The story I am going to relate is absolutely true. At least, it’s as true as my memory, and since this only happened 8 years ago, I hope it’s pretty accurate. I promise to refrain from embellishing; trust me, it’s weird enough. It’s about my family. See? I told you it would be weird enough without my embellishment.

I’m going to tell it in parts, because I know many people can’t read the long, long posts at work, and others don’t have the patience. But here is Part I of Auntie Julie: Murdered? It’s a bit of background.

My grandma (buschia, if you recall) had two sisters and two brothers. Only she and her littlest sister (Aunt Mim) married; the other sister and two brothers remained living together, unmarried and childless, until their deaths. They pooled their resources and lived very simply.

My two great-uncles, Uncle Ray and Uncle Stanley, died first, within a couple years of each other. My aunt continued on, outliving my buschia by a few months, until she died under questionable circumstances. We’ll get to those circumstances later.

It wasn’t until Auntie Julie’s death that we discovered that she and my uncles had amassed quite a fortune. While we were unaware of the money, Aunt Mim’s only son had been doing Aunt Julie, Uncle Ray and Uncle Stanley’s taxes for a couple of years. He certainly knew. As did his father, who had remarried not long after Aunt Mim had passed away in the early 1980’s, and his second wife.

Curiously, scant weeks before Auntie Julie’s death, her will was amended. Despite the fact her original will was decades old, neatly typed and signed by a reputable lawyer, these hastily-scrawled changes were hand-printed on notebook paper by someone else’s hand, with my Auntie’s feeble signature at the bottom.

These new changes heavily favored Aunt Mim’s husband and his second wife, despite the fact they were not blood relatives, and the tax-preparing cousin.

I think you know where I’m going with this. That’s just the motive; we’ll get to means and opportunity later.

Oppressive heat has forced us indoors. My skin is too pretty to fry.

Adding to my encroaching dementia: ongoing conflict in Iraq; possible conflict in Iran; toxins in my food; George Bush and Tony Blair holding hands, looking up at the United Nations with big innocent eyes and saying, "United Nations, you better do something about this mess in the Middle East;" the oil companies' 32 percent increase in profits over last quarter, in which they saw record profits; the inability of deregulated electricity providers to provide electricity to people, resulting in deaths; the increasing privatization of vacation properties in Michigan and Wisconsin; post-vacation laundry.

Rather than deal with any of these things, I've decided to create my own fantasy world and live in it.

I have a trapeze in my fantasy world. And I like to wear hats with feathers on them. Also, I eat cream puffs.

Kansas gave a gift
a boy, many years ago
now he is a man

in all its Alpine glory.

For those of you with a distorted impression of Wisconsin, let me describe Door County for you: it's a lot like New England, if New England were settled by people named Lars and Frida and Hans and Helga instead of Puritans. They have beaches and sailboats and atmosphere galore, but I'm pretty sure their yacht club serves beer and sausages instead of white wine and crudité.

Other than the Nordic and Alpine influences, Wisconsin has something else to set it apart: the smell. I'm not talking about the cow farms here, although they certainly produce a pungent aroma. No, I'm referring to the unique scent of every indoor space in every Wisconsin resort area. Motels, gift shops, restaurants and arcades all contain at least a whiff of this smell, which I inhaled deeply for a good long while on our screened-in porch one night just so I could attempt to describe it to you. The closest I could come was: the inside of a cedar box, that had at one time housed pipe tobacco, but which now contained a very old, very used, slightly mildewed leather moccasin into which someone had inserted a sandalwood candle.

Now that I've set the scene properly for you, let me tell you more:

Things That Mean Something Different in Door County Than in Vegas
Sugar Bush
Cherry De-Lite
Ho Made

Food We Ate
fish boil
ice cream, twice
Swedish pancakes with a bunch of goats.
Also, Door County is the fruit-producing area of Wisconsin, with cherry orchards and wineries everywhere. We didn't tour any wineries, but we did eat cherry pie after our fish boil.

Things We Did
Swam in the pool
Swam at the beach
Made sand castles
Went sailing
Biked through Peninsula State Park, had a picnic there, and saw the lighthouse
Went frou-frou shopping (well, I did, anyways. If Dilf caught the scent of potpourri in his nostrils, he'd say "I'll wait outside.")
Saw a play in a gorgeous outdoor setting, including a spectacular view of the sunset on Lake Michigan
There are also lots of artists with studio space and galleries up there. We didn't see any of those, nor did we take the ferry to Washington Island this time. There were also some free outdoor jazz concerts that we missed. Oh, well. Can't do it all.

That's about it for now. I should be back to normal soon. I'm still on vacation time right now.

In 1993, in the wake of the success of talented bands like Nirvana and Pearl Jam, the music industry decided they needed clones. Lots of clones. So, Stone Temple Pilots, a glitter-metal band who performed in San Diego under a different name, suddenly became "grunge" and was quickly signed to a recording contract. Of course, like all things cheap and derivative, they were a huge success.

Check out the HORRIBLE lyrics to their modern rock hit "Creep"."


Forward yesterday/Makes me wanna stay/What they said was real/Makes me wanna steal/Livin' under house/Guess I'm livin', I'm a mouse/All's I gots is time/Got no meaning, just a rhyme
(Chorus):Take time with a wounded hand'Cause it likes to heal/Take time with a wounded hand'Cause I like to steal/Take time with a wounded hand'Cause it likes to heal, I like to steal/I'm half the man I used to me/This I feel as the dawn it fades to gray/Well, I'm half the man I used to be/This I feel as the dawn it fades to gray.

Feelin' uninspired/Think I'll start a fire/Everybody run/Bobby's got a gun/Think you're kinda neat/Then she tells me I'm a creep/Friends don't mean a thing/Guess I'll leave it up to me

(Repeat Chorus many, many times)

What is with the Green Eggs and Ham rhyme scheme in those verses?! "I won't eat them in a box/I won't eat them with a fox".

Also, who the fuck is Bobby and why does he have a gun? There's a thing called narrative, you useless junkie. You can't just introduce a character out of the blue near the end of your song because you need a word to rhyme with "run", and then never mention him again. This song would get an 'F' in an English 101 class at an overseas diploma mill.

At least they aren't Nickelback.

What's the worst thing about this guy? His Greg Brady Meets Malibu Ken Doll Honkeyperm? His tucked in baby blue sweater vest? His Casio wrist watch? The leather pants? Oh, the horror. The horror.

Well, he didn't actually ask for a photo of the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders, but he did request a sports post....

It sucks to be 6'6" and lousy at basketball. I'm as tall as Michael Jordan, people. I stood next to his lifesize replica at a wax museum in Las Vegas. But I have no skills to speak of. I have a decent outside shot, but that just means I'm good at H.O.R.S.E.

But I LOVE watching sports: college basketball, pro football, and college football are my favorites, in that order. Despite the avalanche of hatred they inspire, I've been a Dallas Cowboys fan my entire life. I've also documented, on my regular blog, my love of the University of Louisville football and basketball teams and my ABSOLUTE UNWAVERING HATRED of said teams from the University of Kentucky. I hate the New York Yankees too, as does every good-hearted person.

Everyone, even if they aren't really "sports people", has a team they hate. I'm asking you, Ubermilf readers, to NAME THE TEAM YOU HATE THE MOST. Do this in the comments section. Muttering at your computer screen accomplishes nothing.

...and I find it's much easier to acquire the beer.

For those of you who don't read blogs over the weekend, or have short memories as a result of decades spent huffing Liquid Wrench, my name is Todd and I'm the Head Honkey in Charge while Ubermilf is vacationing in the ghettos of East St. Louis.

My love affair with beer began at a rather late age. I hated it from childhood, because my grandfather always bought the cheapest beer on Earth. Upon sampling this swill, I was convinced beer was the elixir of Beelzebub. Funny, my grandfather was of full German heritage, but he drank shitty beer and had nothing against Jews. True story.

It was later, after I was actually old enough to legally drink, that I discovered the rich, complex deliciousness of a finely made import or domestic microbrewed beer. It almost makes me weep when I see people drinking nasty watered-down piss like Budweiser and Miller, swindled by their own ignorance into thinking that is how beer should taste.

I urge anyone who lives in a town that doesn't suck to go to a local brewpub or tavern and order a good beer. And if your town does suck and only offers mass-produced hop-and-grain-abortions, then move. You deserve better.

I certainly hope not.

Hello, disappointed people hoping to hear from Ubermilf. My name's Todd and Ubie asked me to ruin....I mean run....her blog while she's vacationing in Wisconsin. Jesus, didn't she go to Cleveland for her last vacation? She's Duluth bound in '07, I hear!

Anyway, I lived in Las Vegas for three and a half years, so I chose this pin-up because of the gambling theme. And the model has a sweet ass.

We're going on vacation next week. I'm leaving Todd in charge here, so you'd better be on your best behavior.

Since I've already outed myself as a sci-fi geekette, let's discuss the Star Wars anthology.

We've seen from the "pre-quels" that Jedi of all species and sizes and genders existed in that galaxy far, far away.

So why no female Sith?

I took a quiz and found that if I were to become a Sith, I'd need a sex change and some major cosmetic surgery to boot:

Darth Maul Your Dark Side Shows at 68 Points

Woohoo... you are almost one of the best! You are a great fighter, an asset to your master. But your arrogance is best left OUT of your fighting.

My test tracked 1 variable How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 71% on Dark Points

Link: The What Sith Lord Am I? Test written by Demeratus on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the 32-Type Dating Test

It seems to me that the ladies would be clamoring for a Sith Lady position. You get to boss people around, wear black all the time (slimming!), and give in to all that pent-up rage. Imagine the destructive power in PMS alone! And if you don't feel like fixing your hair or putting on makeup, just put a big helmet or hood over your head. Voilá!

I think Palpatine missed out on a golden opportunity by limited his choices to men. Then again, perhaps he knew he wasn't up to the challenge. Coward.

** It seems there were, indeed, female Sith, but they were few and far between. My question still stands.

To those who know what the hell this is all about without using Google: I watched the show faithfully every Sunday night. I also watched Style With Elsa Klensch religiously every Saturday morning. Those two facts, taken in tandem, offer you a glimpse into my psyche.

Wear whatever the hell you want.

Okay, Dilfie, I realize your plane hasn't even landed in New York yet, but there is news from home.

Item! Blueberries.

The crazy Belgian next door brought us 10 lbs of blueberries from Michigan.

That's right; 10 lbs. I will wash them and freeze them for future baking. The pies. The struesel-topped muffins. The blueberry compote served over vanilla ice cream. Yes, I can see it.

I won't freeze them all, though. Expect blueberry pancakes on your plate Friday morning.

Item! Dying coyotes.

Well, it could be merely sick. Of course, it could be rabid. Of all the things it COULD be, it definitely IS in my parents' back yard, laying down in the afternoon. That can NOT be good. FYI: the roadrunner is nowhere to be found.

Upon calling animal control, grandma and grandpa were informed that they only handle tame creatures like dogs and cats. But An actual threat to personal safety? Sorry, gramps, you're on your own. They have to call a private trapping company to remove the foul beast.

The three-legged racoon must have let the other forest know my parents' yard was THE place to go to die.

Item! Our yard.

No dying animals back there that I know of. There is some strange guy back there hacking at the hillbilly rainforest along the back fence and corners. He's also mowing the front and back yards and edging and weeding up there, too.

All for the bargain price of $15 more than I paid our nephew! He's going to give me a quote on how much de-hillbillification will cost in the back yard.

He even moved the giraffe and other assorted girlie toys himself. I am pleased.

Don't worry; he's not all that cute. And he's all dirty and sweaty and stuff, so, no worries. Of course, if he offers to come back Wednesday night and take out the garbage for free...

Nah. I think I'd rather take out the garbage myself.

So, that's all for now. If any more exciting developments erupt, I will let you know.

Zombo knows what you like.

You know what someone should invent? A scary clown night light. That would be pretty demented.

Let's see...

Middle East blowing itself up? check.

Natural disasters? check.

Ecosystem destruction? check.

Crazy people with nuclear weapons? check, check and check.

Asteroids? check.

Let's see... religion, science and Al Gore all agree...

It's time to repent and change our ways.

"I clean up vomit and urine all day, and I STILL consider it an improvement over working in an office." -- Ubermilf

This Lady is shooting her mouth off to get attention, and loathe as I am to accommodate her, I want to shoot mine off in response.

Take this statement of hers: "I am saying an educated, competent adult's place is in the office." Really? Then why do so many inept, idiotic whiny babies work in one? Tell me, my esteemed friends in the paid workforce, what causes you stress in your workplace? Trying to figure out which of the knowledgeable, receptive sages at the top of the corporate structure to bring your brilliant ideas to, so that they will reach fruition? Or pondering which of your multi-talented, dependable co-workers or underlings to trust with the implementation of your brilliant idea? Or maybe it is struggling with conflicting desires: do I attend the engrossing, vitally important meeting, or finish the exciting, life-enhancing project I'm working on? Decisions, decisions. Ah, yes. The office. A real brain trust, the pinnacle of human endeavors.

Also, since she has never been a stay at home mom, how has she made this determination? "One of the things I've done working on my book is to read a lot of the diaries online, and their description of their lives does not sound particularly interesting or fulfilling for a complicated person, for a complicated, educated person." Ah, reading blogs. Very scientific. I myself have determined that Kinko's and independent vendors working at Home Depot have shitty jobs, based on the "online diaries" I have read. Also, people at Berkely have an unnatural fascination with bowel movements. And teachers in Florida like to inadvertently flash their boobs at people. Let's move on.

She has four "rules" women should follow to achieve a "flourishing" life. Now, at the start I object to this; how can you define "flourishing" for an entire gender of people? Or for anyone? People have a wide variety of goals and ambitions. That's what makes life grand. Imagine the world if everyone wanted to be an artist? Or a scientist? Or a salesperson? What if no one operated altruistically? Or if no one managed assets and money? We need everyone to make the world go 'round. But, back to her "rules."

"Women should stop trying to 'find themselves' and choose college majors that lead to lucrative careers." I sense a materialistic streak here. "Work should be taken seriously, and women should bargain like the New York transit worker's union with their husband over who does the laundry, and stop caring so much about the house being messy." Doesn't everyone dream of sharing a life with a labor negotiator? I remember the night Dilf proposed to me... "Honey," he said, "You are the transit worker union rep I've always dreamed of..." Oh, rule three: "They should also consider marrying younger, poorer guys to STRENGTHEN THEIR HANDS (emphasis mine) "or men who are older and not as wrapped up in their careers." This isn't about love, people! It's about career advancement! Human emotion is IRRELEVANT! and lastly "Don't have more than one child." At last, someone who embraces the warm and friendly policies of Communist China.

While I disagree with her on many points, I disagree most strenuously with her following statement: "One of Hirshman's most sobering arguments is that women who leave the workplace are ensuring that the hard-won gains made by women will be undone. She asks why should business schools give advanced degrees to those who don't use them? ... 'I think that one could argue that these women are letting down the team,' Hirshman said." I see. Above and beyond the implications that women are not responsible for their own achievements, but somehow are affected by my decision to stay home to raise my children, what about men who get advanced degrees and decide not to use them?

What of the guy who gets a law degree and decides he'd rather build furniture for a living? Who should decide the value of an advanced degree but the person who earned it? I'd rather have a beautiful china cabinet than hear a legal argument. Maybe someone would rather build one than make it. Who put this bitch in charge of making life decisions for other people? And how dare she lay the success or failure of one person at another person's feet?

Interestingly, Ms. Hirshman has a child. I read an article in the August 2006 Elle Magazine about her, which unfortunately is unavailable online, where she briefly discusses her "motherhood."

"When asked who took care of the baby -- a source of eternal anxiety for professional women -- Hirshman says that she has a deal with her daughter, now 30, not to get into specifics", (Ubie note - I'll BET) "Pressed a little, she allows 'Well, we had a ... person.'"

And I'll bet, given her attitude toward those who raise and care for children, she treated this "person" with the utmost respect.

I also enjoyed her description of the postpartum experience from the same article: "I was out for a couple of weeks. It wasn't all that much fun going through labor, but once labor's over you're fine." Stop laughing, ladies. It appears she really believes that.

Haiku, see, Haiku!
When bored I write bad haiku.
You read it or die!

Golden melted cheese
Swaddles succulent sausage
Look, a Francheesie!

Please, do not touch it
If you touch it, it will burn
See, I told you so.

Smelly butt-face man
Sits drinking in a stale bar
He thinks he's hot stuff

My husband watches
Ultimate Fighting T.V.
Where's my sweetheart Dilf?

All crowds sound the same.
Did you ever notice that?
Oprah, NASCAR. Strange.

Poor ÜberYounger
The doctor gave her lotion
Yeast infections suck.

My neighbor hates cats
yet Muffin goes every day
To show him her love

Why must I be bored?
I could beat Dilf at Scrabble
He won't play with me.

One last tribute to Poppy:



He liked fishing.

I'm sad to see Poppy go; he was an oddball, and a lot of fun. Likewise, Dilf was fond of him, and will regret making one less gin and tonic at family functions.

Poppy didn't raise Dilf -- Dilf was living on his own when his mom began dating Poppy, let alone married him. And I only met Poppy about 9 years ago. For all of those 9 years, Poppy was weathering one health crisis or another. He smoked lots, drank lots, ate copious amounts of red meat and fried items of one sort of another, and didn't exercise at all. He had already had a quadruple bypass by the time I met first him, as he was sitting down to a dinner of two pan-fried T-bone steaks.

Thus, all of us, including Dilf's mom, were fully prepared for this sad event. In fact, we had several dry runs as practice. Despite all the earlier scares and drama, Poppy died peacefully in bed during his afternoon nap.

While the adults have accepted the sad reality that Poppy's time had come, I was worried about the little Übers' reaction. They adored Poppy as much as he adored them. But it seems that God (yes, I believe in Him! I don't feel like arguing about it right now) protects their little hearts from too much grief.

I told them that Poppy's body had stopped working the night before, so his soul had to go back up to God. I explained we wouldn't be seeing him any more, at least on this planet.

Younger simply said, "Poor Poppy." Elder said, "Well, he was fun while he lasted."

"He was fun while he lasted" has become Poppy's epitheth. It gave my mother-in-law great comfort, and pretty succinctly summed up his life.

My dad traveled a lot when I was little, just like Dilf does. The meals my mother would serve while he was gone were comical. Well, they were tragi-comic. In fact, we had a code phrase to describe the downgraded dinners we'd receive: "fish and corn." We named it after a particularly unpleasant dinner comprised of -- you guessed it -- fish and corn leftovers. It doesn't sound disgusting, but trust me, it was. In fact, we still use the phrase to this day. "I've been running around all day so we're having 'fish and corn' for dinner." "My head hurts. They're getting 'fish and corn' for dinner, and I don't want to hear any complaints." "If I don't get to the gocery store soon, we're having 'fish and corn' for dinner." You get the idea.

My mother didn't care if the foodstuffs came from dramatically different cuisines, continents away from one another, never meant to be placed side by side on a plate together. If they were leftovers, we were eating them -- even if it was chili with a side of Japanese vegetables served over cous cous smothered in southern-fried chicken gravy.

Now it is my turn to experience first hand how difficult it is to maintain the dinner ritual to the standards to which my family has become accostomed. But since I had no leftovers, I ordered a bunch of pre-processed dinner items from Peapod. As a public service, I will review these items for you.

Vegetable: Spinach Soufflé
Manufacturer: Stouffer's
Taste: Yummy. We get this sometimes anyways.
Scary Ingredients: What's modified food starch? That might be yucky. Soybean Oil? Otherwise it's all good.
Verdict: We like this. Solid girlie food.

Starch: Mashed Potatoes
Manufacturer: Country Crock
Taste: Not too bad, but not as good as homemade.
Scary Ingredients: Well, I don't like margarine and it's in here; that's not really scary. But I don't like the sound of soy lecithin, vegetable mono and diglycerides, sodium benzoate, artificial flavors, mono and diglycerides, maltodextrin, cultured dextrose, coloring (? They were white!), xanthan gum and egg white lysozyme.
Verdict: I'm never buying these again. I can throw some size B potatoes in my steamer and mash them myself without too much effort. In fact, if I had picked up the package at the supermarket and read those ingredients, I never would've bought them in the first place. But they do come in a reclosable tub that I'll probably use as ersatz Tupperware later. Also, the inner plastic seal was nearly impossible to remove.

Protein: Pot Roast (Beef. I know, vegetarians -- you're mad at me. But it didn't have a face! honest! At least, not by the time I got it)
Manufacturer: SommersOrganic
Taste: Pretty good. Mine's better!
Scary Ingredients: None, unless you don't like soy sauce.
Verdict: I'll definitely buy this again in the summer when I don't want to heat up my whole house making pot roast. It was fairly yummy, easy, and non-threatening. But it lacked my deft touch and mommy love.

We also had a green salad of romaine lettuce and baby grape tomatoes and bottled Newman's Own salad dressing. But we have that all the time so I'm not reviewing it.

I'm reheating pre-cooked chicken and cheesy broccoli rice tomorrow. Stay tuned!

Sad Update: I just received word that Dilf's stepfather, the ÜberGirlies' beloved Poppy, passed away moments ago. If I'm missing, that's why.

That varmint is in a heap of trouble. He took a right turn in Spain and wound up someplace mysterious! Here's what he tells me about where he is:

"I'm in Africa, but this is not the place to go for safaris! It does have some strange land -- all dreamy-like. It sure ain't Kansas! I saw me some right purty artsy fartsy stuff, too. And they do have some sorta big city-type place here.

I also took a look-see at some of them there Mos-ques. They were made outta mud, and all lookin' like a buncha castles or sumthin'! Then, I saw some villages carved right into some big tall cliffs -- and dagnabbit if they weren't pink! That sure was something to see.

Then, I went out into the desert for awhiles. Those dunes were going up and down, up and down like waves in the ocean. It looked like it came right outta that there 'Lawrence of Arabia' picture show! Wait, I'm not in Arabia, am I? No, I think I would remember somethin' like that there."

Can anyone help find Cowboy Nick? I'm sure you'll be rewarded handsomely for his return. By somebody that cares about him.

Door County, Wisconsin

Poor Dilf has had quite the hectic schedule these days. He's been traveling just about non-stop since May. We planned a weeklong vacation in picturesque Door County, Wisconsin at the end of this month, to help soothe his cares away.

A Door County vacation is quite a different animal than the Wisconsin Dells vacation. Don't get me wrong, I love the Dells. Non-stop action, go-karts, water parks, and all sorts of neon craziness. But Door County is quaint, beautiful, restful --

Until it blew up today.

Perhaps they will give tours of the crater left behind. Sigh.

The earwigs are trying to kill me again.

You aren't convinced of the earwig threat?

"Old wives tales tell of earwigs finding there
way into the ears of sleeping people only to
cause fever and insanity. Such tales are
far fetched but earwigs have been found to
crawl into any vacant cavity they can find."

ANY VACANT CAVITY!!!

You can't say I didn't try to warn you.

I am seriously conflicted about leaving my current career to return to the paid workforce.

On the one hand, I feel guilty asking Dilf to shoulder the entire income burden. It's not that I feel I don't do my fair share in contributing to the household, but it puts an awful lot of stress and pressure on a person when he's the sole breadwinner. His options constrict considerably, and the penalty for failure is much greater.

On the other hand, I would feel like a sell-out if I went back, because I chose to be a stay-at-home mom, I like it, and I'm good at it. If someone is naturally skilled at math and physics, does anyone question that person's decision to become an architect? Or a talented musician for pursuing his or her dreams? Then why should I, who find myself domestically skilled, patient and empathetic to children, leave my calling? I am performing a literally priceless service to my family and to mankind. If the rest of the world doesn't get that concept, that's not my problem.

This line of thought surfaced today while I searched online for an apron.

I would like to wear nice clothes during the day. Not fancy, but human. Not stained t-shirts and sweats. Decent clothes. Due to the nature of my work around the house, I would like an apron to cover my decent clothes so they do not become stained and unwearable.

I don't want a heavy, unisex barbecue-style apron. I don't want a frilly fetishist's submissive apron. I want a pretty yet practical apron, with pockets. I found one:



but it's 60 dollars.

60 dollars. Damn, I need to learn how to sew. We'll call it career advancement when I do.

I guess I'm just too narrow of a market segment to rate inexpensive items. Having principles is both hard work and expensive.

Dilf picked this week's theme, and to the surprise of none, he picked cars.

Yes, I'm back in working order after a week of waiting breathlessly for my equipment to arrive. More importantly, I learned I was sexy on Wednesday. (In case the nasty Tribune won't let you view that story, it's about this.)

Upon reading that story, I bounded joyfully downstairs to Dilf's home office, flung open his door with the article in my hand, and proceeded to waggle my magnificent posterior at him while chanting, "I'm sexy, I'm sexy, woo hoo, I'm sexy!"

Oblivious to the frenzied display of my ample charms, Dilf calmly kept typing away at his keyboard, then rather anticlimactically replied, "I knew that yesterday," and took another sip of coffee.

Well!

Someone should inform the garment industry, because obviously they are less familiar with the female form than Dilf. They don't allow for hips and butts in skirts or pants, nor breasts when designing blouses. It tends to make us buxom gals self-conscious, as I illustrated in my earlier self-denigrating shopping story.

I named myself Übermilf as a joke; but, until my fanny falls from favor, maybe it's the truth!

Nah.

As I write this, my keboard is fading fast. That's why I haven't been visiting my online friends...

wait, the priest is here to give him his last rites.

Anyway. I am expecting a new one. I will store up all of my thoughts, so when I return with my new keyboard, mouse and monitor, I will write a dozen or more posts. And visit all of you and give you virtual hugs and kisses and cupcakes.

Until then, mes amours...

Summer used to mean freedom to me. Then I graduated. Now, summer means:

Discomfort

Swelling and bloating

Revealing clothing (exhibiting my swollen, bloated body in public)

Mosquito bites (one vicious bastard bit me on the right breast! Unpleasant!)

Nausea

Heat stroke, exhaustion

Headaches

Shaving sensitive areas

Shaving every day

I hate summer clothes. With a passion reserved for few other things. And you all know how much I hate other things. I shopped for some clothes yesterday, and this is an actual conversation I had with myself: "You're a fat fatty. Don't even try on that size; you don't wear it anymore, because you're a fat fatty. Don't buy anything tight, because everyone will see your fat fattiness. You have fat legs, fat arms and a tummy. Do they sell mumus here? You're disgusting. Are you really going to subject the world to the sight of YOU in shorts? Wow, nice camel toe."

Now, I don't even think such horrid things about other people. I reserve such harsh treatment for myself. If I heard someone talking to another human being in such a way, I would intervene. Why do I talk to myself like this? I managed to buy three outfits and some comfy sandals I could walk in yesterday, but not before I beat the hell out of myself.

Truthfully, heat does make me swell and retain water. It's as if my northern European ancestry is saying, "Where the hell are we? We better puff ourself up as much as possible to intimidate predators! Let's get expanding, people!" I just want to hide until September.