only one shoe out of every pair and it was usually the left one. I think he was a liberal. My 85 year old grandmother used to yell at him and chase him around the house while waving her pink slipper. I think she was a republican. Max didn’t move very fast. Either did my grandmother.

• I moved pretty fast. She never caught me with that slipper.

• I don’t wear slippers. They make my feet sweaty and if my feet are sweaty, you might as well chop them off and feed them to a burmese python because I don’t want them anymore.

• I once dated a guy whose housemate owned a python. One time he brought me back to his house and his roomie was letting his python out in the living room for some air. I only wish we were talking about his penis, even though odds are I still would have run from the house screaming.

• Speaking of penis, I used to loathe that word. When said aloud, it would cause me to turn forty shades of red and stammer uncontrollably before I’d feel compelled to don on gloves, grab the word out of the air and shove it back down the perpetrator’s throat. Then I went to college. I lived in a co-ed dorm and it was common practice for everyone to leave their dorm room doors open during the day so as to encourage camaraderie and hanging out,  be it talking, eating, studying, smoking, drinking and/or sex, although admittedly the last three occurred more frequently behind closed doors, unless you were my second roommate in which case they occurred whenever you were awake. Regardless, this practice made it very convenient for any XY chromosomes living in my dorm to pass by our door, stick their heads in and yell PENIS PENIS PENIS on their way to class. Once the word penis is repeatedly shouted at you by scads of hotties, you become so accustomed to it that you don’t even notice the word. Case in point, I bet if Nate screamed PENIS PENIS PENIS at me for an hour, I wouldn’t even blink. Let me try.

• Nope, didn’t even flinch. Can’t say the same about the painter guys.

• The one painter guy told me one of his clients paid him to fly to Australia and live in his home for one month while painting its interior. Thusly, I am going to paint houses when I grow up. The only caveat being the houses must be in Australia and comprised of two walls only which cannot be more than four feet high or two feet wide. So if you know of any hobbits living in the outback, put in a good word for me, would you?

• I was on call for jury duty last week. As instructed in my very official looking summons, I checked the county website at 5:45 p.m., every night and at 12:45 p.m., every afternoon, to verify if I was required to appear. Alas, I was never required to appear and I have to admit, I was bitterly disappointed. I think I’d be an excellent juror. I can spot guilt from a mile away. I got that from my mother. I’m also very suggestible. I got that from Max.

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I bet you’re just hoping my family does something more exciting that emit carbon dioxide in the next few days, aren’t you?

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