Thoughts While Thinking**....

So sometimes my mind wanders.  I know this revelation is shocking unto you, but it is truth.  And so because of all the wandering, I decided to take some notes so you could join me on this wanderation.  I know, I know, you're welcome.

Behold:

*Isn’t it amazing how fast your favorite shirt can become your most annoying shirt?  Because for real, I am about ready to take this thing off and set it on fire. 

*Why are they called crocodile tears? Do crocodiles seriously cry that much? Or is it like because of how big you’re gonna cry when you see a crocodile coming at you?

*Don't you think that the true mark of being an adult is when you can finally tell the difference between the opening music to Wild Thing and Funky Cold Medina?

*Funky Comadina, anybody? Where were YOU when you realized that comadina is not a word? Did it just rock your whole belief system or what?

*I saw a lady mopping her house today.  Not mopping the floor of her house.  Mopping her actual house.  Like the outside of it.  I don't really have anything to say about that, but I just figured it's probably not something a girl should keep to herself.  So, yeah.

*Why the heck do tape measures disappear the second you put them down?  I measured my dresser, set the tape measure down, and I swear it took me a good 20 minutes to find it.  I found it on the shelf in the hallway. When did I go in the hallway?!

And just for general informational purposes, I did not mean that list to turn out so Seinfeld-y, as in "what is the DEAL with crocodile tears?"  But you know, things happen, so I think it's best we all just move one from it.  Even though I don't think he's funny one bit, and CLEARLY, I am hilarious.  So. Yeah.

**Let us all take a moment to recognize that my aunt is awesome because that's where Thoughts While Thinking came from.  From her mind.  Because she's awesome.**

All Aboard the Brain Train!...

First stop...RandomTown!

Geez.

That opening sentence annoys me in ways that I'm not sure I could actually explain; however, this week has been H-E-Doublehockeysticks, and I really just don't care to think of anything better.  Let me know if you come up with anything.  I won't change it because of all the not caring, but I do promise to admire your cleverness in my mind.  So.

Moving on.

Let's do bullets, yeah? Yeah!

• How exactly is "yeah" supposed to be spelled anyway?  When used in "yes" context, I mean, and pronounced "yahyuh" minus the Lil' Jon.  (HUH?! WHAAT?! You know what I'm saying.)  Anyway, is it "yeah" with an h, or "yea" without an h, which I would pronounce "yay!" as in "Yay!"  Help me, internet.
• Why isn't blogger letting me line space between my bullets?!  This is making me claustrophobic. Hold please, while I work on this technical issue....
• Be the bullet.
• Arrggh.  Fine. Single space.  Whatever. 

Let's just do numbers, yeah? Yea(h)!

1. I can't decide which makes me happier:  when my dog stands in the corner and throws up on the curtains, or when she takes her fresh-out-of-the-bath-wet-dogness and lays right on top of my latest load of clean laundry.  Can you see why this would cause inner conflict?
2. Oh dear betsy, now it's not line spacing between numbers.  HTML, you are ON MY LIST!

But let me ask you this, do you also have a hard time focusing on anything work-related when you know you have a zit on your forehead?  The kind you can totally feel, and seriously, how does it hurt like that, when you can't even really see it?  So you get your compact mirror that you keep in your top desk drawer for emergencies such as this, but that doesn't really stand on it's own so you lay it flat on the desk?  And then you sort of hang your head over it at an angle so you can see The Offender appropriately to determine how best to proceed?  But then it turns out, you can't see anything at all because your head is now in between the mirror and the light source, not unlike some sort of Lunar Blemish Eclipse?  Does this happen to you?  No? Yeah, me neither.

*ahem*

Are we having fun here or what?  The Brain Train is clearly a speeding bullet train that offers no warnings of upcoming stops and/or starts so really it's best to just stay seated and buckled in.  I guess this is somewhat like the Thought Coaster, but really, have you had enough of my analogies yet?

Just one last thing before I let you go:  I kind of hate it when there are toast crumbs in the tub of butter.  It totally weirds me out.

The end.

Insomnia and Some Other Such Somethings. Or Whatever.

So.

Insomnia. 

I mean, so what if the alarm is going off in 3 hours and 9 minutes? Who needs to sleep? All I know is I've been laying waiting for Tired to show up like 7 years now, and still, nothing doing.  And then I thought "Stretching!" because stretching helps a whole heck of a lot when you're feeling all cranky and creaky and insomniac-y.  So I stretched.  And while I had my left ankle on my right knee stretching out those glutes, I glance at my ankle and thought "Cankle!"  And then I had a panic attack or 7 because hello, wouldn't you?  Turns out it's not really a cankle situation, so much as it is a swollen ankle situation.  Which is still kind of alarming considering there is no logical reason for it to be swollen.  Well, that thought train turned into an extensive search for the bug bite that I most certainly had because hello, look at it!

Y'all, let me just tell you this: The human body is kind of rad. Because apparently when one's 30 year old body is confronted with the choice of sitting up to look for a bug bite on one's swollen cankle ankle at 3 am or remaining in a horizontal position and looking for a bug bite on one's cankle ankle, I'll be danged if one won't be able to stretch that cankle ankle all the way up to one's face to give it a looksie!  Tired + cranky + possible epidermal violation = mad bending skillz, yo. Math is math, people.

Anyway, so somewhere in that whole cankle/not cankle time of my life, my thought sparkles sparked "Blog!"  Because there is nothing more that people love to read than incoherent thoughts of a bendy insomniac, amiright?  I know I'M clicking on that link, so, you know, there's that.  Oh, but what happened was Brain said " Blog!" and then I had a rapid fire idea fest where I came up with all kinds of witty things to tell you.  And clearly you can tell how that movie ended.  I do know it had something to do with my laptop not working correctly, and how I can only open it to approximately a 45 degree angle before the screen goes black.  Which means I can only use my laptop when I'm lying down, which, in turn, means it's hyper annoying to try to type numbers of any sorts because of that whole "lacking a 10-key" thing and then I have to crane my neck up all awkward-like to use those number keys at the top that nobody ever uses or remembers are there.  So I guess whatever I thought about to tell you required numbers?  Weird, right?  Especially considering I did some mind-blowing numberless math not one paragraph ago.

Good gravy, people, are you even still around listening to this?  What am I even going on about?  This is like the Seinfeld of posts.  It's a blog about NOTHING!  (Please tell me you get that reference.  Because otherwise a certain younger brother of mine will not rest until you get it. So.) 

Note to self:  When you are insomniating, you get hungry at about 3:15 a.m.  And you know what else you get at 3:15 a.m.?  Tired!  I know, right?! Win!

Oh, and while we're on the subject, can we all please please please agree to stop saying "Just sayin'"?  Because really, most of you aren't using it in proper context anyway, so it's really just kind of annoying. Especially when it's used after every single thing you "just said." We know you're "just sayin'" because you JUST SAID IT. I don't know. It just seems to me that the whole eventual breakdown of society is hinging on this phrase.  Well, that phrase and rompers. And taking pictures with kissy lips and peace signs. Because really? Are we still doing that?  The answer is no.

Alright dudes, I think the ride on this thought coaster is over.  Disappointing, I know.  There were some thrills in there with some loops you weren't expecting, and in the end, you probably feel a little nauseous, but deep down, you know you'd ride it again.  Until next time, your homework assignment is to come up with a really cool name for the Thought Coaster. Make it really amusement parky!

You know you love me.
xoxo,
Gossip Girl


And P to the S:

Hollerrrrr!

All the Rage...

This post is about underwear.

And garage sales. 

And cold.

But mostly, it's about underwear.

Last Saturday, I hauled boxes of my crap stuff over to my friend Annie's house for The Great Purge Garage Sale of 2010.   It was 39 degrees outside.  And I know all you northern folks totally just rolled your eyes because really? 39 degrees?  But, yes, 39 degrees.  I am from the South, and 39 degrees is considered COLD especially during that first cold snap when our humidity sensors haven't acclimated yet.  It was cold, and also, it was pretty early.  I don't get nice until at least 9 am, so I was still making my grumpy faces when I pulled into Annie's driveway.  And now that I've typed all that, I really don't know why that has any relevance at all except that I probably just wanted you to feel sorry for me, in my tired, cold state. Or something.

During the Belongings Exfoliation of 2010, I realize I had this whole big box of underwear that I no longer wear but that was still in really good shape (I had a shopping problem once.  Darn you Victoria's Secret and your Semi-Annual Sale!)(Also, it's totally weird to say your underwear is in good shape, yes?) Now, I myself am not a secondhand underwear buyer. The thought of it FREAKS. ME. OUT.  But hey, some people don't have a problem with it, and also Goodwill sells underwear so it must be ok, right? I texted Annie:

Me: Do people buy underwear at garage sales?
Annie:  Idk, worth a shot if you ask me.

Settled. 

One of our first few customers was a rugged looking dude, who, when I first saw him, I assumed was looking for tools.  Or broken lawnmowers.  Or socks.  Because that's what the rugged dudes come to garage sales for, you know.  He picks up a few things to buy, then spots the box 'o' underwears.

"I don't mean this to be embarrassing," he says. "But what size is the underwear?"

Me thinking: Cha-Ching! 

I told him what sizes most of them were, and after a short discussion about what size jeans his lady friend wears, I told him I didn't think they'd fit her.  He said ok, paid for the other stuff, and went on his way.

Important note to the fellas:  Do NOT buy your lady person underwear at a garage sale.  She can buy it herself at a garage sale if she chooses, but do not, under any circumstances, bring it home to her.  The only exception is if you have detailed instructions where she specifically states, "If you see underwear at a garage sale, please buy it for me."  This is NOT the same as "I need new underwear."  PLEASE make note of this.  You will thank me.

A lady showed up and sat down next to the box and looked at every single pair, like she was shopping that Semi-Annual Sale. She walked away with 11 pair by the time she was done.  Another lady snagged one pair and several more asked about sizes. People, underwear sells at garage sales! I mean, can you get over this?

After we've been out there about 3 hours, Rugged Dude from earlier comes back.  I see him walking up the driveway like he's on a Rugged Dude Mission.  "He's coming back for the underwear," I said to Annie, laughing.  He glanced over everything on the driveway that he already looked at 3 hours earlier and says, "I was on my way home and thought I'd see if y'all put anything else out."

Me:  (thinking) Liar.  You want panties.

About the same time, there was a lady browsing who was sorting through the boxes of clothes, which were directly next to the underwear box.  Rugged Dude is all randomly picking up items and pretending he's so very interested, but his eyes keep darting to the side, waiting for the lady to step away from the unmentionables.  She then starts looking through the underwear, talking about how she is going to get some for her granddaughters. (Grandmothers:  The secondhand-underwear-buying-for-others rule applies to you too.  As in: Don't.)  Rugged Dude's face gets tense and, trying to be all nonchalant, he says, "Oh yeah, that's what I was coming back for, too."

Me:  (thinking) Mmm-hmm.  Told you.

We all sort of chuckled because, oh well, you can't slack when it comes to garage sale bargains, homeboy.  Everybody knows that. Underwear-Buying-Lady (UBL) dumps the whole box on the table and says, "I'll just take them all."  Rugged Dude gets all antsy and asks if she's sure she's buying them all, to which she replies that she is.  He stomps off down the driveway, jumps in his car, and PEELS OUT while speeding off! Seriously! Reckless underwear deprivation driving in full effect y'all.

The three of us looked at each other.

Me: Uhhh....
Annie:  That wasn't normal right?
UBL:  Uh, no.  That wasn't normal.

About 5 minutes later, as we stood chatting and I bagged the stuff she bought, RUGGED DUDE CAME BACK! He pulled his beater up in front of the house and barrels up the driveway with a wad of cash in hand.

Rugged Dude: Ma'am. Are you sure you're going to buy all of them?
UBL: (slightly dumbfounded) Yes, I am.

There is a slight air of What The Heck now floating about.  Rugged Dude looks at me.  I look at Rugged Dude.

RD:  And that's all you have?
Me:  Yes, that was it.
RD:  I'll give you $10 for the whole box!

Dude.  I can't make this stuff up.

Me: ......
Annie: ......
UBL: ......
Me thinking: ......
Me:  I'm sorry, but I already sold them to her.

*Tension*

He wheels around and storms back down the driveway in an underwear fueld rage, and again, peels out.  Now help me understand this:  Does the peeling out help you cope in some way?  Because it's not like I'm about to chase you down the street and change my mind because you were clearly upset enough to PEEL OUT AT A GARAGE SALE!

And y'all, it's not even over!  He drove by TWO MORE TIMES glaring at us.  Freak me out, why don't ya?  The second time he drove by, the Underwear Buying Lady was gone, and since I'm pretty sure that's who he was looking for, that was the end of it.

Moral of the story:  Let Goodwill take care of the underwear selling.  

No Main Idea...

So.

Today has been ridiculously dumb.  Beyond dumb really. How is that for a topic sentence? I set myself a nice little goal last night of really getting back into this whole blogging thing.  Like maybe if I just make myself type something, anything, everyday, then maybe, eventually, I'll have something to say.  Or feel funny again.  Or something.  I don't know. It's hard to really know what point one is trying to make when there is a furry beast breathing chicken and rice kibble breath in your face insisting with a furry beast paw that you just scratch a little right here.  No, not there...here.  Anyway, now that you're ready to crack a window open at the thought of all that chicken and rice kibble breath, the point I was trying to make, I think, is that I'm trying to get back to writing.  Did I say that already? 

Did I also mention that today is dumb?  Because it is.  It's painfully and ridiculously and marvelously gorgeous outside what with all the Fall in the South business, so really, I cannot gripe too very much.  Because let me tell you someting about seasons in the South:  if the humidity drops anywhere below 110%, well, you pretty much better hush your mouth about any complaining at all because for once you can go inside with the same hair you came outside with.  When I was a kid and I asked my dad how the weather would be, he would always give me the forecase as it pertained to hair. 

Me: "Dad, what's the weather going to be like this weekend?" 
Him:  "Great hair weather!"  Which, of course, meant low humidity. Or "terrible hair weather!" meant any day of the year that wasn't October, or that one day in April. 

Anyway, today is dumb mostly for mood reasons, as in, I am in a bad one.  Nothing you really need to hear about, nor do you want to, because really, it's nothing worth putting out into the universe at all. 

Whatever, let's not talk about me anymore, deal?

Tell me about you.  Are you dressing up for Halloween, if you're into that sort of thing? 

Some things....

What the heck is up with this blogging brain of mine, is what I want to know?  I'll be walking along all day with random thoughts and thinkings popping into my head followed by thoughts of, "I'm going to blog that!"  Then when it comes time to sit here and tell you all about it, my brain gets all stage frighty and runs and hides behind it's mom's skirt.  So, maybe if you guys all look away for a minute and pretend you're not really listening, brain will come around...

Anyway, some things for us to go over:

Numero Uno:

I witnessed a hit and run accident a few days ago.  It literally happened one car up and to the left of me.  Craziest thing ever.  I was in the loooong line of traffic that happens on this particular street after work, and this jackass speeds out of a gas station parking lot 2 cars ahead of me on the right, and PLOWS into this white car that was oncoming from the other direction. The jerk looked over his shoulder, then just drove on.  I tried to see his license plate, but my windows were all foggy and gross (Louisiana humidity. Barf.), so I did exactly what any red-blooded American who watches Jack Bauer would do.  I went after him. (Disclaimer:  I have never actually watched Jack Bauer, but if you live anywhere in the US and know anybody who does watch him, it's really like you know him personally.  Am I right?)  So in this completely undramatic and responsible move, I executed what could quite possibly be the world's most awkward U-turn and sped after the perp at the legal speed limit.  Are you intimidated by my crime fighting ways yet?  He made a left-hand turn into a neighborhood, and he was gone. Sigh. I went back to the scene of the crime and waited with the girl in the white car (she was not hurt thankfully) and some other witnesses so that I could give my statement to the police. (Is it me or are most law enforcers REALLY short? I dated one so I'm allowed to say that.) The end.

Numero Dos:

There is something untoward going on in the botanicals in front of my townhouse.  The walkway between the townhouses is lined with beautiful crepe myrtles and azalea bushes, and there are a few dove gangs that live in the trees. But y'all, as sweet as doves are, can I just tell you, they are DUMB.  I mean straight up stupid. I thought it was just the one because I would go outside and he refused to fly and would just walk about all weird, and really, it just looked like a dodo bird from a cartoon. Feathers all askew on his head and whatnot.  One day, it got startled by Gracie, and he and a friend took of flying and, don't you know he flew right into the overhang of someone's porch. He was fine, but really?  It's not like it was an invisible house. I just assumed he was a special dove, if you follow, and I love him just as he is. 

Well, (here comes the point) a couple of weeks ago, I noticed several feathers floating around the area.  Nothing noteworthy but I always notice feathers because as some of you might remember, I am part bird.  Then, I noticed sad, little broken eggs almost daily.  At that point, I figured there was a snake or something frequenting the nests of the Dodoves for some protein snacks.  I get that.  I am one with nature and whatever so as sad as the broken little eggs were, circle of life and all that.  Well, then the feathers were coming in greater numbers, and I realized, oh snap, someone is now after the Dodoves themselves!  (I suspect the cats.) On one such day, there was clearly signs of a struggle.  Like a feather pillow exploded.  It was tragic, and I had to alter Gracie's usual business route for fear of finding the bird body. (barf!) But now, NOW, it seems whoever is responsible, is getting more and more bold.  Yesterday, there were feather tufts almost ON MY FRONT WALK.  Not entirely, but close enough, and they were tufty enough that I managed to convince myself that it was the actual bird's head (I'm sorry. Barf with me will you.), and that, my friends, is a dark place to be.  It really was just feathers, but let me just make one thing clear to you all now:  If I, ever in this lifetime, walk out my front door, and there is a bird head/body (barf!) on my front walk....well, I just don't even know how to finish that sentence.  I know it will somehow involved Jack Bauer.

The end.

I used to be a blogger once....

Dude.  I know.  It's been 100 years and you were all getting horribly concerned that I might have fallen off the edge of the planet.  But no worries.  I am still here.  I just haven't been here here ya know?  And really, it's not because I don't have anything to say.  It's pretty much that I just have TOO MUCH to say which causes a system overload and leaves me with nothing to say.  Are you following this?  Me neither.

Anyway, I hope you all are rocking your lives like the awesome peeps you are.  I will do my best to update more often, especially now that I'm a little afraid of Kathryn.  She sent me an intense poke comment which left a righteous bruise, man.  Soooo many stories to tell you.  I mean, really, did you all know that I have moved?  You did know that actually because I told you, but did you know I moved to a whole new STATE? No, you did not.  And did you also know that I FINALLY got a job?  Bet ya didn't.  And how about the fact that I am now officially and legally and sassily 30 years old?  And there was a birthday party?  That involved ball gowns?  And masquerade masks? Yowza right?  Here is the edge of your seat, welcome to it.

So yeah, I'll try to fill you in on the scoop as soon as my brain cooperates.  It's been far too preoccupied with things like 2 story inflatable water slides and vampires and werewolves to even try to form complete sentences.  Stay tuned ok....?

Thanks for sticking around. :)

xoxo,

The Rest of the Story...

So here it is.  The reason behind the cryptic message requesting your awesome.  I needed this dress.  On the cheap, no less.  And don't you know it only took me two Goodwills to find it.  And it was only $5!  Holler!

So to ease your troubled minds, here is The REST of the STORY: (you said that all Paul Harvey-like right? Good.) 

(*Plus 10 cool points for those of you who made my day and tried to guess the answers.  I heart you.)

Alright, so I'm looking for a dress that is required for a 50's party that is coming up in the next couple of weeks. As long as it fits the theme and doesn't have a poodle on it (because I HATE POODLES! DISLIKE!), then it'll work. Oh, and it can't cost more than $20. Follow?

My BFF's parents' 30th wedding anniversary was this month, so their wonderful children threw them a fantastic surprise 50's themed sock hop.  And because my BFF is a bit theme party obsessed and would likely fight me in the parking lot if I even dared consider not dressing up, I began the hunt for The Outfit.  And you guys?  Costumes are expensive, yo!  My initial plan was to go sort of 50's housewife a la Stepford, but don't you know that's impossible to do without spending $150 on a Vintage Frock or whatever.  BFF was all on the whole poodle skirt bandwagon, and, just...no.  I couldn't do it.  On principle!  I cannot have a poodle on my person!  I cannot! (My sincerest apologies to those of you who have poodles that you love and cherish and who provide you with the companionship you so deserve.  I am very happy for you and your poodle because although I DISLIKE! them, I do not want any harm to befall them and am happy that you are providing them with love and care.  But please, keep it over there away from me and don't make me look at it.  But still, happy for you.)

So yeah, poodle skirt is not an option, and I found several that had other appliques like records or music note which is fine, however, they all cost like 30 bucks.  Which I know is not outrageous or anything, but y'all, I still don't have a j-o-b and 50's costume was never in the "Food, Clothing, Shelter" list of needs my Dad raised us with.  So sorry non-poodle skirt.  You will not be coming home with me.  On my second Goodwill trip, I found the above dress. WOO HOO!  It was a couple of sizes too small so I had to cut the seam all the way to the waist in the back to allow for all the breathing stuff that the medical community insists is so important.  But I'd say it worked quite well.  Except that it smelled like a Goodwill and I forgot to wash it until the day of the party and it's made of really high quality classy rayon so it was all DRY CLEAN ONLY and yeah right so I threw it in the sink with lingerie soap to do some handwashing.  And then I was in such a hurry to not be handwashing this dress that I didn't exactly rinse it all the way so instead of smelling like a Goodwill, I smelled dinstinctly like a 90 year old woman IN a Goodwill.  So there's that.

My lovely friend, Amanda, loaned me her cute little white shrug, and I got the ribbon for my hair and the waistband for like $3 or something at a fabric shop. Then there were the shoes. The adorable, pinching, suffocating, blister making shoes I had to borrow.  See, the party was an hour and a half away from where I live so I was getting ready at a friend's house nearby. I bought some faux Keds at Wal-Mart to wear with these little white bobby socks.  Don't you know I was all ready to go before I realized I left my shoes at home.  An hour and a half away.  I yelled a few words I think.  I can't be sure.  But my darling friend had these cute pair of Steve Madden pumps with a kitten heel, and because I didn't see myself strutting into this party with my Asics on, I figured I'd have to make them work.  Here's the thing:  I wear a 9 1/2 shoe.  Except in Steve Madden's, which I have to wear a 10, and even then there is zero wiggle room.  The shoes she loaned me?  Were a 9.  Sometimes, you just have to commit to the character.  I wore them and danced and twirled and laughed all night about how agonizingly tight they were because apparently my Self thinks that kind of thing is funny.

And then we went home and drank orange juice while reading the news and making sarcastic comments.  Because that's what they did in the 50's.

I was never here....

So this is a post about a secret that I can't really talk about because it is a surprise and in no way do the people/persons involved EVER read this blog or even know about it, but you know the one time I post something of a surprisey nature will be the ONE time people/persons will stumble across this little page right?  However, I desperately need your collective good thoughts for a mission I am on so I am going to be explain it with lots of blanks so as not to ruin the surprise for the people/persons who aren't reading this k?

Alright, so I'm looking for a _____ that is required for a ______ that is coming up in the next ______.  As long as it fits the ______  and doesn't have a ______ on it (because I HATE ____! DISLIKE!), then it'll work.  Oh, and it can't _____ more than _____. Follow?

Now, you're mission, should you choose to accept it, is to muster up all the prayers, positive thinking, and good vibrations that you can, and send them out into this giant world, particularly concentrating them towards the Goodwill down the street, if you don't mind.  And hopefully, with our combined powers of AWESOME, I will find the necessary _____ for the _____.

Thank you for your time.

**This blog will self-destruct in 30 seconds.**

Titled Two Days Later...

Okay, well you know how trying to think of how to start these darned blog things off can sometimes be just a big pain in the rump?  Like, you're driving around and have this idea for what you're going to write about but somehow it's so random and not really as elaborate as you need it to be or whatever so a kick off sentence is nowhere to be found?  And so next thing you know you're lying in your bed with your laptop staring you in the face and you're so tired that the monitor is kind of making you blink your eyes too much because it's so bright?  And then you're sort of lecturing your brain for being so INCAPABLE OF LEARNING and not remembering to just blog during the day already instead of trying to tell a story after cerebral closing time? You know?

I have some dog park stories to tell you about, but we're going to cover that another time because of the tired (see above).  But for now, I do need to tell you guys about Walgreens and how we are no longer on speaking terms. I'm sorry to bring all my relationship troubles to the table, but some things just need to be said. I'm not sure how many of you are aware of a little thing called Easter candy.  Have you heard of it?  In some cultures it is known as "a reason for living."  Sound familiar?  Well, as I'm sure you know, there are certain yummy things that come out ONLY for the Easter season. Which, by the way, might awaken an undeniable sense of urgency in some people (me) and cause them to almost knock over an old lady in the grocery line because she was blocking the last mini bag of candy (also me). 

The past few days I've been feeling kind of crummy.  I didn't really know exactly what was causing it until this morning when I noticed my car was completely coated in the familiar yellow dust of the pollen.  Ugh.  Allergies anyone?  So after a few errands and ALOT of time at the dog park amidst some nice polleny trees and dirty, polleny dogs, I was not in fighting shape.

After doing a few things around the casa, I was sprawled out watching Tuesday night Office reruns (3 hours of The Office on TBS! I love Tuesday Office night!). At about 8 p.m., my self decided that nothing sounded better than Cadbury Mini Eggs at that moment.  Now just to be clear I'm not talking Cadbury Creme Eggs, which are the ones with the chocolate outside and creme stuff in the middle that divides families.  I'm talking the tiny little solid cadbury chocolate eggs with the delightful candy shell (not unlike m&m's, except totally unlike m&m's).

So yeah, self is all CADBURY MINI EGGS!

But I'm still polleny and dog park dusty and horizontal and I still need a shower so I told self NO! 

Then self says Oooooh ice cream! 

Me: Polleny! Dusty! Horizontal!

Self:  What if...you put the Cadbury Mini Eggs...IN the ice cream?

Me: .......  I'll get my keys.

Right?!  How smart is my self sometimes?! (And I would like to just say, that I think we - society, as a whole - do mix enough things with ice cream.  Think about that today when your mind wanders.)

My plan was just to drive down the street to Walgreens, get the ice cream/mini eggs, and get right back home before the cranky part of me realized what just happened.  But don't you know Walgreens and it's rude ways had other plans?  Not a single Mini Egg. Anywhere. At all.  There was, however, a little sale sign that said Cadbury 2/$4.  WHAT the WHAT?  Why you gotta be all in my face like that Walgreens?  Can't you see that I'm here all heartbroken in your Reason For Living aisle, and you're going to just throw it in my face that not only is the candy gone, but it's gone because of a SALE that I missed.  That's just cold.

Now normally, I would've just gone to another store (yeah, take THAT Walgreens!), but there was only an hour and half of Tuesday Office night left, and missing any more than I had already was just not an option.  So I settled for a small pint of Mint Chocolate Chip (YUM!) and a couple of Gold Brick Eggs.  And, I mean, Gold Brick Eggs are nice and all, but I think we all know that Mini Eggs are made of hugs from baby angels, and really, how can you compare the two?  Apples to oranges.  Bricks to baby angels.  It just doesn't compute.  Sigh.

So whatever, the point is Gold Brick Eggs, when eaten in an agitated state, will make you feel like death, but Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream is always, always there for you.  That, and Walgreens is a dodo-head.