The post where I admit that I may have branded myself stupidly. But not really. I’m just being sarcastic. Get it? Ahahahaha. Ha.

Because there have been, and will continue to be, plenty of times when my posts and thoughts do not reflect the name of this website at all. And me?  I couldn’t care less.  But every now and again someone mentions to me that I’m not being sarcastic or whatever, and then I think about it.  And I’m all anxious and nervous for a little bit, thinking OMG IT IS FINALLY OBVIOUS TO EVERYONE THAT I AM A FAILURE IN ALL THAT I DO.  And then it kicks in: the not giving a shitness, but rather being annoyed at having it pointed out to me. (Because I am nothing if not a sensitive jerkface douche who can’t handle a little bit of criticism without blowing things all out of proportion. I rule.)

My real name is Lotus and I can assure you I do not smell flowery all the time.   I am also not an expensive, fast sports car.  I am more of a rusted pinto with a rotten fish in the back seat.  Mmmm, rotten fish.  Sexy.

So yeah, when I started this blog, I was in a hurry to get the show on the road, and I was sitting here going, “What should I call this thing?”

Ideas I Had:

1. Call it the secret name that you have for your vagina.
2. Use a couple of words that best describe who you are right now.
3. Steal the name of a popular blog and then pretend you didn’t know it existed.
4. Pay a hilarious and witty celebrity to name it for you.
5. Call it Tit Fingers.

Outcomes:

1. Then it wouldn’t be a secret anymore. Especially to myself. Since my vagina hasn’t even told me its secret name yet. We have trust issues. That’s an entirely different story.  Anyway, a no-go.
2. Seemed good.  I asked myself, “Who am I right now?”
   SAHM who interacts with son & husband more than anyone else.
   Interaction with son: Mom
   Interaction with husband: Sarcastic Bitch (Loving Wife would be nice, but I suck.)

   Example Situation: I am standing at the stove with a spatula hovering over a pancake. John comes walking into the room, says, “Oooh, are you making pancakes?” I look at him in bewildered disgust and reply, “Hell no, I’m not making pancakes. I was just minding my own business when this flapjack jumped through the window, and then tried to escape through the back door. I am aware that this flapjack is harboring secrets against our government, however, and am currently administering heat torture to force him to speak. The spatula is just to keep him at bay. Damn communist flapjack. I tell you, I won’t have it. And you? You think this is just a pancake I’m making. You are a prime example of why this country is going to hell in a hand basket. Pancakes indeed.  I may have to kill you tonight.”

   I find myself incapable of giving him a straight answer. “Ooh, are you making pancakes?” “Yes, dear, I am.” WILL NEVER HAPPEN.

   So, it appeared I was: a) A Mom and b) An incurable sarcastic bitch in my daily life.

   Sarcastic Mom

3. The story I came up with to cover why I would call my blog Dooce was all about how I am obsessed with poop (Who does number two work for!?), but don’t spell well in French. Both of those things are actually true, so it’s this really awesome lie of a story made up of totally true elements. Which meant I might really even be able to pass a lie detector test and everything. Except for the part when they’d ask me if I knew that there already was a Dooce website. That and the thing about how Heather Armstrong would totally kick my ass stopped this plan dead in its tracks.
4. I was really keen on this but Conan O’Brien not only started refusing my phone calls, but informed me that used tin foil, dryer lint, and desperate sexual acts are not acceptable payment and that furthermore, he’s married, wasn’t interested, and I’m stupid and ugly. Then he requested a restraining order against me. It’s okay, I know it’s all a front to keep his wife in the dark about our secret love. Which is so secret that even he is not aware of it. But it kind of made me have to go with one of the other plans again.
5. This is totally still my backup blog name. I just checked; it’s available. Can you believe no one has snatched up TitFingers.com??? If this website ever disappears, and you want to find me, look that name up.

I have to warn. I might not always talk about tits. Or fingers. Or touching breasts with phalanges. You know, just FYI.

Oh, by the way, on the occasions where I say or write something that’s not sarcastic, please forget to inform me of this grave error.  I know it is highly unacceptable for a person to ever say or write anything that does not perfectly reflect their moniker or website name.  And yet?  Look how much I care.

I really should have my ass kicked for that.

Just pretend that my not being sarcastic is just me being really sarcastic about being sarcastic.

Yeah.  Stuff that in your pipe.

On the serious? Stop it, Braden.

I know that Braden
really loves me when he makes
the special effort

to work up a crap
in the middle of the night.
Then he screams for me.

Have you ever crapped
just because you missed someone?
I am so fla-turd.

(insert eye roll here)

The Doldrums

So, the past few days have been… okay.  Ups and downs.  A high desire to just sleep.  I’ve only threatened John’s life a handful of times, and I swear, I have been limiting my thoughts of poking him in the eye with my thumb to a minimum of 5 a day.  In all fairness, every time I tell him, “I’m going to slap you,”  he responds with, “I’ll punch you in the face.”  So, you know, I’m obviously not the only one with anger issues around here.  Also, there is still no desire for business.  Please pray for John’s continued sanity.

As part of my desire to be a better mother, I’ve really been working on my “closet problem” with Braden.  Although I haven’t been able to stop myself from putting him in there frequently, at least I’ve limited the amount of time he had to stay there.  Two hours at a time is really kind of me, right?

Additionally, The Mexican has still been spared the fate of the microwave, although I do have to admit that I’ve recently been considering putting him in the crock pot instead, anyway.  Less mess, and who knows?  He might be nice and tender… I’ve been so lazy about preparing meals lately….

Oh, yeah.  The jerks still haven’t called me with the results from my thyroid labwork. But guess what came in the mail today?  THE BILL.  The MF’ing bill.  Including a test for Thyroid Antibodies, WHICH I DIDN’T NEED.  See, I have ALREADY been diagnosed with Hashimoto’s Thyroiditis.  That means that antibodies have already been detected.  And there’s this thing about your body where ANTIBODIES DON’T JUST DISAPPEAR.    I am livid about having this bill in my hand already when I have been given no results, and I am livid about the cost. 

THREE HUNDRED EIGHTY SEVEN DOLLARS. 

Did you choke?  Cause when I saw that, my vagina literally just fell off my body.  Hey, I haven’t been using it lately anyway, so, no big deal, right? But come ON!  And, of course, the test I didn’t need was the most expensive one.

So, you know… I’m just a tiny, litte bit PISSED OFF.

The weather is not helping my mood.  Today = Grey.  The clouds are grey, the sky is grey, THE WORLD IS FREAKING GREY.  But no snow!  No, not here!  If it has to be so dreary and bleary and cold and crappy, it would be nice if we could have a gee golly winter wonderland out there.  At least then it would look SHINY as well as WHITE, instead of GREY.

Seriously.  I hate this.  Outside, it looks like if you tasted it, you’d have that bitter aspirin taste in your mouth.

Today, outside tastes yucky.  And that makes me sad.