I"m trying my hardest to bake tres leches cupcakes but I keep sticking my finger in the can of ever-lovin sweetened condensed milk and licking it. And when I'm not sticking my finger in the nectar of the gods, I'm sticking a spoon in it to scoop more up. And when I'm not spooning the glorious sweetness into my mouth, I'm dipping my tongue straight into the can. like a dog lapping up water. I'm shameless and pathetic and self-inducing diabetes into my body AND not finishing my cupcakes but for the love of Jesus that sweetened condensed milk is SO damn good!
I'm also wondering if there isn't some sort of self-help group I need to join for this behavior.
Well, off to open a new can and try to keep my tongue out of it. We'll see what happens. In the very least, there won't need to be some made up, lame excuse about why I can't share 2 dozen cupcakes with others...
Iiiii... know. Couldn't even believe it myself.
If you look up bossy it says domineering, abrasive, overbearing, likes to command others.
So. Not. Me.
All I have to say is I'm not technically bossy, so much as I like to offer advice on the best way to do something and then watch as you practice doing that for me. My way. The right way. Because of course it is.
If that's being "bossy" then I guess you can go ahead to call me that. But I refuse to agree.
I prefer to see it as me being helpful to all of mankind, one human being at a time. So basically I'm pretty much a UN Ambassador for Peace and Helpfulness in the World. I'm like Dr. Phil, but not as bald. Or covered in man parts. I should organize my own Dr. Sarcasm House with a Dr. Sarcasm Family. And I'd totally boss them around show them how to communicate better with each other. Because I'm all about spreading the advice on doing things my way correctly. See how non-bossy I am? I'm a total giver.
Now that I really really think about it, he didn't just call me a mean name, he pretty much called me a big, blue blob. Because that is what Miss Bossy is.
OH Hubby of mine. You are in so much trouble now.
And, if I'm Miss Bossy, then you're Mr. Mean, which basically says you're a skinny blue, sad and pathetic looking, lonely little wiener. So there.
What next? Are you gonna say I "over react" or I'm "melodramatic" or "immature?" PROVE it. It's pretty hard to argue with the kind of amazing, concrete and reasonable logic you get with me.
On Saturday as I stood in the check out line at Target, looking through the magazines, I spotted the new Sports Illustrated Swim Suit magazine. On a total whim, I picked up a copy for the Hubby. I also grabbed a US Weekly cuz where else would I get my "news?" And if the swim suit mag was the only one I got then I'd have to defend my sexuality to the cashier. Logically. Because she'd give a shit what I buy.
I brought the magazine home, all proud wife like, and announced at the door, "Look what I got for you!" to the Hubby. I know he was expecting a Kit Kat which is my usual, nice, thoughtful wife gift, so imagine his surprise. He was all, oh yeah, and I was all, aren't I an awesome wife? I'd even want to be married to me you guys.
I have a lot of magazines in my house, but I'm pretty certain that this is the only one that's gotten so much attention. My mom and dad have looked at it. The Hubby, probably a few times. My sister and her fiance each did some browsing. I caught Bossy Girl taking a peek. And I'm not gonna lie, I've looked through it too. And not "for the articles." Looking at these women caused some serious blows to my self esteem, but then I remembered that they're all airbrushed so I'd probably look just like that too with the right photographer and computer software. Not. Even. Close.
At least I've added a tally to my good wife column. The bad wife column still clearly outnumbers the good wife side, but I'm thinking it's safe to say that this is pretty much me now in the Hubby's eyes:
Don't even ask what possessed me to try out a blog post topic generator to get some ideas for what to write about. My life has been that boring lately. Seriously. I went to bed at 8:30 last night. I read a book for an hour, then crashed. And slept all night. True story. Isn't it sordid and delicious and dirty?
So, in my all-consuming and passionate effort to entertain my readers, I needed to come up with a post, stat. You people need me, I'm aware of that. It's a huge responsibility that I do not take lightly. I'm like your dealer. I need to feed your sarcasm addictions.
So, I do what I'm sure all bloggers of "excellence" do, try out some random post idea generator. Cuz why the hell not?
According to Generator Land's Blog Post Idea Generator, I'm supposed to write about 9 things I like about Columbus Day. I just can't do it. I don't even know when Columbus Day is. I'm sure the people in Columbus do. As do the Native Americans cuz we all know what happened after old Chris showed up in America. But I've got nothing. Sorry.
I select create topic again, and get this: I Love Sanford and Son.
I'm sure they're a wonderful, loveable duo, but I have zero clue who they are. Sorry, yet again. Next....
Attempt #3 gets me: I Hate Twin Peaks.
I totally don't understand this one. I happen to like twin peaks. Don't get me wrong, I'm all about the men, but who doesn't appreciate a nice rack? Exactly.
Try 4: My analysis of corn.
Well, well. A topic I can do! Here's my analysis of corn. I love fresh, right from the farm and sold at the farmer's market corn on the cob. Heck, I love corn off the cob. I don't, however, appreciate seeing my corn for the next two days after eating it.
Next up is... I just can't deal with aluminum foil.
Actually, I hate saran wrap more than aluminum foil because it gets all stuck together and I can't peel it apart or tear it out of the box and then I just end up with a clear plastic blob and all sorts of confusion and my food still isn't covered so I go for the foil cuz I can figure that shit out and it tears easily and doesn't ball up or crinkle on purpose to piss me off and my food's nice and covered in the end with foil. So aluminum foil, I actually salute you.
Ok. One last press of the button and then I'm going to give up.... Seven things I hate about stuff.
Well hell, where do I even begin? "Stuff" drives me friggin crazy. Can't stand that shit.
Go to hell "stuff."
PS. I love how one single post from a few weeks ago that mentions gout gets me all sorts of gout ads on this blog now. I wonder what this post will generate.
PPS I'm debating whether or not to change the title of my blog. I'd keep the web address the same, but re-title this thing up. I've never absolutely *loved* my title. It was a rush job to get this thing moving.
What do you think about that idea?
Here's some titles I'm tossing around:
Two Shakes and a Wiggle
Backseat Blogger
And that's all I've got. I have a serious creativity problem this week.
If you have suggestions/ideas/comments, let em rip!
I got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Any side of any bed that doesn't contain David Beckham is probably the wrong side. Actually, I'm thinking that just the fact I had to get up is what sucked donkey ass. I bitched and moaned my way to the bathroom and then had the brilliant idea full of wisdom and hope to check the weather in hopes there's some blizzard on my doorstep and I must stay home today. It's like 45 degrees, so no blizzard. Suck it weather. That's what I get for a little bit of hope at 5:30 in the morning.
I'm in a God awful shitty mood and I'm getting a sore throat and I'm plotting who I'm gonna take it out on. Not my kids or Hubby, even though all I got for Vday yesterday was them eating my chocolates and a poopy diaper. Epic fail at romance. EPIC. FAIL. But I don't care. Vday can suck it. So someone at work or in the general public will have to do. Or obviously you guys because you're masochistic enough to read my random sarcastic crap therefore you can take it. You know you like it.You're bad and you need to be punished. Like a blogging equivalent of spanking.
I need retail therapy stat. I don't want to talk to anyone or do anything productive or responsible or mature. I want to shop. Because I can't drink right now.
Online shopping is always something that cheers me up a bit. Because who doesn't love getting new things delivered on their doorstep that they didn't have to tolerate a crowded mall or super store for?
Through Enjoying the Small Things I discovered Etsy and now I'm officially hooked. Mainly I love the creativity that I can find on there because I have zero crafting and creative abilities.
Check out this sweet hair clip that would look perfect on Wee One.
And I *need* this i Pad cover even though I don't have an i Pad but that's completely Hubby's fault because he's mean and wants me to cry. I figure if I get this and set it on my counter and weep and whine about my empty i Pad cover he'll totally cave and get me an i Pad. Because immature mind tricks and tantrums and emotional manipulation are how I roll.
I want to bake some cupcakes and stick these toppers in them and then admire my work and not let anyone eat any cupcakes cuz they'll be too pretty to eat. I'll show them off and everyone will be all WOW how pretty and I'll be all, you can look but don't touch. I didn't make these to share. I made them to make you jealous of my skills.
I'm not even sure I know what the fuck this is but I'm pretty certain that I must have it. Now.
It's like an old lady and a newborn baby all wrapped up into one because neither have teeth or bladder control.
And not only does she lay there, in her Depends diaper with her pet sheep or goat or whatever the hell that is, but she's on an effin crocheted Snuggie for Christ's sake, therefore she belongs to me.
Her name is Nell, as in "tay tay in the weeend" which is a running joke in my family, especially with my younger sister who does a hardcore, dead on version of Nell.
Her eyes totally say come hither and lay with me on a bed of roses with my farm animals and share a warmed up Ensure with Metamucil mixed in with me while we watch Wheel of Fortune and play crossword puzzles. But she says it with less recognizable words and more Nell-ish "maaaay...taaayy.. Oooo... wwwaaaah...chickapaaayyyy."
I fucking love this doll and I want it now and I don't care what the Hubby says. I'll sit her on my dresser and it'll look like she's watching us. And judging us.
What? It's $65.00 freaking dollars? Shit. Better start saving up.
I feel better already.
Anyone want to share what they do to cheer themselves up?
Yesterday I was signing some checks that needed to be taken to the bank and deposited. Since they all were addressed to both the Hubby and I, I asked him to sign them as well just to be safe.
After he scribbled his signature, he took them all back and wrote under his name on each "for deposit only."
Jokingly, I said to him, "like that's gonna be enough money for the kids and I to run away from you with. I'd go ahead and clean out every account while I'm there too."
To which Hubby said, "Good luck. Your name isn't even on the accounts anymore."
It's then that I realize, GAME ON.
And by game, I mean the trickster, happy fun game we sometimes play of "let's see who could make the divorce more interesting."
We've been married for almost 10 years. We've gotsta have ourselves a little fun now and again.
Don't tell me the Hubby and I are the only ones who do this.....
So now I'm all you would take my name off the bank accounts being as how you're so controlling and demeaning and disrespectful towards me and he's all, you haven't seen control yet, woman. Now make me a sammich dammit.
Then I'm all, please don't hit me. I can't take another black eye. Do you really want the lawyers and judge to hear about the violence and he goes, whatever, you've been poisoning me for years.
And I go, prove it.That crap won't show up in your blood. And he's all, prove I'm abusive and I'm all, fine, I'll totally scratch my arms but not my face cuz I don't need marks on my face.
Then he goes, I hear your boyfriend is the one who likes to scratch you and I go, but you're drunk all the time so what do you know about anything and he's all, you're an addict and the judge needs to know it. So I come back with, but whose name is on all those prescription pill bottles and he then goes, oh yeah, well who's the one blogging about her Vicodin-induced time travel and I'm all, touche. Well played, Hubby, well played.
Disclaimer, there were no actual addicted, drunk, and/or abused spouses behind this post. Any relation to real or fictional people is strictly coincidence. I am not making light of addicted, drunk, and/or abused spouses. Domestic violence is bullshit and wrong and I'd kick the living crap out of any man I knew was abusing any woman. Because violence isn't the answer.
We jest in fun because I totally always win the real fights.
So Happy Valentine's Day lovely readers. Go start a fake fight with your significant other, but follow it up with real make up sex, not fake sex, cuz boring.
The best way to describe my night last night would be to call it Inception, but without Leonardo or a multimillion dollar budget. But I'm pretty sure the special effects were dead on.
I blew out my bum knee yesterday and it hurts like a bitch. I could tell you some awesomely cool story about how I kicked a potential mugger in the nuggets or hurt it running a marathon to cure cancer, however, those are only slightly accurate.
I was wearing heels, walking in to work, and practicing my supermodel runway walk aka Heidi Klum. But without the amazing legs and hot body and German accent. Word to the wise...don't practice your supermodel walk where it's icy outside and you're not even remotely close to being a model. Write that down.
It's like I excel in stupidity and gracefulness at the same time and obviously would hurt myself by just walking.
It's already a bum knee because it has early arthritis in it and I've had to have fluid drained off it and cortisone shots about 3 times in the past 5 years. So I clearly like my other knee better because it behaves itself.
The main point in all this rambling chaos is that I had to take some narcotics last night wherein I entered a world unknown to mankind. A world in which Vicodin helped me travel back in time and I took cell phone pics to prove it but this morning my phone shows nothing. Just like in Contact when Jody Foster traveled through space but the video doesn't show it. Like that proves anything anyway. Someone must have come into my room before dawn and deleted the pictures of me being in 5th grade again taking duck-face pics of myself to prove I'm a time traveler. Then, I became a giant chocolate bunny and I woke up at one point smelling my hands and declaring that they totally smell like chocolate and I swear to God they truly and actually did smell like delicious milk chocolate. And then I became a crime scene investigator and was digging up a dead, limbless and decapitated body but the head was still talking to me and she was sharing with me her recipe for fried chicken. I also was laying in a water bed all night but we don't technically own a water bed so I'm not sure how that happened but it was delightful.
Don't worry, I'm only taking Ibuprofen during the day. But I'm totally taking my pain med again tonight. I'll keep you posted on my process of enlightenment and space and time travel. However, this time if Marty and Doc or Leonardo don't show up? I'm gonna be super pissed.
Apparently, I've decided to take up a hobby in sleepwalking.
This past weekend, the Hubby informed me that in the early morning hours, 4:31 to be exact, cuz he tends to be exact, I was standing up in our bedroom, rubbing the wall. Yes, you read it correctly, rubbing the wall. I guess I freaked him out because, well, I was standing up, asleep, wall rubbing, but also I was unresponsive and talking about my alarm not going off. I think he thought I might have started going all Paranormal Activity on him, which of course, wouldn't turn out so good for him in the end.....
The wall's all the way over THERE? How am I going to rub it? First, I must get a knife.....
Anyways, why I was rubbing the wall is beyond me. It's not like I particularly like that wall. It's probably #8 on my list of Top 10 favorite walls in my house.
But I AM sorta wishing that I was a much more cool sleepwalker. You know, one of those people who sleep drive through the McDonald's drive thru, or sleep cook some Ramen Noodles or sleep pee over the staircase railing or sleep destroy their house.
One the way to rubbing the living room wall, we raided the Christmas tree.
I'm sure you've all heard those stories about innocent people popping a sleeping pill and waking up naked on their riding lawn mower in the neighbor's yard. That's some interesting sleepwalking. Dangerous, but interesting. Way more fun than wall rubbing.
In the past, I've pulled a couple of other sleepwalking attempts.
One time when I was still a teen and living at home, I went to bed in sweatpants, and woke up in shorts. I discovered my neatly folded sweatpants on the floor under the bed the next day. That's some interesting sleep work. Impressive, mainly because I rarely fold my clothes. So sleepwalking laundry chores are technically a skill of mine. Probably should put that on my resume. Can fold clothes neatly while sleeping.
Another time, about 3 or 4 years ago, I took some Tylenol PM and sleep hallucinated. I practically jumped on top of the bed, pointing out the red, beady eyed demons I swore I saw running around the room. Thank you, Tylenol PM for that terror. Oh! I bet they were possums. Cuz I hate them. And they have beady eyes and are evil. AND they have it out for me. Likely.
Otherwise, I'm a very uneventful sleeper. I've been known to fall asleep and not move. All night. Like, go to bed and wake up in the same position. Not even having rolled over or stretched my legs. I'm that boring in bed. *snickers and giggles* You could park a semi in my bedroom and I likely wouldn't notice. I do hear Wee One when she cries out, which is good. Not that I get up every time she wimpers. Many times I pretend sleep so the Hubby goes to check on her. Secret's out.
Tell me fair readers, do you have any interesting sleepwalking stories? Or are you just boring, nocturnal wall rubbers like me?
Tales of a Saturday night. In my house. Where we are losers and don't go out on Saturday nights anymore.
Be ready to be envious.
TV commercial for some drug for "gout."
Me: God, I hope I don't get gout.
Hubby. Yea, that'd suck. I like being able to walk fine.
Me: Totally. Wait.... How is your neck connected to walking?
Hubby: You're talking about gout.
Me: Yepper. So what's that have to do with walking?
Hubby: Duh. Gout. Feet.
Me: UM, wrong. What are you thinking gout even is?
Hubby: That acid build up thing in your feet.
Me: What the hell:? It's that big giant bump thing you get in your neck from something like lack of salt or some shit. Acid in feet? Whatevs.
Hubby: That's not gout.
Me: Oh shit! That's goiter. I think....
Hubby: What world are you in?
Me: How do you get acid in your feet?
Hubby: I. Don't. Know.
So I look it up. Uric acid building up in the blood gives someone gout.
Me: How the hell do you pee in your own blood?
Hubby: What?
Me: Isn't uric acid pee? Urine = uric.
Hubby: I don't freaking know.
Me: Well you learn something new everyday. I've learned a new "G" disease. Goiter. Gout. Gonorrhea.
Hubby: Who's talking about gonorrhea?
Me: Exactly.
Hubby: You. Are. Odd.
Me: Well, at least I don't have gout. Hey, gout rhymes with grout. That's how I'll remember it. You walk on ceramic tile sealed with grout. Feet can have gout. Cool mnemonic, right?
Hubby: Yea, no.
Me: I need more wine so I can ponder this shit up. I'm practically filled to the brim with medical knowledge. I must use my talents for good. And be careful how I pee so I don't get gout.
GOD we'd be fun to hang out with on the weekend, right?
I'm not traditionally an "alarmist," but I am a certified "hypochondriac," "anxious person," and "chronic worrier."
So this "super volcano under Yellowstone that is currently being more active thing," is starting to freak me the hell out.
The ground is rising? It "took a deep breath?" It could blow "any day," making all of North America uninhabitable?
Are you FREAKING KIDDING ME?
Not only must I worry about 2012, the economy, gas prices, my waistline, global warming, water pollution, crow's feet, health insurance premiums, baby product recalls, low vitamin D levels, Charlie Sheen, and the impending zombie invasion, now I have to worry about being incinerated by a friggin supervolcano?
And the scientist in the video says the only thing we could do is "run?"
THAT'S your most scientific solution? Run?
Where should we run to, Mr. Alarmist Scientist?
And why are you laughing throughout your interview about this?
I bet you have some extra home off in Asia somewhere safe, that's why.
I've gotta start making some plans. Pronto. I only have a day. Or two. Or another 100,000 years. It's all relative though, cuz it's gonna happen. Soon.
According to the map, I'm not in the imminent danger/you're automatically vaporized so kiss your ass goodbye zone. I have time. I'm not showing you on the map where I actually live. I have enough stalkers. And by that I mean fans. But rest assured, I'm further east, outside all that red ash zone crap.
I just survived Blizzaster 2011, so I'm in survival mode. Here's an outline of my plan.
Buy a U-Haul. And a gun. Even though I've never touched a gun before and they scare the beejesus out of me. But this is America dammit, and if Sarah Palin says I should have a gun, I'm gonna get one. And shoot me some sort of animal with it. Not likely. But a possum? Kinda likely. Evil ass animals.
Fill my U-Haul with survival necessities. You know, stuff like cereal, Snuggies, shoes, head massagers, canned goods, bottled water, coffee, wine, and cigarettes. Because if I survive this, I'm gonna start smoking. Oh, and ammo and lighters and flashlights. Oh! And Spam. Because Spam will survive anything.
Kidnap Mike Wolfe and store him in U-Haul. Hell, while I"m at it I'll find a way to kidnap my girl crush Susanna Hoffs too. And Betty White. Because of course.
Wait for Mr. Laughing Alarmist Scientist to scream "We're all gonna die!" on the news and start up the U-Haul.
Get my kids, and probably the Hubby, cuz he's technically handy to have around with the "physical strength and rational thinking" thing he's got going for him. Neither of which I have. And he's more likely to shoot said gun, because again, I'm scared of them.
Clear out bank account for cash. That won't take long to empty.
Drive as far east as possible. Then ditch U-Haul and well-stocked supplies because dude, the ocean is in between us and Europe and I didn't think to buy a floating or submersible U-Haul.... because they don't make them. Until I email them this idea, which will work like a charm and Mr. U-Haul CEO will see the error of his vehicular ways and make U-Hauls with floaties all around them. And sails.
Fly to Rome. Eat carbs and drink wine.
And by the way, if you survive, you're all welcome to join my new Roman colony, post-super volcano eruption.
We'll set up a commune where we crochet Snuggies, tend livestock, whittle wood, play Wii games, cook pasta, play Skip Bo, and take scheduled daily naps. Like an old folks' home, only cooler. And less old.
Everyone will wear their goldenrod Snuggies, and stay out of the forest. Where savage beasts live. Because of course they do. That's always where the beasts dwell. So you must stay in my Roman compound forever and ever and listen to everything I have to say. It's a prophecy. I'll be your leader. You'll all call me "Most Royal Semi-Italian Queen and Princess of the Universe." You will follow my rules and trip over each other to spit shine my tiara. But not with spit, because that's totally gross. Joaquin Phoenix will even be there as a member of the Committee of Elders. We'll decide who comes and goes, and we'll ensure the safety of anyone who swears a blood oath to pledge their lives to the colony. Except for Mr. Mad Alarmist Laughing Scientist. I won't let him in because he in no way helped us escape. And I don't think I'll let Mel Gibson in cuz he's just insane. And definitely not Oprah. People will like her more than me, and that will be a threat to my throne and the last thing I'll need post volcanic eruption is a potential coup.
So there, my plan is ready. It just needs some volcanic ash to be set in motion. Not that I'd like that to happen. But my God it'd be good to be queen.....
Her Most Royal Semi-Italian Queen and Princess of the Universe decrees this forest off limits. Now get back to your crocheting and Just Dance 2!!
I'm reporting to you live from the aftermath of the 2011 Snowpocalypse. I'm pretty sure we should be thankful for all this snow. Cuz it's likely prevented the real apocalypse we have to look forward to. The zombies. Probably. Too cold for them to start wreaking their havoc yet. Plus, they'd freeze out there and become ice mummies. And who's ever heard of a mummy apocalypse? That'd be awkward for the mummies, cuz they can't move. Or bite. Or eat. So they'd lose that war pretty damn fast.
Gas station math whiz was right. People ended up with 200 inches of snow. Almost.
We're at like 17 inches, which is about right on target for what they were predicting. I was skeptical that we'd actually get that much. We all know how predictable the weather can be. And we all know how *accurate* weather forecasters are. A majority of them are men, so they have their inches and sizes all sorts of confused. Like to them, this is actually 8 inches.
And they will do their goddamn best to convince you of it too. And if you're drunk, you'll either believe it, or forget about it, so they're safe in their dirty measurement lies.
So when they predict 15 inches, we can typically expect a dusting. But alas, they had this one down.
It doesn't look like 17 inches until you're out in it, shoveling and snow blowing.
At least, that's what the Hubby has relayed to me through his ski mask, while gasping for air.
You won't catch my ass out there in that insanity.
I'm doing my womanly jobs. Inside the house.
When it comes to snow duty, lawn care duty, trash duty, recycle bin duty, gutter and downspout duty, I go all traditional, 1950s role on your ass. Those are the man's jobs.
I'm on my second pot of coffee. Wee One is napping early cuz she didn't get the memo that we were to sleep in today while stranded in the blizzard. So she was up at 6:30. Bossy Girl is outside climbing the new Mt. Everest in our neighbor's yard. After blogging, I may watch a movie. But nothing with snow in it. So that takes Frozen and The Shining and Alive off my list. Have you seen Frozen, by the way? IF I were someone who enjoyed skiing, I'd never go skiing again after seeing that movie.
Well, at least we have enough food to last us until June. Cuz that's how long it'll take for this effing snow to melt. I caved into the hype and hit the grocery store twice before this happened. Everyone had their "necessities" that they had to have. For me, it was peanut buttercup cookies, coffee, Toffee Nut Coffee Mate, stuff for homemade chicken noodle soup, cereal, chips, and brownies. I've eaten some carbs. And I don't care at the moment.
If you are a snowpocalypse survivor, did you head to the store?
What were your "necessities?"
Picture it.
6:45 am. Dark. Cold. Windy. Snowpocalypseis on its way today.
My pantry and fridge are filled, but alas, my gas tank is not.
So I hit the BP, which I don't like cuz of the whole oil in the Gulf and dead animals issue, but I need some gas and it's close. Call me addicted to convenience and lenient in my convictions.
I'm shivering, watching the numbers rise and rise as my car guzzles up the fuel.
All of the sudden, I hear a voice.
Too damn cold to be pumping gas, ain't it?
I don't see a person. I don't even see another car.
WTH? The gas pump just spoke to me. Holy shit.
Hesitating, I reply, yes, yes it is. To the gas pump.
At least we're not pumping gas later today during the blizzard.
This gas pump watches the weather forecast too? My mind=officially blown.
After a long pause, I decide to look around the other side of the pump, hoping against hope I don't see a fairy or gnome or some shit, and I notice a man (thank the Lord!) in a crocheted beanie, God love him, with the tiniest blue, rusty car pulled up too far for me to see, grinning at me with a missing front tooth.
Whew. Not a talking gas pump after all. Sanity is still in check. (A totally debatable statement.)
Mr. Toothless Beanie proceeds to discuss how in Chicago, he heard they're getting like, 200 inches of snow.
No kidding, I say. 200 inches? *glancing at my car and telepathically transmitting a "be full NOW dammit" plea.*
Well, I heard it on the radio last night driving home from work. Some dude called in and said their weather forecast called for 200 inches of snow in Chicago. Can you imagine?
Yea, that'd be "inconvenient."
Yea, that's like,..... pause to calculate....5 feet of snow!
I look at Mr. Toothless Beanie, calculate in my own head, realize that I'm 5'2 inches, and think to myself, "holy shit! I'm over 200 inches tall! Take that Ford Modeling Agency! I *could* be on your runways after all!"
Thank you, Mr. Toothless Beanie Math Genius, for my early morning math lesson.
Dear Chicago, sorry about your impending 200 inches of snow. But rest assured, it's only like, 5 feet, so you'll be thawed out by spring.
Don't steal my stuff. Read it and enjoy it and love it a little. Or a lot. But don't take what's not yours unless you ask. Feel free to link me though. And refer to me a lot. And sing my praises. End of discussion. Peace out.
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