Top Dawg

A few concerns have arisen regarding the almighty Kitchen household. Is the honeymoon over? Are the walls crumbling? Has it gone awry? Keep your jock straps on sister Mary(s), surely everything is fine. My hormone faucets ruptured, it happens. Shane is safe and so am I. We are all cool like pickled cucumbers. It's just sometimes I tend to magnify my rantings a thousand fold. My confessions are a merely a heavy exertion on events. Certainly, without disagreements, improvements would cease to exist. Don't worry loyal Shane fans he has come out unscathed. He is well aware of my entries, considering that he contributes to my daily dallies.

Shellie's Proverb: A country with no rice always goes hungry.

Perhaps, he is freaking out about the baby, as he should. As the male species can never put the trigger on their emotions, my husband proceeds to increase his extra curriculars. That's normal too and it's all malleable. I'll take that over a wife beater any day. I've been with musicians, gamers, and techies and that my friend is mental abuse. Regardless, I don't blame my bout with hormones exclusively. In the past years, I've learned to tame that wild animal we women refer to as PMS, although this spontaneous hormonal flux is a tasmanian terror.

We're doing a great job thus far. It's been a little choppy, but nothing that we can't hack. So you loyal members of Shane's fan club can take a big whiff of your jock straps, because it's all going to be alright. He's still on for the annual Golf Tournament in Scottsdale. I am forcing his attendance to Carr's wedding in Texas. We have an understanding with snowboarding. A don't ask and don't tell policy. The Kitchen dome is in tact. Shrill.

Lesson: Grasshopper must suffer most terribly to achieve enlightness.