The Write Woman Doesn’t Get it Right this Time (350 Days Left)

Don't let the bat fool you, she'd use her bare hands.

Someone please explain to my why there are eight-year-old boys calling my cell phone! You may be wondering the same thing, until you remember I have an eight-year-old daughter. His name is Gabe. Supposedly he’s the catchall of the entire third grade collection of girls missing their front teeth. My daughter has a fit when it’s time to shower and still wears two different shoes in a time crunch, how in the hell can she already be getting notes telling her to check yes or no? My daughter hasn’t even lost her front teeth yet, although one has been dangling for almost two months now. Perhaps it’s the simple things in life I’m not getting, maybe her having nubby little baby teeth is the new orange. Then again, perhaps it’s the way she describes her body hair like that of a cat under duress, poking out wildly. Heck, I have no idea what gets a young dude’s motor purring, and frankly, don’t want to. Who knows what little kids will do nowadays?

This is NOT my son, however Cameron would be thrilled to snuggle this guy.

My son is a whole different story. The thought of a girl scares the bejeebins out of him, yet he keeps talking about how much he’s looking forward to having a baby of his own. Yeah, yeah, we’ve talked about that, sort of. Every time I let him know we need to talk, the same exasperated expression swamps his face. In huge bold letters I can see what his brain is telling him, “Run the other way, quick!” And I never gave the stupid talk that starts off with “When a man falls in love with a woman…” because really, who is going to believe that mishmash of lies? Kids don’t even know what love is the first time they flip the pancakes, even though they think they do. I know because I used to be one of those hormone-bouncing confused girls that thought I would throw myself across the railroad tracks for the star football star. No, I don’t remember his name, but he was damned hot!

And what’s happening in the film life? Um, I’ve been reading a lot of online notes from various pros insisting they know the score. I’ve found that going to Amazon is a good idea, but just because someone has an all-star rating, research it anyway. If you’re asking what I’m talking about, consider the game for sale on Amazon called, “The Movies—Superstar Edition”. Trust me when I say anyone who buys this game is as intelligent as a wet piece of confetti stuck to the bathroom wall. Okay, that’s my pathetic purchase, but I have a big mouth and I pledge to use it to everyone else’s benefit. The game is supposed to teach you how to run production of a film, but it’s just a grown-up version of “Happy Chef” for kids with overeaters and drunks. I’m only relieved I bought it after the limelight faded, so it was cheaper. Sure it only had four votes over the course of three years, but I thought I’d be crying “Eureka!”

 

With everything holy in me, if Broomhilda upstairs doesn’t stop her ghastly brewing, the overpowering aroma alone is bound to turn us into zombies. Whatever she’s making cannot possibly be anything purchased from a human’s store. Halloween isn't for a month!
 
Meanwhile, if I flip my head fast enough to the side, I can kiss myself on the cheek. Forty-eight sounds better than it looks, I suppose. But I’m not finished yet.