family

Keep on Pushing Me Baby

Did you know that you can give a soon to be 3-year-old an IQ test?

You can.

And when that almost 3-year-old would prefer to hit a balloon around a room rather than answer inane questions, that nearly 3-year-old earns the distinction of “borderline.”

Yes, my son scored in the 2 percentile of “total bullshit bullshittery” category on his IQ test. He was average in other made-up areas and low in I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-Butter Hoopery. I have a glisteny report that details it all and it sort of tastes like margarine.

Three years ago today, my son was born. That day was going to be a gorge-athon of hamburgers and french fries when my water unexpectantly broke and I underwent an emergency c-section because my kid was breech. He was a month early. He came out in the shape of a potato head with the same spindly arms.

He had trouble lifting his head. He didn’t walk until 18 months, but fuck if he didn’t know all the letters of the alphabet by 2.

We got on it early. By six months, he was in physical therapy. Six months ago, he started occupational therapy to help his fine motor skills. His therapists say the same thing: “He’s smart as get out; he’s just low muscle tone.”

Because of his birthday, he’s being moved from the county to the local school district, and this is why he’s suddenly “bordeline” and in the words of Madonna, it’s like I’m gonna lose my mind.

Even the IQ administrator stated the test doesn’t adequately gauge intelligence. So why are we doing this exactly?

Tomorrow he has his first committee on preschool special education meeting. The day I learned about this meeting, my “borderline” son read the word “toys” in a new book.

Something seems a bit off. In the same way, giving every child the same state assessment to judge a teacher’s ability seems like an inadequate form of measurement.

Tomorrow will be a success if I do not throw a chair through a window.

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Home is Where the Hugo Is

Someone’s trash is another person’s excuse to add to the giant hoarding heap.

Lordy rat’s nest, do I have a load of crap in my house.

When you are trying to sell your house, it is considered wise to unclutter it, to make the path through the living room 6-inches wide instead of the current 3. It is prudent to not have the mold-covered boxes reach the ceiling when shoulder-level is more appropriate, and the collection of pigeon droppings in the corners is a big no-no.

I am not a hoarder. I am a thrower. I like to throw items away, and contribute to the eventual demise of our species when we are all swallowed up by the giant ocean garbage patches.

My husband is less of a thrower. He walks a thin line between saver and hoarder.

When my parents moved two years ago, my mother bestowed upon me all my childhood things she had been storing for all these years.

I received a garbage bag filled with Barbie doll heads; the hair shorn, the heads painted with nail polish. Ooh! I was looking for these! What a find. I immediately set them up on my mantlepiece and was promptly arrested for being a serial killer.

Or maybe I said “Why in the world did you save these?”

I am trying to avoid a similar situation of handing my son a bag of broken crayons and used pacifiers upon his departure from the nest so I have been throwing many thing away under the guise of “Oh, these are for the garage sale.”

There will never be a garage sale.

And my saver husband has been going along with it rather well.

There’s only been one slight glitch.

This apparently is moving into our new house with us:

Yes. His eyes are following you. You are not imagining it.

His name is Hugo. He is the man of a thousand faces, and was a puppet who haunted my waking hours as a child. My husband saved him from the stash of childhood things.

You used to be able to put mustaches and wigs on him or you used to be able to cower in his presence and beg your older brother to remove the mini-lifelike man from your sight. Fun for the whole family.

He currently lives in the basement because if he were anywhere in our living space, I would feel his eyes boring into the back of my head. He has not been placed in the garage sale box, but in the keep-in-the-storage-space box.

Look, he has hands:

The better to strangle you with while you sleep.

I guess I should be content with the idea of him moving into the storage space. At least he will be out of the house and stop whispering to me when no one else is around.

I have tried to move him to garage sale boxes, but he always manages to escape.

Evidence:

Hugo the man with a foot fetish.

I’m thinking he will make a fantastic college graduation present for my son. Fun for the whole family.

Gardening 101

We are in the process of putting our house on the market.

It’s been awesome.

Wait, is awesome the right word?

No…I was thinking of something else, like arrggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!?!

Yes that sums it up nicely.

So apparently when you want to sell your house, you have to really get it in good shape. You have to return to those home projects you long abandoned in favor of watching Bachelor Pad: The Night of the Living Herpes. For instance, you have to finish building the stairs so they connect directly to the second floor. You can no longer use your couch as a napkin. And you should dismantle the 50 Shades of Grey torture shack in the living room.

We have lived in our house for eight years. We began our home ownership with gusto. We painted the exterior ourselves and made a solemn blood vow to never do that again. We painted most of the interior, leaving the hallway and ceiling above the stairs unfinished because of the whole not-being-14-feet tall and the not-wanting-to-use-a-ladder-on-the-stairs-are-you-out-of-your-mind thought pattern.

Then our cable got connected and I tuned out the house projects and tuned into reality television. And the hallway remained beautifully unpainted. The landscape left to fester. And the dust bunnies met more dust bunnies, and you know how bunnies are.

But now we’re back in gusto mode.

Our realtor tells us we need to view our house through the eyes of the perspective buyer.

This is what worries me. Especially when I look at our non landscaping.

I don’t know how to garden. I have never had a green thumb, which I’m thankful for because that would likely be a sign of gangrene.

I don’t know. Be honest, does this scream “Buy me!”

See we have a carport, and a part or a port of the carport blew off, and we kind of threw that port or part right behind the house and piled some lawn chairs we never use on top of it. That’s a design of sorts, right? I believe it’s known as “clusterfuck”.

On the side of the house, we have trees that have commingled with our house à la Swiss Family Robinson style. But back-to-nature, no-birth-control-for-anyone-but-viagra-for-everyone, the Poltergeist-tree-is-real is all the rage now, yes?

Let’s hope so because this is my home:

It’s pretty in a my-house-is-being-made-love-to-by-trees kind of way. If I were the realtor, I would advertise it as a house with lots of oxygen potential. And most people are in favor of oxygen.

We also have a giant pile of leaves our neighbor lovingly raked into our shared bushes that is now home to a stray cat that enjoys spaying and mewing loudly. I would have taken a picture, but I was afraid my neighbor would see me. That should not deter you from buying the house. It’s not my neighbor, it’s me. I have gelotophobia, the fear of being laughed at.

There is much to do. And here I sit writing this blog.

But I’m hopeful it will get done because I learned today that this is not a flower so I can get to pulling.

Oh the Places You Won’t Go

May is the month of college commencements. In fact the local college’s commencement is tomorrow, and I have been trying like crazy to be tapped as this year’s keynote speaker. It makes sense since my name is Speaker7.

The current speaker is a sack of potatoes. I’m not trying to be mean. It is literally a sack of potatoes with a mouth painted on it (Budget cuts).

I don’t want to toot my own horn, but I do I think I can do a much better job. In fact I have a commencement address already prepared:

I am speaking now. Shut up. It is truly an honor to be here today to share this moment of accomplishment with you, and an accomplishment it is. In just a few years, you have managed to incur the kind of debt that used to take a lifetime to achieve.

You are embarking on a new journey, one where anything is possible until you see your first loan payment and realize it is more than the cost of your $450 intro to sociology textbook that you just sold for $25 to buy beer. 

It is a time for discovery. A time for discovering that your degree in newspaper journalism was probably not the best route nor was that minor in DVD repair, and you should have listened to your mother and gotten something in health care because if one thing is for certain, Americans will continue to get fatter and sicker.

It is a time of endless possibilities. There is the possibility that one of the 200 resumes you sent out will lead to a phone call from a prospective employer or the possibility that it won’t.

I believe the children are our future. I truly believe that the future will be populated by the people being born now. Does that make me a soothsayer? Possibly.

What I mostly believe–occasionally I believe something different after say, 3 glasses of wine–is that the future is bleak.

Things are grim. Not grim in a good way like a Brothers Grimm tale where a witch tries to cook children. No this is much worse–like the television show Grimm.

Look at the person to the left of you. That person will be moving back in with his/her parents. Now look to the right. So will that person.

Where does that leave you? Also living with your parents.

One percent of you come from rich families so you’ll likely live off their hard work of inheriting money from other generations. To you, I say, try to be less awful than your parents. This can be done by a) not having a reality show and b) not having a reality show and c) never speaking.

To the rest of you, the 99 percent, there are two jobs available. One is at Taco Bell working third shift. It involves cleaning Doritos dust from the tiles of the bathrooms. You will smell like taco meat most of the time. The other is a life coach. Unfortunately this job is made up.

So what are you going to do? This is not a rhetorical question. Seriously, what the fuck are you going to do?

There are options.

You may want to take the easy way out like standing in line for days to sing “I Believe I can Fly” before Howie Mandel and then watch as your dignity literally flies from your body. Or you may sniff a stranger’s ass for $10,000 on Total Blackout and look like this:

Those are literally the only two options I could think of. 

Good luck and happy commencing!

Dora the Annoyer

Six o’clock in the morning is really rough.

It’s not the best feeling in the world to know every morning you will get up at 6 a.m. regardless of the time you fall asleep. This is the life of a parent with a 2-year-old. In the past two years, the latest I’ve slept in has been 6:30 (three times), and it wasn’t even on any of those Mother’s days or birthdays. It was because he slept in until 6:30.

What makes it worse is sometimes it’s 5:30 a.m. There are things one does–things one is not proud of–to try to sleep an extra five to 10 minutes.

Maybe you do that thing where you pretend you do not actually hear your child crying. That is impossible. It’s like his cry is directly connected to my central nervous system. I say my because my husband could sleep through me jumping on his head with a pogo stick.

Or you get the kid, throw him into your bed and turn on the TV after six requests of “Watch show? Watch show? Watch show?”

The American Academy of Pediatrics recommends no television for children under the age of two. This is because they are doctors who can afford to have someone else watch their children, and have never played two solid hours of “What’s that?”

I don’t necessarily think it’s a bad thing that my infant son would rip himself away from my breast whenever the theme for It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia kicked in so he could watch the opening credits. It is classical muzak after all.

I only wish that would placate him now. Because now, what he likes to watch at 6 a.m. is Dora the Explorer.

Ah, Dora…How do I describe your voice? Think of a beginning violinist scraping his unrosined bow across a violin with a shrieking cat strapped to it. Think of someone inserting a needle directly into your left eardrum while someone crashes cymbals against your right. Think of a cheerleader whose mouth is actually a megaphone screaming directions while 1,000 bagpipes play and 1,000 dentists drill into a giant mouth made out of aluminum.

And that does not even come close to Dora’s voice.

“My voice has broken the sound barrier!”

Dora is always excited and always going on adventures and always needs your help and always wants you to shriek along with her. It’s glorious. Especially at 6 a.m.

She drags along a monkey in red boots, and she talks to her backpack, and can catch stars, and I fucking hate her more than I have ever hated any cartoon in my life and that includes Scrappy Doo who is an unbelievable monstrosity.

There is a fox named Swiper, and guess what he does?

Swipes stuff.

Swiper, can you swipe Dora’s vocal box? Thanks!

Dora becomes very agitated whenever Swiper is around and begins to wail with the intensity of 13,000 ambulance sirens that we must stop Swiper. “SAY SWIPER NO SWIPING” she bellows over and over again while I begin to fantasize that I’m chained to some random restroom in Saw 17.

Dora is very big on audience participation and what you think was the best part of the adventure. At the end of the task, she scream/sings the “We did it” song and then asks what your favorite part was.

My favorite part was when Dora was not speaking, that .001 second of the show.

“Me too!!!!!!” she screams back. Then she shrieks and shrieks and shrieks some more until I lose all feeling in my face. And then we have another episode at 6:30.

And this is likely what I will wake up to tomorrow. And the next 300 or so tomorrows.

I have just written a check to the American Academy of Pediatrics. Good work, guys.

This Post Will Cost Me Followers

Holy Samoa!

The Girl Scouts are teaming up with Nestle to create Girl Scout candy bars. This is the beginning of a journey that will ultimately end with me being extracted from my house by a forklift.

The bars are inspired by my three favorite cookies: thin mints, tag alongs and samoas, also known as the devil cookie.

I have gained five pounds just from viewing this picture.

I don’t know about you, but when I rip open a box of thin mints, I don’t eat the suggested serving of 2 cookies, I eat the non suggested serving of 2 sleeves of cookies thereby enabling me to put the empty cardboard box in a recycling bin in a timely manner. I do this for the environment.

Since I like candy way more than cookies, I imagine I will be eating the weight of my house in thin mint bars. I am excited.

But do you know who isn’t excited?

The U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops.

They have launched an intensive inquiry into the Girl Scouts much in the same manner they left no stone unturned in the Catholic priest sex scandal.

Wait, am I remembering that correctly?

Oh right.

So that was sort of swept under the rug a tad, but now they’re making up for it by examining whether the ingestion of Do-Si-Dos causes abortions. I’m sure if they find a connection, the bishops will just move that box of Do-Si-Dos from one warehouse to another. Problem solved.

Bishop and evil identifier Kevin Rhoades wrote a letter to the Girl Scouts requesting the organization clarify whether or not its programming turns girls into dirty, dirty whores who like unmarried sex, condoms and community service, but hate babies (I’m paraphrasing).

I should add that the Girl Scouts is a secular organization not run by the Catholic Church so this investigation makes perfect sense just the way my investigation into whether or not the Catholic Church leadership is out of its gourd is getting the attention it deserves (The results just come back: Yes it is – evidence).

“There had been some complaints about the Scouts, and the bishops couldn’t turn a deaf ear,” said Sister Mary Ann Walsh, a spokeswoman for the bishops.

Oh yes, I remember that guy. He looked up stuff on the Internet and concluded that the Girl Scouts was a communist organization hell bent on propagating Planned Parenthood’s pro-abortion agenda by going hiking and camping.

Yes, never ignore someone who looks like this:

“I look completely normal, right?l”

“I think you do.”

Um…I have a few complaints so maybe the bishops would like to keep their non-deaf ears turned this way.

Ok so here’s just a few, granted they are not as serious as the programming of a youth organization that attempts to instill the values of honesty and friendship, but hear me out:

  1. Why did the pope say condoms would make the AIDS crisis in Africa worse?
  2. Why did the pope reinstate a bishop who believes Jewish people were not sent to the gas chamber during the Holocaust, and said this about women: “A woman can do a good imitation of handling ideas, but then she will not be thinking properly as a woman”?
  3. Why did the pope criticize a group of nuns for focusing too much on poverty and economic injustice rather than focusing on cementing up lady parts, the root of all evil?

I’m sure you’ll get right on that.

I Now Pronounce You. . . A Giant Turd

When I see gay couples, I can’t help but wonder: Why do you insist upon ruining my life by being in love?

It’s really, really annoying. I want to be married so let me stay married. Don’t try to ruin it by living your own life and engaging in a committed relationship. Don’t you see how this hurts me?

Tami Fitzgerald gets it. She is the leader of North Carolina Has Finally Become Worse than South Carolina Values Coalition, and spearheaded that dandy new amendment that double-banned same sex marriage today in that state. I say “double-banned” because it was already banned so this ban works in the same way a dare becomes so much more of a dare when you triple-dog-dare it.

Tami says it’s all about people who believe in godly values. That totally describes me. Like take yesterday. I struck my slave with a rod, and it seemed like he was going to die, so I expected to be punished because my bad. But then my slave survived for two days and then died, and it was all good because he was my property (Exodus 21:20-21).

Godly values.

Tami’s not anti-gay, you guys. She’s pro-hate of gays marriage.

“And the point — the whole point — is simply that you don’t rewrite the nature of God’s design for marriage based on the demands of a group of adults,” she says.

Exactly. Why should adults decide things for themselves? Who do they think they are? Adults?

God’s design is so clearly spelled out in the Bible, yo. Why mess with it.

Like take last Sunday. My neighbor found a virgin outside and lied with her (which is Bible-speak for “did the nasty”). So he gave the slut’s dad 50 shekels to buy her vagina, and made her his wife (Deuteronomy 22:28-29). I would love to have a proposal story like that.

God’s design.

Lots of North Carolinians want to keep the design, a whopping 61 percent. Like Shane Cowell. He starts off saying “I’m a born-again Christian” and I immediately stop listening.  Then there’s Joe Easterling who says “procreation is impossible without a man and a woman” and gets an A in 6th grade health.

Tami says today’s vote sends a message, and I agree.

The message is this: Tami Fitzgerald, you are the Turd of the Week™.

Here Comes the Skeleton

It seems some women are a little obsessed with their wedding days.

Like this woman:

courtesy of the New York Times

She’s having a feeding tube inserted into her nose to maintain an 800-calorie-a-day diet. And she’s having a New York Times photographer take her picture while the procedure is being done signifying that she does not see this as batshit crazy.

Nosetube bride is not alone in her determination to drop weight before the wedding day. Other women use pills, colon cleanses, hormone injections or have their heads encased in cement to slim down so they can fit comfortably onto a gurney when they inevitably collapse into a coma on the dance floor.

Now normally I would be all like Girl please. Okay I would not be like that because I can’t pull it off. I sound way too awkward even when reading it silently in my head. I would be more like This is a bit extreme. Can’t you just buy a dress that already fits you? And then eat the food you likely spent a fortune on and just enjoy the goddamn day because it is just one day and your guests are going to be too drunk to give two squirts about the size of your butt? But I may soon be unemployed so instead I’m looking at this as a business opportunity.

And this leads me to my latest business venture:

Speaker7’s Guide to Pre-Wedding Shedding®

Attention brides!

Is this you?

Have you bought the perfect dress only it’s just a few sizes too small? Have you planned to slim down to a size you’ve never been solely to feel dizzy and irritable on the perfect of all perfect days?

Follow this guide and you will fit into this:

Actual size. Ken groom not included.

The great thing is this Pre-Wedding Shedding Program is not a one-size fits all, but is a one-size fits all program or isn’t! It’s that simple or difficult! Just choose the option that best fits your desire to emaciate yourself! All options just three low, low, low monthly payments of $19.99.

Option 1. Pre-Wedding Shedding Dietpalooza

Food is the scourge of the earth, amirite ladies. Yes, it may be necessary to sustain life (as far as I’m concerned the science is still out), but it also contains calories, which when consumed in large amounts leads to weight gain (source: my scale). The key is to eat less calories than you burn. Follow this simple diet plan and watch the pounds drop off:

Breakfast – water sandwich. Take a glass of water, put two slices of bread around it and drink. Repeat for lunch and dinner every day until the most perfect day of the most perfect month in the most perfect year.

Alternative option – We bury you up to your head in a sandbox, and give a group of toddlers the task of feeding you. Toddlers are notably unreliable and do not have the greatest fine motor skills so you will only ingest two or three cheerios a day. Cost: an additional $1,000 for sand cleanage.

2. Food-Aversion Slip ‘n Slide Therapy Ride

So maybe you’re one of these people who believes people should eat. Fair enough, but something needs to be done to tear your hand out of the bag of deep-fried Twinkie Ho-hos and into a glass of water infused with celery string. In our Food-Aversion Slip n’ Slide Therapy Ride, we take a page from Stanley Kubrik’s Clockwork Orange and show you gruesome images alongside pictures of your favorite foods.

Here is a sample:

All of the images feature Dr. Phil and Madame Puppet in various erotic poses.

Option 3: Pre-Death Organ Donationporium

Organs are great–don’t get me wrong–but they take up so much dern room, and some of them we don’t even need. Think of all the weight you would lose if we removed your stomach and replaced it with the plastic breadbasket from the Operation board game! Buzzer optional.

Option 4: Movies Come to Life But Not the Ones You Wish Would Come To Life Fun-funhoopla

Many packages to choose from. Our most popular include:

  • Silence of the Lambs underground dungeon theme complete with lotion basket
  • Hunger Games wilderness survival theme complete with group of career tributes bent on your destruction.
  • Saws 1 – 3,345 torture chamber theme; limb removal optional
  • Trapped in the Closet chapters 1 – 700 literally trapped in a closet theme while forced to listen to the Trapped in the Closet soundtrack. Disclaimer: we are not responsible for any descents into madness.

Order now!

RIP Bully McMully

Bully McMully is dead.

That’s not his name. His name has been changed to protect the living–mainly me. His name was something that didn’t rhyme, but we changed it so that it did. We thought it was clever, the “we” being me, my brother J and my two cousins K1 and K2.

Bully McMully had a strong presence in our lives in the late 1970s. If I was anything like Angie Z, I could tell you a blow-by-blow account of our dealings with Bully McMully and provide photographic evidence, but my memory is just a giant sinkhole of bits and pieces of things I likely made up or saw on after-school specials, and should not be trusted. It took a lot of therapy to realize I had not grown up in a little house on a prairie. The only way I know for certain that Bully McMully existed is because his obit ran today in our local newspaper.

It’s an odd feeling to see a childhood bully’s name in the obituaries. But there it was.

And it was so sparse. No mention of what he did or what and whom he loved.

He lived in a house that bordered a section of my grandparent’s backyard. J, K1, K2 and I would play there unsupervised. Where were the parents? It was the 1970s. No parents, no car seats–heck, no seatbelts. Halloween? Go wherever. Take that candy from strangers.

Bully McMully would yell things at us. His bratty little sister Bully-in-training would yell things at us. He appeared to be 100 years old, but was likely in his teens. As anyone knows, for a child, anyone older is 100.

He looked like this:

Must. Crush. Children.

One day, we yelled back at his little sister. He was nowhere in sight. Possibly we felt protected by the invisible barrier of the yard or the fact our grandparents were somewhere in the same city if not the same vicinity as us–when suddenly Bully McMully appeared behind us, and grabbed my much younger brother by the throat and hurled him through a tree. That very last part might not have happened.

I asked my brother today what propelled us to yell things at Bully McMully’s sister knowing full well we could be in for an ass-kicking. He had no idea. Nor any memory of the throat grabbing. He’s more useless than me.

I think the main reason we did it is because we were odd. We invented strange games like “Drug Dealers.” I pushed weed, and had a hefty supply since maple samaras were the stand in for my chronic. I collected fistfuls in my sweaty hands just to get one eensy weensy black beauty, the red, likely poisonous berry found on a yew tree, which was hawked by my cousin K2. Let me be the first to say that none of our parents were actual drug dealers.

We played “Slaves,” a game that consisted of me and K2 doing whatever our older siblings ordered. “Stay on the back porch.” Why? “Do it slave!” We spied on the Baptist church that also bordered a section of the backyard. My familiarity with church was as such: It happened on Sundays. It lasted 15 minutes. You got there late, stood in the back and left early. K1 & K2 didn’t attend.

These people went to church all the time(!). Obviously something was afoot. It’s a cult, announced K1. Being the oldest, K1 knew everything so we decided her plan to infiltrate the church made sense. We lied down in the grass to conceal ourselves, and waited until the people entered the church. Then we ran to the door, gave it a half-hearted tug, and ran shrieking back to the grass.

So we likely thought taunting a bully’s sister was a good idea in the same vein a worm circus is a good idea. It seems to make sense to throw a bunch of worms on a slide on the hottest day in July and leave them be so they could “practice” their circus act, but really it just gets you shriveled or choked by someone much bigger and stronger.

I guess now I will never know the cause of our cantankerous relationship with Bully McMully, but one thing’s for certain.

It is never too late to investigate a church.

To Know the Actual Love For You

Wouldn’t that be something–especially today of all days, the 14th day in the month-long celebration of National Bird Feeding? To know the actual love the actual someone has for the actual person who is you? I wish there was a list of actual tips. Maybe written by someone for whom English is a second language. Then I would know if a guy has a love for their girls.

The Internet never ceases to amaze me, whether it be sating my never-ending desire to know all there is to know about adult baby syndrome or helping to master the intricacies of the Shake Weight®, it always comes through for me. Google even made me a video Valentine I never finished watching because I clicked on a link to learn how to get freakishly long eye lashes (cow urine moistened onto the eyelashes followed by dollop of bird urine, cover with gauze). It was difficult to read through the gauze, but I did find a website that answered the age-old question:

How is it possible to know the actual love of the guy for you?

Tip 1 – When he takes interest in your matters like your work schedule.

I asked Mr. Speaker7 if he knew what I did at 10:35 a.m. today. He responded: “No, what did you do?”  I have been giving him the silent treatment ever since, and broke it only to say what I would like to order for take out.

Tip 2 – When a guy keeps a track on your habits.

I break my silence. What is my number 1 habit? I ask my husband. “Sitting in front of a computer screen for hours,” he responds.

The correct response is ribbon sorting.

Tip 3 – When a guy wants to spend more time with you, dates out with you and shares your favorite pastimes, then he is madly in love with you.

Do you want to mix up these ribbons and then sort them by thread count? I ask. “It’s been a really long day,” sighs Mr. Speaker7

Tip 4 – If he tries to be friendly with you, it show signs of love for you.

I think the supermarket cashier is into me because he said “Here you go. Have a nice day” rather than spitting in my face, a clear sign of no love for you.

Tip 5 – Changing of topic when you discuss about your future with him is not a good sign of a healthy relationship with your love.

What is the future of your relationship with my love? I query breathlessly. “…” responds Mr. Speaker7 because he left the room 20 minutes ago to stop answering these questions.

Tip 6 -His every action will make you believe he loves you.

Really? His every action? All humans poop. There was even a book written about it. Should I see if he is or is not pooping on a photo of me? How far do I go here? I mean your tip is very specific and helpful, but where do we draw the line? Ball scratching? Yes, ball scratching.

I think that’s a good tip to end on especially since Tip 17 is “knowing when to end your blog post on a positive love note shows he feels in love with his love over you” and there are 3,259 other tips. And Mr. Speaker7’s action of folding laundry when I hate folding laundry is clearly making me believe he loves me in a sharing of not-favorite-pastimes-kind-of way.

Happy Bird Feeding Month to you all!