My sister drove an hour and a half from her home to visit some friends. An hour down the return trip she asked husband to find something in her handbag [she is such a control freak she has to drive even though he is a FAR better driver. He gives in for peace]. He could not find her handbag [pocketbook]. They had to turn around, drive an hour back to the friend, collect the handbag and then drive the 90 minutes home.
WHAT WOMAN FORGETS HER HANDBAG? We are born with a handbag clutched in one chubby hand.. And this is not a one off. She does it on a regular basis. She is so busy trying to control everything around her that she forgets her handbag, her glasses, and everything else she has. If she visits me I always walk around and check my house for her belongings before allowing her to drive away.
But what woman forgets her handbag? Our lives are in our handbag. I don't think she is human. She must have some mutant gene.
]]>Vatican refuses to rule out alien life!
[http://www.smh.com.au/news/world/vatican-refuses-to-rule-out-alien-life/2008/05/14/1210444477504.html?sssdmh=dm16.314841 ]
Not surprised - they have lived in an alien world for centuries!
]]>
Aliens are diabolical. They are masters of mind control. They can taken a normal woman and turn her into a raving obsessed lunatic with the flash of a dial. Yes it was weight day. First 4 scale readings on my electronic scales (I am nothing if not thorough) reported that I was a whopping 2.5 kgs smaller than last week. I knew they were having me on. So I walked away for three minutes then came back. Those 3 readings so I was now a kilo lighter than the same time and day last week.
Now I should have been happy with that, but no, I had to challenge the aliens. I had to weight myself again. Twice, actually. Back to 2.5.
I then lost all composure. I moved the scales to different floor positions, tried walking on with first the right foot, then the left foot. I did it in fast succession. Multiple times. Went away and dried my hair a little more until I risked looking like the triangular haired girl out of Dilbert. Weighed again. The readings ricocheted between the two figures.
I pulled myself together when I heard a noise and realized I was groaning and mumbling to myself. The aliens were playing the tune and I was twirling around my bathroom like a frenzied member of the Irish Riverdance troupe. I am glad the bathroom door was closed, so that no close family member witnessed Mother having more than a moment.
Reason would have told any sane women to split the difference and feel superior, but I think it is fairly well established I am a little short on sanity, especially under stress. I could have also not been greedy and sensibly embraced the1 kilo reading as a job well down. No, I had to try outwitting those aliens.
I shook the scales before replacing them on the floor and alighting once more. The top half of two electronic red zeros glared back at me. It refused to give me a coherent reading.
Do I take this as a godsend as the alien saga could now be put to rest? Or do I go out and purchase new bathroom scales, and maybe a tape measure to measure my circumference as a counterbalance to error? Oh, and a hair shirt (this season’s color of course!), all the better to torment myself with…
Weighty issues indeed.
]]>