Your ugliness is what makes you special…

time for soda?

In a blogging universe where everybody is trying to outdo each other in chic, trendy, or beautiful accessories for the home, I am posting pics of the wall clock that my better half brought home today. Tres chic, n’est-ce pas?

It’s not for our home and houseboat, thankfully…Kris needed a wall clock for his sailboat, to time his sextant shots with; the last clock he had melted when some molten steel from his above-deck welding dripped into the boat and set the bed, and then the built-in furniture, on fire. That wall clock, amazingly, still works…but the face is black beyond reading, and it is shaped like a Dali timepiece, now. A tribute to the resilience of Time.

Conceivable Soda

Enter Strawberry Soda clock. The elbowed straw sticking out at the top has its own battery, so that it can wave left-right-left, in time with the tick-tocking of the second hand. The pink beverage this box is supposed to contain has a shelf life of 180 months, and besides being “vacuumize” and “Appetizing”, is also “conceivable”. Well, that explains China’s population, right there.

Ugliness beyond belief, but it was the only large wall clock he could find in a hurry, and he paid all of $8 for it. You get what you pay for, I mumbled. (Terry Pratchett would counter “You get what you deserve.”) I was compelled to photograph it; I don’t think I’ve seen any home accessory so ghastly in my life. I can’t believe it’s ours. In a funny way, I feel proud. I’ll betcha Design*Sponge hasn’t got one of these! ;)

But Kris couldn’t stand it either, and he cracked the straw off…says he will paint the box white, tomorrow. So these may be the last Strawberry Soda Wall Clock photographs the world will ever see. Naturally I just had to share them with you. Now isn’t that special?

Not increase the antiseptic.

^.^

DSCF0207

“Your breasts smell nice.”

We’re in bed, in the dark, about to sleep. Kris kisses me goodnight, and says, matter-of-factly,”Your breasts smell nice.”

I pull back and exclaim, in mock-offended tones, “Sir, how DARE you?! I am a PROPER LADY…you should be ashamed to talk so brazenly about my breasts like that! I should slap you!”

*silence*

And then his voice: “WHAT are you TALKING about? I said ‘Your breath smells nice‘! Pfffsh…some “Lady” you are!

I laughed till I cried.

I lie. Really, I laughed till I farted.

Then I laughed some more.

Breast Bliss

Image via Wikipedia

my daily wtf

Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough

Woke up this morning with the lines of a poem faintly glowing in front of my brain; I usually ignore these dopey early morning leftovers from the strange dreams of the night before, but this one was sort of funny—I really have no idea where it came from—so I jumped out of bed and wrote it down. Please note: It may offend, but it is what it is, something from the land of sleep. I wish it had been a haiku, but it wasn’t…too many syllables for that. Here it is, in its entirety:

Nothing you do can hurt us, daughter.

Your mother and I were all for an abortion,

but couldn’t find a reputable clinic in time.

So what does it matter

if you have sex with a man called ‘Mullet’,

or eat tubs of raw cookie dough with a spoon?

>>> (◕_ ◕) <<<

No, I have no idea, so don’t ask.

Anyway, it’s back to binding books and embroidering things now…I’m flat out making stuff to top up my online shops, which have sprouted a small but very welcome leak!