How Much Tongue Can Fit In One Mouth?
Anyway, apart from this momentous event in our fair city, and KISS actually playing at our famous Bluesfest as I write this (that's right, I'm NOT there right now, watching Gene Simmons swing his abnormally long and snakelike tongue through the air), things are pretty much normal, except for the fact that I'm having panic attacks that rival Mount Vesuvius' blow-up (and this is where I say, HELLO!! Doctor's receptionist, are you going to freaking call me back?!?), my kids have gone away to camp for 11 days, and Mr. Handsome has a big and Very Important project due like yesterday that the Privy Council has deemed "extremely important", fortowhichthen means that Mr. Handsome and his crew of government weanies must drop everything and work soley and profusely on that and only that until it is done.
So, as a result of Mr. Handsome working his tiny buns off, and my kids having gone away for 11 days, I sit here all alone, with Gryphon and the guinea pigs as my only friends. And I think about being a Playboy bunny, and wonder if I could even be one at my age, with my old breasts sagging more and more every day, and whether Gene Simmons would look at me twice, or even once. And would I even care?
I've never been a fan of KISS, or of Gene Simmons. But since his show Family Jewels came out a few years back, I've found myself watching it, and wondering what it must be like to be "one of them". And even kind of ... ummm ... liking Gene himself, in a strange and wonderful way. Although I think he's very arrogant, he's also very smart, and I like smart men. I also love that he couldn't care less what anyone thinks of him or what he does. I guess it helps that he has more money in the world than anyone actually could spend in a lifetime, but still...it's sexay.
So, although I didn't think I would, I am sad that I'm missing the KISS show as I write this, and I'm missing my kids, although I promised myself I wouldn't, because they drive me bonkers when they're home. But, even though they're not babies any more, I still miss their cuddles, and snuggles, and warm softness, and just want to give them a good night kiss and tell them I love them.
And, of course, I'm missing Mr. Handsome, because this is our annual "Time To Ourselves", when the kids are gone, and we can be lazy and slovenly adults who don't wash the dishes, and fart whenever we want, and swear constantly, and go out for nice little dinners and egg rolls and things. This time, we've only managed the egg rolls so far, and that was take-out because, as Mr. Wing Hong Long stated, swinging his penguin arm at me, "We close now. Only take out. Fast. What you want?"
And now, as I finish this, I notice I am getting a sore throat. What the hell? In July?
Maybe I still have time to run down to the Bluesfest site to see if Geney can give me some of his medicinal tongue injection.