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So, I’m making Guinness chili tonight. I browned the ground beef, the chorizo (secret ingredient!), onions and garlic. Poured in the tomatoes, the broth, the Guinness (squee!), spices, herbs. Joe got ready for me EVERYTHING I wrote down on the List O’ Stuff To Add. He’s a fantastic sous chef, really.

We get it all simmering away, knowing that it won’t be at its best until the morning. I’m doing flash-tasting on and off…just to check seasoning and everything else.

That’s fine.

About an hour ago, I say to Joe…”hon…come taste this. Do you think there’s something missing?”

Joe: “….it’s really really tasty..do we need more garlic?”

Me: “..hrrrrm…dunno…maybe a little?”

Joe: ” what about more chili powder?”

PAUSE.

Me: “………….um……Oh…my….gosh….”

Joe: “what?!”

Me: “Joe…read me the list I gave you….”

(Joe reads off the list I gave him. Which happened NOT to included ANY chili powder. AT ALL)

I have apparently made an incredibly tasty chili…without using chili powder.

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Yes,  it’s true.     I do suck.

Can’t quite believe I haven’t updated this in so long.        I suppose between the kids and the usual ‘stuff’,    my preferred method of brain dumping fell by the wayside and that’s frankly a bit pants.

So,   my goals this month:

1.     Journal at least twice a week.

2.    Try to stick with our new boundaries.   (BPD families take note)

3.    Walk more

4.    Try to actually keep past promises and commitments.      At least where feasible.

5.    Keep following doctor’s orders…

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Well crap.

I have to vent here because I don’t want the kids or Joe to see it.

They don’t – as far as I’m aware – visit this blog unless I link to a specific post on FB.

But SHIT.    I had a liver ultrasound today and good fucking grief it FUCKING HURT.          No,  it’s not supposed to hurt.        Even if you have tenderness associated with a particular complaint it’s really not supposed to “hurt”.           Uncomfortable?     Sure.         A bit sore afterwards?      Entirely possible.

Actually bring tears to your eyes though?     Not so much.

The other fucked up part of this is that I know how to read an ultrasound.          I can read measurements.        I can differentiate between a mass and a gas bubble or empty space.     I can tell what is artifact and what is not.

THAT sucks.        I guess now I just wait.

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I’ve spent far too many minutes recently looking at websites which focus on Really Ugly Tattoos.        Good grief some of these suckers are FUGLY.

Now,   I’m a tattooed chick.        I have three of my own but only one can be seen in public unless I’m either naked   (in which case you’re not likely to see it unless your name is Joe,    Angel,    MaggieDoodle or Scoopybutt),       or wearing something more in tune with Faire    (which admittedly is not often these days).          I do  have an appreciation for both self-expression,   and self-confidence.

However…

Just because you can do something doesn’t mean that you should….and in that vein  (har har har),   I  can think of one word in particular which should make people pause when they’re in that sublime state where they are seriously considering that a Ron Jeremy/Llama/Spongebob Threesome tattoo would be completely awesome.

GRANDCHILDREN.

That is all.

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Huh.

I spent my birthday (the 12th)  telling everyone that I was 38.

The really stupid part is that I’m actually only 37.

And the really REALLY stupid part is that I’ve spent the best part of a year thinking I was going to be 38 this year!

Epic Fail.

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(Puppeh actually has Joe’s voice in real life,   for the most part.    Occasionally she slips into a sort of weird British/Alabama hybrid accent)

Me:     Angel,   jump down,   honey.     Daddy wants to lay down.

Pup:    This is MAH bed.      You hoomins can sleep somewhere else.

Me:    No.    This is OUR bed.     You’re the child.

Pup:    But MO-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-OM

Me:     Zip it!   Mommy is working!

Pup:   *mutters*   huh you post MY pictures online but you won’t let me go online and pway HoominWorld on PuppehBook with mah friends

Me:    You don’t like it?     Go to court and get yourself emancipated

Pup:    Can’t.     You won’t let me out of the gate.

Me:     …and what are you going to do when you get there?     You have no opposable thumbs…

Pup:     …I got four feet!

Me:     Yep,  so has the fence.

Pup:    ….they’ll take my statement…..WOOOOF!

Me:      Oh really?    The Judge will say   “Yeah,  kid,   every teen thinks it’s rough at home…now go back to Mom before I call her and get her to come get you herself”.

Joe:     ….oh THAT was  GOOD….

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Hi, August.

I’m sorry I missed your first couple of days.

I promise I shall be more diligent with blogging and try to include interesting or funny stuff.

Otherwise you may be doomed to a month of medical tests,  physical complaints and general bullshit.

But heck – I can and will still tell silly jokes!

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