Can we just establish that pie is a breakfast food? And while we are at it can we add cake, brownies, and gummy bears to that list as well.
I love my husband and he is an incredibly bright and gifted person. Except that he is totally wrong.
I somehow seem to have married someone that believes breakfast foods should contain healthy shit like protein and vitamins. He is clearly unenlightened.
The truth is that breakfast is just delayed dessert from the night before. Therefore it is completely appropriate to have your morning cake, pie, brownies, and/or gummy bears and eat them too. To be clear, this rule even applies in the event that you had dessert after dinner the night before. That just makes breakfast dessert a continuation of dinner dessert with a sleep pause for digestion.
This is how life works, people.
Can someone explain it to my skinny-ass husband? For some reason he doesn’t seem to understand it when his plus-size wife explains it to him.
I have a problem.
I keep eating ants.
The first time you eat ants you can just call it a fluke or a channeling of Andrew Zimmern. The second time you eat ants, you have an ant eating problem. The first step is to admit it.
Hello, my name it Kelly and I am an antololic.
My first encounter with ants occurred in my parents backyard. I wish I could tell you I was below the age of ten, but unfortunately I was around 30. My parents were out of town and I was using their pool with a few friends. I was making and ingesting vast quantities of strawberry daiquiris.
As the night went of things got more and more blurry. I was on perhaps round five when I picked up my poolside glass and thought, “Huh, I didn’t realize this daiquiri mix had strawberry seeds in it.” I tossed back a few more before the night was over.
Yeah, those were not seeds. When the night came to an end I noticed that all the seeds were trying to crawl out of the glass. I have no idea how many ants I swallowed that night, but hey, you know those little ants were drunk as hell too so they didn’t feel a thing either.
Alas, the preceding was becoming just a foggy memory until it all came flashing back a few days ago while I was making my coffee. I have one of those machines that has the little water tank on it and makes one cup at a time. I was just going back for my second cup that morning when I noticed that my water level was a little low. I pulled out the tank to top it off when behold: half an ant colony was floating around like it was their own goddamn little hot tub.
I had eaten ants again, and this time I was stone cold sober.
So I am questioning my life choices a little bit this morning.
I quit my stable and quasi-decently paying job as a teacher to become a writer. However I knew I needed to get out of the house otherwise I would become some sort of agoraphobic cat lady that wears mis-buttoned cardigans and hides from the doorbell.
In order to minimize this risk I got a part time job as a baker/cake decorator/wedding consultant. It is a pretty sweet gig. (Yeah, that’s right, I can your anti-pun groans, but I’m writing it anyway.)
Anyway, turns out I am pretty good at selling cake. I can sell a cake to an anorexic, gluten-free, dairy-free, sugar-free, pesca pescatarian.
Baking however seems to be another story entirely as last night I nearly set the house on fire trying to make a damn birthday cake. Turns out my oven is evil. It has these little holes at the bottom that lead to some deep oven abyss where the fire comes from. I managed to fill my cake pans a tiny bit too much. This resulted in a teeny overflow of cake batter. Now, normally that would just sit on the bottom of the oven and emit a lovely burning smell. Unfortunately last night the overflowed batter managed to work its was through the holes in the oven bottom and down into the depths of the fire breathing parts… thus the open flames that arose inside my oven.
I cannot express the horror of smelling a burny smell and then looking over my shoulder to see an aggressive orange glow coming from inside the oven. I pretty much suck in emergency situations, which is a known fact in my family as I generally just throw some bandaids in the general direction of the problem and run in the other direction.
Unfortunately raging flames do not respond well to this strategy.
So last night I found myself tossing baking soda willy-nilly towards the flames while trying not to inhale too much smoke. Eventually the flames died down and I was left with one fugly cake and whole lot of smoke in the kitchen.
I need to stick to selling cakes.
I suppose I am lucky to live in a place with readily available preventative healthcare. And living in the US, I am probably also super lucky to have access to health insurance that we can afford.
But dear god I am experiencing one kind of shit storm up in here!
Due to some hereditary good times from the DNA pool, I get to have a colonoscopy every five years starting at the entirely too early age of 30. So this in number two… pun intended.
The last time I prepped for my colonoscopy my intestines decided that they were not going to play my laxative induced games and they held on to everything until the wee small hours of the morning. Making for a shitty night with no sleep, literally.
This time however, my large intestine has clearly thrown up the white flag and given an early surrender. So early in fact that horrible things happened. Basically I have been on a liquid diet supplemented only by massive quantities of laxatives. Therefore I am currently a hangry, sharting bitch…who now must do extra laundry…damn-it!
Ugh, I am so glad I have access to get a colonoscopy tomorrow…I guess…
Damn-it! Just when I thought I had everything figured out with my wine diet things have begun to go terribly-terribly wrong.
I have always been allergic to sulfa. Generally this only poses a problem when being prescribed anti-malaria drugs and when drinking. I mean not when drinking water just when derrrinkin’. It seems sulfa is used in the bottling process of alcohol. At least that is what I have been told.
Usually when I have a reaction I just get really oddly pressure sensitive redness on my face. So if I brush my face with my hand or something I get a fiery-burning line of red on anywhere I touched. Yeah it’s weird. I often have odd streaks across my forehead while I try to be cool and mingle with a martini, which causes people to stare at me blankly. Then I get too busy staring at them staring at me and I forget what I am talking about and start to babble about my cats’ pooping habits or something. It is not pretty any way you look at it.
My husband calls my face technicolor. It reminds him of those hypercolor t-shirts from the 1990’s that changed colors with body heat. The ones my sister and I used our own hands on ourselves to make it look like when had been child molested.
Anyway I digress, you might wonder why someone with this reaction would choose a wine diet. To which my answer would be that I don’t let that allergy shit bring be down, I power through!
Until last night.
Ugh! It is all fun and games until your diet decides to try to kill you. I guess this means red wine and I are no longer friends. That will be my excuse next time my doctor chastises me for my weight… I wouldn’t be so damn fat if red wine hadn’t tried to kill me, you jerk!
I am totally winning at this life thing. I have recently discovered a paradigm shifting new nutritional regime. Ladies and gentlemen I give you: The Wine Diet.
It turns out that instead of snacking on bits of yum-yums such as candies and chips you can just get mildly trashed on wine every night. Evidently wine makes me forget to eat mostly because I am a bit dizzy and navigating to the pantry is too hard. This may be the key to a new dress size!
Plus the cats seem to approve, so you know all is well. Bottoms Up!
It turns out the best way to keep your house ultra clean and become a veritable domestic goddess is to start a blog. I even like writing. I really do, but it is freaking hard. In fact aside from exercise and taxes it is the hardest thing that I force myself to do on a quasi regular basis.
Lucky for me though it turns out I am a masterful procrastinator. My house is cleaner than it has been in weeks, and my husband is better fed than he has been since school started. I have even vacuumed the baseboards people, BASEBOARDS!
I finally ran out of laundry to do today, so ah here I am. Who knew that I would inadvertently solve all of my domestic woes just by blogging. #lickmyfloors #procrastinationpro
My cat Lucy has saggy boobs.
I figure when my boobs finally sag more than hers I will know it is time for a lift. Seems like reasonable measure to me.
How many times have you had a banana that is just too cold? Or perhaps you unfold that brown paper lunch sack only to find a mangled bruised banana mess looking up at you forlornly. You may just wish your nana were a little more stylish with its clothing choices. Or maybe you have a bit of a fruit fetish.
Well fear not for no matter your nana problems I have the solution. I have recently learned to knit…the banana cozy.
Fixing your problems, one banana at a time. You’re welcome world.
As a teacher a hear A LOT of excuses. So many of them I hear year after year, day after day. My mom didn’t do my homework. My mom lost my homework. I didn’t know we had homework. What is this homework of which you speak? My mom did my homework, but then she lost it. My homework was in my bag but now it is lost.
Sometimes I get fun excuses about why kids don’t come to school as well. My alarm didn’t go off. My mom’s alarm didn’t go off. I do not even know what an alarm is. Dad took me to see Star Wars and then pumped me full of sugar. My baby sister kept me up last night so my mom let me sleep in. My mom is not a morning person. School starts too early. I was up late last night while my mom picked the lice out of my hair.
Today I heard a new one though. One of my student’s siblings came to relay a message to me on the whereabouts of her brother:
Dennis was diarrhea yesterday so he is not at school today.
It is true that this particular kid can be a little shit, but alas I am pretty sure he hasn’t turned into a liquid pile of pooh. Now you may be thinking how adorable that a younger sibling would try to fill me in on the situation. Unfortunately though, this sibling is three years older than my student. Yeah! THREE YEARS!
I fear for our future.