Excuse me, dahrlings, but...

1 Dinkette Down, 1 To Go

It’s a banner day, dahrlings! After suffering the ignominies of working for 2 testosterone laden, tiara loving, tee-heeing, nincompoopsies over here at the Jaw – one them is retiring! (Not as in ‘she’s shy and soft-spoken’. As if.) I mean she’s off! Hanging up her shingle. Joining the Q Tip crowd. Walking the dog. Spanking the cat.

Leftover dinkette doesn’t know what to do with herself. One minute she’s laughing hysterically.  The next she’s whimpering and hanging onto big sister’s boots. Sad, really. Even though each could swat a flying elephant with those paws of theirs, they’re so fragile. Even my gentler insults can reduce them to a blubbering pile of snots.

At least I’ll only have the one to deal with now, Pumpkins. And with a little ingenuity, maybe I can talk her into the joys of golf as well. Nothing like a small ball and a big putter to get your mind off Open Jaw, I always say.

Personally, dahrlings, I don’t see myself retiring. Mainly because the prequel to that is having to work. And I’m fortunate to have been blessed with frontal lobes that preclude having to lower myself to the level of labourer. (Which is not the same as lowering myself onto labourers. I really can’t resist a man with a jackhammer or a long hose.)

Buh bye now!

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