Every six years, United States Senators are re-elected. Every four years, there is a leap year. Every Christmas I blow all my money on me instead of buying gifts for others. What do all of these things have in common? They are forces that can't be messed with. Totes like mah Missus.




We talk weird (as we hooove totes developed our long-uage). We smoke like our musters own stock in sticks (cigs). We reserve the right to bootch about the stuff that doesn't make us all that mad and have lifesize droomotic meltdown over the stuff that does get under our well moisturized skin. We are the most confident and insecure Southern biatches on the blouck. The only thing we are decisive about is our cocktail choices. Nobody has ever asked what we thought about something because it.is.written.all.over.our.faces. We dance like we think we are Baby being crammed in the corner.

You mess with one of us and you are going to see a fury of Chi straigtened hair and bangle brackets tearing your ass a new one. Peppered poetically, of course, with a sprinkling of four letter words.

We love our mamma's. We love our la petite Missus and Musters (regardless of if they are 4 legged poppies or 2 legged bebes). We are so tickled by our musters.

Next week we are going to be better daughters, wives/girlfriends, dieters, Olympic athletes. We vow to wait all the way until Tuesday before we declare our first matyr sit-chu-ashen (situation).

But you know where we shine the brightest? At the dinner table.