Shit I'm Thankful For...  

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day and guess what I'm thankful for?  Not having to cook!  I got a fee pass this year after suggesting that we all meet at Luby's for dinner.  What the fuck is wrong with Luby's?  Evidently a lot, because sis was mortified at the thought.  So mortified, in fact, that she offered to host the festivities this year!  And guess what I was assigned to bring?  You'll never guess.  2-liter sodas and dinner rolls.  I'm making out like a bandit, y'all!  This lovely turn of events has put me in the holiday spirit.  I'm even doubling up on the anti-anxiety meds and taking my girls to the parade dowtown in the morning!

I'm also thankful for crossing over the mid-30's hump.  Evidently, I have exited postpartum depression and entered my sexual prime.  After doing some research on the internets, I discovered that I'm late...supposedly 32 is the magical age for women and sexual peaks. But, when I was 32, my youngest spawn was only a year old and already reeking havoc on my life...the last thing I wanted to do was take a chance on accidently producing another hellion.  Even with a successful tubal ligation, I had this nightmare that Freddy Krueger would reach his razor sharp fingers into my vagina and pull out another mini-me with firey red hair and shark teeth.  It was enough to make me turn celibate.  Or lesbian.  Or to yank Hubber's pecker off and flush it down the toilet.  Anyway, thank the sweet baby Geezus for prescription meds.  That shit has saved my life... and the life of the penis that I married.
Greasin' the Palm... 

There was this granny at Hubber's old folk's home who was reading palms at their Halloween party.  According to Hubber....she's really a psychic and takes this shit seriously.  Well, so do I! So, of course, I had to plop down and give her my hand.  I got the worst reading EVER, y'all.  Basically, I'm going to die young due to some illness....and if that's not bad enough, no one will really give a shit about me and I'll be all alone on my death bed.  She even got all teary-eyed telling me this shit...tracing her old, scrawny fingers along the lines on my hand.  "That's all I see," she said, and I wanted to smack her down and stomp on her face with my stilletto heel.

Do free readings always suck?  Because they're free?  If you pay for one is the news better?  If so, why didn't that wench have a tip jar or something? 

I should have prefaced this post by telling y'all that all my life I've had a feeling that I would die a horrible, violent death - possibly in a car fire / explosion type thing.  So, already, I'm all freaked out about dying.  This pyschic granny didn't help matters much.  Now I'm totally obsessed with palm reading and witchery and whatnot.  So, if I start sending voodoo vibes your way, don't blame me... blame that old granny!