Friday, January 30, 2015

Friday Randoms


"I can't deal with him today. I'm trying to reduce the number of stabbings I commit in a year."


"So then I got stuck on a hill. Like, my car wouldn't go anywhere. Not forward. Not backwards. Maybe sidewaysish."

"That's what you get for driving a car called a Rabbit. You need something called ... like ... a Stegasaurus."

"Ooooh. Rugged AND armored!"


"Every time it snows I want to find that Elsa chick and punch her in the face. 'Let It Go' my ass."


"What are you doing for the Superbowl?"

"I thought I'd stay in and read. Like I've done during EVERY football game."


"Oh, and watch the hysteria fueled posts on Facebook! That's my kind of sport."


"There's so much drama. SO MUCH DRAMA."

"Seriously. It's like a soap opera that no one wants to watch."

Monday, January 26, 2015

Monday Randoms (The World Has Gone Mad)

So I was super sick last week. So sick, in fact, that I didn't write very much (or, you know, change my clothes. Or stand up). But were there randoms? There WERE some randoms.


"You don't want to open that can of worms."

"Who puts worms in a can, even. Can you imagine? It's like -- you're standing in the bunker after the zombie apocalypse and you're all 'Oh, here's some MREs ... and some spam ... oh, and this can of worms.'"


"Well NOW you've done it."


"Robert Downey Jr is so ... just ..."

"Robert Downey Jr-ish?"



"I thought I wanted to take a shower but then I realized I really wanted to take a nap."

"Those ... aren't even close to being the same thing."

"I know."

"What did you do?"

"Napped. I'm not crazy. Just dirty."


"This store is MENTAL right now."

"People are prepping for the storm."

"I know. But ... crazy."


"I thought I didn't need wine? But now... I NEED ALL THE WINE."


"I mean, it's not like my car is safe in the snow."

"Did you ever get your car fixed? It's not like your car is safe ANYWHERE."

"It's airbag-riffic. It's safe-ish. That's something."

Thursday, January 22, 2015

Sickie Von Sickerton

Day One of Being Sick: I'll just wear these comfy yoga pants all day...

... Okay, and to bed, too. I can wear them to bed. It's not like I've been doing more than just, erm, lounging. 

Day Two of Being Sick: you know, I should probably change out of these pants to go to the doctor. Because ... Reasons. Okay.

(Upon return from doctor): oh yoga pants I MISSED YOU

I'm going to wear you to bed again. You are the most comfy pants ever and I love you. 

Day Three of Being Sick, 2 AM: I've been wearing the same pants for three days. Huh. That should skeeve me out but ... Let's face it. I feel like ass, but I'm COZY. So yeah. Yay yoga pants.

Noon: I should change my pants. And blog.

(At least I accomplished one of those things... Siiiigh)

Tuesday, January 20, 2015

Snow Globes and Caterpillars and Pathways, Oh My

Consider the snow-globe, if you will. A snow-globe is lovely just as it is, sitting on a table or shelf. A glass ball filled with water and ... For the purposes of this exercise, let's say that inside the snow-globe there is an owl. A white owl on a white porcelain perch. It's pretty.

Until you shake it.

And then? As white and iridescent glitter swirl around it and light dances off of it?

It's beautiful.


People like to ask me what I believe in -- I have the kinds of friends who like to talk about these things -- and I believe in the journey. I believe in movement, and learning as you move. I believe that the missteps and things you learn from them are every bit as important as the paths that are easy and restful.

And I believe that everything and everyone is a work in progress. You, me, the guy who lives next door and really likes club jams, the people who think you're awesome, and the people who have decided that you are not awesome. We're all on our way to becoming better versions of ourselves, all of the time.


I sometimes think that caterpillars must be scared out of their little bug minds in that moment when they start to build their cocoons. "Gonna become something else! Something totally different! I've never even had a flying lesson!" They build them anyway. They build them, and they totally remake themselves, and while the end result is astonishing, so is the rebuilding process.


It takes courage and faith not only to accept change, but also to embrace it.

It takes patience to believe in the journey. Patience, and the knowledge that even if you don't end up where you thought -- and you sometimes won't -- it's not the worst thing that could happen because you've figured a bunch of stuff out on the way. You've revealed some of who you are to yourself and to others. You have an idea of where to go next.

You could grouse about it. Folks do. You can complain that the people on the path are stupid and are ruining! Your! Life! and make them feel badly about their journey -- which, though it may be in tandem with yours at points, is not the same one -- and put your energy into big buckets of negativity. You could do that. But before you do, remember this: YOU carry those buckets. They will only hurt you. They will only slow you down.


You can be lovely. A snow-globe on a shelf, motionless, gathering dust. Or you can be exceptional.

You have to choose.

Monday, January 19, 2015

Using What You're Given

I recently received some negative feedback regarding some aspects of my personality. As you might imagine, I reacted in a cool, calm, manner freaked out and indicated that the woman who had the audacity to talk about me in such a manner was, actually, a total loon and should consider, erm, recalibrating a portion of her anatomy.

Or two.

With the subsequent passage of time, however, I have reconsidered the criticism that was (less than graciously) handed to me. While I still believe that the exact commentary was completely unnecessary and whacked out, I do think that there is a kernel of truth buried waaaaaaaaaaaay in there, underneath the lunacy and flat-out inaccuracy of the original comment, and that kernel of truth is something that I do, in fact, need to work on.

It would have been easier to dismiss what was said. It would have been simple. It was presented secondhand – by a friend -- without the intention of having me do anything with it, but it occurred to me that something had to happen to trigger the remarks in the first place. Something took place to make Loopy Lou feel as though criticism was warranted, and that – that initial event – was worth examining more carefully. Was I guilty of the extreme—and weird – behavior that she had indicated that I had exhibited? Nope. So what had made her think I was? What would make her need to say something hurtful about me to someone else?

I stopped being mad (eventually) and started trying to think about this whole, ridiculous moment as an opportunity to think about people, how I interact with them, and how I could improve those interactions. I can’t control what other people say – no one can – but I can control what I do, and how I react.

The truth, I think, is that someone said something potentially hurtful knowing that it would get back to me, and likely with the intention of doing some damage. I choose not to be hurt or damaged, because doing so hands that person power that she doesn’t need or deserve. Instead, I’m going to use this to MY advantage – not hers – and take the opportunity to grow.

You can’t always choose what you are given. But you can always choose how you use it.

Friday, January 16, 2015

Friday Randoms


"Did you try the body wash/ sugar scrub / body butter combo I suggested?"

"Yeaaaaaaah. About that."

"You don't like it."

"I do. I do like it. It makes my skin feel awesome. It's just... I smell like a boat drink."

"How is that a problem? You have soft skin AND you'll draw Jimmy Buffet fans like flies! That's allllllll win!"


"Frankly I can't believe you haven't hurt yourself badly walking to the bathroom at night."


"You're not ... Present. You kind of ... Stumble shuffle."

"I'm a zombie who has to pee."


"Is that your lunch?"

"What, this? This thing that I'm eating at lunchtime?"

"Yeah... Oh, never mind."


"Gas was so cheap that I wanted to fill every container I owned. Including my shoes. Because Holy Cheap."


"You know what I hate?"

"The impending zombie apocalypse. And pickles. But not in that order?"

"I have got to stop asking you that question."

Thursday, January 15, 2015

Ten things I Love About Winter in New England

1. Iced coffee. Why? No one knows. Just go with it.

2. After several really cold mornings (it was ONE DEGREE when I left for work yesterday), a morning temp of 25 seems ... warm. Toasty, even.

3. Laughing in the face of one to three inches of snow. Why bother to report that? It doesn't even count!

4. Breaking out the flip flops if the thermometer hits 45.

5. Playing the "who paid more for heat this month" games with my friends.

6. The way a drafty window will inspire me to become McGyver. "I can fix that with ... plastic wrap. And some pipe cleaners. Annnd ... um ... this penny."

7. Taking off your winter wear by the woodstove, where any cast off snow can strike it and sizzle.


9. Snow days!

10. The bright red of a cardinal against white, freshly fallen snow. So Robert Frost-y. So glorious.

Wednesday, January 14, 2015


Some days are just trouble. Stare at the keyboard, stare at my fingernails, stare at the screen, stare into space.


And I think, well, so, I can’t think of anything. That’s okay. Something will come. And then it doesn’t and the staring game resumes.

Except this time, it’s accompanied by humming. Which, to be honest, is super annoying. When was the last time you heard someone humming and thought, Wow, humming is awesome. It’s underrated as a musical art form. More people should hum. There should be entire symphonies of humming!

You’ve never thought that. No one has ever thought that, because humming is WEIRD. And annoying. Not as annoying as whistling, which is what I start doing next.  (it’s always the Indiana Jones theme song, too. Why?  NO ONE KNOWS.)

But now I’m whistling and staring.
It’s not a good day, all around. Good things happen in every day – I believe that? – but some days just suck out loud.
It will get better. Everything gets better.
In the meantime, I’m going to whistle the Indiana Jones theme.

And maybe stare off into space a little.


Tuesday, January 13, 2015


I have two friends who are going through difficult personal things right now, so I wanted to tell them -- and everyone else -- something that I firmly believe to be true:

The person you are meant to be with is out there. They are walking their path, the one that will take them through the lessons and experiences that will allow them to be ready when they meet you.

You are on your own path. It is also filled with lessons and experiences -- some happy, some sad -- that will allow you to learn and grow and to become the person who is the just-right match for the individual you are meant to be with. When you meet him or her, you will be ready.

Some of the people you meet are in your life for the lesson. Not for the long haul. When you separate, take the time to consider what you've learned rather than dwell on it as a failure.  A relationship that has ended is NOT a failure. Refusing to learn or change as a result of a relationship that has ended -- THAT is the only failure.

You will get there. Walk your path. Believe that other people are walking theirs.

Know that you will be ready when you get there.

Monday, January 12, 2015

The Spider War Continues

Dear Spiders,

Please consider this missive a formal cease-and-desist. As in, you can cease and desist in sending your jacked up friends and relatives to my house to torment me. If I need tormenting, I'll start really listening to the club jams my neighbor plays at excessive volume.

Oh, don't try to look so innocent. I know you're responsible for the nightmarish experience I had this weekend. You're just mad because -- and let's just make sure we're both on the same page here -- YOU violated the treaty, and I called you on it and declared the treaty void.

Which is why you sent THIS to my house:

Now, let's talk scale. This little interloper was FOUR INCHES LONG. That's two inches shy of half a foot, and it is also THREE inches longer than anything that the treaty would allow.

I'll give you this, Spiders. Your tactics -- though HIGHLY questionable -- are effective, for to describe my reaction as terrified revulsion would be the understatement of the year. Also, your little mercenary friend is clever and positioned himself above the bed, where I would be sure to have creepy crawly dreams for DAYS.

But listen, Spiders. Listen and hear me well: you can send every feathery legged, Lovecraftian monstrosity you want to my house. I WILL STILL WIN, Spiders. I WILL. Even if I have to squeal and terror and convince The Fella to kill your crawly buddies because I don't want to get close enough to touch them.  IT DOES NOT MATTER SPIDERS I WILL TRIUMPH IN THE END.

Of course, if you were to beg for mercy and reconsider the treaty, I would be willing to re-open negotiations. Probably.


Most Sincerely,


Friday, January 9, 2015

Friday Randoms


"You were right."

"It's weird how that happens, like, all the time. Isn't it?"

"Shut up."


"I can't imagine a world in which our fridge starts having LESS cheese in it."

"That's not even optional. STOP SCARING ME."


"I saw your picture with your long hair! It looked so pretty!"


"And I couldn't believe it! You used to be skinny!"

"Um. Yeaaaaaaaaah. Well, not anymore, apparently."


"... and then she was all like, 'Do you know where I'm from? YOU DON'T MESS WITH PEOPLE FROM HERE'!"

"Did you tell her that she's right, as a rule you avoid people who are clearly from hell?"


"Who was I going to call just now?"

"If the answer isn't Ghostbusters than I really don't care."

Thursday, January 8, 2015

Gifts in Ugly Packages

We've all been in relationships that have ended. Lovers leave. Friendships sour. Family members step out of the holiday photographs. It happens.

It hurts.

It hurts when someone you love goes away from you. It just does. One of the frustrating things about that kind of hurt is that it doesn't follow logic or reason. It ebbs and flows like the tide, and it's not always clear when the riptide will start to drag you back out, gasping and struggling.

There's also no set schedule, no timeline to follow, no protocols to adhere to for a broken heart. Other people don't always understand your grief or the level of your pain. There's no ceremony for it. You can't have a funeral for a failed relationship. There's no traditional gathering with food and comfort. Maybe there should be, but there isn't. Hallmark doesn't make "I'm sorry about your heartbreak" cards.

So there you are, with your hurt, wishing that the person who hurt you isn't also the person that you are most used to talking to about that the things that are bothering you. Trying to harden your heart against someone you used to open it to.

Trying to figure out what to do next.

I think -- I always try to remember -- that there is something to be gained in every experience you have in life. The really over-the-top great moments are awesome -- we all love those -- but the deeply mired in shit moments are also awesome in their own way. They are a gift that we don't want to receive. They are poorly wrapped with jagged edges and pokey bits, but they are gifts nonetheless.

It is a gift to discover that someone is not the person you believed them to be, before they take more of your time, energy, and devotion -- moments, work, and love that they will show that they do not deserve.

It is a gift to be able to experience the depths of your own strength and resources. You have them. You have tons of them. You have backbone and resolve and incredible smarts and while you don't want to be forced to use them right now, you have the opportunity to see how amazing you are in ways that you might not normally.

It is a gift to be able to see how much the people who are still in your life love you. How much they want the best for you. How much they want you to be well. How they think that you deserve amazing, wonderful things and want to help to lift you up to find them.

You hurt. You will hurt. It may not end today, or tomorrow, or next month, but it will eventually end. It will pass.

The gifts, though? As poorly as they were presented, as unwillingly as they were received? Those stay with you forever. Eventually you will treasure them.

I promise.

Wednesday, January 7, 2015


I have a busy brain. A busy, I-Don't-Shut-Off-Or-Up, Let's-Have-A-Dance-Party, Bet-We-Could-Solve-Global-Problems-If-We-Spend-Enough-Time-Obsessing, Oh-My-God-Did-I-Shut-Off-The-Headlights-In-My-Car?-Let's-Worry-About-It-For-Seven-Hours, I-Wonder-If-I'm-A-Good-Enough-Person brain.

It's kind of exhausting.

Okay, it's super exhausting.

Sometimes -- not often, but occasionally -- I have moments where everything is quiet. Where I find myself in a warm, safe, cozy spot and my brain, and entire person, relaxes and puts it all down and I think, "Here. This is where I am supposed to be. Right here."

I had one of those moments yesterday. When my brain decided that it was done resting (which usually happens pretty quickly as I'm not the world's best at relaxing), I started thinking about how I never in a MILLION years would have thought that I would end up where I am in life. Never. Would. Have. Imagined.

Yet here I am.

It occured to me, however, that I was always headed here. Even when things were difficult, even when things were impossible and horrible, I was always on my way here. It wasn't a straight path -- maybe it couldn't be -- but it was the road that would bring me here and I was never not on it.

I just had to wander my way here, to this place where I belong. I had to stop along the way and learn some things before I was able to get here; those lessons were and are important, and without them I wouldn't have been ready to arrive at this particular destination, but I was always coming here.


But getting somewhere safe and warm.

Tuesday, January 6, 2015

A Tale of Two Kitties

Once upon a time, I had a large, grey and white cat named Bean. She was a sweet and loving girl, but no one would have described her as, um, clever. She was NOT clever. She was, however, exceptionally affectionate and slept on a pillow next to my head, rarely (if ever) waking me up in the middle of the night.

Currently, I have a tiny tabbycat named Lizzie B. She is also a sweet and loving girl. She’s smarter than Bean, but then, so are most inanimate objects. She is also exceptionally affectionate and sleeps on my feet in the nighttime.

She also delights in waking me up.

Bean was a grazer – that is, she had dry food in a bowl at all times, and would have a nosh when the mood struck her. Since she weighted eighteen pounds, one would think that the mood struck her with some regularity but surprisingly, she didn’t really eat that much. With no set “eating” schedule (with the exception of the cookies that she got every morning), she was pretty chill at all hours.

Lizzie does not get to graze. She has food allergies that restrict what she can eat, and only eats wet food. She can have one large can of food a day.

She thinks she should get more than one can of food.

She also thinks that she should eat every time someone sets foot in the general direction of her food bowl.

She ALSO thinks that there is nothing better than a midnight snack. Even if her loyal minion (and I’m pretty sure that this is how she thinks of me) is sleeping. And if loyal minion does happen to be sleeping, then Lizzie is perfectly happy to wake me up by climbing up onto my pillow and pawing at my face. If that is not effective, she involves her claws as if so say, “Human! You leave me no choice but to resort to violence!”

For a time, I tried to ignore her desire for late night dining, but refusing to acknowledge her doesn’t make her go away. It makes her more aggressive… and since we’re talking about my FACE here, which I don’t enjoy having permanently scarred … I generally get up.

We do this at around two AM. Every day.

Beansie may have been dumb, but she was content to let me sleep.

Lizzie wants noms and she wants them NOW.

Last night, however, when Lizzie was poking me in the eyes and drooling on me, I got up and walked into the kitchen to find that there was food in her bowl. I looked at the food.

Lizzie looked at the food. Then she looked at me with something like horror (which Bean would never have been able to pull off – her main facial expressions were “happy” and “confused”) and sheepishly began to eat the food as if to say, “I’m sorry! It was food time! I DON’T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED PLEASE GO BACK TO BED I WON’T WAKE YOU AGAIN!”

She didn’t. I did get up later and feed her again, but it’s because one of us is very well trained.

Monday, January 5, 2015


I was having a relatively good day when my boss snapped at me. "You're driving me crazy," he said. "What is your problem?"

My problem was trying to solve problems with limited resources.

My problem was that I had been tasked with working with some employees and moving them in one direction without being told that they were working with another department that was moving them in a different direction.

My problem was that my job was "going to change" but without specifics or a plan, so I was drifting aimlessly.

And now my problem was that my boss was snapping at me when I was trying to figure it all out.

We were so close to our vacation that I couldn't do what I wanted to do, which was pack up and go home. Instead, I went to my desk and stared at my computer, keeping my eyes wide in an effort not to tear up because smart, professional women do not cry at their desks just because their feelings are hurt.



It takes so little time to be kind. Have you noticed? When I used to go through a tollboth every day I would speak with the attendant when handing her my money: "Have a good day!" She always looked startled that I would take the time to speak with her, let alone say something nice.

It took no time.

It takes no time to smile at a stranger. It takes no time to issue a compliment. It takes zero moments to say "I hope you have a great day!"

Maybe there's no visible payoff. But maybe you're changing the tone of someone's day by using a microsecond to be kind and reach out in a tiny, positive way -- and maybe that kindness could ripple across time and space into other people's days in big and small ways.

You never know.


It would have taken my boss the same amount of time to say, "I don't have the time to discuss this with you right now. Can we meet later?" as it did for him to say "You're driving me crazy. What is your problem?"

But maybe, possibly, given the gift of hindsight, I'm actually glad that he was unkind in that moment because he gave me a view into the kind of person that I do not want to be. I am going to make much more of an effort not to be that guy.

After all, it takes no time... but it makes a world of difference.

Friday, January 2, 2015

Julia Child, I Ain't

I decided to make minestrone today because (please choose one of the following):

a) it's cold out
b) I love soup
c) it's a crock pot recipe so it's easy AND we'll get multiple meals out of it
d) all of the above

If you chose d) all of the above then YOU, my friend are a winner.

Plus, my mom made minestrone when we were at her house and now I wanted to see if I could make it.  For those of you who are not in the know (i.e., have not been acquainted with me since I was a wee lassie), my ability to cook was long questioned. How long, do you ask? I made macaroni and cheese from scratch on my birthday just to prove to my mom that I could and she didn't quite believe in my culinary powers until she tasted it. So, yeah, for thirty-nine years no one thought I could cook.

Which, whatever. Because the truth -- the secret, naked truth -- is this:

Sometimes I can't.

Sometimes I make things that are not fit for consumption by human OR critter. Cockroaches look at this stuff and think, "Eh, I'll pass." It's kind of a hit or miss process, is all I'm saying, because I don't like to measure things and I don't like following recipes precisely (I like to consider them friendly suggestions) and I don't like to include ingredients if I disagree with them on principle. For example, any recipe that indicates it should include two onions is, I'm sorry, just SCREWING with me. WHAT (other than onion rings, because ... onion rings) COULD POSSIBLY REQUIRE TWO ONIONS? Who wants to eat something that outrageously oniony?

Not me. So, one onion it is.


My mom made minestrone and it was delicious, as is everything that my mom makes, and I thought, "I have that same cookbook. I can make nomtastic minestrone as well."

Thing I should probably point out before going any further with this: my mom has the same "HAHAHAHA NO" approach to ingredients that I do and takes it one step further.

Our minestrone recipe is for a crockpot. My mom had no time for such nonsense. "What, it's too good for the stove?"

The recipe called for six cups of broth. Mom had four. "Whatever. I'll add water. It's fine."

The recipe called for a handful of kale. Mom scoffed. "A HANDFUL of kale? What am I supposed to do with the rest of a bagful of kale? I hate kale." No kale went into the recipe.

The recipe called for a can of kidney beans or garbanzo beans. Mom put it one can of each. "They're GOOD for you," she said. "Beanie goodness."

The recipe called for barley. Mom agreed with the barley but then also put in some pasta because "everything tastes better with pasta. Duh."

When my mom does this, everything still comes out delicious.

When I do it -- results may vary.


I did put in the kale because it's good for you. I also put two cans of beans, though I opted for red and white kidney rather than garbanzos. I threw it in the crockpot because I think of my crockpot as my friendly kitchen helper, there to cook things while I go to a bookstore and buy Allie Brosh's new book  (which you should go get because it's so funny that it made me wheeze).

Six hours later, I tasted the soup.

It sucked.

"How is it?" the Fella called out while I stood frowning at the soup.

"Um. I can fix it."

"Of course you can."

If we ever need documented proof that the Fella loves me, by the way, this is it: he actually believes that I can fix a recipe and make it something that doesn't taste like a compost heap smells, and he's totally fine with my favorite fall back position of: "if it's not delicious, make it so spicy that people's eyes bleed and they don't notice that they're eating something terrible."

I wasn't sure what, precisely, was wrong with the soup except that it tasted like a whole lot of nothing. It wasn't ANYTHING enough. Not tomato-y enough, not kale-y or garlic-y or onion-y or anything-y. It was ... boring. Considering it contained a shit ton of veggies (all of which I had peeled or chopped or rinsed or drained) it should have tasted like something.

I tasted it again. My taste buds yawned. "We're bored."

I got a can of tomato sauce out of the pantry dumped in in, stirred. Tasted again. "We want a nap," said my taste buds.

I dumped in some seasoned salt, Italian seasoning, and my favorite go to: Tabasco. But just a little. I wasn't ready to try to clear anyone's sinuses just yet. Stirred, tasted. "Oh, hey," my taste buds said. "What's going on here? Is it time for a party?"

I had been getting ready to add pasta when I went entirely off the grid and pulled out a container of fresh tortellini. "Hot tub time!" I said and dumped it in. Stirred. Tasted. "Well HELLO, sailor," my taste buds said.

"How's it going?" the Fella asked again.

"I think I got it," I said.

He smiled. "You always do," he said, and went back to his book.

I love that he thinks that, even when I don't.

And I'm glad I won't be tormenting him with Flaming Spicy Minestrone of Death.

Thursday, January 1, 2015

This Is Your Brain on Cheezits

I have a personal ban on Cheezits because their deliciousness causes me to completely lose my will to have a smaller ass.  It's a true story. The Fella loves them too, but he is very aware that I cannot -- CANNOT -- have them in the house because of what we like to call "my little problem."

So of course, when we went to visit my parents for the holidays (which was awesome, by the way) my mom had bought some. For a treat.

She actually bought two boxes.

"They were on SALE, Yellie," she said. "I had to."

Dear Reader, did I lift my personal ban on Cheezits?

Do reindeer poop on the roofs of unsuspecting gift-getters?

OF COURSE I DID. I ate Cheezits every day. The Fella and I poured them into bowls and ate them while we introduced my folks to the joy that is Sherlock. We treated the Cheezits like they were a legit side for a meal. "I'd like a steak, a salad, and some Cheezits." At one point, I briefly considered making it RAIN Cheezits but that would be messy and I am ... not messy.

All of this, of course, illustrated why the personal ban was in place to begin with. I can't be trusted with tiny, salty, cheesy crackers of joy. Tell me that they're mass produced in factories, that they're overly fatty, that they're weirdly greasy and I will tell you this: I DON'T CARE. STEP AWAY FROM THE BOX AND NO ONE GETS HURT OMNOMNOMNOMNOM.

I can't be around them. I just can't. When we came home, the ban was reinstated so as to try to continue to work towards my "wheeee! smaller badonkadonk" goal.

This, of course, means that they're on sale. EVERYWHERE.

It also means that they're all I want. My stomach is rumbling, it's time for some lunch, and I stand in the kitchen, looking into the recently stocked fridge.

"Hmmmmmm," my brain says. "Look at all of the healthy things. Innnnnnnteresting. Hey, do we have Cheezits?"

"Shut up."

"OK. There's ... um ... soup. And some leftover pasta thing. Oh and you could make a nice salad. AND PUT CHEEZITS ON IT WHY DON'T WE HAVE ANY CHEEZITS?"


"Jeez, fine. We could ... sandwich ... I don't know ..." starts whimpering, "I just really want some Cheezits. Why you gotta be so mean?"

"Bathing suits," I say grimly.

"Ohhhh gotcha," my brain says, and shuts up. I still don't know what I want for lunch because I can't name something that would be tasty and lovely that is NOT a Cheezit.


Happy New Year, Blogland. May all of your personal bans stay firmly in place, and may it be the best year ever.