Inside & Out

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Mega-Exciting

Look what I found while I was shopping at The Walmart around 12:30 a.m. on Friday night, Reader.

I'll let that whole sentence soak in for a moment, because it tells a story about the fabric of my exciting life. 

Friday night. The Walmart. Ridiculous hour. 

I was not wearing pajama pants, or see-through nude leggings with a shirt not quite long enough to cover my ass-crack, sadly, because had I pre-planned my late-night visit  to The Walmart a little better, I could have been a feature on the next installation of The People of Walmart and made myself Internet Famous. 

But it was a spur-of-the-moment trip, so I was in boring jeans and a winter coat, like a lame suburbanite housewife. 

We went for pain relievers and some sort of Ben-Gay type product, because my Poor Mister has pulled a muscle in his leg or something, and he's got a knotted-up spot about the size of an egg on his thigh. He was smarting from that, and so I made a late-night trip. Because I'm not always an awful girlfriend, despite what you might think, Reader. 

I'm nice. 

Sometimes.

You know what's not nice?  Nabisco.  

Because while I was at The Walmart, I saw these on an end cap, and stopped in my tracks with a What-the-Mega-Fuck look on my face. 

MEGA STUF OREOS. 

Which, really, I think is just what the original Double Stufs used to be like, as I have proclaimed before. They have completely chintzed up on the stuf, not that any of us really need that much stuf in a cookie. 

Of course I had to buy them, because I love animals, Reader.

I couldn't find the chocolate ones, but I was okay settling for the Golden Oreos.  I was curious to see just exactly what a Mega Stuf looked like, and if it was going to explode out of the package when I pulled the tab back.

It didn't, and they do look more stuffed, but really just sort of messy, with the stuf squished out on the sides to give the impression of a "we're-so-stuf'd-we-can't-stay-within-the-cookie-parameters." 

Back in the olden days, when double stufs first made an appearance, they were very tidily stuffed and did not look like they were exploding out onto the cookie. 

I know this because I had them for dinner many-a-night, because I was twenty and calories didn't count because you danced and/or fucked them off every night. 

Calories count now. 

My Mister proclaimed these too sweet, and while I managed to have four with my coffee for breakfast, it wasn't like the best tasting thing ever. I mean, it was still an Oreo and all that, sort of, but I'm not sure if it was the golden style that I didn't love, or the mega stuf-fedness, or a combination of both, but I was all "Eh, I can dunk 'em or leave 'em" and will probably leave 'em.  At least I hope so, or I'm really going to have to start dancing.....and stuf...like I did in my twenties, and frankly, I"m not sure I have the gumption for that much devotion to ... dancing.  We'll leave it at that. You're welcome. 

Neither Nabisco nor the ASPCA are paying me for these posts about America's Most Animal-Friendly Cookie, however, they should be, so if they'd like to send me some cookies - or animals - I would probably take them. 

I wouldn't mind having a cow or a goat in the backyard. I would name it Oreo, of course. Or Mega Stuf. On second thought, please don't send me a cow or a goat, Nabisco or the ASPCA.  I wouldn't be able to decide on a name. 

I Never Promised You a Rose Garden

This evening found me in a bit of a dilly of a pickle, Reader.   You see, My Mister had to work and I was home from Tiny Town at a somewhat reasonable hour, with the evening sprawled out in front of me. 

Now, I almost - almost - slipped right into my pajamas, but then decided that was really just giving up completely and it was only 6:30. That's 6:30 p.m., in the Midwest, in January, right after the ArcticFreezeHole that swept across the county and froze us right up into our holes, so technically pajamas make perfectly good sense at that hour. 

But, while I knew my evening was going to pretty much involve the porn couch, bad telly shows, and a delicious plate of my crock potted BBQ chicken, which, by the way, a crock pot is almost like having a wife at home, if it could only serve me a martini when I walked in the door, I pretended I was going to do something productive with the evening unfurled at my feet. 

So I put on my track pants and exercise bra instead of my pajamas and then sat down to watch telly and eat my dinner all in the nice quiet cozy house by myself, all the while telling myself I was getting up and cleaning and exercising as soon as I was done with the dinner my Crockpot Wife cooked for me. 

Then I was done with dinner and decided to take a little rest, to digest, you know - for the good of my health. 

Then the next thing I knew, it was 8:10 and Juan Pablo the Bachelor was leaping out of my 80" telly and practically sitting on my track-panted lap in the living room, and we gazed into each others eyes and knew - we just knew - that we would be spending the next two hours together. 

I am not a watcher of The Bachelor, Reader. I will watch a lot of stuff - hours upon hours of mindless nonsense - but The Bachelor has never been on my agenda since the first couple of seasons, which was a long long time ago. All the way back to the Trista & Ryan love match, which I learned tonight was ten years ago, so yeah, I've been out of the loop a long time. 

Juan Pablo and I fell a little bit in love this evening. And then My Mister came home and interrupted our date. 

He joined me on the porn couch and suffered through a few crying and hysterical girls, before proclaiming he just couldn't watch it and got up to stomp into the next room, proclaiming he'd rather watch Honey Boo Boo than Juan Pablo sort through a room full of super-pussy.  

Unfortunately for My Mister, I told him to get used to his new Monday night line-up, because I need to follow my boyfriend Juan Pablo on our journey to find him a Crockpot Wife. Er, a just a wife. Something.

Call The Blog Cops

All I've wanted lately is more free time, Reader. Just time to eff-off, sit, relax, read, watch the telly and write ridiculous stuff here.

Well, this weekend I've finally had that time. I have not done one productive thing.  

Christmas is 80% taken down. I thought I'd accomplish the other 20% this weekend, but instead we lazed around.

I bought a new hardwood floor cleaning machine and we got it assembled, but haven't used it yet. I thought this would be the weekend. It wasn't. 

My kitchen looks like a bomb went off. We cleaned the garage last weekend so we could park the convertible in there during the Freezebaby, and while we did accomplish that, the stuff that moved from the garage to the house hasn't quite made it into "put away" status. 

I thought that the time I spent NOT putting stuff away would free me up for writing, but all it really did was give me an excuse to sit and intermittently nap. 

I don't have anything to write about. Which is why I am giving you this bunch of nonsense. I think the only thing worse than not providing new material for my lone reader is providing an excuse about why you're not getting anything new to read. 

I'm just..dried up with words. I know, I know! You find it hard to believe, too. I've usually got so many to say, but right now, when I have the time, I can't think of one thing to say. 

Sorry about that. 

That's the Way the Cookie Crumbles

He asked, disbelief and exasperation in his voice, "Are you buying more Double Stuf Oreos??"

"It's because I love animals," she explained in an exceedingly slow and patient voice, to help him understand the obvious. 

It's not that she needed more Oreos.  They had already polished off a package between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Her lack of need for more was evidenced by her need to wear sweat pants in public places after this indulgent holiday season.  

Sweat pants on Christmas Day. Tan velour, to be exact. Paired with fluffy pink socks and brown slip-on sneakers. Where even a drunk at the bar they frequent as part of their holiday tradition gave her the once-over, twice, and not in a "Hey, Good Lookin'" kinda way.  In a judgy way. 

Thanks, Vegan Oreos.  If she didn't love animals so damn hard, she just might be able to fit back into pants. And gain the good graces of drunks on Christmas. 

The Hole-y Ghost

I'm pretty sure I have poltergeists in my closet, Reader. 

There's no other way I can explain the recent phenomena that has occurred. 

For the past two days, I've selected long sleeves shirts and both of them have had a big, gaping hole in the left elbow. 

And I've worn them to work, so maybe someone who has payroll power saw that, and will deliver a big fat raise to my paycheck, because I'm obviously poor, walking around in rags. 

More likely my assistant has been the only one to  notice, has felt too awkward to mention it to me, but instead secretly thinks about what a mess I am, old lady can't even dress herself nice.

That's what I'd be thinking. 

That's what I AM thinking, actually.

I'm an old mess who can't even dress myself nice.

The one long-sleeved t-shirt is from Gap, and it's not even very old - I only bought it this past October.

I must have some super-duper pointy elbows with scaly skins that poke right though fabric, but only on the left side. 

I just touched it, and it doesn't feel that pointy.

So it must be poltergeists. A poltergeist who believes I need to air out my left elbow during the day.

I noticed the second hole when My Mister and I were at the movies last night.  We saw two movies, by the way, The Secret Life of Walter Mitty and Grudge Match, in case you were wondering. They were good enough.  Walter Mitty made me tear up in the end, I found it rather touching.

Anyway, my elbow kept touching something cold on the armrest, it felt like something wet, which was grossing me out so I had to get to the bottom of it. Once I discerned it was nothing on the armrest, I started feeling around my sleeve and noticed the gaping hole, and realized it was just my bare naked elbow touching the plastic of the armrest that felt foreign, and not someone's jizz they had left behind on the armrest. 

I felt better for a moment, knowing it wasn't some gross bodily fluids I was touching, but then I felt mystified as to how I could have another hole in the exact same place as the sweater I was wearing the previous day. 

I leaned over to My Mister and whispered, "I have another fucking hole in my elbow!" 

He leaned over and whispered, "Huh. So you're officially now a hobo."

I wonder if those hole-making poltergeists are the same ones who make my clothes not fit after sitting in the closet for a couple of months. Poltergeists are mean, is what it boils down to. Maybe we should be on one of those "haunting" shows and work out our differences. 

Hello, 2014!

It was a Cats in New Year's Hats Extravaganza at Chez Bang Bang. 

Right about now they're wishing we would go away and celebrate New Years at some other locale. 

I'm happy to usher out 2013. It wasn't a bad year, but it was a stressful year. I know that stress is a natural part of life, but it was just too much of it. That whole house buying thing dragged out for a good portion of the year and it was not exactly an easy time.  Moving is hard. 

But that's all behind us now, and it's onward & upward. 2014 will be the year we get organized. 

We still can't park in the garage and have shit just shoveled into the would-be office. 

All that is going to be corrected in 2014. 

Should we take down the Christmas decorations in the morning?? 

It seems so sudden, yet I sure would like to have it all tidied back up. 

By the end of the weekend, how about we make that deal, Reader?  I can commit to by the end of the weekend. I may want to lay around in my pajamas on the first day of 2014 and not lift anything heavier than a cat.