It’s really easy to let things slip your attention when you live in a glorified shanty town of an apartment, resplendent with kitties.
So it was awesomely kind of Facebook to remind me of this:
How could I have been so neglectful toward my “hubby.”
I can’t imagine what I am searching online that continuously leads Facebook to believe that I am married with a husband I love, and not a cat-obsessed spinster that spent last night drinking cheap beer and reading comics.
Unless they were, of course, referring to this husband:
Since I can’t get a husband, I’ll just get some cats. My relationship with them is similar to a legally binding contract that tells my friends, family, and whatever God that one chooses to believe in that we will love and cherish one another until the other dies. Except with my cat husband he agrees to love and cherish me until I die in my sleep and he eats my face for survival.
It should come as no surprise, give my penchant for Napoleon complex like antics, that I am short. Super short. Really fucking small.
five foot shawty assassin
And when you are this damn small, with a habit to get into so much trouble, it’s essential that you learn how to defend yourself when the going gets hostile. My method, since childhood, has been emulation of the moves of professional wrestlers.
I’ve been to two professional wrestling events since my childhood – I wish this was a joke, but that is a Bret Hart shirt from the Holiday Hell Tour in the early 90s. Eat it hipsters and long for my un-ironic ironic WWF swag
So, if you are feeling, say, threatened on your birthday, what should you do? Um…the Million Dollar Dream. Obviously. And you should do this after drinking several pints of home brew outside of bar- unwashed, following a Kool & the Gang sing-a-long.
Get your back up off the wall, do wrestling moves, come on!
There are certain ways that I like to celebrate the end of the work week. My favorite, by far, is drinking Mickey’s grenades with my bearded boyfriend at our favorite bar.
It’s like Mickey’s normal 40oz and St. Patrick’s day had an adorable baby: an adorable, malt liquor, baby.
Then, I like to follow up those grenades with a bottle of white wine, chicken lo mein, and dancing to “Moves like Jagger” in my living room while “That Thing You Do!” plays on the VHS in the background.
It’s boyfriend’s favorite movie, and I love him despite that.
The next morning, I like to get up late and walk to the local 7-ll to get my life’s blood (yellow Gatorade). All of these things are a blissfully normal routine for us, except something strange happened this week that was significantly different.
I had donned my laziest weekend attire and set off for my destination.
a green overcoat with my Power Puff girl pajama pants and flats with flowers on them.
En route I encountered a rowdy group of “Jesus Saves” people. They were nice enough and enthusiastically jolly, so I stopped while they were frantically yelling at me. Had it been angry zealots I would have moved right along, but these people seemed to be a combination of happy and brief. They handed me my pamphlet,
and then the amazingly disturbing thing happened. They handed me a blanket…because they thought I was homeless.
An unused blanket that I could make into a tent in which to live.
At first I felt the need to explain: I’m lazy; I live next door to 7-11; I have no reservations about looking like a slob on a Saturday afternoon; I do, in fact, rent a home. But then I thought about how cold my apartment is and how my current blanket is looking a bit rough.
I took the blanket.
So I took the pamphlet and blanket, put my Gatorade in my pocket, and proceeded to Dunkin Donuts where the man behind the counter also thought I was homeless (but in his case he was just frightened; no free salt bagels and coffee there).
As it turns out Jesus did indeed save me a trip to the store and money for a blanket. Thanks Jesus!
Like most bloggers I have a Zen for cooking and the finer things. Becoming a foodie was one of my aspirations when I turned twenty-three. As it turns out, there are certain things that a foodie needs: mainly food and kitchen appliances. So, when I search through my kitchen cupboard now at the age of twenty-seven, I discover that it has become a graveyard for old cartons of food: the wrappers of Twinkies and ancient boxes of Tastykake’s Kandy Kakes.
The moral of this story is that I don’t have much in the way of food or kitchen appliances. But never fear! You can make delicious tasty treats without the aid of fancy kitchen appliances. A person doesn’t need a dehydrator, iron skillet, blender, or even forks to make a wonderful meal.
That brings us to the picture on my header.
Those up there are the most delicious mashed potatoes that the East Coast has to offer. And what’s the best part? I didn’t use a masher. Why? I don’t have one because I believe it is a frivolous waste of money in these trying economic times. Instead, I spent masher money on a delicious craft beer in the style of George Washington’s porter. Then, I used the bottle to mash the potatoes. GW would have been so proud to see my industrious spirit in the face of adversity, just like during the Revolution. (You will see in the background that my friend was making his own mashed potatoes using a potato masher. He chose those because he is a British loyalist that only appreciates colonialism and hatred).