I don't understand one bit of this whole Petraeus thing. Do you?
What the hell?
I feel sometimes like I'm living in a world I don't understand at all. Not one bit. Oprah is telling me, via the Huffpost, how to live. That woman just can't quit telling people how to live. And what to buy. I don't know. It's hard for me to relate to Oprah even though we're both women who were abused as children who struggle with our weight. You'd think that would be enough in common, wouldn't you?
Well, it's not.
Remember when she told everyone to buy t-shirt sheets? And everyone did? I didn't. Maybe I should have. Now she's telling everyone to meditate. There's a "meditation challenge." Somehow, throwing the world "challenge" in with "meditation" doesn't seem quite, uh, Zen?
I wonder if she'd like my dogs. She could totally have them if she did.
So are you going to go to Walmart Thanksgiving night? Gawd. Can you imagine? Or Target? They're going to open at 9 p.m. on Thanksgiving night too. I can just imagine people in those stores snatching up the Christmas decorations. The ones that will make your home look like it's a place where the "real meaning of Christmas" is to be found. Also, flat screen TV's at an incredibly low price.
Good for them!
There are people who have so many Christmas decorations that they have to rent storage in which to keep that shit for the eleven months of the year when it's not being used.
Christmas is good for the economy. No doubt about that.
Just thinking about it makes me want to stab myself to death with the bough of a fake, metal Christmas tree. That is not hyperbole, by the way. It's a cold, hard fact.
I guess I better take those dogs to the groomers. Do you realize I haven't left this property since last Friday? I swear. Not even to take the trash. Not even to take a walk. Not even to go to the post office. I guess I can do it. Leave the property. Take the dogs and then come back and take a walk. Baby steps. I still don't need to go to the grocery store. I still have frozen tuna steaks and an organic sweet potato. And leftovers. Galore. One person just doesn't eat that much. Weird, huh?
I'm pretty sure that I'm not going to spend much time trying to figure out the Petraeus thing. Sounds like a pure-T clusterfuck to me. I feel so sorry for the man's wife though. I really do. If you look at a picture of her and then of his mistress your heart just has to bleed. Mine does, anyway. And then look at a picture of him! He ain't no Playgirl centerfold. I don't understand men. I don't understand women, either, most of the time. I don't even understand myself.
Maybe Oprah could explain it to me. Or Deepak Chopra. He seems to have a lot of answers. Frankly, I think it's all just a fucking crap shoot. You're born with these genes in this situation. HAVE AT IT!
I tried to teach Owen how to dance like Mick Jagger yesterday. I showed him a video of Mick dancing. Owen tried out the cock-walk thing. He did pretty good but I couldn't convince him to wiggle his hips. Oh well.
He's young. You should see his daddy dance. He's got the genes and that's the truth.
Okay, okay. I'm going to take the dogs to see Miss Beverly now. Weird how I can remember THAT appointment but not the one where I was supposed to take my mother to the eye doctor.
Keep on dancing, y'all. However you can do it.
That's my plan.