Accidental Donut

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If you think this is going to be a blog about what to do if a donut accidentally lands in your mouth, then you’re sadly mistaken.  That kindof stuff almost never happens to me.  (Unless I throw a donut into my own mouth quick-as-lighting and then act surprised at how it got there.  Where on EARTH did that donut come from?!)

No, no.  THIS accidental donut story is not THAT accidental donut story.  That story is at a different blog.  You should probably go there if you are looking for tips on how to handle donuts that accidentally land in your mouth.

THIS story is for those who read Garth Stein’s “The Art of Racing in the Rain” and know that dogs can talk, and also that your car goes where your eyes go.  And sometimes your eyes?  Are all googly like and you just want to go to a place where you can start over.

Let me explain:  It’s been snowing for the last few days here in Colorado.  And it’s been like 2 degrees.  And yes, I’m so, so serious about the 2 degrees.  I just checked the Weather Channel.  But life goes on despite the total crap weather, so the kids and I headed out a bit early this morning to get to school.  Oh, Hubby?!  He’s on a business trip to Chicago.  Where they are actually having BETTER weather than Colorado.  Go figure.  

The kids and I take the same route we always take, only slower.  And as I’m coming around a corner on a deserted street where there are no other tire tracks marring the newly fallen snow, the car goes into a complete 180ᵒ spin.  Having read “The Art of Racing in the Rain” myself, I’m trying to get a lock on where exactly I want my car to go.  Not that curb.  Nope, not that curb either.  I was very calm in the moment; there was no fear.  Turns out that what they say is true: everything slows down and seems to happen in a dream sequence.  Also?  The car has already been completely totaled, so I didn’t really care WHAT happened to it.  That wasn’t even a factor.  I just wanted to make sure the kids got out of the situation ok.  And yes, the car has literally been totaled.  It’s another flippin’ Colorado weather story having to do with volunteering at school and a massive hail storm.  FLIPPIN’ COLORADO WEATHER!!!  It’s then that I realized I just wanted to start that turn all over again.  If I could just get…back…to where I started, it would all be ok.  At which point Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride reached its conclusion and the car came to a shuddering halt. 

And we WERE back.  We were right EXACTLY back where I started the turn in the first place.  Well, except for that part about completely facing the opposite direction.  Huh.  That’s way weird.  That dog in the book, Enzo, really knew what he was talking about.

I turn to the kids in the back seat to make sure everyone’s ok and I realize that weird clicking noises are coming out of Sonny’s dry-as-dust throat.  “Sweetheart?  Are you hurt?  Are you OK?!?” 

To which he replies, “Now I’m really worried about Dad’s plane getting in today!” 

“Don’t worry, Sweetie.  I won’t be driving it so I’m sure it’ll come in safely.”

Meanwhile, Sissy is sitting beside Sonny exclaiming, “WOW!  Was that a DONUT?!??  I think we just did a donut.  WAS that a donut??!” in the same voice one uses once they realize Bucket List business is happenin’ – goin’ down right here, right NOW.

Why yes.  Yes it was.  It was a donut.  I just did a donut.  Accidentally.  An accidental donut.

Fall Back

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Excuse me?  You right there.  Is my circadian rhythm showing!?  I think it must be.  Because for the last week – since we all Fell Back – I’ve been waking up at 4:59 am.  On.  The.  Dot. 

Grrrrrrrr…

And yes, yes, yes, I understand that I’m part of an advanced society that can “bend time” twice a year to suit its needs; mostly so that we can make our morning coffee in the daylight instead of pre-dawn.  While I’m not sure who decided it was gonna go down like that, I recognize we do it because we are a progressive people who drink antifreeze in their cinnamon whisky shots.  We have the wherewithal to conceive of an idea, and then the capabilities to “make it so.”  (That was a quote from Star Trek.  Is my nerd showing now too?!)

But honestly, I’d be WAY more impressed with my advanced society if they figured out how to instantaneously re-set my INTERNAL clock at Fall Back time.  5:59 am is a much more do-able rise-and-shine time than 4:59 am is. 

And you know what would be the MOST impressive of all?!?  Even MORE impressive than inventing Internal Clock Fall Back Time?  Which is similar to Hammer Time, by the way.  But different.  Because THIS you can touch.  Would be to just acknowledge already that time travel capabilities exist, and that they’ve been in existence since the whole Philadelphia Experiment rumor started. 

This approach would allow me to openly use the teleporter I currently keep hidden in my laundry room.  Pssst!  I bought it when we were living in Pennsylvania, specifically on a trip to Philadelphia.  You can get ‘em cheap from a dude on the corner of Market Street by the Liberty Bell.  Most of the time he pretends he’s just selling knock off handbags and such.  If you can’t find him, then your next best bet is the Naval Shipyard.  Once you get there, just ask the guard for the USS Eldridge and wink several times.

Because IF I could use my teleporter instead of being all hush-hush about it, then future me could come back to waking-up-way-too-early me, and deliver my coffee BEDSIDE!  No matter WHAT the hour, daylight or otherwise.  Screw you, AND the horse you rode in on, Fall Back!    

How’s THAT for advanced?!?  Coffee?  Tea??  Me?!  Ha, ha, ha.  That’s a little joke we teleporter peeps have with our future selves.  It’s a thing people in the future do.  You wouldn’t understand.

However, everyone knows that a Temporal Paradox is created when two versions of yourself exist in one place with coffee.  If you don’t get the coffee just right, then the whole thing becomes extremely dangerous to the fabric of reality.  And to anyone who isn’t good at math.  Their heads just POP right OFF!

Which means the teleporter idea just isn’t feasible in this country.  They teleport all the time in China because as a society, they’re way better at math than we are.  But here?  In the good ‘ol U.S. of A. where we INVENTED time travel?  It’s just not feasible.  Most people aren’t good at math and therefore can’t be trusted.  This forces ALL of us to time travel (air quotes on that while rolling the eyes) the old-fashioned way: by shoving around the hours, one at a time, until we get time-to-make-the-coffee just right. 

Which is fine, I suppose.  A body does get used to it, afterall.  Eventually, that is.  Take yesterday, for example – Sunday, the ONE day in the entire week I get to sleep in.  Guess what time I woke up? 

Yep.  5:59 am.  On.  The.  Dot.

Quiet as a Mouse

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This morning as I was heading across the upstairs walkway to the kids’ rooms to wake them up, I heard weird rustling noises in the kitchen.

Hmmmm.  Must be a hungry kid who’s up early and eating directly out of the cereal box or something while standing in the pantry.  So I lean over the railing and call, “You’re up early, Sweetie!  I’ll be right down.”

A pause in the rustling ensued.  But no direct acknowledgement from the rustler followed.  Rude.

As I look up from this one-sided exchange, I can see through Sonny’s open door that he’s still in his bed.  That’s puzzling.  I would have voted him Most Likely to Rustle up Some Breakfast Before Everyone Else is Up.  So I guess it must be Sissy down there.  After I wake Sonny up, even though Sissy is apparently up and eating breakfast already, I stop in her room anyway to turn off her fan which she must’ve forgotten to turn off before she left for her early morning grub foray.

And there’s Sissy…still asleep in her bed!

Uhhh.  Wow.  Either a neighbor completely lost their marbles and broke in for a snack, or the escaped juvenile males from last week ARE actually in my house AND they stayed for breakfast.

So I rush back into my bedroom and wake up my boyfriend, hand him a hairbrush I happen to be carrying and tell him there’s a noise downstairs he has to investigate since Hubby’s out of town.

Ha, ha, HA!  That was silly.  And YOU’RE so silly for believing that thing about the boyfriend.  It was totally my husband all along.  You’re naughty for thinking otherwise.

Hubby comes out onto the walkway with me.  By that time Sissy is up too and we’re all gathered there when, rustle rustle RUSTLE!

Hubby turns to me and says, “What WAS that?” 

I DON’T KNOW!  THAT’S WHY I CALLED YOU IN!  YOU’RE THE CAVALRY IN THIS STUPID PLAY!!!!

So Hubby hops on his horse and disappears downstairs.  Then I hear him say, “Oh, Lord, it’s a mouse!!!”

Apparently when he got downstairs, he found a chip bag on the floor of the pantry WITH a mouse rustling around inside.  No wonder why we’ve all been having stomach aches these last few days!  We’ve probably been eating hantavirus with our BBQ ‘tater chips.  Gaaack!  GAAAAAACK!!!!

So Sissy and I, along with the dog – who thinks the whole thing is just a big, impromptu party – rush downstairs.  As I come around the corner, Hubby, who’s standing guard at the pantry door, looks at me and says, “Do we have a…bowl…or something?!?” 

A bowl?  Really??!  This has ‘Three Stooges’ written all over it!  So I say exactly that as I hand him a used yogurt container.

Instead of picking UP the chip bag WITH the mouse still inside of it in order to dump it out the back door, the brilliant “bowl” concept is now in play.  This entails Hubby dumping out the chip bag onto the floor of the pantry and then SLAMMING his tiny “bowl” down on TOP of the chips.  Because the chips are super slow, he wins there.  The mouse, however?  Is really fast and it runs OUT of the pantry while Hubby’s futzing with the chips.  It proceeds around the kitchen island at a high clip and disappears into a lower cupboard.

*^%&$#*%!!  *^%$#%^&*$#!!!!! 

Ya know what’s wacky about all of that?  No matter how far the Right to Vote and Equal Pay for Equal Work has taken us, some women STILL go all olde-tyme when faced with a mouse underfoot.  They scream EEEEEEEEEEK! and jump up on a chair.  There also may have been some swearing.  Like I said: wacky.  And quite frankly, disappointing.

Eventually, Sonny shows up acting suspiciously like the dog – completely oblivious to what’s really going on, but in high spirits nonetheless.  Turns out he thought there was a snow day we were excitedly whispering then shrieking about.  What the WHAT??

Anyway, all’s well that ends well.  No snow day, though.  And the mouse is still somewhere in the house.  But Hubby has set a few “traps” so it’s just a matter of time before we start eating BBQ mouse feces again.

For your viewing pleasure, here are pictures of the “traps.”  One is set up outside the pantry door.  And one is set up outside the cupboard where the mouse disappeared.  These traps are designed and copyrighted by Curly, so please don’t think you can invent them and sell them for a profit. 

 

I voted!

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I had a choice today of standing in line for several hours or – for the first time ever – voting on that official ballot-y thing they sent me in the mail (as long as I then dropped it off by 7 pm tonight).

Due to a pressing appointment to look at 50% off Halloween Candy at Walmart, which just so happens to be on the other side of the street from the ballot drop-off site, I thought, “Meh.  Why not?!  Let’s do it to it.”

I’m not sure why I’ve never voted this way before, choosing instead to stand in line for umpteen hours.  The whole marking-your-answers-on-a-piece-of-paper-and-then-mailing-it-in always seemed better suited for a Johnny Carson Carnac the Magnificent skit.  Or like the whole mess might be found moldering in a cardboard box fifty years from now during a “60 Minutes” exposé.

But I’ve gotta tell ya, someone clearly put some thought into this process.  And I was pleasantly surprised.  It reminded me of a Scan Tron test combined with an Ikea furniture assembly project.  See?  Pleasant and surprising.

First off, before you begin, you’ve got like twenty or so “parts” you should lay out on the table so you can make sure you have all of the twenty or so parts on the table before you begin.  Otherwise, you’re dead in the water and/or someone has clearly stolen your identity so you should probably go get in line at the polling place now and call your credit card company on the way over.

Next, you have to fill the ballot out.  This year’s ballot had a super catchy “Make the Connection” theme wherein you had to connect the back of the arrow to the front of the arrow beside each person/issue for which you were voting “yes.”  The instructions didn’t say what to use, though, to make the connection.  A #2 Pencil seemed a little wishy-washy and prone to error, so I used a hot glue gun.  I wanted the tally folks sitting underground in the bunker to see I was really committed to my choices.

As an interesting side note, I’d like to mention here that many of the ballot questions appeared to have been written by the Unemployment Office folks who always seem to make the questions (inadvertently on purpose?) super confusing.  Like they want you to accidentally give up and leave an unfinished ballot craft project all over your kitchen table because you simply didn’t understand their circuitous rhetoric.  So it was a good thing the form also “translated” the questions into a dumb-dumb version, something along the lines of:  Are you voting ‘for’ or are you voting ‘against’ this issue, ya moron?!?  Uhhhh….wait.  What?  Let me read it again.  And ‘yes’ means for and ‘no’ means against, right?  And left is right and right is wrong.  Tell me about the rabbits, George. 

Then, after you’ve burnt the crap out of your fingers with your hot glue gun, you’ve gotta sign the whole mess using the full (and oh so tedious) legal name you signed all your mortgage documents with and don’t think for a SECOND that they won’t verify your signature using the weird little box o’signatures at the bank.  ‘Cause they will.

Finally…and this is the BEST part because it makes you feel like a spy who has to keep the information out of the hands of the Russians…you slip your hot-glued ballot into the “Secrecy Sleeve.”  OooOOOOOHHHhhhh.  Awesome!!!  SEEEEECRECY SLEEEEEEVE! 

You pop the whole thing into an envelope with flaps and folds and barcodes visible and hand it out your car window to some random chick who’s pitching all the envelopes into a dumpster looking device.

But that assignment’s done.  I’m pretty sure I got an “A” on it.  Either way, the teacher gave me a sticker for my efforts so it’s all good.

Boo!

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In celebration of this Ween of Hallows, I thought it would be apropos to tell each other stories about the word “Boo!”  [As a side note on the usage of the word ‘apropos’ – French Major is in the maison!  Whoopée whoopée!  And I know JUST what you’re thinking: quel dommage that I haven’t been hired yet, n’est-ce pas?!]

Anyway.  Back to our Boo Stories.  Great idea by the way.  I’ll go first.

When I had a job and no, I still don’t have another.  See comment above about it being a pity that I haven’t been hired yet.  But thanks for asking.  ALWAYS with the asking.  stink eye, stink eye  And huh, that’s weird, because even though I said I was going first, YOU apparently went first with your ‘Boo!’ story.  It was all [sarcastic now, waving hands in the air] BOO-hoo New Stay at Home Mom doesn’t have a job after all this time.  And quite frankly, I found your story boring and repetitive.  And a bit sad-sack for my tastes.  So your turn’s done now.

My turn.

I was standing at the elevator at the end of the work day, waiting to go home.  A man comes around the corner, places his hands on my shoulders suddenly and yells in my ear, “BOO!!!!!”

I could see all of this happening in the relfecto elevator doors, so I wasn’t nearly as surprised as he was when I turned around.  His eyes flew wide and he said, “Oh no!  I TOTALLY thought you were someone else!!!”  Really?  There’s ANOTHER pretty, funny chick who works around here!?? 

The man apologized profusely and I stepped in the elevator and went on with my evening.

The next time I saw him, I yelled “Boo!” at him.  He yelled “Boo!” back.  We laughed and walked away.  And thus began the seven-year saga of “Boo!” 

We would never actually speak to eachother when we would see one another in the hall, on the elevator, in the building lobby.  We would simply exchange two words:  Boo!…BOO!!  And go on our way. 

Sometimes the Boo!…BOO!!  would be outright shout-y.  Sometimes we would channel certain personas like Thug-ee-Dee saying Boo! complete with “Word to your Mother” hand gestures.  And other times?  It would almost be like we were exchanging terms of endearment, “Hey, Boo.”  “Wassup, Boo.”

No matter what the Boo-style was, in all that time, I never really said more to him than Boo!…BOO!!  In fact, I couldn’t even tell you what his name is.  I never knew it.  I referred to him simply as “Boo” to co-workers, friends and family.

That wasn’t for lack of trying on Boo’s part, though.  He would attempt to strike up a conversation, but I would just give him the zip-lip sign.  It just seemed WAY funnier to never actually speak to eachother, to just say Boo!…BOO!! and walk away.

Aaaah, so funny.  Frickin’ hilarious in fact.

Anyway, my story’s done now.  And all I have to say is I miss all the boos I used to have at work.  heh, heh, heh

But before you go, let’s do it one more time for old-time’s sake.  We’ll be English Gents tipping our hats to eachother.  “I say what, what!  Good day and Boo to you!”

And now you say, “Good day and Boo to you TOO!  Cheerio!!”

Wow.  I gotta say that wasn’t nearly as fun as I thought it was gonna be.  But thanks for playing. 

Happy Halloween!

The Phone Call

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It was a dark and stormy night…

It was last night.  Hubby’s plane was due to land any minute.  The phone rings.  I look at Caller ID and the display reads County Sheriff.

Really?  Yeah, right.  My first reaction was to dismiss the whole thing as just one more political phone call – this time it’s probably the Police Chief wanting me to vote for him.  Or with him.

So I hesitated to answer. 

The phone rang again.

It was 9:30, which made it a little late for a political call.  Then it occurred to me that maybe Sonny’s biggest-fear-while-Hubby-is-on-a-business-trip (that Hubby’s plane will crash) has maybe come to pass.  Maybe this is it.  Maybe this is how it plays out.  Maybe instead of showing up at my door like olden times, the cops just CALL me with the terrible news.

I quick grab the phone and answer.

The voice at the other end tells me the Emergency Broadcast System has been engaged and to press “1” for the message.

Uhhh…ok, well, I’m intrigued.  Good job on that.  Let’s hear it.  So I press “1” like a boss.

The woman at the other end announces that two escaped juvenile males are thought to be on foot and IN MY HOUSE.

Wait!  WHAAAAAT?!??! 

Shhhhhh!!!  Stop breathing so loud!!  Ok, ok, phew, not in my “house.”  I overreacted.  In my “area.”  But there’s more.

One is wearing shorts, a gray hoodie and handcuffs.  Sucks to be you, dude, ‘cause it’s cold and you’re wearing shorts.  And also handcuffs. 

The woman goes on to say that the other youth is wearing a hockey mask and is carrying a rusty chainsaw.

Totally kidding about the second youth’s description.  Even though that’s not what was actually said, that’s what I may-as-well-have heard.  Because at that point, I’m picturing escapees from the insane asylum closing in on the house with two sleeping children upstairs and a dipstick dog wanting to go outside to pee.  I’m 100% sure that right after I let the dog out, the escapees are gonna plaster their faces up against my sliding glass door and hold the dog hostage until they gain entry.

Well, I’m hanging up now.  But thanks for calling.  This has been a boatload of laughs.

Ding!  Oh, look.  Hubby just texted.  He landed safely and is on his way home.  Drive safe, Sweetie!  And don’t pick up any suspicious youths loitering outside in the driveway, especially not if they’re attempting to hide their handcuffs in their hoodie.  And please let the dog in when you get home.  I’m going to bed.  G’night.

I Heard The Owl Call My Name

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Did you ever have to read that book by Margaret Craven for some overachiever, extracurricular bookclub thingie at school?  Well Sissy has to and that’s the only reason I brought it up.

It’s about a missionary who goes to live with an Indigenous tribe in British Columbia (Native Canadians?!).  I won’t tell you anything else about the book other than the missionary bites it, but only after he hears a certain creature do something with this name.

[Since I didn’t ACTUALLY tell you the end of the story, no spoiler alert was necessary!  At least I didn’t go all Murder of Roger Ackroyd on you’re a$$ and tell you that the murderer is the narrator, right?]

Oh.  Actually, there is one OTHER reason I brought the book up.  An owl has been sitting on my roof for the last week or so.  At about 3:30 in the morning he calls out his rapid-fire question, “Whowhowho whoooooooo?  Whoooooo.”

Uhhhh.  Are you asking ME?  In which case, thanks and this has been fun, but you can just SHUT IT with the repetitive questions, Hootie and the Blowfish, ‘cause it’s 3:30 in the ay to the ehm.  The call for nominations closed a good long while ago! 

In the morning, when I quiz everyone about whether or not they heard the owl, everyone acts mystified about what an owl even IS.  Owl?  OWL?!  Nooooo….no owl.  The kids haven’t heard him.  Hubby hasn’t heard him.  And the dog – who hears every noise both real and imagined, especially when Hubby is away on a business trip – acts like he doesn’t even speak English when I question him about the owl.

Ok, crap.  A couple of things here: is the owl noise in my head bothering anyone?  And if by some chance it’s NOT actually all in my head, I hope to High Heaven that Mr. Wise Old doesn’t start in with, “Who?  WHOOO?  New Stay at Home Mom, that’s WHO!” 

‘Cuz if that happens?  I’m screwed.  I read the blog-without-a-spoiler-alert.  I know what happens once you hear the owl call your name.

Fun Fact Part Two

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I was remiss in my duties.  For that I am truly sorry.  Because when I was talking about the rest of the family’s “Fun Facts,” I forgot to mention our DOG’S fun fact.  Bad, BAD dog mother!

Teddybear-the-dog’s fun fact is that he has five nipples.  I thought they came in matched sets.  But apparently not.  See?  Super fun, right?!  And how’s THAT for a fun fact GAR-UN-TEEED to get lots of attention at the bar!?! 

But you know what’s MOST interesting about the dog-nipple thing?  Well, yes, dog nipples ARE always filthy for some reason; like they have a belly full of black moles or somethin’.  However, that’s not where I was headed, but thanks for chiming in with the dirty pillows, Stephen King.  

No, what I wanted to say is that our OTHER dog, Buster, ALSO had five nipples.  But he originally came with six………..

As you may know, Homey don’t do ticks.  ‘Tick’ is just a fancy word for blood-sucking spider, and I avoid spiders at all costs – I make it a point never to engage with them, blood-sucking or otherwise.

So when we lived in Pennsylvania, and I found a tick on Buster’s belly one summer morning, I did all of my requisite shuddering and screaming, then shouted to Hubby-in-the-other-room that there was a tick on the dog’s belly which he needed to take off.

I proceeded to breeze out the door to work.  [Geesh.  Does that work thing come in handy sometimes or WHAT?!  And no, still don’t have another job yet.  But thanks for asking.  ALLLLWAYS with the askin’ aren’t ya?  Stink eye, stink eye.]

When I came home that night, I found the tick STILL on the dog’s belly.  And a bloody hole where one of the dog’s filthy-black mole-nipples had been.  Oopsie.

Young and Chipper

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When I was a freshman in college, there was a girl who lived on my hallway.  We called her Chippy.  No, not to her face.  That would’ve been mean.  Just behind her back because her front teeth were HUGE Chiclets and made her look like a chipmunk.  Until that one time she got wasted and face planted, teeth first, into the sidewalk on the way home from a frat party.  And chipped her front teeth.  THEN we called her Chippy to her face!

Well I’m Chippy now.  And no, it’s not because of some hilarious drinking incident.  It’s because I sew.

Huh?  Let me explain.

I went to the dentist today because I chipped my front tooth.  I only noticed a few days ago how one front tooth was…shorter…than the other one.  And it was all rough on the bottom part.  These were all clues to me that I had somehow, somewhere, chipped my tooth.  Perhaps recently.  Perhaps not.  My husband-who’s-known-me-for-25+-years insisted that my teeth have ALWAYS looked like this.  Like this?  All jagged and uneven?!  Thanks, Honey.  Give me a smooch.

Anyway, when the hygienist goes to look at my chipped tooth, she SPARKS ME right ON my chipped tooth.  The resultant twitching and jerking on my part proceeds to a ten minute conversation on what “sparking” means.  She’s not familiar with the word.  So I explain how, when I was young, during the winter, I would race around on the fuzzy bathroom rug and spark my little brother and little sister on the front teeth for fun.  And to see that weird blue light leap out of my finger.  Ha, ha, ha!  So fun. 

After that explanation, she realized I was talking about something she calls SHOCKING.  Not SPARKING.  Must be an east coast/west coast thing.  Either way, it turns out that getting sparked on your front teeth isn’t super fun like I thought it was.

So – after all the shocking preliminaries heh-heh-heh I finally get to see the dentist.  He starts asking me about my paranormal activity.  I’m not even kidding.  He actually said the words “paranormal activity” to me. 

I’m picturing aliens entering my bedroom at night to probe me.  He’s picturing something where I do a lot of unnatural or unusual stuff with my front teeth.  Sayyyy for example…SEWING!  “Do you hold pins between your top and bottom front teeth when you sew?” he asks me.

Oh my gosh I DO!!!!  I totally DO!!!  D-A-M-P-Q Christmas pillow sewing project!  What a waste of a good tooth!! 

Turns out, by holding straight pins in my teeth when I sew, I wore down my tooth in a weird PARANORMAL way and made it super chippable.  But Dr. Chew was able to file it down so that it’s even shorter now than the other tooth and even MORE noticeably shorter than my other tooth.  But SHHHHH!  Don’t tell Hubby.  We’ll see if he notices in another 25 years. 

Also?  During the tooth-shortening process, the hygienist mentions how my teeth are “vibrant” (apart from that short, jagged-now-smooth short one, of course).  Yeah, right?  My thoughts exactly!  Who knew we were getting all judge-y with the age of teeth.  But apparently mine are very youthful and completely match my complexion and coloring.  Holy Crap!  That’s awesome!!  I’ll take that. 

Chippy and her cute teeth are in the house.  Whoop, whoop!  

A toast to me!

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Just wanted to let you know I’m putting my MBA to good use over here.  Please see the attached picture of my latest performance review.

Of course, the positive feedback may actually have NOTHING to do with my MBA and everything to do with my secret family recipe* for cinnamon sugar toast. 

But don’t hate.  Don’t be a hater.  We ALL have our gifts. 

 

*The secret family recipe goes something like this…mix some proportionate combination of cinnamon and granulated sugar.  Sprinkle over buttered toast and make sure you get it everywhere: toast, countertop, floor etc.  Place your masterpiece at the table for your best customer.  Know that shortly it will be all over said table (well, and the customer’s face) because that’s the nature of cinnamon sugar.  It dislodges everytime someone breathes in its direction.  At that point, remember how much you hate the clusterbomb that is the cinnamon sugar toast recipe.  Discontinue use.  Huh, I guess none of that’s much of a secret after all.