Dahrlings, if there’s one thing in the entire world that makes me gag even more than say, kale, it’s pastels.
Colours (and i use the word lightly) that look like a diabetic attack waiting to pounce.
And Easter is the Academy Awards of pastels. Misty lavender. Whipped yellow. Pasty rose that doesn’t even have the courage to call itself pink.
The only upside to self-immolation - i mean isolation - is that i won’t have to watch the neighbourhood in their new elasticized waist banded, rainbow hued, outfits. Trust me, those who come out of the rainbow wear electric blue or neon green.
Then there are bunnies to contend with. And chicken fetuses.
Pumpkins, I get the whole ‘time to fornicate so we can repopulate the planet with plants and animals and chimpanzees’. I had hormones once. (We had to cut back the injections when hair started sprouting in inexplicable places.)
But I’ve never known a polyester periwinkle combo to spark a man’s urge to breed. I would say it is more likely to shut down all blood flow to the gonadillion region.
Anyhoo, if all this weren’t enough to contend with - i have to listen to daily phone calls from Open Jaw dinkette who is milking her little COVID bout like it’s a worldwide pandemic or something. And to top it off, she gets a personal get well email from MY Jean-Marc! It arrived yesterday at 4:30 and I’ve already had to listen to it 23 times.
He must have just gotten our emails mixed up. Oh JM! I feel a little faint... yes. And hot. Very hot.
