The Weekly Numbers, Late As They Are

I totally forgot about the Numbers. Dang, three weeks blogging and I already suck at updating. You know, back when I had my very first blog, on the illustrious Diaryland way back in 2001 (before blogging was cool, chickens. We're talking the stone-ages of blogging. And yes, I am aware that blogging still isn't really considered cool. But really aren't I cool enough for you to overlook that fact?), I would update approximately 4,000 times a day. Seriously, it was an update fest.

And here, I am like 10 entries in and already writing one of those dreaded, hacky, "sorry I never update enough" posts.

Oh well, deal with it, fuckers.

Onto the numbers....

Number of signs advertising kissing balls I've seen since the one I snapped a pic of at my spa: Three! And I still have no idea whatsoever what these are, if not a sex act. And I'm assuming they are not, considering New Hampshire isn't necessarily the sort of state where mom and pop shops on the side of the road display signs advertising the sex acts available within. I'd post more camera-phone shots of the kissing balls signs, but I was a lazy bitch and did not take any. Again, deal with it.

Items I have packed for my trip to DC this weekend: 0

Dirty items of laundry that I plan on bringing with me, but that I have yet to wash and probably won't until midnight THursday: 4

Number of Items I intend to pack for my 4 day trip: Well let's see. Jeans, a couple sweaters, pj's, workout clothes (heeeeeheheheheeee, *breathes*, heeeeeeeeee!!!!! Yeah, right.), 2 pair going out shoes, 2 work outfits, 2 going out shirts. 4 pair underwear. So what is that? 15 items? Not including toiletries? 15 it is.

Number of items I will no doubt ACTUALLY pack for my 4 day trip: Every single item of clothing in my closet and dresser, as well as two different pairs of underwear for every day (one comfy and one sexy..hey, you never know!), flip flops I won't wear, 4 different pairs of jeans, 3 different pajama bottoms for no apparent reason, Britney's panties, my wok, a fire extinguisher, my neighbor's cat, all the dishware from my cupboards including my 23 wine glasses, and a hat. Actually two hats, one Red Sox cap and one warm and fuzzy. Oh, and some cheese. So, how many is that?

Number of casualties incurred during my move this weekend: Only one, thankfully, and it figures it was my dad, who cut the back of his hand putting my kitchen table together. He always manages to find new and interesting ways to injure himself. He had already drawn blood once this week during a run-in with a teacup Maltese "killer," and went around complaining about feeling faint the rest of the week. The best part is that my mom actually gets mad at him every time he hurts himself. This tickles me pink. It's like when she gets mad at him for traffic. "WHY are we stuck behind this TRUCK? You just HAD to get behind the TRUCK, didn't you???" "None of the other lanes are moving either!" "But now we can't SEE." It kills me. Like he can do anything about traffic? Women are crazy, I heart us.

Number of Dunkin Donuts iced coffees consumed since last numbers update: 1. Hurrah! I seem to have settled down my rampant addiction. Actually, it's that I have not had any cash on me. My local Dunkin drive-thru doens't take cards, as I discovered while counting out several quarters and dimes for the long-haired 50 year old hippie guy that always serves me my coffee.

Number of ridiculous vanity plates noticed: 50,000. Seriously, what's UP, New Hampshire? This state is officially cuckoo for vanity plates. Granted, I myself had a vanity plate on my car in high school, and I just thought I was the cat's pajamas. It said "SARAH&", as "SARAH" was already taken. I thought it was mysterious..."Sarah& who????", people would think to themselves as I drove by. But folks, that's when I was 16 damn years old, and the car was a shit-ass Toyota. I was not some pompous ass in an Escalade with the license plate (seriously) "3CADDYS". That one did make me chuckle though. That douche is so lucky he lives in New Hampshire. How fast would Mr. 3Caddys get carjacked down in DC? Oh my gosh.

Number of drinks I'm going to need before I can get on the plane Friday: 40,000. I hate flying. HATE. "But the flight's only an hour, just relax!" You say. Guess what, chachi, the amount of time the plane is in the air before it comes CRASHING OUT OF THE SKY is not a factor in how dead such a catastrophe would make me. The last time I flew, my ticker was averaging 240 beats per minute. I'm going to try and use my old friend Mr. Jack Daniels to bring that number down to a nice, panicky 200 this time around.

Wish me luck.