Why I am writing

Now that some of my friends and family know that I'm writing, it seems they are all getting their funny freaks on for my benefit.  I don't know if it is my imagination, but I'm beginning to think that funny is being thrust upon me.  The fact that the Purv said at least once last night "if this makes your blog" and that the Unit (the Purv keeps insisting his 'real' name makes him sound HUGE)...er...Innocent Bystander...seems to be just FEEDING me material is giving me pause.  I mean, honestly, I am not TRYING to be funny.  You can't make this shite up.  For instance:

We were up at the bar the other night and there were four or five guys up there, Boobielicious (the beer wench) and me.  She used to be married to a doctor, and somehow the conversation turned to the fact that she had been her former husband's nurse in her 'previous life'.  I watched the domino effect as each beer sodden brain absorbed this fact, and the silly little grin and wiggle that each of the men made to adjust 'themselves' as the image of those nicely tanned tatas in that pristine white uniform fully wedged its way into their pants.  One of them raised his eyes reverently and almost whispered "Do you still have that uniform?" 

 *snort*

The Innocent Bystander has obviously been running with this thought, as tonight his suggestion was that she wear that as her Halloween costume and that all the guys come as patients who need sponge baths.  That's my guy.

Like I said.  100% keepin' it real.  Which brings me to my topic today.  Why I am writing:

I worked at a wonderful local orthopaedic practice the last six years that I was employed by anyone other than the Innocent Bystander. (Have I mentioned how well he tips me now that I'm on his payroll?  Me love him LOOONNNGGG time.)  I loved everyone I worked with and I totally loved my job, but when I am on someone else's timeclock (*clears throat and whispers* "other than the IB's") I feel like I have to actually be WORKING the entire time I am on the clock, and when I found myself resenting people I really loved who didn't share my work ethic (and we all know I am everso farking ethical, now, don't we?  It just wasn't right) I made the Innocent Bystander miserable with my bitching.  As a result, when the Juevo (WAVE-OH for you gringos) finally got his SSI benefits approved (so we could drop his insurance etc)  after 3 years of fighting, IB said I could quit and be his 'land hand'.  Worked for me!!!

My last day to work was my birthday in November of last year.  Since then, I guess this crap has just been fermenting.  When the IB is away, my most worrisome thought is 'where am I gonna eat tonight?" since I am not good at cooking for just me unless a little cardboard box and some gamma rays are involved.  He really does provide everything I require to sustain life, and I am the "I don't sweat on purpose" kinda girl, so I started just vegetating other than planning our next trip and googlestalking everyone I knew.  I mean, I love my life, but where was the challange?  I guess a little conflict and drama in your life are good, because they give you something to focus on.  In any case , through email, my Auntie En (there's no place like home *clicks heels* there's no place like home *clicks heels* there's no place like home *clicks heels*) and I have reconnected. We started writing back and forth. She writes poetry, and she encouraged me to write 'not just for her'.  She pointed out that people are basically voyeurs, and now that I've been reading some of your blogs and find that I want to peer even closer into YOUR panty drawers I want to organize MYNE a bit more and allow you to sift through my unintentional shitestains of a public laundry basket because that crap doesn't bother me.  I'm THAT girl.  Sift all you want.

I am at the point that, really?  How many sitcoms can I watch? And how much weed can I really smoke?

Thanks for stopping by.  Let me know you were here.  You don't have to comment, but a little % sign in the comment section or something will help me finger out how many of you are actual reader/stalkers and how many are just people who are looking for vaginas, boobies, or penises.  Not that I don't love them too, but I am really curious about who is reading this stuff.

*smooches*