Parental Guidance Required For This Post

I have a couple-few things tonight, because I am currently about as cold as the air surrounding the Death Star, and I want nothing more than to crawl into bed, beneath twenty-two blankets, and I want at least FOUR OF THOSE to be blankets of the electric variety.

The sad thing is simply that Hubs and I don’t own an electric blanket.  Oh, we used to; truly we did.  And the glamorous part of it was simply this:  It came with a laundry label which clearly stated, in Times New Roman font, size 12, “Wash in cold water on your machine’s gentle cycle.” And, people, I followed those directions once, and what came out of the Whirlpool wasn’t actually the beige electric blanket that had gone INTO the washing machine.  What emerged was a shredded hay bale that a previously-been-fasting camel had found.

And attacked.

And eaten.

With hungry gusto.

And because of that, we don’t have an electric blanket any longer for nights such as this, when the mercury in the thermometers turns blue and tries to thumb a ride to Starbucks.

But really, I just wanted to assure y’all that my hair fared a bit better today.  Yesterday, without a doubt, my mane looked like Barbie’s, after she’s been thoroughly loved by a six-year-old girl, and dunked in the outdoor wading pool a hundred too many times and left in the sandbox to dry.

(Usually, by the time Barbie’s hair looks that poorly, she’s also missing her left arm and her purple pumps, and Ken has suggested that they just separate for a while, on a trial basis, until she cleans her act up.  And, while Barbie is busy contemplating the Jojoba hot oil treatment over the advertised merits of Alberto V05, Ken has more than likely slipped out in the pink Corvette to see what Skipper’s up to on the other side of the room, because Skipper is usually clever enough not to use the Curls Galore.)

The bottle of Curls Galore is, from here on out, dead to me.

And also, I will just throw my confession out there, and go on record as saying that I am now completely in love with the Coffee Mate.  I have also decided that drinking my lunch can actually be more pleasurable than making a sandwich.

(I think this is actually something that Ernest Hemingway might have said, too, but obviously for different reasons, because I doubt he was really interested in the honey and vanilla ‘Mate slopped into HIS beverage glass.)

I guess with the discovery of liquid Coffee Mate (Why am I always a decade behind the rest of the population?!), I have now become an official coffee liker.  (But still, I can’t do coffee any other way.  My coffee either dates the Coffee Mate, or I can’t tolerate it.)

Last month I saw a T-shirt on a fellow at the trendy, downtown coffee shop in Small Town, which read (and I quote), COFFEE MAKES YOU POOP.

Naturally, because of my self-professed maturity level (or complete lack thereof), I laughed out loud at that T-shirt, but honestly, I had no idea (JUST! NO! IDEA!), because I was not a coffee liker last month.

And this month, I’d just like to say that sometimes a shirt speaks the truth in love.

And with that said (and knowing that my own sweet mama is going to think to herself, “I thought I raised that girl to be more ladylike!”), I’m going to crawl into bed with my book.

And twenty-two blankets.

None of which are electric.

It’s all because Small Town has decided to sport temperatures tonight that are really closer to those found on Pluto.

Drink more coffee, people.  Stay warm, and stay regular.

And y’all have a happy Thursday night.

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