like mucus

i was going to start this post off with a story about a nickname but unfortunately i can't because i'm too busy being mad at google.

i don't even want to ask what the fuck is with this new buzz bullshit in my gmail because i'm afraid of my head exploding and leaving tiny bloody brain bits on my nice clean carpet when i hear some asinine response.

there is such a thing as being overconnected, google, and your determination to attain global domination truly frightens me.

and that's all i'm going to say about that.


oh, and also, i love my new android phone that hanukka harry gave me.


in other news, my dad died last week and i'm pretty sure he's the one who dumped that shitton of snow all over the east coast just to throw a wrench into our plans for his memorial service.

typical.

maybe i can tell that nickname story now.

so my dad's best friend stood up to give a eulogy and while i was appropriately sad and emotional, i definitely heard derek zoolander saying 'ya-googalie' in my head.

this friend began by sharing how he and my father met when they were five years old in kindergarten. my dad says 'hi, i'm rob mansfield' and the friend says 'hi, i'm mike lucas.'

my dad says 'no, from this time forward your name is like mucus.'

also typical.


on that note, i want to send a very heartfelt thanks to all my wonderful family for coming together from all corners in the midst of a blizzard to listen to me ask mulitple times if my eyeliner was running as i cried.

you guys are the best, thank you!

my cut is 33.3%

or whatever the going rate is for pimping like a sonofabitch around these here parts. each market is different, i don't really want to sell myself sort.

more importantly, b just told me 'boy, if you do couchie right, it'll sure do you right.'

he fluffs those cushions with unparalleled enthusiasm.

right, back to pimp talk. so most of you know about how kristine from wait in the van is my oldest and bestest bud. back in seventh grade we were the bitches to know, all the smack talking we did with her ferocious perm and my perfect bowl-cut made us feared and loved throughout our junior high.

or maybe we were the outcasts who wore men's clothing and pretended to smoke cigarettes without actually inhaling.

either way, the time has come for me to say wonderfully amazing things about her and her fantastic blog, wait in the van. if you have yet to click on the link for wait in the van, i suggest you do so now so that you can enter her chuck norris contest, lest you get a sharp roundhouse to the head.

i can personally vouch for the authenticity of the items in the contest, as i was happily on hand for the entire three hour wait to meet the chuckster himself. i was not at all a crabby bitch, pouting in a corner, surrounded by underage boys at a military academy, wondering what, for fuck's sake, had i done for my life to bring me to that exact situation.

no friends, i was really thinking about how funny and special it was that one of you out there in blogland was going to end up with a piece of chuck norris history in your hot little hands.

it takes a very dedicated blogger, one who really, really cares about her readers, to offer up such valuable memorabilia instead of keeping it for herself.

if the contest is the bait, her well crafted stories and one-of-a-kind microsoft paint drawings are the true snare that will keep you lurking and lingering around her blog for years to come.

and if that isn't enough for you, than you suck at life and are destined to become a miserable old goat with really long nails, stringy hair, and yellow teeth.

(that's always how i've pictured mean people looking when they get old, or you can insert your own visual here if needed)

ok, so maybe insulting people isn't the best way to get folks to check out my best friend's blog, but then again, i've never really been one to do things the traditional way.

in any event, i hope that when you do check it out and find yourself giggling and clapping, that you have enough manners to remember to thank me in your head.

your welcome.

i know a guy who actually says 'make that paper' when he means 'go to work'

sometimes it seems that having a potty mouth can bite you in the ass.

there are many times at work that i find myself fantasizing about how nice it would feel to tell the customers what i really think. for example, come on people, you're not allergic to parsley, just say you don't like it. the chef will be slightly less annoyed with you if you're honest and don't try to make up a bullshit allergy.

but our customers never see the inside of the kitchen or get to look the chef in the face. perhaps that enables them to be more demanding. and we never see them so maybe it's easier for us to assume they're being difficult because they have nothing better to do. i can't say for sure, but i do know that not one night at work goes by without at least a few customers submitting some absurd requests, followed by a healthy bitch-fest by a chef.

then i heard about the wiener circle in chicago. their unique flavor of customer service, while amusing to many, was actually developed out of need. the customer base is largely drunk white people leaving the bars. the mostly black employees shout gems like 'how many motherfucking cheese fries do you want?!'

for many at this particular food establishment, it's how they support their families, even if that means taking insults from drunks calling them all kinds of degrading racial slurs.

i found this video of the trash talkers in action, it's taken from a tv program so it's a bit long. right around the 2:25 minute mark you meet poochie, the manager, who seems to be great at what she does. around the 5:00 minute mark, she talks about some of the customers who get a little too carried away with the shit talking.



i'm not exactly sure how long i'd be able to put up with that kind of talk at my job. or maybe i just don't like drunk people. or then again, maybe it'd be different because even the jew slurs don't bother me, and i can't imagine anything someone could say that's not specific to me personally that would upset me.

what do you think? would you last at the wiener circle, or would you prefer to do your shit talking behind closed doors?

i'm even furiouser and more furiouser, updated

i'll put a brief disclaimer here that this post will contain a raw display of my anger at a shitty real-life, personal situation that i usually avoid talking about on this blog like the plague.

but sometimes it just needs to come out.

so, ok, here it is. (deeeeeeeeep breath) i pretty much don't like my dad. except that he's almost dying and i'm the closest (geographically) family member that can take care of all his shit.

it's a burden that i've been struggling with on and off for a while, but in the last month things have gotten bad. and by bad i mean, imagine the worst possible scenario and then add attorney's fees and cockroaches. yes, literally.

when i spend eight to ten hours a day, a full tank of gas, and exhaust every babysitter i know, driving my ass all over the hudson valley to sort through my father's lifetime of fuck-ups, and he doesn't once acknowledge my efforts, it makes me want to beat him with his prosthetic leg.

not that i'm looking for a thank you, but more that he's acting as if he expected me to come along sooner or later and just clean up his mess for him.

i don't even like the guy. we have no relationship to speak of other than the basic, biological connection. yet to let him rot away in his filthy apartment is not only cruel, but also a decision made based on emotion.

my brother is the lucky one. he escaped while he could, now living family-free on the beaches of south carolina. if only i could have run away too.

but i only avoid, i don't run permanently. i don't think i'd ever have it in me to up and leave my life and ask my husband and child to do the same. and that makes me so fucking pissed.

my dad spent his life being an asshole and isolating himself from society and now i have to listen to him complain about all of the doctors and nurses 'getting in his business' i.e., trying to help him live.

after my meeting this morning, i hope i will be at least one step closer to wiping my hands clean of this foul process. but at the same time, i'm afraid to hope for anything. my father is the black hole of negativity, and the more i wish for good things, or even a little piece of mind, the worse it gets. infinitely compounding until the pressure is enough to crush me to dust.

wish me luck today!

-------------------

alright, so maybe i can be a little overdramatic. but that's just it, i have to deal. the routine will always be the same: get all worked up and tense about something and then afterwards realize exactly how much i was over reacting.

and really, even if my dad is a jerk, it doesn't mean i wish him ill will.

sometimes when i want to call b at work and ask him for the love of god to make the baby stop crying, i have to remind myself that i'm a big girl now and i can handle a little unpleasant household issue. i think the same rationale can be applied to this dad situation.

just because it's not fun or easy or exciting or in any way pleasant, that doesn't mean that i have the right to stomp my feet and bitch about dealing with it. that's not going to accomplish anything anyway.

what i am going to do is get on with the rest of my daily life and not let all this mess drag me down. little miss and i are going to the park and then to the gym for a nice long run. i shall return in a better mood, that i am sure of.

(i would really like to unpublish this post, but since so many of you out there have already read it and were kind enough to leave such supportive words i'll leave it. thanks everyone for your kind thoughts!!)

two-fer, enjoy it while you can

posting twice a day around these parts is pretty much unheard of. except that i'm super extra motivated today. today i'm full of that 'i can get everything done without wanting to kill myself' kind of energy. i think it started with the gym this morning.

i've been working out a lot more than i ever thought i would lately. i might have dropped a hint about my birthday coming up soon, and being that it's my thirtieth, i'm pretty sure that b is planning a surprise party for me. except that i don't think he knows yet that i know. sorry, b, but i know. unless it's all a rouse to throw me off track! that could be fun.

right. so the impending birthday celebration has brought the type of clarity to my mind that some people claim they experience right before dying. it is imperative that i work the shit out of my lazy ass at the gym so that i can look ridiculously, unattainably hot at my own birthday party.

i have about a month. this pressure is certainly enough to get me through the front door of the gym, but sometimes i need just a little bit more to really help me make the most of my workout. luckily, my fellow gym members are there to push me along.

first i'd like to thank the short woman with dark hair next to me on the treadmill. dear woman, your abuse of stinky, musky, and altogether cheap smelling perfume does more than mask your sweat-stench. it advertises that you do not like to smell other people's sweat. while this might be a classy sentiment in your mind, it's really just a tool i use to run faster and sweat more.

i'm determined to make you smell my sweat if i'm stuck here choking on your bad taste.

i ran harder than i have in weeks.

next i'd like to give a very special shout-out to the girl on the elliptical talking on her cell phone. while i have my music on full blast so that i don't actually have to listen to you talking, i can tell that you are by no means out of breath. if you are taking up space in this tiny cardio room and not breathing heavy, and can even carry on a phone conversation, than you're wasting air.

to make up for your lack of intense respiratory activity, i will breath faster and deeper and take up all that extra air that you're not using. my fully extended lungs help to propel my weight up this neverending motherfucking incline so that i can feel better about myself while you chat away.

lastly, but certainly not the least appreciated, is mr. old, old, OLD man on the cycle machine wearing a tank top. sir, your dedication to your physical fitness at your age is nothing less than commendable. also, the pea-sized globules of chalky deodorant caught in your armpit hair keep winking at me when you stretch your arms. it's the clearest sign yet that you have my back against musk-lady and phone-girl.

now that i know i'm not alone in my efforts to better myself, i am revitalized with my burning need to finish this workout and go the fuck home and eat some potato salad or something.

ahhhh, that felt good. i'm all limber and energized. it won't be long before i can put on a cute little dress and make my husband remember how hot i was when we first met. or, at the very least, i can distract him with a low-cut dress and my enormous tatas.

linky love

i haven't been a very good bloggy friend lately. it's been weeks since i actually found my way to my computer to read all of your clever, funny, insightful, and crass posts that i love so much. i'm not here to make excuses. sure the food poisoning didn't help much, but i still respect all of you folks out there who make the time to not only maintain your own writing consistently, but also support your fellow writers.

and, by the way, as i once told the novelista barista, i absolutely think of blogging as real writing. it takes so much work and time out of your life to manage, not to mention creating something that you want to be an accurate representation of yourself, how could something you pour so much energy into not be considered legitimate?

well friends, today i had the pleasure of two bloggy pals giving me a shout and basically reaffirming my decision to keep up this time-suck of a blog i have here. there have been more than a few times that i thought for sure i was going to just stop posting and be done with it all. but the fact that there's people out there who take even a minute out of their day to read some random story i feel like telling means the world to me.

i love telling stories, it's how my mind works. i make everything into a narrative as its happening. if only i was patient enough to sit down and write a novel, i could have a lot of fun with that i think.

but i digress, my point here was to say thanks to everyone out there who doesn't get bogged down by life and finds a way to share their thoughts and experiences through their writing.

mr. condescending just posted about his 100 favorite blogs he likes to read. he's a guy who knows how to win a girl over with flattery, and also how to play the game without being hated. you walk that line so well, mr. c, you really are an artist! thanks again for the honorable mention, i'll keep finding funny if you keep reading.

it was also brought to my attention that jerrod, over at the yellow factor, was somehow absent from my little linky list. jerrod, i'm going to blame the computer demons for that one, i don't have any other explanations. but in his generous way he gave me a glorious award for me to hang with pride on my sidebar. behold:


oh yeah, i was definitely the kid who made yellow snowballs. it's all the same when you have mittens on, right? right. so thanks again, jerrod! i'll try and keep up with my writing, including the many fuckity fuck curses, and be worthy of this award.

and i can't forget courtney and porkstar, who have so kindly added me to the sweat crew even though they didn't really know me and i asked to join their group.


i still haven't figured out how to make that list so that it links to all the other members, but i haven't forgotten about it. i'm proud to display my sweatiness for all to see.

so for all of you out there who i've been a stranger to lately, i'm on my way! right after i tend to a walking (or should i say running) ten month old who is having a hard time learning that 'no' means 'garbage is not for eating' and 'the toilet bowl is not for hiding toys'.

there's always a silver lining

despite the fact that i love to throw curse words around like an old sailor (is that really true that sailors curse a lot?), i am an enormous prude when it comes to talking about poo, pee, puke, or any other bodily function/excrement.

this is extremely fortunate for you readers out there in blogland who will be spared the gory details of my battle with food poisoning over the past four days. although, there were definite moments of profound revelation that i experienced in my most harrowing times that i felt worthy of sharing.

the first is by far the most important of the lessons i learned this long weekend; simply that food poisoning is going to be a much more effective diet for me than my previous standby of coffee and air.

this dawned on me sometime in the middle of the night sunday, as i got up out of bed and groaned my way to the bathroom, passing by my open closet door. there, subtly tucked away yet exposed enough to be illuminated by the fluorescent green glow of the alarm clock, was my collection of skinny jeans.


at least a half dozen pairs of those perfectly fitted jeans that go with every motherfucking thing you could ever imagine yourself wearing, somehow managed to migrate to a visible corner of my closet to speak to me.

'psst!! hey, lana! we're still heeeeeerrrrrrreeeeee!!' (that last part was actually sing-songy like the little girl in poltergeist, sneaky ass jeans)

but alas, at the time i was in too much of a hurry to reach my bathroom successfully to stop and make sexy eyes at my skinny jeans. and besides, i know them all so well by now. each pair perfect in fade, wash, length, hem. everything, perfect. except that they haven't fit so well since i grew a baby.

i'm not bitter about it though, changes in your body are a natural side effect of incubating and then birthing a child. i'm ok with that, i don't hold it against you skinny jeans.

that doesn't mean i didn't go back to sleep and dream about wearing each and every pair of those damn jeans and rolling around in a field of daisies like i was in a mariah carey video about being in love except that i was in love with my jeans and not a man.

waking up in the morning, i realized that all the intense pain i was experiencing was really for a great fucking cause. in fact, it even made me question the whole commitment to serving safe bacteria-free food to customers when i'm at work. i'd be doing some of them a huge favor, and if they knew i was behind it all, they might even come and give me a high five.

but that last part came from being dehydrated, so i'll just stick with accidental bacterial intake as being a great diet.

my second revelation that came to me was that hospital nurses sometimes, once in a while, suck at their jobs. while three different nurses had to attempt five times to find a vein to use for an iv, i thought it was a little unusual that they were having such a hard time. then today i looked down at my arms and was aghast to see that in both of my elbow creases i had obscene bruises and puncture holes that immediately made me feel like i had the beginnings of jared leto's arm in requiem for a dream.

(i thought about posting a pic, but it's way to gross for me to even deal with so i'm just going to link to the pic. feel free to look if you have a stomach made of steel, or don't if you're a pansy like me.)

i know being a nurse is a really hard job, and i'm certainly not trying to offend anyone who is, or is thinking about becoming, or ever was a nurse. but come on with this bullshit, i look like a damn junkie! lucky for them i don't have shit to do all week and a kid who can't tell if mommy's using or just has a boo-boo.

and so, in summation, i fully believe that as the fall season approaches, i will soon find myself wearing my skinny jeans and a nice, long-sleeved sweater to hide the iv wounds. thanks food poisoning, you're my bitch!!

that thin line between ignorance and enlightenment is the most treacherous place of all

b and i might be the most technologically challenged people you'll ever know. our computer is practically an ancient relic, which is probably why it's so riddled with demons.

of course we need to upgrade to wireless, but there's a few things holding us back. there's the whole issue of needing to force our evil computer to do as much work as possible in it's golden years. no early retirement for you, you bastard (talking to my computer, not you dear reader). b and i are determined to feel like we've won even a small token battle in the war mr. hp-suck-my-ass-desktop has waged with us. and if that means robbing an old withering soul of living its final days in a sublime and peaceful existence, so be it.

another factor preventing us from living in laptop bliss is the fact that we don't know shit about shit when it comes to any type of electronic appliance or device. last night b asked me what a router was. i had heard this word before. and only because i'm good at making up stuff when i don't know the answers, i told him it was a thing you need for the internet. when he asked me how the internet gets in there if there's no wires attached i knew i would be exposed for the fraud that i am.

but b saw the shame in my face and being the sweet and kind husband that he is, he cheered me up with 'hey, don't worry about it. all those people that know all that shit about technology can go have sex with technology and make little robot-people hybrid babies. then we can unplug all the wires and be left alone and the world will be all ours and we won't even care about the internet.'

i love him so much.

i didn't want to spoil the moment by asking 'what if they're all wireless hybrid babies?'

much of this technology talk was spawned by a new addition in our household. yesterday we welcomed a bouncing new baby dishwasher. and yes it really bounces and technically might be a baby version of a real dishwasher because our cheap-ass apartment complex would never spring for anything of real value. the single solitary knob on its blank front is the only means of operating the machine.

while it does look like a sorry excuse for a home appliance, it is easy enough so that i can figure out how to turn it on. i was shocked, however, when b stated that he doesn't want to get confused and break it, so he doesn't want me to teach him how to use it. any other wife might suspect that their husband was trying to avoid dish duty, but no friends, not me. i could see it in his eyes, the feeling that this was just one more thing for him to have to figure out and get angry with for making him feel like a dumbass when he can't make it work.

don't worry b, i won't let that dishwasher get the better of you. shhhhhh honey, it's ok. thaaaaat's it, deeeeeep breaths. relax. i'm here, and i'll make sure there's no wires or batteries or any other electrical source around for ever and ever, as long as we both shall live.

i have an endless supply of bullshit in my catalog

i usually despise lying. the whole moral objection part is one reason, but also because i'm a horrible liar. i get all sweaty and flushed in the face. this ridiculous nervous giggle erupts from me in spasms, like a bad twitch that i have no control over, accompanied by the cheesedick grin that only looks more awkward as i try to straighten my uncooperative lips out.

once in a while, under extreme circumstances, i can pull off a lie. but usually only if it's for a really good reason, like for example, a dumbass practical joke.

now, i'm by no means what you'd call a prankster. i generally think that stuff is pretty annoying. the whole 'salt in your coffee' thing needs to stop, it's not funny people!

that was for my co-workers. i got it off my chest and now i feel better.

right, back to my point. i was about to tell you the story of my most successful prank/joke of all time. which, you might find slightly immature, but i was thoroughly impressed with myself about.

it was about 2002ish, and i was out of college but still young enough to go to college bars and not be the creepy old-er lady getting her drink on. i was living at my mom's house with her and her lame bf and three motherfuckingdisgusting cats. one was named ass. he had a leaky pooper.

one day my little eye spied a catalog lying amidst the mail for mom's bf. it was international male. i think they've change the name since then, but they sell things like this:


and this:


oh, and also this:


because you don't have the pleasure of reading the lovely captions for these pics i'll tell you that the middle one is called mansilk and the last one is called pistol pete.

as you can imagine, the first idea that came into my head was 'how can i share this comedy genius with other people?'

naturally, myself and my friend amanda, who looked incredibly mature and not at all like a skanky 22-year old, brought it out to the bar with us that night. you know the place, you've been there. two hundred people squished into an old house-come-bar, spilling out onto the patio. the floor permanently sticky from who knows how many years of spilled alcohol seeping into the hardwood, and every frat boy in town wearing his white hat with some logo on it to match his uniform of khaki cargo shorts and fitted t-shirt.

i folded the international male and stuck it in the back pocket of my calvins, waiting for someone to take the bait.

it wasn't long. a chipper fellow approached me with a twisted grin, 'so what's that in your back pocket?'

my first victim.

i casually informed him that i worked as an intern for the company. the less i talked the more intriguied he became. finally, i gave him what he was waiting for.

'well, to be honest, it's really stressful right now. the underwear model that we wanted to use just cancelled for another job and now we're stuck with this massive photo shoot for the new season and no model. my boss wanted me to find someone who would be willing to drop everything and go to the bahamas for four days on less than 24 hour's notice. she just doesn't get it, people have lives. they can't just up and leave to prance around in a thong for four days, even if it is all paid for.'

his eyes lit up like the griswold's house at christmas.

playing right into my game, he offered to be the model for me. he'd probably be able to talk to his teachers and get out of class for a few days...

i told him we'd (me and my colleague) have to talk about it for a minute.

(cut to half an hour later)

almost every guy in the bar is now standing in a line next to our table, some holding offerings of beer and shots of every variety. they are, in turn, pulling up their shirts to show us their abs, hoping that we might choose them to work as the international male underwear model.

we were professional, no touching or flirting. simply taking fake notes next to bad nicknames written on a bar napkin.

by the end of the night, we had had our fill of drinks and amusement. we left the bar, having stayed in charater the whole time.

i guess maybe it's only a real practical joke when you clue the victim in on the fact that it's a joke. but i'm not claiming to be the joke master over here, so we bailed and left a few dozen frat boys with false hopes of making it big in thong modeling.

or maybe the joke was on me after all. did the drunken boys really buy my load of crap? or were they just trying to talk to two chicks in a bar who weren't in their art history class?

who cares, i had fun. and it was also fun to reminisce about this story with kristine last night at her house. as she perused the website, i walked out of the room to talk to b. he was calling to make sure we weren't getting into any trouble, and i had to get away from the junk pics to be able to have a conversation. 'talk' might not be the best word. i probably should say snorted/laughed hysterically when i heard kristine scream 'ewwww, i see penis!!' from the other room.

nearly a decade later, and i still crack up at junk holders. and that, unfortunately, is not a lie.

and the winner is... (there's nothing to win, but nothing to lose either)

i was watching this tv show the other day about a loser. this man is broke, divorced, and lives in a tent in his own backyard. so naturally he attends a seminar on how to employ his natural talents in a profitable way. except that the only innate 'winning tool' this guy could come up with about himself was the fact that he's hung.

right. because the only direction this show can go is for him to become a hooker.

so it got me thinking about what my winning tool was and how i could put it to work for me, without involving prostitution in any way.

the first thing that came to mind is that i'm a decent cook. but then i realized that a million other people can also do that as well. not to mention that i'm lacking both the massive start-up capital and spare hundred hours or so a week needed to ensure that your culinary skills will ultimately become profitable.

i can also knit pretty well. but again, a trillion other people can do that. and i'm way too lazy to maintain an etsy account. besides, i'm also learning that yes, you can have too many throw blankets. and then, maybe i can't knit so well because i can only make things that are square or rectangular. this is what happened when i tried to make a hat for the fuss:



it was a little big.

so what the fuck else am i good at? (besides throwing unnecessary sweary words into sentences)

my moment of clarity has arrived.

i am an awesome negotiator. or i guess you could say i make good bribes. but i like negotiator better, it just sounds slightly more badass.

this is a skill i've had to hone over the years. it wasn't always so sublimely refined as it is today. when i was in college, the power of my skills used to even blow my own mind. like, for example, when i would go out to the bar with a fiver in my pocket and come home wasted and with about thirteen bucks stuffed into my pack of marlboro reds.

there was also the time that my piece of shit nissan sentra exploded on a major interstate, at 11:00 at night, on my birthday, in those dark days before cell phones. somehow i managed to convince the state trooper, who found me crying in a ball fifty feet from my smoldering vehicle, to drive me the forty plus miles to my house instead of following his orders to drop me at the place where they were going to tow my car to. he even let me use the radar thing to clock speeders. it looked like a tv remote from the eighties.

as i matured, so did my ability to reign in my power.

just this morning i successfully convinced the fuss that playing with the maraca i made out of plastic cups, hot pink duct tape, and quinoa is way more entertaining than chewing the nest of wires underneath the desk.



as anyone who's ever had the pleasure of a teething nine-month-old's company can tell you, this is not an easy thing to accomplish.

and if you wanted even more evidence of my winning tool at work, i will now predict that i will become, literally, a winning tool over at yo mama's blog. i'm pretty sure i can convince miss yvonne to send me a care package of insult gum, a handmade card, and maybe some cookies by spreading linky love for all you out there in blogland. i know you want to be a winner too, and you just may be if you head over and check out her contest.

whew. all this talking about myself has tired me out. what about you, dear reader, what's your winning tool*? i ask in part because i care about you and want to get to know you a little better, but also because i want to get some ideas for different ways i can exploit things to make bags of money. alright then, let's hear it.



*please don't creep me out by being perverted. i may be using a dirty pun, but i'm hoping for clean answers.

fried = fancy

what do four culinary school graduates do for fun in their spare time? curious you should ask, i was just about to tell you anyway.

what we definitely don't do is go to trendy restaurants and analyze the various components and techniques used in our meals. instead we get together at places like this where it's ok to throw your peanut shells on the floor and the house specialty is fried pickles.

oh yes. you heard that right, fried pickles, and they're fucking fantastic.

sometimes it's the ease of junk food that lets people enjoy themselves more than the expectation of culinary wonders ever could.

you can have your fancy dressing-up and sterling flatware and countless courses of tiny things. i'll always prefer foods that can be eaten with one hand allowing me to hold a beer in the other.

i think that's what the marketing suits had in mind behind this gem:


the 'big az chicken' can be found in corner stores all over this great land of ours. its simplicity lends a hand in its success. sometimes, people just want a big ass chicken sandwich.

how could you argue with that logic?

and now, if you'll excuse me, i'm off to work where i will prepare thousands of hor d'ourves for people all dressed up in uncomfortable clothes.

drink if you dare, or if you want to get high

this morning i sat down to a healthy breakfast of super strong coffee and a (small) handful of jelly bellys to read the local paper. now this rag has been duly mocked for its ridiculous headlines, but every once in a while i will spot something that really hits home to me.

today is was this article. i'll spare you from having to read it, the link is there more to prove i'm not making this up. apparently there were almost 20,000 cases of red bull confiscated because they contained cocaine. now it all makes sense.

as my affinity for coffee may lead you to correctly surmise, i got hooked on caffeine early in my youth. recently i was reading over at children of the 90s about surge, but i have to say i never got into that one. jolt was my gateway drug of choice.

i never did (and still don't) enjoy soda in general because i found the syrupy sweetness only made me more thirsty. but i would down a can of jolt in no time just to get the shakes that i craved so much from caffeine overdose.

once i discovered the magical powers that coffee had for my awful hangover that lasted from when i was nineteen to about twenty four, i was fully dependent. i've never gone back to energy drinks and i can't say i miss them. b, on the other hand, will relish the high that nothing else can bring like a red bull and vodka to an empty stomach.

i knew something had to be unnatural about this combo when the sweet, charming man i knew and loved turned into a raging ball of hate after only about eight large drinks. unfortunately for me, the concert we were attempting to see offered only bud, bud light, and red bull and vodkas. being the beer snob that i am, and unable to handle any liquor whatsoever, i was sullenly sober.

the more b drank, the more i counted down the minutes until we were escorted out of the concert. thanks a lot modest mouse, you sounded great from fucking outside. so as we stood in the street in front of the venue, b's apology came to me in the form of him offering up suicide as a way to garner my forgiveness.

'i'll fucking kill myself for you, is that what you want? look, i'll kill myself on this bus!!' he screamed as he attempted to run into the front end of a parked bus. after he was sure that i was thoroughly impressed with his brazen bus-suicide, he allowed me to put him in the car and drive home.

to this day, i will protest loudly if he even looks in the general direction of a stash of red bull. and now, this very morning, i am vindicated. so what the coke was found in china, it still could end up in american red bull somehow, and for that i feel justified in breaking b's habit. i'm not a nagging wife, i'm a champion of heart health and savior of parked buses in the greater ny metro area.

and now that it's nearly 10 am, i need to go make another pot of coffee for my late morning fix.