nine lies my uterus tells me

Though I thought yesterday's grocery list was scraping the bottom of the inspirational barrel, I was pleased to learn it was enjoyable to at least one loyal reader. And, indeed, I found it handy as I printed it out and made it to the store - a virtual miracle given the fact that I've been busy with elephant seals this weekend. (More on them later - I don't feel like Photoshopping their pictures just now and I have less than two hours remaining to come up with something to honor my Nanoblopomo obligations...)

Anyway, I thought this evening perhaps I would try for something a tad more entertaining. Tonight I will share with you a number of wholly irrational thoughts I revisit often. Although I know they are nuts, I am powerless against them. I have found it impossible to purge them from my mental playlist. Since they seem to be more persuasive at certain times of the month, I like to think of them as lies my uterus tells me.

1. My uterus says that my husband puts his ugly tan plaid jacket in the laundry hamper just to aggravate me. It seems that he waits until the basket is perfectly full to discard this particularly oversized piece of clothing, thus ensuring I cannot wash all the clothes in one load. My uterus claims that this is a plot of his to squash that satisfying feeling of having all the laundry done at once. In truth, I know he puts the jacket in the laundry because it is dirty.
2. My uterus says that I should eat the chocolate ice cream because I deserve it. When my mind protests, calculating the number of points in real ice cream, my uterus claims that I actually like being fat because then I get to have big boobs. My uterus fails to remind me that my boobs are actually also quite cute when they are small and perky, because my uterus simply likes chocolate ice cream. My uterus also strongly believes my husband when he says he likes me at every size. My uterus is the only part of my body that believes this. The rest of me knows my husband is too smart and too sweet to tell the truth.
   
3. My uterus is convinced that it is okay to go out in public while wearing Happy Bunny pajama pants. I'm actually often inclined to agree, but I know that Oprah Winfrey would call me a "shlumpadinka."
   
4. My uterus thinks the cats can sense REM sleep and they dedicate their lives to disturbing it. Again, I tend to agree with the uterus on this one.
5. My uterus thinks that the cooking of any meal which does not involve either the freezer or the microwave is insanity. The uterus prefers take out.
6. Along the same line, the uterus feels strongly that the family that operates Thai Boat should never ever be allowed to go on vacation. They should certainly never be allowed to take an entire month off to go to, oh, I don't know, Thailand or someplace far away like that. The uterus feels that at the very least Thai Boat should have to notify its loyal customers in advance to warn them of the pending shortage of this very addictive food. (The uterus would not be at all surprised to learn that their recipes include some sort of narcotic...) The uterus also believes that their take out menu should be a legally binding document and the uterus would like to force them to adhere to the part that reads, "Open 7 Days" which is in direct conflict with the part that says, "closed Wednesdays." At the very least the uterus thinks the matter should go to an arbitrator.
   
7. The uterus thinks the world revolves around me. This is not an altogether unpleasant thought (it certainly justifies much selfishness), but it comes with an unpleasant side effect. The uterus thinks that all the world recalls each and every horrible thing I've ever done or said. My uterus is fond of reminding of what a dumbass I have been.
8. My uterus thinks I should have a cocktail. It never thinks I will have a hangover. And when I do wake up feeling poorly, the uterus always blames me. The uterus claims it never said I should have the second, third or fourth cocktail, only the first. I suppose my uterus has a point there, but still.
9. My uterus has horrible taste in TV but prefers to think of our time spent in front of the tube as hours spent partaking in pop culture. Even the uterus knows this is a lie. The uterus and I agree that it is sweet and adorable of Erik to let us have the remote control even though we use it to watch trash.

On that note, I guess I am off to enjoy my Thai Boat with some trash TV and perhaps a cocktail. Hopefully I can at least resist the ice cream...