“My anaconda don’t want none unless you got buns, hun,” ~Sir Mix-a-Lot Oh I’ve got buns. A whole bag of them, to be exact. The large assortment of ciabatta, bagel, kaiser and dinner rolls that was only $2.75 at Walmart … Continue reading
I’m suddenly addicted to raisin toast. I’ve always liked it, just haven’t eaten any for a while. Boobs, Mrs. Loo & Mrs. Muffin & I usually go out for breakfast on the weekend and for whatever reason I changed from my usual rye toast to raisin. It’s buttery, crispy, cinammony and sweet…(I had 3 pieces for lunch yesterday, limited myself to 2 today).
I have no idea why but raisin bread is the only way I’ll tolerate them in baked goods. They have no business being in cookies, butter tarts, covered in chocolate, nor will I eat them out of a little red box.
This picture illustrates exactly how I feel:
You can actually hear him hiss the word: “Raisins”.
I do anyway.
I’ve had this happen to me before. It is SUCH a major letdown. I bought 2 cookies at a fancy bake shop (all their other stuff I love) and was pissed that I’d mistaken those dark bits behind the display case for chocolate. You’re all excited about eating a chocolate chip cookie but then you’re immediately angry and feel duped.
I’m going to go hug my loaf of raisin bread and tell it that I love it.
Ah, the regift. What reminded me was shopping at Winner’s today. I picked up a kinda cool looking zombie (MH knockoff) that was on clearance but the package was opened (albeit carefully). I turned it over and there was still a piece of Christmas wrapping paper on the back!
Sister in-laws regift. Pretty sure it was something someone at her office had given her (maybe the boss?) and she was having none of it so decided to pawn it off to me. A wooden birdhouse outdoor decor thing (that I chucked) and a tin of Werther’s Originals (which I eventually consumed). OR maybe she was getting me back for the very first gift I ever gave her – after knowing her for about a week, mind you: a what I thought was delicious selection of chocolate covered chips from a fancy chocolate store in Mapleview Mall. At least I put some thought into it and thought it was unique.
Oh! Remember those black and white photographic prints Ikea used to sell in the 80s? We got one of those from her too once she decided to move out of town. And that was around Christmas too now that I think of it! We chucked that too, thanks anyway. Update: I finally found one similar that someone was trying to sell on a FB group:
I like recycling, upcycling and donating stuff, but ask someone if they want something first before you try to pass it off as something you carefully selected and decided to call a gift.
Huh, I was actually wondering about this just this morning. When I was about nine I made up a pen name for myself. I drew people with huge heads and tiny bodies and signed them all as “Margaret Moondown”. Okaaaayyy.
I also made up a really short tune on my aunt’s organ but everyone found it annoying. It could have been a great back beat to something. I didn’t have a pen name for my music writing career though.
If I needed to use one now it would be a pretty plain one, but I can’t tell you what it would be. You’d have to read an article by me (well, secret me), except you wouldn’t know that I was the one who wrote it. But sometimes that’s the whole point.
Nicknames are different. In our family there’s: Boobs, Ms. Lou, Ms. Muffin & Tits McGee.
Check out what Freelancewriting.com has to say about the issue! Pen names, not nicknames…
For some reason I’ve always liked coming up with beginnings of fictional stories but never follow through on the endings. Maybe the beginning is the easiest part to write and since I’m not a novelist I never sit down to work through a story to put together the entire sandwich.
Here’s one I wrote when I was probably about 16 (a guess). Looks like an incident at a car wash or garden hose was on the brain:
He grabbed the nozzle from her, despite the fact that it was on high pressure. Not thinking, he blasted freezing water at her, pelting her eyes, nose and ears and slapping her good work clothes to the sides of her thin body.
“Shit, Mark!” she screamed. “You fucking blasted my contacts right off my eyes!”
Walking home, tears streamed down her cheeks. Blurred memories and vision (that asshole) made it even worse to see where she was going. To the fucking eye doctor for shit’s sakes to get more contact lenses. Why did he do things like that, she wondered. Shit.