-Possible copious whining about being forced to participate in a camping trip. That involves an actual TENT. And the OUT OF DOORS. And people who are ENTHUSIASTIC about same. (Long time readers know that I wilt easily and have little tolerance for either extreme heat or cold. See: Ice Storm '09. In addition, my 47 necessary daily beauty products/routines do not lend themselves to wilderness situations.).
-I'm going to a Godsmack concert. In the middle of Godforsaken Missouri. For God's sake.
- Vajazzling. That's right, dear readers, time marches on and so do the relentless demands of the modern crotch. Gone are the days of simple decisions relating to trimming or landing stripping, shaving or waxing. Now the thing has to be stark naked and glitter like a disco ball. But never fear! If you realize too late you've gone a pube too far with that hastily performed Brazilian, there's always the merkin. And, yes, for those of you keeping score: that would be a squirrel for your beaver. We must discuss.
- I'm Suzanne and I'm obsessed with eating at Cracker Barrel. ("Hi, Suzanne...")
- Shooties. I'm in the "yes" camp. You should be too.
So, there you go.
Last, but sure as hell not least, if you're reading this outside the confines of the Bluegrass State and have a death wish, now is a really good time to wander across our state border and start talking smack about the UK Wildcats. For those of you who have been languishing in a deep coma or trapped in a remote cave under something very heavy lately, the next big game is Saturday--our half of the Final Four. Lest you wonder the import of such a game in these parts, both my mother AND GRANDMOTHER (90 years young), have inked this event onto their calendars. And, people. We are not sports fans. We are people who hear "Gonzaga" and wonder if that might be a really nice cheese? On a much more widespread note, trust me when I say: there isn't a man in the Big Blue Nation who isn't engaged, on some level, in a serious bro-mance with (say it with me): COACH CALIPARI. I know I'm right because they don't even DENY IT WHEN YOU ASK THEM. I know I speak for all of them when I say...
SSSSSSSSSSSSSCHWING! (I'm with you, dude. 1.5 million stiffies can't be wrong.)