About me: I'm 40 and just added a gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 7-year-old Junior, our 4-year-old Everett and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Parents found drunk in foul smelling basement with a chicken
Storm Sandy is headed for Connecticut. Luckily we have a basement stocked with beans and a liquor cabinet stocked with vodka. We'll be gaseous and drunk but by God, we'll be safe (I hope).
Incidentally, I don't mind if this storm postpones Halloween because I have no idea what Junior is going to dress up as. One minute he wants to be a washing machine, the next Optimus Prime. And Everette? He won't even let me put an arm into his costume:
I tried—nicely—to wrestle him into it, but he didn't want any part of it.
He's in for a big surprise if Storm Sandy hits and we lose power, and we need to wear shit like this to stay warm.
Now you understand this post's title...and why I'm kind of dreading Halloween.