Somebody googled “lactose intolerant milk farts” and came across my blog.  Nobody has googled “shockingly large anal plugs” yet and found me though.  Hunh.  Maybe people aren’t quite as adventurous as I thought!

Last night I had dinner with my mom and my grandparents.  They were on their way through Dallas going back home from Colorado.  My mom, of course, lives here.  My dad wasn’t there because he is off hunting (don’t get me started, urgh!).  Anyway, I was telling them how my sister has this grand plan for me to meet my 42-year-old triathlete – I’ll tell that story in a second.  My grandmother asked me if I was praying for him to meet me.  I was like, “No, I don’t pray for dudes.”

My mom said, “Yeah, I don’t believe in praying for men.  Although if you’re praying for happiness, that could be part of it.”

And I said, “I haven’t met a man yet who made me happy.”  Which is totally true.  I’ve been with men who temporarily increased my happiness, but that’s short-lived.  They eventually make me miserable.  I have guy friends who have managed not to piss me off to that extent, but never a relationship guy.  Happiness comes from within though.  That’s your own responsibility.

Oh jeez, another wordpress weirdness.  When it auto-saves, it pops my window back up almost to the top.  Then I have to move back down.  This didn’t used to happen.  That’s a very Texan sentence, and I’m quite sure that it’s grammatically incorrect.  I guess it should be, “Previously, that did not occur.”  Mmm, unfriendly writing.  I prefer a more conversational tone.  Anyway …

The whole praying for dudes conversation got me thinking about the things I do pray for.  I don’t go to church, so generally, I feel pretty guilty about praying – like I don’t deserve to pray since I don’t put in that requisite hour.  What I do pray for is safety in travelling whether it’s me or someone I know, other people’s health, my son’s happiness, and if somebody asks me to say a prayer for them, I’ll do that.  I don’t do a lot of praying for me and my bullshit except for the travelling thing or an occassional, “Please, God, don’t let me fuck this up.”  Hopefully God is tolerant of my filthy little mouth. 

Okay, so here’s the story of my sister’s plan for me to meet the triathlete of my dreams.  We’re going to do the Oyster Racing Series in Austin.  They have a category for dorks like us that involves canoeing, rollerblading, swimming, and running up office stairs.  They also have a category for the serious triathlete people.  Apparently, this is where my dream man will be.  Though I find it a bit doubtful – my dream man is probably one of the dorks like us, but hey, a girl’s got to hope for the nicest ass she can fine, and it’s on one of the real athletes.

The big issue is that I have a skating test the weekend after the race, so I cannot get injured.  Which means I have to do the canoeing leg.  Which means my bootie is going to end up in Lake Austin.  Ick, fishy lake water.  Which means that when I meet my dream man, I’m going to be sweaty with eyeliner running down my face and smelling of fish.  Yay, that’s awesome.