I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts

When it comes to my body I am, on the whole, mostly happy. Yes of course I could stand to lose a few (dozen) pounds and reduce the flab that coats my thighs and ass (& stomach, chest, neck and arms). I could do without my arms looking like they're doing their own little disco dance when I raise a hand to wave at a friend (or smack my husband up the side of the head). But on the whole, I've become accustomed to the way things are for now and I'm ok with it. Sure, I'd love if my fairy godmother could pry herself off her barstool long enough to work some lipo magic but apparently the gin & tonics that they serve at the Fairy Campus Bar are too alluring. Bitch.

Anyway, one of the things I particularly like, and Hotty Hubby is addicted to, are my tatas. Kajungas. Magnificent Mammaries. Tits. Boobs. Call them what you will, mine are awesome. They're big, they're bouncy and they look great in any shirt. I'm sure that if the aforementioned Fairy Godmother ever gets her act in gear, or if I ever put in some real effort, then they'll shrink some...but they'll always be awesome.

This past weekend, I decided to put my breastificence to good use when we went out to dinner. Seems the hot young thing that was our server had a hard time keeping his eyes off my twin set...and I wasn't even wearing my pearls! More drinks Madam? Could I get you another of those? I'll just go get you another shall I? And why don't we give you all more ice cream than any other patron out here on the patio.

Don't mind if I do.

I do mind, however, if when I am sleeping, a certain Hotty Hubby decides (in his sleep, I'll grant him that) that my udderly fantabulous milk jugs are free for the grabbing. Does he really have room to complain about my hogging the bed if he spends all night doing the adult version of the yawn & stretch that was perfected in the movie theatres of his teenage years?

Since we moved into our temporary accomodation in preparation for our move, I have had to deal with the mini herd of elephants that inhabits the upstairs suite of this house, the ridonculously small bed that Hotty Hubby and I have been allocated (it's a DOUBLE people!!! A fucking double bed for one overweight woman and an albeit skinny, 6 foot 4 man!!), not to mention the insane amount of horrible little arachnids that inhabit every nook and cranny they can find in this place (and there are many!).

As he complains about the fact that I prefer to sleep in a starfish position, thus taking up 95% of the bed (did I mention he's skinny and really only NEEDS 5% ?), I find myself moving on from my complaint that he has a fondness for pretending to be a caterpillar by rolling himself into a cocoon in every inch of blanket and top sheet available thus leaving me freezing my over sized ass off every night to complaining about the fact that my, admittedly, horn dog of a husband has decided to branch out from his swaddling activities....to "sleep groping". At least four or five times through the night, the man rolls over in his "sleep" and somehow (!!) ends up manhandling my boobage. Once is tolerable, twice I might not kill him for, but after the second time, I'm rather tempted to smother him with his pillow...or just push him off the bed in his cocoon.

Of course, once he has woken me up "accidentally" for the umpteenth time during the night, I find it harder to get back to sleep and find myself bunny braining about all the millions of things that are going on in our lives like how much crap we somehow still have, even after selling virtually everything we own that doesn't fit into a suitcase.

We leave for New Zealand in just 17 days and I find myself wanting to crawl into the deepest darkest hole I can find, preferably with a couple of hot guys to keep me company, to hide until someone else does all the packing and sorting for me. Now, the last time I mentioned something along these lines to someone, they were very diplomatic and said (almost with a straight face even!) "Couldn't Hotty Hubby do a bunch of that?"

*pause for dramatic effect*

Having picked myself up off the floor with tears of laughter streaming down my face, I tried my very best to maintain a deadpan face as I responded "Absolutely". But really, I am pretty sure the only way I could get him to do a "bunch of that" would be if I taped a mini bag of M&Ms to each individual thing that needed to be packed and then started him on it NOW. I think I'll leave him to entertain the spawn while I do the grunt work this time. There'll be plenty of time for payback at a later date. Like, the next time the toilets need cleaning, or the hair (gag) needs pulling out of the bathtub (gag) drain (hurl).

Ok, seriously...what is with the insane amount of hair that falls out of women's heads? I shampoo, I condition, I use this $22 rip off bottle of Anti-Snap stuff by Redken and still the hair comes out of my head in handfuls. I have taken to wearing my hair in a ponytail 99% of the time because on the odd occasion I wear it down, within 5 minutes I look like I just had sex with a very rambunctious sheepdog. Yeah...attractive right?

So normally, removing the hair from the drain is the job of the adult male in this family and it usually occurs without too much of a complaint from him, although he's been known to roll his eyes at me for my incredibly inability to do this without gagging even though I can wipe shit off the ass of my 4 year old without nary a vomit filled thought. So sue me, I have a strong gag reflex.

The other day I found myself in a bit of a quandary. Hotty Hubby was out, I needed a shower. No problem right? Wrong! Turn the water on, get the right temperature......oh shit, the water isn't draining properly. Well this is a whole new issue on it's own because now I have two choices.

1. Stand in the UNdraining bathtub and shower myself while the water rises and the soap scum and pubes that were stuck to the side of the bathtub from when Hubby showered, all detach and start sticking to my legs instead ... eww! (and what is with a man's inability to rinse a bathtub??)
2. Remove the clumps of my OWN hair from the drain and toss it in the toilet. Equally as disgusting and not something I relished either.

I wish I could remember whether I had been into the gin that day because for some reason I chose option 2 and decided to do the hair removal myself.

Never. Again. EVER.

Gag. Gag. Gag. Ugh this is awful. Gag. Hurl. Almost done. Gag. Hurl. Good enough. Ugh.

I think that job will be permanently relegated to the "Hubby does this because otherwise the mess that results from it is bigger than what was originally there" list.