A post written six minutes before the Nyquil kicks in.

...And I just took some Nyquil, so we are on borrowed time here, friends.  With the chardonnay and the hour in the hot tub, AND the sleepy-sleepy drugs, I imagine that I am going to knock out cold in seconds, after I regale you with tales of something that is freaking annoying, but wholly insignificant.


If you're wondering why I took Nyquil, it's because I appear fine until 1 a.m., at which time I COUGH for three hours straight.  Sleep is killing me, and I don't necessarily need drugs to get better; I simply need tranquilizers that are strong enough to coma myself right through it.  I consider this an *organic* choice.


I know you're all REALLY curious to hear about where we will be living.  Can't wait to tell you about it, but with the Nyquil and all, this story is likely to involve gangster clowns and unicorns--and that just isn't accurate.  Instead, I have been dying to tell you how STUPID it is that every drug store sells 17 brands of razors.  It sends me into a tizzy every few months, when my final razor loses it's effectiveness, and I decide it's time to buy more--only to stare, confusedly, at the aisle-long display at Target.  They ALL look f-ing familiar.  And so I gamble, and it's ALWAYS wrong.  And then I play this game six more times, until I get it right....


....or I buy a new razor.  Today I went for one that requires a small battery, and I'm not sure exactly why, but I think this means that it can make arts and crafts out of arm pit hair.  Hells yeah.  But if someone would tell me what congressman I need to call about making it illegal to have 86 brands of razors marketed for women, I would appreciate it--but probably won't remember it unless you post it on my facebook wall, because I have given myself the equivalent of a bottle of wine and a roofie, and I am almost too tired to breathe.

Also, I think I diagnosed the *official* problem today, and it's that my razor holder is from 1998, and that particular model is no longer in service.  Because the battery operated one ate it.  That is what we call forward-moving progress, people.  But as a means of never forgetting my brand of razor again, I plan to have "Schick Quatro" tattooed on my  hip/navel.  It's just as appalling as a Kermit the Frog tattoo, but able to save me years of drug-store frustration.  


And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna sleep through the next ten days, and wake up in my new bedroom after our impending move.  It's gonna be aweeeeeeesome..............................