For some reason, everything has been so freaking hard for me lately. It’s been impossible to force myself to sit down and work on my dissertation. It’s been hard getting my crap together for teaching on the regular. Thank God I have my outfit calendar, or I would probably end up going to school in my feety pajamas and a frown. It’s hard in them streets. So, instead of working on diss stuff, I figured I’d type of some of the things that have been effing up the rotation lately. It’s like the labours of Hercules here, just less lion taming, and more eye shadow. Probably an equal amount of loincloths.
Labour One: Putting on Skinny Jeans While My Legs Are Still Kinda Wet
I’ve been swimming a lot lately as part of my workout/fatkini goals. So I go to the pool in sweats and leave wearing normal clothes so I can go about my day. Lately, I’ve been in a pants kick, but I want to have pants that I have to wear boots with. Hence, skinny jeans. No matter how hard I try, I can never get my legs dry enough to get those things on. Every. Single. Time. I’m. Strugglin. I basically need a pulley system, a few pro-wrestlers, and a trampoline to get into these jeans after my post swim shower. And I’m trying to do this while keeping my feet on my shower shoes so I don’t have to touch the floor with my bare feet. Not a good look.
Labour Two: Keeping Slightly Loose Tights Up While Walking Uphill
So, the work out thing has been going good. Too good. The other day, I put on a dress, (super cute dress with owls. You have no idea how cute I am) and my black fleece lined tights to go teach. As I’m walking up the bullshit hill on campus, I realize I’m feeling a bit drafty. My tights have fallen down to the undercheek portion of my butt. Not cute. I realized that I have dropped a few pounds, and some clothes would be looser, but I didn’t think about the tights. They are called tights, not fall-to-your-undercheeks. So, I had to walk up this hill holding my breakfast, and purse, with no gloves on, trying to hold my tights up through my jacket pocket with one hand. Ugh.
Labour Three: Picking a Paint Colour For the House
I hate the colour of my walls. I have a system of hating them every few months and repainting. B.L, is 1. Probably slightly colour blind, and 2. Not helpful in the least when it comes to picking colours. It’s usually me talking out loud to myself and the paint-lesbian that works in Homo Depot to try to talk myself through colour selections. That I will change in a few months again.
Labour Four: Putting on Eyeliner
Why can’t I get this together? Why can’t I have nice things? Instead of having a cute cat-eye line, I end up looking like Kesha did my make-up when I inevitably touch my face 29.2 seconds after I put my makeup on. I can’t even seem to let it dry.
Labour Five: Keeping Up With Laundry
Because B.L is a triathlete (Hey! What do you call a dinosaur that runs, bikes, and swims? A TRI-ceratops!) (Yes, I know, that was not funny. Not even a little bit.) she makes a metric shitton of laundry. She makes so much, that I had to go the hippy route and make my own laundry detergent out soap, borax, oxyclean, and hard feelings because its way cheaper than buying it in bulk. Every time I do a load of laundry, she walks in with like 93 new, sweaty sports bras for me to take care of. I am Our Lady of Perpetual Clothes Washing.
Labour Six: Writing the Dissertation
Seriously. Write yourself, dissertation. Why can’t I have a TA? And a scribe? And a herald?
Labour Seven: Not Getting Attached to My Skyrim Family
I adopted kids on the video game I play. Worst idea ever. They should not let you adopt children in a game where you kill dragons and are the leader of the assassins and thieves guild. Instead of going on a dragon killing quest like I’m supposed to be doing, I’m going from town to town looking for children’s toys to bring back to the kids. I also worry about what town I should live in. I have 5 houses in 5 different towns. One town is the site of a civil war, (can’t raise an imaginary family there), one is where the thieves guild is, and my house is right next to a whore house, and the canals in the city are filthy (that’s where I’m currently raising my kids), one house is at the top of stone stairs, where people are being stabbed in the streets and exploited by being forced to work in silver mines (nope), one house is in a town that is constantly under attack by vampires (fuck that) and one house is in the middle of nowhere that gets attacked by bandits and giant spiders. I figured, the best thing to do for my imaginary family is arm the kids with daggers, and let them hang around the thieves guild. At least they’ll learn some skills.
Labour Eight- Getting the Cat in Her Carrier to Go to the Vet
B.L and I have a cat. We’ll call her Ms. Pants. Cause that’s actually kinda her name. We’ve had to take her to the vet a lot lately, for shots, for allergies, for scratches, etc. Once, we had to put drops in her ears, which was awful. But putting her in her carrier is the worst. She hides, she cries, she cries the entire car ride there, and then, when I’m about 6 minutes from the vet, she will poop in the carrier, and then cry more about it. I have to walk into the vet with a carrier full of poop and cat rage. And then I have to do it again on the ride back home.
Labour Nine-Coming Up With More Things For This List
I’m tapped out. If I think of more, I’ll let you all know.
Heartland Femme 