Didn’t I tell you that they’re mine. I’ve eaten them by now.
[martyr]
I SUPpose I can make some more. It might just make me cry though.
[/martyr]
I’m suffering PMS.
My birthday is tomorrow. It’s Sunday. Mr Primaflora let it slip that he has bought me no birthday present. The shops are shut. He’s taken the little primaflorettes out shopping at the farmers market up the road. I expect even crappier presents than normal. I will be nice to the primaflorettes on account how they could give me any crap and I will still love them dearly.
Mr Primaflora and I had a screaming match. Apparently after I said NO! I do not want a second hard drive for the computer and indeed I do not ever wish to receive stuff for the computer for a present again, he ran out of ideas. Tough shit, buckwheat.
We were at the freaking mall yesterday. We were at the garden centre which is fabulous beyond belief yesterday.
He didn’t buy me anything. Does he suck? Is it justifiable homicide?
I’ve just gotten a flourless chocolate cake out of the oven and a pavlova will be ready in 10 minutes. Anyone wanna share them? 
There there, Primaflora. Eat some cake. You’ll feel better.
Justifiable homicide? Well, probably not. But unless he gets you something that’s huge, glittering, jewel-encrusted and has can be viewed from the surface of the Moon with the unaided eye, I’ll agree that he does suck. 
Now why don’t I ever get offers like this?
Ow.
Sharp, quick pain. Lower left side. In the vicinity of the ovary.
Ovulation.
Hey, you know what? TurboDog is kinda cute. Hm.
Oh no.
[sub]must…resist…desire…to…procreate…aaaaahgh…[/sub]
And here I was gonna ask you to ovulate for me!
Here ya go. I’m sorry it took 11 hours. Oh, I picked up some Mrs. Fields chocolate-chip cookies, too. And cough medicine and tea. “Angel Nails” sells gift certificates, so I got you one. The Naked Buff Firemen Dance Squad will be along at midnight. Have fun. 'Bye. I’ve got to attend my weekly Way Too Nice Guys meeting.
Whoops.
I think I’m in love.
So, honeybuns, is it alright with you if I take friday off from work, get drunk with the guys, come home and cook up a big batch of chili, let the dog clean the pan, then get up at 5 am on your day off (I’ll be real quiet, unless I can’t find something or I forget or you need to clean up dog puke) so I can go fishing for two days and then you can come home on Monday after work to find me shaven and unshowered on couch, watching Seinfeld reruns? And would you mind bringing home some Thai from that place across town? And a six-pack of beer? Football’s on tonight and I’m having some of the guys over for a poker game.
(Sigh.) I just wanted to ask, once. I’m a bubble bath, backrub, stock up on chocolate, you still look beautiful, here’s the TV remote, it’s OK if you cry, I’ll cook supper tonight, Guy.
Which is why I get to do all my stuff next weekend, right?