Why, Yes, I'd Love a Staple, Why Not Two?

Ya know, it's kinda hard to go running when one's husband drops the staple gun on one's foot. Yes, I know you may be astonished, but it is true. And yes, this is just one of many lessons I've learned the hard way, by being in the wrong place at the right time. Yet, on the bright side, I have found that Lamaze breathing does come in handy in such circumstances. Were I a sailor, I would have let out a few choice words as the incident unfolded, but not being one fit for the sea, I resorted to heavy breathing and animal noises. Growling, mostly.

So here I am, waiting for this dumb wound to heal and getting fatter by the minute.

I did open a new bag of truffles the other day....just didn't taste as wonderful as I remember. But don't worry, I ate the whole bag. Waste not, want not.

Kali just came in and said that the "neighbors with the noisey car" wanted to what religion we were; if we were mennonites." How funny. Obviously they have no clue as to what Mennonites are. (Ya know, those who don't wear jewelry or any clothing with personality, and the married women wear their little 'caps' to show, as they interpret from Corinthians, that their heads should be covered in submission to their husbands.)

Are those MY feet that smell? Can't be, I never have smelly feet (a sign of toxin's in the system, y'all!). Nope, not me. The plant right next to me...Mr. Retard has gone and used it for a litter box again. What a waste of a cat! Furry, kinda cute, not very snuggly, and can't even catch a bug, let alone anything nocturnal. Pathetic!

Anyway, what was I saying? Nothing, probably. As I don't really have anyone that I'm talking to, but myself. How are you doing, self? Oh, me? I'm doing well, thank you, how about you? Oh, well, I'm doing well as well; how's your mother?...

Stuffed shells in a spicy marinara sauce, that's what's in the oven. Maybe I'll be hungry by then. Body is despressed, mind is trying to get over the hill to the greener grass, but the body hasn't caught up...yet. It sleeps way too much, has no appetite and burts into tears for no reason. What a miserable body to have. I pity men that have never had the fun-house ride of being held hostage by one's own hormones, especially when they're readjusting: "Hey guys, let's build a baby. Get busy!...OK, bad idea, let's run rampant and unchecked and, hey, why not a little schizophrenia, that'd be fun....yipee, hang on guys, it's gonna be a wild ride!" Yes, if hormones could talk, that's probably what they'd be saying...is it wrong to hear voices?....

I can see, now, why people drink. What an easy escape from whatever problem one might have. I cook with the stuff but never drink it--can you say: nasty? Wine's good in so many dishes, but to drink a glass, I'd rather have a staple gun dropped on my foot. And rum, well that's good in caramels, but that's all, and bourbon, you just want my secret bourbon chicken recipe, don't you? Well, take a number. But hey, as long as I'm talking to myself, let's not tell anyone that I don't have a recipe for it, I just kinda throw it all together. Brown sugar and a hint of soy sauce, be generous with the garlic!-- that's the key people, figure it out yourself and leave me in peace!!!!!!

There goes the oven, calling me like I'm some servant to its chime. Better go and pesto up my cibatta, if ya know what I mean.

Chow.