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Open tongue wounds… it’s a good thing

I have eaten too much pineapple and now my mouth is full of little tiny burning cuts.

That’s a Monday for you. Right there.

Yet do I cease eating the pineapple? Does the stinging pain adhere itself into my short term memory until I become conditioned to associate pineapple with pain?

It does not.

This all explains so much, actually. The way that I continue to not balance my checkbook. The way that I will walk over the same spilled kitty litter with my bare feet a hundred times in one day instead of picking it up. The way that I sometimes find myself singing along to an ‘Nsync song, despite the way it makes my teeth itch.

I have a canker sore on the tip of my tongue and I keep biting it. At this rate, I’ll soon be wiping my butt with sandpaper after a night of 5-alarm habenero chili.

Maybe I’m secretly all into BDSM or something. I’m pretty proud that I now know what that means. For a long time, I thought S&M was a pilot name for a new flavor of M&Ms.


Yesterday, I continued on my happy homemaker bit. I went to Home Depot (again!!!! This is a record!) in search of some stuff that cleans your vinyl siding that you spray on with your garden hose. It was not to be had at Home Depot. They tried to talk me into renting a pressure washer. As much fun as I had with the electric drill on Saturday, I think I could get into some serious trouble with a pressure washer. Mellow Yellow was not in attendance. I ended up purchasing some really beautiful lightest blue pots for Plant Central above our refrigerator. I have a hodge podge of pots up there, and the last time I leisurely wandered Home Depot, I fell in love with these pots, yet was too cheap to buy them. They’re very 1940’s retro. They remind me of something that would be in my great-grandmother’s house. They make me feel gay like Andy Rooney (that was for you, UB).

What is more, I came home with the pots and promptly repotted all of my plants. So now they all match and I am very happy indeed. Martha Stewart would be proud.

You know, I think Martha could sell anything if she said ‘It’s a Good Thing’ after talking about it. She could probably market a scented-candle which gave off the aroma of her body odor. Pheremones At Turkey Hill. She’s becoming as omnipresent as Oprah, but a little less preachy. I think that Oprah and Martha maybe diametrically opposed archenemies. Martha is the uber-repressed WASP from the ‘burbs and Oprah’s the sentimental sistah with an eating disorder of gold. And I mean that truthfully. She is the media icon that obsessive-compulsive binge eating built.

I have a lot of respect for Martha, though. She’s a snob, but she acknowledges that she’s a snob. She revels in it. Oprah’s trying to be ‘one of us’ while she lives in a million dollar penthouse. Plus, Martha doesn’t mind being hip-deep in cow poo, even if she’s wearing a Gucci sweater while she’s doing it. At least it would be an OLD Gucci sweater. Because that’s Martha’s way.

Plus, you’ve got to admire a woman who’s made so much money for marketing her lifestyle. I’d try to market Weetabix Living, but no one’s interested in paying to watch me walk over the same spilled kitty litter with my bare feet.


I wish I had a nice little pot of pudding that I could stick my tongue into. I’ll bet that would stop my canker sore from hurting. Or maybe I should just eat another lovely piece of pineapple.

Ouch.

I’ve really got to stop this.

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