What I'm Thankful For:

Leonard Bobswell Style

Jord, Jal, Jallen: likes the color teal, very leggy sex goddess, business savvy, makes great pizza.

Kayla, Kay, Kaylor, Lor, Lorence, Pip, Lil Pip, Pippy: voice of reason, innovative salad extraordinaire, and one hell of a head of hair.

 

Katie, Kate, Kath: Not a morning person, heart of gold, impressive musical taste, heavy drinker. 

Britt, Chronley, Chrontons, Chron Bean, Chrontons: Dog enthusiast, swears often, batshit crazy, but v. loyal.

I am thankful for them because they:

Support day, week or month-long fits of neuroticism even when it has reached scary Linda Blair level. Only offering kind words of advice and having unyielding faith that there is a light at the end of the bastard tunnel that is my twenty-somethings.

Encourage gluttony whole-heartedly, and openly curse tooth-pickesque models in Cosmo with cookie-filled mouths often consequently bespattering the counter with crumbs and drool.

Say nothing when the bathroom has become personal home-spa (i.e. sweat-shop dedicated to making a hefty Greek girl appear slender and Swedish.) littered with hair-plucking, tooth-whitening, armpit softening, stretch mark removing, zit-zapping, skin-toning, eye-brightening, bang-straightening, nail-clipping products for days at a time.

Disregard chronic kleptomania, and wait patiently for missing magic fat-disguising shirt, or ass-shaping skirt to return.

Occasionally fold and deliver clothes left in dryer for six or more days. I know the system I use (i.e. removing necessary articles from dryer one by one, namely underwear and tops) does not always coincide with everyone’s individual needs, so your efforts to correct my bad habits are not in vain, the management has noticed and you will be rewarded in due time.

Say sweet and ego-boosting phrases like “Guitar sounds great! Keep it up.” Or, “Was that you playing? Man, I thought it was the radio.” Or, “Woah, I didn’t know we lived with Bob Dylan!” Despite the small fact that, it does not in fact sound great, and we don’t live with him, those are posters I jerk off to, and you’ve been hearing the same four chords played exactly one way for the last two years.

Have not yet submitted me to What Not To Wear, but have instead stuck to nearly effective tactics such as: open ridicule, whole removal of horrid sweater, keenly placed fashion magazines, and the weekly observation of Gossip Girl. 

And because they love me, all the time. 

The End of an Era

Sweet Friends,

I know you've heard it before, the classic break-up line, the easy out, the explanation for all things unexplainable: "it's not you, it's me." Well, I truly wish I could say more but I'm afraid that's all it comes down to. It's nothing you did, just sheer laziness on my part. I even started several posts but felt they were lacking, not enough pictures, nothing witty to say, no exciting news to share, no candy worth eating to provide a link to. The good news? I've missed you, and I hope to be returning regularly now.  However, my reason for returning is all too devastating not to share.

My beloved Prince of Wales, the man of my dreams as well as many distasteful and graphic fantasies, is engaged.
(Oh stop rolling your eyes, ladies. What you had with him wasn't real.)

 

Mmm, gimme that.

Apparently, he and Waity Katie have had a bit of an agreement. Meaning, they've been planning to be hitched since 2007. No. NO! I say. Just to refresh you this was the year they broke up, and the year I began shopping for funny hats decorated with sprigs and veils in preparation for the day I must epitomize royal fashion as England's Queen. The news of their "engagement" reached the states sometime last month but failed to reach me until approximately 2pm Sunday, while I was innocently browsing the magazine racks at the grocery store. 

After sending my sweetie a small collection of collages crafted by yours truly, all that featured the two of us doing activities together back in 2001, I am led to believe he does in fact have my address and could have dropped me a letter.

Additionally, I would like to point out that our relationship began long before his and Kate's and it seems only fair that we be married and not them. I even had the song we would dance to picked out: Get Here (If You Can) by Oleta Adams.

I heard it late one night while listening to Light Rock 105 and pining over my sweet prince; it was entirely appropriate given my understanding that he has access to a private jet and happens to be an excellent windsurfer.

Unfortunately, despite my most sincere attempts to disband their eventual marriage, it is time for me to throw in the towel. Kiss my Prince Charming good-bye and settle for another man.

Top on my list?
HRH Prince Carl Philip of Sweeden

Holla!

That's all for now dear friends,

Danielle