Time and Time Again

The death clock has advised that I am going to die on March 10, 2060. If I list myself as "normal" instead of an optimist, that year drops to 2037. Heck, all this time I thought my optimism was going to make me a wealthy woman. Instead, it's just going to keep me around in a decrepit nursing home for for-e-ver. Hey. I'll take it. From Miss Cellania.

"I think Leap Year is so strange. It happens every two years."
"It does? I thought it was four."
"No, it really does. Can you imagine? You are only half you age because you are born on February 29."

In about 9 hours I can call a washing machine repair person's office assistant who will tell me that I will have to wait another three days for parts. I am wearing pants with pockets on the sides. I mean pockets below the knees and on the sides, and the pants have drawstrings at the ankles. This can only mean that tomorrow I will be forced to wear something all bright and glittery and with only one shoulder, something my daughters have smashed into to the bottom of a drawer. We began piling things up for a trip to the laundry mat, but then I thought, heck, when was the last time I had an excuse to wear sweat pants with a missing cord and the inscription "Hottie" across the ass. If you guessed "never," you would be right. Then my two incredibly stacked girls asked what I would do when I ran out of bras. "She can wear ours," they said to each other and broke out in hysterics.

Hey, I say its time they put their D-Cup Muscles and Leap Year Brains to work at a scrub board.