...UNLESS YOU'VE GOT BUNS, HON!
Everyone in the comments of the previous post and on Twitter agrees:
"They're all wrong!" Hotter insisted.
So I sent him a picture from Kroger:
"This is the South. Y'all are ignant," he replied. "I WENT TO THE CULINARY INSTITUTE OF AMERICA."
So yeah, Hotter decided to go down with his ship, and we're having hot dogs for dinner.
P.S. Hotter says he never did like any of us.
Enough about how we're all going to die if I don't find a job. Let's talk about something REALLY important. Marinka of Motherhood in NYC has a regular feature on her blog called "I'm right, you're wrong" that I'm totally hijacking borrowing today.
My recent unemployment has allowed for Hotter and me to spend lots and lots of time together. It's great when we're doing things like sleeping in with the dog and all four of her stiff, stabby-clawed legs between us and having sex, but not so much when we're talking about what to make for dinner, because one of us is fundamentally wrong here. You be the judge!
The Dilemma: What do you call those bread-things you put your hotdog inside?
The disagreers: MFA Mama, a.k.a. The Voice of Reason, and Hotter, a.k.a. Mr. I Went To Culinary School But Still Don't Know What Those Bread-things Are Called.
1. We are out of hot dog rolls, so we can't have hot dogs for dinner because the kids hate it when we use slices of bread.
2. We are out of hot dog buns, so we can't have hot dogs for dinner because the kids hate it when we use slices of bread.
What say you?
Sometimes life pulls you out of yourself with its ordinary beauty,
the stumbled-upon poetry about the agony of knowing on social media,
walking out to the backyard beehive with an emotional sweet tooth and a spoon,
and just for a moment you forget everything but the perfection of metaphors.
My friend K is pretty hilarious, and sometimes her very best stuff doesn't even make it to the innernet (I am thinking of a particular story involving stairs and manties...). Today she posted this .gif though, and...well, I can't even. You just have to go and look (yes, really, I'm making you click ALL THE WAY OVER THERE because I can't copy the thing).
I don't even know what that thing is, but I'm pretty sure it's my spirit animal, y'all. I watched that clip and laughed and coughed and wheezed and cried big salty involuntary tears until Hotter became legitimately concerned for my wellbeing.
It's a pretty accurate portrayal of what I'm like when I'm coming off a round of steroids. Except I don't have a tail.
And how are all of YOU?
So whenever I haven't been at one of the three jobs, for the past week I've been cleaning. My back may be permanently effed. We're all shopped for the holidays, but haven't had time to celebrate any. And then in the middle of everything, as I'm butchering a rabbit in the kitchen sink in between dumping Andes crumbles (for baking, but HAHAHA right, I'm totally doing that this year!) down my carb-hole, Hotter will go "hey--" And I'll turn around and--
"You've kinda gotta take a sec and ADMIRE the bat-wing. It's so VEINY!"
He got me with "the brain" yesterday, too. I'm just calling it a win if we get through this real-estate emergency without "the goat" making an appearance, because if I go back to work limping nobody will ever believe me when I tell them the REAL reason my ass is bruised.
Also, you kind of have to admire the balls of any man who'd do that to a frantically stressed-out woman wearing a rabbit as a puppet and brandishing a boning knife.
Hotter is sorting, making bundles of recyclables, kids' clothes for Goodwill, burnables, and just junk. I am scrubbing and shopping and baking and setting up.
We're gonna make this place look GOOD for the holidays, and if we end up having to pack up and restore to move-in condition, well, it'll be that much easier.
I've kind of come to a place of being okay with whatever 2013 brings us. When I got home from work Hotter was like "are you on drugs?" And I said "well, I used to be the only one at work who did it, like I'd sneak off by myself to keep from going crazy, but then I got Co-worker and Boss to try it and now all three of us will nip out to an empty meeting room and do it together, and it helps, because our job is really high-stress and physically demanding, and we're crabby and we hurt...today we really needed it with this holiday function thing..."
Hotter's eyes got bigger and bigger. I work with some crazy people, folks who'll do ANYTHING.
"I showed them how to do Sun Salutations, and we'll just all hit the deck for five reps and then we rock and roll. I'm doing yoga again."
Ho ho ho!
How are all of you?
Oh my goodness, y'all. I just spent my entire day off and most of today's morning off positively WALLOWING in the writing of one Tiffany Reisz. Like you know how if you give a cat a big ole pile of catnip, they do that thing where they take a bite, fling themselves down on their backs, and twist around with a look on their face like "yes, I know, I'm ridiculous but this is just SO GREAT?" That.
Sometimes a good distraction is the most wonderful thing in the world, and for as long as I was buried in the books, novellas, and short stories, my tooth didn't hurt and my head didn't hurt and I wasn't worrying about money or anyone's health or the fact that someone done lost their mind at one of my jobs (yes, again, no, not the same person, a different one--we're an unstable lot in the service industry, what can I say).
It was grand.
Especially when I found that the author has a website where she not only publishes the odd freebie, but also does nice things like auction signed copies of her work (including a chapter of her not-yet-released next book) and a phone call from her to benefit those affected by Hurricane Sandy via the American Red Cross. I'd totally bid on that if I had money to burn, purely because PREVIEW CHAPTER (not so much the signed books, as I have an enire shelf full of those from the many amazing writers I met during my MFA program years and I kind of feel like signed books are overrated, in a don't-touch-those-maybe-someone-will-die-scandalously-and-make-us-rich-on-eBay kind of way, or the phone call because I hate the phone, but I suppose I'd suck it up and talk to my new favorite author for a bit, you know, to be polite).
If kinky sex is not your thing then a) I'm terribly sorry for you and b) probably you won't enjoy Tiffany Reisz's work but if it is (or even if it's not ACTUALLY your thing but something you like to read about OTHER people doing) you should absolutely check out the books and the website, and if kinky sex and CHARITY are both things you like and you're filthy rich you should go and bid in that auction. And maybe give me your preview chapter of The Mistress. We'll call it a finder's fee. GO!
SO! I am off work today, and had a hideous migraine, and took a TON of meds for it, several of which contained caffeine. HI! LET'S BE FRIENDS! OR POSSIBLY GO AND LIFT A CAR! WHOO! Also I found out my blog was broken, then fixed it, then played around with a bunch of settings and I don't even know anymore.
Here are some things from the facespace!
* This video. I heart it so much! (Yes, I know The Bloggess posted it already and you probably all read her, but you could always watch it again because awwww, baby bears!)
* This. Wow. I already did not love the Salvation Army, because I have headaches a lot and those emm-effers with their bells don't even know that they are frequently taking their lives (or at least their colorectal integrity and the cleanliness of their bells, ahem) into their own hands by ringing that shit at me and my sensory-challenged children. BUT OMG LOOK:
* This. Hey lookie, your favorite currently displayed blog has a facespace page now! I'll probably only beat it to death for another day or two.