I just ran out to Tops to do a bit of shopping and it was very bizarre in there today, internet.
First of all, going to Tops always makes me feel like I’m cheating on Wegmans, because Wegmans is basically a cult. It’s a lot farther from my house than Tops, however, and there’s a gas station right in the parking lot, and on a day where I mostly want to curl up in my jammies and drink spiked hot chocolate all day instead of venturing outside, I feel like Tops is the perfect place to hit up for some low risk snacking.
As I told my dear roommate Varenka, Tops is where you go when you’re hungover and you don’t want to run into anyone you know while you’re sneaking in to buy Cheetos and Dr. Pepper in your unwashed fat pants, whereas people dress to impress to go to Wegmans (not true).
At any rate, the cashier was ringing up my very bizarre basket, which consisted of bean sprouts, frozen pierogies, and goat cheese, and I noticed that the woman behind me had not one, but nine three packs of chocolate pudding, off-brand cheesy puffs, and saline solution.
I’m not one to judge (lemon hummus and raspberry kefir), but doesn’t 27 packs of pudding seem like a lot? I’m a little inexperienced with pudding, but it seems like a lot to me. Is she feeding an entire soccer team? How many people are on a soccer team, again? 14? Or is that football?
I digress. She just had a lot of pudding. Although to be fair, the girl in front of me was only buying ramen packets, but it’s finals week, and you gotta do what you gotta do.
Another weirdness – there was a basket hanging from the number pole thing (you know, that thing with the lighty number doo-dah) labeled “My Pick of the Week” and apparently Sharon, who was my cashier, had picked cough drops for her pick of the week. Was she sick, or was she a cough drop enthusiast? I wanted to ask, but she was a rather glare-y high schooler, so I didn’t want to be attacked by her hormone fueled rage-angsting.
I just have so many questions, internet. Like why they always seem to have containers of cut-up strawberries mixed with blueberries in the produce section. Is there a trend I’m missing out on here?
If you live under a rock (or watch more Honey Boo Boo than news), the U.S. government has been shut down since early Tuesday morning.
For most of America, or at least for 95% of the people I’ve spoken to on and off line since then, this was monumentally less exciting then the finale of Breaking Bad that aired on Sunday night. Or the fact that today is unofficially Mean Girls day.
I seem to be the only one who want to know who is feeding the animals now that the National Zoo is shut down (don’t worry, they’re okay. I checked).
And / or why there was a Ku Klux Klan meeting scheduled at Gettysburg in the first place.
Or, y’know, real questions, like what effect the shutdown is going to have on the national debt, how the hell government workers are going to catch-up with the giant backlog of work they’re going to have, and how we’re going to mollify all the pissed-off veterans not getting paid.
Yet I digress. Let’s talk about hypothetical situations we’d actually freak out about, like:
1. If we all woke up this morning and there was no coffee anywhere on the planet.
Seriously. Don’t even think about it. It’s too awful. Housewives in hair curlers (if they still exist) would be roaming the streets in packs searching for any last trace of caffeine. Britain would have to quarantine themselves off from over-eager tea drinkers. Meanwhile, China’s economy would boom so hard. Like, so hard, you guys.
2. If Game of Thrones lost its funding and stopped making shows.
There are fandoms and there are fandoms. I’m pretty sure anyone who is capable of making this:
Is capable of a tantrum tantamount to what happened when Firefly went down with the ship. Times 30.
Winter is coming.
3. If Justin Bieber cut his hair again.
So Captain Apollo (whom you may remember as my bodacious musical accomplice) challenged me to do a blog post today about how fucking awesome apples are, and I’ve had an idea bouncing around in my head for a while to try writing profanity-filled reviews about incredibly mundane things.
I call it a Rude Review. And this is the very first one.
RUDE REVIEW – SHIT GODDAMN I LOVE APPLES.
LOOK AT THIS FRUIT.
You luscious, juicy, perspicacious son of a fruit tree.
Apples are a fucking shit storm of versatility.
You want apples for breakfast? Fruit salad, granola, pancakes, parfait. Boom.
You want apples for lunch? Put some goddamn apple slices into your grilled cheese, player.
You want apples for dinner? That’s unacceptab- OH WAIT, APPLES WORK WITH PORK, CHICKEN, SWEET POTATOES, AND BASICALLY ANYTHING ELSE BECAUSE APPLES ARE THE KING OF THE ORCHARD.
We haven’t even talked about apple fucking pie yet, because that’s low hanging fruit, and I’M MORE CREATIVE THAN THAT.
Apples keep the fucking doctor away. You need to go to the doctor for a checkout? NOPE, ATE A PINK LADY THIS MORNING BITCH. CHECK ME OUT, I’M SWIMMING IN PHYTONUTRIENTS AND POLYPHENOLS.*
FACT – Apples are fucking delicious.
FACT – Apples can be used in every fucking meal of the day.
FACT – Apples are good for you.
FACT – Apples are in the rose family, so basically buying your girl a bushel of apples is the same as buying her a bouquet of expensive-ass roses.
FACT – The apple plant is the most diverse plant in the world, with 2,450 varieties in the U.S. alone. So if you don’t like apples, you’re wrong.
*Just kidding. Apples don’t keep doctors away. That’s hyperbole. Besides, doctors love apples.
Internet, I have a confession – I’ve always wanted to emulate those glittering DIY fashionistas like Two Twenty One and HonestyWTF, but I’m lacking in style, creativity, savvy, and essentially every other quality.
However, I came across two short lengths of heavy duty chain whilst in Canada, and as my Papear has a pretty heavy duty workshop in his garage, I decided to take a whack at crafting.
Converting the two smallish lengths of chain into a slightly longer length of chain required a table vice, a heavy pair of pliers, and a hammer. I didn’t manage to take pictures of that part, which is a shame, because it was the only remotely exciting part. I could re-enact it, but it would be a lie (also I’m too lazy).
So after I did the cool part, I assembled my ingredients.
This is essentially what I wanted to happen:
As soon as you look at that photo it becomes pretty immediately apparently I have only one of the things used to make that bracelet. Yet we persevere.
First I decided to be fancy and sew some of the lace looking stuff onto the ends and make a bow:
That didn’t turn out so good, so I decided to use a thinner ribbon instead:
Then my mom made me this:
And so I did this:
And this is what I ended up with!
It’s understood within the tourism business that you are supposed to give your unbiased opinion on restaurants, hotels, and wineries. You’re supposed to share the love equally. Sure, if someone asks for an expensive upscale bed and breakfast in such and such a location, you can narrow it down. If they want duck confit served with herbed mashed potatoes and their’s only one restaurant in town that serves that, you’re allowed to direct them there.
But good gracious it’s hard.
I was recently allocated the task of refreshing the listings on the website. All quadrillion of them. No biggie (kind of a biggie. Actually, a huge biggie. But whatever).
I’m currently working on the pizzerias in town and IT IS SO HARD not to have an option on them. My close friends and family know that in the real world, outside of work, I do have a very biased opinion about the pizza in town. Very biased. As in I only go to one pizza place in town, because it is so clearly superior to the other ones that frankly, the fact that there is even a modicum of doubt as to which is the best pizzeria in town is, frankly, shocking.
(Okay, full disclosure, there are two pizza places I really like in town, but one of them has the extreme advantage of me not having worked there ever, so when I go in to get a slice I don’t have to make awkward small talk with the owner about how much better my life is now).
Anyways, I just finished a very neutral-positive review of my favorite pizzeria, and I’m feeling incredibly unfulfilled. So here’s the review I’d have liked to write them.
THE PIZZERIA IN THE-PLACE-THAT-I-LIVE
ARE YOU LOOKING FOR A TASTE EXPLOSION?
WOULD YOU LIKE YOUR MOUTH PARTS TO BE FILLED WITH THE SENSORY DELIGHT THAT SOME PIONS WOULD DESCRIBE AS ‘PIZZA’?
Are you trying to have an experience that will leave you craving this pizza for the rest of all time?
Because this fucking pizza right here is not fucking around.
Are you into sauce? Are you into cheese? Are you into a crust so thin and crispy that you could shank somebody with flavor?
Visit the pizzeria that the angels sing about. Octo-beyonce will figuratively sing you a love ballad about this pizza as you eat it. The fresh, flavorful sauce will caress your tongue with a tomato lullaby. The delicately melted cheese might give you a back massage and get rid of some of the tension in your shoulders.
Get some, you fool. Time travel your ass back to the past and eat this pizza as a child because you have been missing out for way too long.
I’m still sitting exactly where I was sitting when I wrote yesterday’s post. Actually, it’s only been about an hour and a half since I wrote yesterday’s post, and I’m sitting here trying to concentrate on researching local farms and creameries for my new job and this behemoth cat keeps interrupting me.
This cat technically has a name that is written down on the very comprehensive sheet of things-I-should-know, but it’s on the counter like 30 feet away from me and I am not devoted enough to the cause to go get it, so I’m calling it Simba.
Except it’s a girl? Lady Simba.
For those of you not keeping up with the rest of the class, I’m housesitting for five animals right now – two dogs and three cats. One cat is apparently a hermit – he is, as far as I know, still hiding in the closet (that’s not a metaphor, you child). The other two are something-to-do-with-flowers-name and Lady Simba.
Petunia (or Daffodil, or possibly Sunflower), is one of those cats with a normal sized body and teeny dwarf legs. Like a cat weiner dog. Or a cat hamster. Or a cat mini horse. Or like a cat with a normal body and tiny short legs.
Lady Simba might be a mutant. I can actually hear this cat stomping around in the other room. I have already been startled by this cat creeping around the corner to stare at me a shameful amount of times. It is so big. You guys. It’s like being in a house with a small dog that’s actually a cat.
I cannot get over it. I even texted Varenka about it.
Which seems silly.
UNTIL YOU LOOK AT THIS CAT.
Then you’re like danggggg Lady Simba!
Am I right? (Hint – I am.)