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Well, Peter Gabriel will never quite be the same again, but how damn perfect are these lyrics:

"red rain
putting the pressure on much harder now
to return again and again
just let the red rain splash you
let the rain fall on your skin
I come to you defences down
with the trust of a child"

Good luck to you my snarky friend--and enjoy the pudding.


You totally know that's what he was talking about. Peter Gabriel: Menstrual Activist.


"I am a snarky woman with amotivational syndrome"
Thank God it has a name! Here I've been suffering from some strange, unnamed malaise, but you've finally called it what it is: amovitvational syndrome.


"amovitvational syndrome" -- it feels so good to finally have an official name for what hell this process puts us through!

Good luck!


I'm constantly blaming my hormones, but I'm beginning to suspect that I might actually just be a plain old bitch.


In the interest of scientific accuracy, I have to come clean: "amotivational syndrome" is a condition invented by anti-drug interest groups. They offer it up as one of the dangers of marijuana use. There's no scientific merit for it, and the "syndrome" is not recognized by any peers.

So yeah, I say we appropriate it and bandy the term about freely.


Yay! Now I can tell my husband there IS a reason for the huge piles of dirty laundry the cat is getting lost in: I have amotivational syndrome.


I, for one, am starting to think that no male in this entire world has EVER cleaned a shower. My own perfectly wonderful husband managed to avoid this chore for the first 25 and one quarter years of his life. His first shower cleaning experience was in December, when we moved from an apartment in which we'd lived (and I'd cleaned the bathroom in) for two years. The tub had this MASSIVE clog, so you couldn't take a shower of more than 7 minutes without risking complete overflow. I wore flip-flops. When the water finally evacuated the tub it left a nice high-water mark, compromised mostly of the following: St.Ives apriocot facial scrub and a zillion tiny little pieces of hair that I'd shaved from various parts of my hairy, hairy body. So I told him, because I have an "amotivational syndrome", that he had to clean the shower. He said "ok" then asked "how?". I told him, I demonstrated how to use the old kitchen spatula to scrape the gunk off before attempting to scour the tub. He said "ok". He emerged from the bathroom about half an hour later to announce that he was done. I then spent the next two hours cleaning off all the soap scum, shampoo residue, and general nastiness that my perfectly wonderful husband claimed he couldn't see. I guess I'll just be doing it myself from now on. So he can't clean a shower. But he does empty the litter box, do the dishes, and remove poop from our daughter's dirty diapers every day. Gotta love that.


If anyone ever mentions to me a man that, of his own talent and volition, scrubs the crapper but good--and I'll faint dead away.

now that I think of it, one of our friends--mentioned earlier in the blog as 'H'--has what I think is this man. he must be some kind of genetic freak.


My husband is said genetic freak. Before him my experience with men cleaning in the bathroom was that they peed directly on the floor so that there was something to mop with.
My lovely husband can get down right snippy with me and my lax ways--I love it! My husbands post move apartment cleanup of my last single girl apartment endeared him forever to my mother who was afraid I would someday drown under my own dirty dishes.
In my defense I am one hell of a cook and I do the laundry like a house 'a fire.


As of 3 pm yesterday, my beloved husband had 1)done the several days' worth of dishes lurking in the kitchen; 2)scrubbed all the tile grout as well as the tub; and 3)gotten us out of the house to see a movie I'd been agitating for since early February. When we got home, he made dinner.

What a super fella, huh?

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