I'm so tired, I need a new word to express my tiredness. Sadly the English language leaves me unable to fully make you aware of my tiredness, so I shall have to invent one right on the spot.
I am Ad-Bay Ired-Tay.
My fluency in Pig Latin is directly related to the fact that I am married to one.(You can decide if I mean I'm married to a pig or a Latin. It'll be a fun game that will provide you hours of good natured fun.)
Because I am a notoriously positive person (and not a bad liar either), I have been trying to tell myself how lucky I am that I get to work 12 and 16 hour days lately. I mean, it could be worse, right? Surely there are worse things than working all day and then getting up at the butt crack of dawn to do it again. Right?
Am I right?!?
Let's see here. Shaving the testicles of lions before they get testicular surgery is probably worse. I don't know...they probably give 'em some kind of lion sedative before they send in the shaver so maybe my current job is still worse. Unless the sedative is delivered in suppository form, in which case perhaps the exciting position of lion suppository technician is worse than my job.
You think they have a TV Diploma course for that?
To truly say which is worse however I need to first find a lion who is need of anal medicine and see how it goes. If I live through it and still have 8 fingers and at least a large part of my face intact, I'm changing careers. After all, it's my shining personality that keeps getting me husbands. They'll never notice my lacko digits and half gnawed face... so long as the lion doesn't get at my shining personality holders that are conveniently stored in my breasts.
I don't know why I have to work at all, frankly. Mr. Man makes more than enough money to support us in the manner to which I have become accustomed. The cabinets always have a healthy supply of Underwood Deviled Ham, the fridge is stocked with Diet Pepsi with Caramel and my car has all four doors on it. (Now.) Why do I have to have a career? What the hell happened to the Leave it to Beaver dream of yesteryear? Who decided that we women have to have jobs and do "important work" any damn way? If it was put up to vote at one of them there Women's Lib meetings, I was not in attendance.
Or I was drunk. Or in the middle of one of my weddings. Or drunk.
See, here's the thing. I am more than content to make martinis and cookies and serve them to my husband and son when they come home after their hard day of doing man things like picking their noses and rolling around in substances that make them smell bad than to be at a job of my own outside this house.
I'm not for sure which of my guys gets the cookies and which gets the martinis, but that's not what's important. What's important is that Momma's in the kitchen with a skirt on, a bottle of alcohol and a bag of chocolate chips and that's just the way God meant it to be. Look it up if you don't believe me.
I'd better get going now. It's time to go to bed again so I can get up ten minutes from now and go back to work.
Equal rights my ass.
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