Ho Ho Ho my butt.
Okay, here's the deal, eh.
I remember promising to love, cherish, forsake all others, to stick around for better and for worse, through richer and poorer ... BUT CAN SOMEONE PLEASE TELL ME WHERE IT SAID THAT I WOULD HAVE TO DO ALL THE CHRISTMAS SHOPPING UNTIL DEATH DID US PART?
Because I'm telling you, I've scoured our wedding vows and I can't find a word about this anywhere.
However, the spousal unit insists that this is part of the marriage dealie and he refuses to buy for anyone but me. Hrm.
I think I'm being snookered here, but it seems my hands are tied.
MarnCo, the multinational conglomerate which supplies the venture capital that makes The Big Adventure possible, is giving me three or four days off to go into Montreal and do my Christmas shopping.
If you happen to live in Montreal, I will be easy to spot because when I Christmas shop I become Cranky Woman, a little known yet deeply feared super hero.
I will be the tall white-haired woman emitting crankiness of such enormity that single-handedly I will speed global warming.
Those holes in the ozone layer? It has NOTHING to do with freon. I personally destroyed the ozone layer through Cranky Waves emitted each year when I did Christmas shopping.
Oh, and it gets even better.
My kid's computer is down, so starting Sunday afternoon I will be forced to live totally in the real world, my ties to the virtual life will be completely severed.
Reality. Nothing ... but ... reality.
And you thought the ozone layer was in trouble BEFORE? Honey, you ain't seen nothing yet.
Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -
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This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine. Kids, don't try viewing this at home without Netscape 6 or IE 4.5+, a screen resolution of 800 X 600 and the font Mead Bold firmly ensconced on your hard drive.
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