One more thing...

So, two days after the Rotten, Stinkin' 44th Birthday we go to the beautiful campus of Auburn University to collect the child from cheerleading camp.  The hubby and I started out in the wee hours in the morning (after staying up too late with some good friends, cheap wine and cheesy pizza) and made it just in time for dorm check out (at the unGodly hour of 7 a.m...when the camp final competition doesn't even start until 9! Ugh.) But...it was a lovely time once everything cranked up and, of course, I was glad to get the kiddo.  The whole squad represented and won many awards and lo...the blessings were abundant.

And then there was the drive home.  Right after the cheer competition was over, we grabbed some lunch and ran into another cheer parent who, in parting, said, "Hey...watch out for the weather...I hear there may be some storms."

Yeah, Buddy, there were some storms.  We got about 30 minutes North of Auburn when THE. BOTTOM. FELL. OUT. We were caught in a torrential downpour...and the wind was blowing like crazy.  We were practically crawling along...we were actually in a residential area of Lafayatte, AL.  The main road (Hwy 431) cuts through downtown and then through a beautiful, oak and elm-lined area that reminds me very much of a small scale Garden District in New Orleans with the grand old houses and the huge trees that canopy the streets.  I usually really enjoy that part of the trip.
This time however, it felt like we were in the middle of a hurricane...but honestly, there was nowhere to stop...and then we realized we were in the middle of a SHARKNADO! as a ginormous great white shark fell out of the sky and attacked our van:

Or maybe it was just some big-ass tree limb that broke off of one of Lafayatte's historic landmarks and took out the whole driver's side quarter panel and headlight assembly.  Either way, it scared all three of us to death!  And it wasn't until we got out of the worst of it and were able to pull over that we realized how bad it was...not to mention how bad it could have been.  I mean...if we'd been traveling just a titch faster, that puppy would have been smack on the wind shield.
A little further down the road, we stopped at a Burger King to take a full assessment (and pee) and discovered part of the big-ass limb still lodged in the luggage rack on top of the car:

So I guess we were almost killed by an elm...not a shark after all.  I'm still telling folks it was the Sharknado, though.

Rotten, stinkin' 44th Birthday

Yesterday was my 44th birthday.  It had a couple of high points (and by a couple, I mean two):

1. I went to a very nice lunch with my co-workers at a Thai restaurant.

2. Jennifer Lancaster Re-Tweeted my pre-birthday post 'cause I grovelled and begged her on Twitter and she is awesome and kind...and really, I was VERY happy about it...I got about a 2000% jump in page views for the day...and of course I screen saved the RT so I can look at it and cheer myself up when I'm down.  Believe me, I looked at this screen shot SEVERAL times during the remaining course of the day.

Of course, I knew it wasn't going down as the best birthday on record before it ever even got here.  My kiddo is away this week at cheer camp...this is the first birthday since she was born 17 years ago that she didn't spend with me.  We were both kinda bummed about it and decided that all of the major celebratory festivities would occur after she got back home.  So, no presents, no going out to dinner, etc. without her. (Jeff did give me a card that morning with a monkey on it...so there was that little bright spot in the day as well.)

But then I got to work and started feeling a little sorry for myself.  This was noticed immediately by my friend, Jenn...because usually, I am all about my birthday.  She's the one that suggested we go out to lunch...which I enjoyed until chunks of my car fell off in the street on our way back:

See that dangl-y thing?  That used to connect to my fog light...that empty socket there?  That's where my fog light used to be.
We were just motoring along when ca-chung...it felt/sounded like I had run over an elk.  I stopped and got out and found this lying in the street:

That's my fog light globe and the bracket that holds it.  See....my little sporty red Volvo has a downside...it is very, very close to the ground.  It's possible that I have, on occasion, pulled up too close to curbs and/or parking stops or blocks or whatever those concrete thingies are called.  Then, when backing up I've felt a scraaaaape.  Once or twice I popped the spoiler loose, but it always popped back in its clips.  I guess I had repeatedly stressed the fog-light-holder-bracket-ma-bob until one day (on my birthday) it decided to just fall off.  I gathered up the parts, went inside and called my Volvo dude.  The replacement kit?  Will be $159.99 (Remember, it didn't just fall off...it fell off and I ran over it).  Fine.  I told him to go ahead and order it. 

I went back to work and was diligently going about my business when Kate Middleton's vagina exploded all over my birthday.  Literally.  Below is the "Breaking News" on CNN.  I know they're royals and everyone was waiting on news that the little heir was all healthy and junk.  I guess I was just raised in a quieter, more reserved time when vaginas did not make headlines. (I imagine Her Royal Highness, Queen E flinched a bit as well about this one.)



W.C. Fields always said to never work with children or animals.  I could not agree more.  I have always kinda made a big deal out of being Queen myself on my birthday...now I'm being upstaged by Prince Whateverhisnameendsupbeing.  Ah, well, I guess 44 years was a pretty good run.

Finally, the work day finishes and I boogie on home, stopping by my Volvo guy's shop to drop off my mangled parts. (I do pause to speculate that after pushing out the little 8lb 6oz royal pot roast, Kate would probably be very willing to trade my mangled parts for hers.  $160 bucks seems a little easier to handle.)  Because I chose to go to a wonderful, spectacular (and a bit expensive) Sunday brunch the day before my birthday...and had postponed my birthday dinner until the daughter could come, my thoughtful hubby had suggested we cook something at home that we almost never have anymore.  Sloppy Joes and tater tots.  I know some of you are saying "Ewwwww!" but I love me some Manwich n' tots.  The kiddo can't even stand the smell of them cooking (the Sloppy Joes, not the tots) and will lurch around the house gagging every time we make them when she's home.  So, it doesn't happen often.

I get home and Jeff is industriously preparing the Sloppy Joe meat and has the tater tots a' toasting.  I've been looking forward to this all day.  This is comfort food to the extreme!  We even have the white, soft, no-nutritional-value-whatsoever buns!  I think Imma have to even throw a slice of Kraft American cheese on mine!  Jeff's whipping around the kitchen and the timer dings on the half-way mark for the tots.  He gets them out of the oven, gives them a good ol' stir (so they are evenly toasted and not burnt on one side and raw on the other).  He opens the oven and shoves them back in...with enough force to make 1/2 to 3/4 of the tots fly off the pan and into the bottom of the stove, where they start to blacken and burn:

Chaos ensues as he cuts off the oven and shoves the pan with the few remaining tots onto the counter and grabs some pot holders.  He tells me to hold open a trash bag while he grabs the tots out before they can set off the fire alarm.  I immediately bump my elbow into the pan on the counter and burn it.

All I wanted was some damn tots with my Sloppy Joes!  I've already had my thunder stolen by some kid on the other side of the world!  I've already suppressed tears about having to spend at least $200 (at least with labor) on my CAR for something that was completely my fault and 100% preventable!  And now THIS!  (As an added bonus, I get a text from the kid at camp and she's having boy drama.  UGH!)  I have a BLISTER on my freaking elbow and my tots are in the trash!

Jeff lets me have the few remaining tots and the Sloppy Joes are good (I did go with the cheese slice).  A few texts later and the kiddo assures me that she's fine and not too bereft.  And suddenly I am just too tired for words.  I marched myself upstairs, sprawled out on the bed and took a three hour nap.

45 has got to better...of course it doesn't have to live up to much after this one. (Jeff did go out at 9:20 after I groggily got up again and bought me a box of Twinkies. I love that man.)

Birthday Suit

We all have that one thing...that one gift from our childhood that will forever stick with us.  Almost always that one gift is the thing that you had already resigned yourself to not getting.  That's what makes it so great.  Yes, you wanted it. No, you couldn't stop thinking (and talking) about it.  But you never thought in a million years that you'd actually get it.  Maybe it was impossible to find.  Maybe it was too expensive.  It was so out of reach, it really never entered your mind how disappointed you were going to be if you didn't get it, because you knew it was just not happening.
That "thing" for me?  Was the dress I got for my 6th birthday.

I WISH I had a less faded photograph of this dress because it was truly spectacular and this just doesn't do it justice.  It had a floral print for the main material, the accent material (ruffles and sash) was pink with white polka dots.  It was ankle length and long-sleeved, yet in a light weight material that I was never hot in.  I adored this dress.
Back in 1975, my little home town had a Hudson's department store.  It was something along the lines of a Belk's or a Dillard's.  More upscale than your Sears or JC Penney's, but not quite a Macy's or a Saks 5th Ave.  We occasionally bought stuff there (my mother was the queen of the clearance rack) but only on sale.  The biggest draw the store had, though, was that you could pay your utility bills at their customer service desk. So, once a month, minimum, we went to Hudson's to do just that.  And that's where I saw this dress...it was first out around when the Easter dresses when the put out on display.  I fell hopelessly and totally in love with it.  It cost about $80.  In 1975.  For a girl's dress.  I never even ASKED if we could buy it...I would only ask if I could try it on again EVERY TIME we were in Hudson's.  My mom was always very patient...I'd try it on and go stand in front of the dressing room's three paneled mirror.  I'd twirl...I'd swish the skirts...and then I'd go take it off and hang it up. Carefully.

My family was by no means poor.  We always had everything we needed and many of the things we wanted.  But this dress?  I just ran the numbers in the .gov CPI calculator.  This dress would cost $347.22 today.  And I was (almost) six.  I wasn't even particularly girly.  There are many more pictures of me holding frogs or hanging out of a tree than there are of me in a dress (until I got this one).  Plus, you can imagine how fast I was growing at that age.  It just didn't make any sense at all.  But somehow, some way, my family could detect what a pull this dress had on me.  It's the only thing I got from my family that birthday...my Granny (whom I described here), my aunts/uncles/cousins...they all just gave money and my Mom got me the dress.  I didn't detect what was up, either.  There were enough wrapped packages at the party from the other little kidlets.  And honestly, I didn't even reach for the box until close to the end because anyone could see that it was a clothes box...and again, IT WAS NEVER IN MY HEAD that this dress could be in that box.  And, oh, My Sweet Lord, when I opened it!!!!  You could have knocked me over with a feather!  I can't even type about it now without a smile on my face.  OF COURSE, I rushed to change into it IMMEDIATELY...and had to have it peeled off of my protesting little 6 year old self at the end of the day.  I wore this dress exclusively to every single function and/or event where it was even remotely appropriate.  And I wore it until I wore it OUT.  I can actually see in my mind's eye my wrist sticking out of the sleeve by at least three inches while my mother insisted that I'd outgrown it.  I was a very skinny child, so it never got too small around, but by the time I finally parted with this wondrous dress, it was more or less shin-length, no longer ankle-length.

I still can't believe someone spent that kind of money on me at that age for an article of clothing, but I must say, I certainly got my money's worth out of it.  As I approach my 44th birthday on Monday, this dress still remains the most awesome birthday gift EVER.

Update:
While going through some closets, I found these pictures:
\

 

 

 

The date on the back of these pictures was a year later...and as I said earlier, you can clearly see that I have a good couple or three inches of skinny wrist sticking out from the sleeves.  What a freaking fantastic dress.

Also?  I haven't a damn clue why my birthday cake is an Easter bunny since it occurs in JULY, except that Mom's hobby back in the day was cake decorating and she must have gotten a bunny shaped cake pan that she was dying to use.

 

 

Cultured...that's us!

I am an email hoarder. 
I hate deleting anything because YOU NEVER CAN TELL.  And sure as the world, whenever I DO delete something…not 10 minutes will pass before I need some information contained in that email.  That being said…sometimes my system administrator gets a tich annoyed with the sheer volume of emails and asks me to prune them down.  During one such recent pruning, I found the following exchange.  (Background info: this was a group email that included all of the lovely ladies that I run around with…we get together once a month for our “meetings,”  which we have dubbed “Liquid Lunches”.  To be fair, we DO frequently use our forces for good & generally have several fund raising activities a year.  We’ve worked Memorial golf tournaments, participated in cancer runs, collected supplies and funds for some local charities including animal shelters, battered women homes, etc.  Sort of like the Junior League…only with lots more alcohol and trashy attire).  I cannot imagine what “data” in this particular email conversation I thought I might need to reference later…but it was amusing enough when I re-read it to want to post it here

Email trail:

Annette: So, we’re keeping the monthly Liquid Lunch on June 1^st even though we will be missing a few ladies…and we’re going to try the new brewpub in town!  Belinda’s good friends own it, and they would love for our group to be among the first to enjoy it.  They said they would open early for us, and have wine/beer/likka.

Me: Sounds like a wiener.

Aimee (our newest recruit): weiners? we get free weiners? I'm in.

Annette: Hahaha*snort*hahahaha

Me: Aimee, hun...members of THIS group are practically wiener MAGNETS...didntchaknow?

Aimee: I did NOT know, but it has been noted in my trusty notebook. Do we tend to attract regular sized weiners or um....footlongs?

Me: Honestly, Aimee...all sorts.  A veritable plethora of wieners!  (What's the term for a grouping of wieners?  A waggle of wieners? I'm calling it a waggle of wieners...like a pride of lions or a murder of crows.)  We generally can count on a whole waggle of wieners wherever we go.

Aimee: Wondrous waggin waggle of weiners...GOT IT.

Aimee (again): I've a vision of a cornucopia horn-o-plenty full of weiners, all shapes, sizes and colors...*snort* some are bun lengthed, and some are cocktail weiners. Some are foot longs, some are Viennas...wait a minute...did I just write a weiner poem?

Belinda (previously introduced as "B"): Remember, it’s not the size of the wiener that counts!  (TWHS)

Me: Oh, Belinda...you know that's just something we tell the wiener-wielders to make them feel better.

Leah: Jesus, take the wheel.

Me: ooooo…Annette!  We need a haiku!

Weiner Haikus

Dear Mister Wiener,

I have a bun for you here

Please pass the mustard

Horn-o-plenty, yes

Bursting with wieners...someone

Hand me a fork, please

Can't keep a good girl down

This blog post is one that has been percolating in my head for awhile...I've just needed the time to get around to writing it (also...I had to go dig up a couple of pictures to do the story-telling justice.)  I have a coterie of ladies with whom I socialize. (Translation: chicks I hang out and drink with)  These ladies are all fabulous in their own ways...and if you've read my blog, I have introduced you to a few of them.  Over the past 4th of July weekend, I had the opportunity to visit the residence of one of these fine females (for the sake of discretion, we'll call her "B."  Which just might stand for "Belinda"...you never know) for some excellent food, drink and company.   Now, "B" and I get together at least once a month for our group's "Liquid Lunch" on the first Saturday of every month.  Our husbands, unfortunately, don't have the opportunity to get together as often.  When we got together last weekend, during our revelry, "B" and I would often share with our menfolk ancedotes of some of our past (mis)adventures.  "Oh, B!  Do you remember that time...." and as we got to recounting some of our various ladies' nights out or girl trips, a certain pattern began to emerge.
Up until then, it has never really occurred to me...but "B" has an absolutely amazing talent.  Namely, "B" can recover from drunk faster than anyone I have ever known or heard tale of.  Seriously.
The number of times that we have counted her out for the evening...only to have her pop back up...bright eyed and bushy tailed half an hour later are astounding.
Exhibit A:

This is "B" on our annual Jackson, MS pilgramige a few years ago.  Fourteen of us had loaded up and traveled to Jackson for the weekend of the St. Patrick's Day parade (hence the green boa).  Back then, we used to go as a group of "queens" affiliated with the Sweet Potato Queens of the Jill Conner Browne genre.  We went for something like 7 straight years before the wheels ran off of that whole thing and JCB dis-associated herself from the ginormous St. Patrick's Day activities in Jackson and it suddenly became a whole lot less fun and we moved our annual "queen" retreat to the beach.  I still really miss those Jackson trips, though.  ANYWAY....we had arrived in Jackson after a 5-hour long car drive...and we arrived THRISTY!  "B" had recently lost a good bit of weight (doesn't she look fabulous all sleeveless and shit?) but had neglected to re-calibrate her drinking pace to her new svelte figure.  Before the sun had even set..."B" was passed out cold in one of the rooms. (we had 5 or 6 rooms that we all just traipsed in and out of).  Once we realized that she was no longer running amok with the rest of us, we went room-to-room until we found her resting peacefully, recouping from the 67 jello shots she had just consumed.  Naturally, we did what any kind and caring friends would do...we piled a bunch of props around her and took funny pictures and brayed like jackasses until we woke her up.
She had only been passed out for 20 or 30 minutes, max.  Once she raised her lil' puddin' head and grinned sheepishly at all of us...we decided to let her go back to recovering and left to go down to the hotel bar in our full blinged out regaila.  Imagine our shock when "B" arrived totally sober (well, mostly totally...she was upright anyway) and blinged out herownself before the first round of drinks had been delivered.

Exhibit B: (Hours later and she's still going strong):

Me n' B, Jackson, MS

She was just like the little energizer bunny.  And this kind of thing happens ALL THE TIME.  I wish I had more photographic proof of this phenomenon...but as much as I have scoured my albums, I've only discovered record of one other instance...this one from our recent trip to ATL.  You know, the one where I ate goat? We had been imbibing most of the evening and decided we'd better call a cab to get us all to dinner.  We went downstairs to wait on the cab...I looked over and caught "B" taking a little cat nap:

(I know the photo's a little blurry...I wish I had a better angle too...since she was wearing some seriously kick-ass boots.)  Of course, the taxi arrived and she just sprung up from her curb and clambered right on in...and proceeded to enjoy her night WITHOUT throwing up goat even once.  She's my hero! 

Needle in a Haystack.

Behold the perfect shoe:

At least, according to the 17-year old living in my house.  She bought these shoes at Target about two years ago for about $15.  And she LURVED them.  Her friends also lurved them.  If the kiddo wasn't wearing them, one of her friends was borrowing them.  The whole pack of girls initiated "Wedge Wednesday" based on these shoes.  Then about a year ago...during the middle of the Quaterback Club fundraising banquet, the unthinkable happened.  The cheerleaders were working as servers for this banquet...so they were all dressed up in nice dresses and heels...the kiddo wearing her most favorite pair of wedges in all the land...and they broke.

Now folks, there is nothing about this shoe that belongs in nature...every scrap of material is some type of synthetic something.  There's no fixing these things...and believe me, we have tried.

Since this tragic loss, we have been looking high and low for something to replace them.  My daughter refuses to let me throw them out even though we both know that they can't be repaired (yes, I took a $15 pair of Target's finest Mossimos to a cobbler at one point and was told there was nothing to be done).  She keeps them, I think, to remind herself exactly what they looked like.  And every now and then, one of us will undertake an online search to see if there's anything comparable out there.

I was home today with some kind of minor stomach-ick...and while piddling around the house, straightening things, I spied the-most-perfect-wedges-in-creation in the kiddo's shoe rack.  I hooked the pair through my fingers, skipped downstairs, plopped myself in front of the computer and started scouring the world-wide-web for something like them.  Nada.  So I thought I'd check out eBay and see if maybe someone had a pair of the actual shoes (size 7) out there used.  Typing in "Brown Wedge Sandal size 7" produced 1597 results.  I start gamely going through them and find this:

 

 

Which are A) Butt-ugly; B) NOT sandals; and C) Vintage???

Really? Vintage 90s???

What the hell, people?  Since when are the 90s vintage?  I know that I have certainly tried to avoid the whole hipster movement in its entirety, but I have still been aware of it around me.  Has this trend of shopping at Thrift stores to look all original and shit led to folks believing that the 90s are that far back in the recesses of time?  Really?

Gah.  I feel old.  Also? Unproductive.  I have still not found the appropriate replacement wedges.  Anyone have any ideas where to look? (I've tried amazon, zappos, shoebuy and of course, eBay). 



My Mug Shot

One of my Canadian lovelies, Sarah, recently Tweeted that you can tell a lot about a person from looking at their mug collection. Since Sarah is one of the most profound human beings I have ever met…I generally pay attention to her observations. So, naturally, I immediately ran to my cabinet and pulled out my own mug collection, snapped a Tweetpic of it and asked for my very own Sarah-analysis. Of course she replied with something ridiculously flattering, because she loves me…but it got me to thinking and really examining exactly what these mugs do say:

And whether or not the mugs say a lot about my personality, I have to admit, they do say a lot about my life.

First: to the far left, the Angry Bird mug. This mug is not actually mine, it’s Jeff’s, but I bought it. How my little Toronto-based guru knew this, I cannot fathom, but she declared that the mug said I was a “Devoted wife.” She knows me well. I’ve been married to the love of my life for 23 years now…I’ve been with him for almost 28. (God, those NUMBERS!!) Not every one of those years has been bliss, but each year has been worth it. People look their whole lives for what I found very early on…I’m a lucky chick and I know it.

To the far right is a Department of the Army mug. I’ve worked out on a military facility (as a contractor) for going on 15 years now. This job has played a HUGE part of my life. I love my job. I love the people I work with and I love the challenging work that I do. I love feeling like what I do makes a difference to my community, my family, my nation. We destroyed World War II era chemical weapons out here, and we did an awesome job of it. I know that the world is just that much safer with that crap gone, and I love that I had a part in that mission. We’re winding down now…decontaminating the facility and getting it ready for demolition. I’m sad to be working myself out of a job…but still damn proud of what we accomplished out here.

Moving along, the Sock Monkey mug is one of a pair. My daughter bought them for me and my BFF Annette, whom she has called “Aunt Nette” her entire life. Annette is one of those friends that’s as close, if not closer, than family. Anyway, my child saw the pair of mugs one day while out Christmas shopping and decided that they looked like “us.” You know that special friend you have that you can call at 2:00 am and scream, “I need a chainsaw, some Hefty bags, a flashlight and some tequila!” (hypothetically) and her unruffled reply would be, “’Kay! Be right there! You’ve got limes, right?” Well, Annette it that friend for me. I don’t know what I’d do without her. (Probably jail time).


The Queen of Confidence mug was given to me by another close friend of mine. The other side reads:


Confidence


1. Full of belief in one's self and wardrobe. 2. One who can pull off any shade of lipstick and hair color with ease 3. Knowing that all she embarks on will be wonderful 4. Always right in her own mind.


Please note…none of that is actually a description of me AT. ALL. If it were not for ruthless intervention on behalf of my (very stylish) daughter, I would probably be the season finale on “What Not to Wear.” I don’t know where she got it from, but my kiddo has had an eye for what looks great since she was about 12. She’s definitely not a follower either…she’s hates looking like anyone else…but her taste is unerringly fabulous whether she’s picking out an outfit for me or buying herself a new makeup palette. So 1 & 2 don’t really describe me…but perhaps a latent fashionista gene that I passed along?

Maybe #3, a little. I do love to embark on new things. Except Windows 8. I hate that eff-ing software.

As far as #4 “Always right in her own mind”, I’m usually not even sure that I’m in my right mind. What I AM sure of, is that I have awesome friends who see me for my strengths and not my flaws. So, while I may not actually be the “Queen” of Confidence, having friends that think I deserve the title certainly gets me closer.

Finally, the middle mug. This coffee mug is old. My mother made it in a ceramics class in the mid-70s and gave it to my Granny. For my ENTIRE life, I remember seeing my Granny drinking out of this mug at breakfast. (Also? Eating toast off of a Corningware saucer that had the olive-green flower pattern along the edge. I think every household in the United States had at least one dish in this pattern). 

(Ha! Just looked it up…pattern was called “Crazy Daisy”…which for some reason just cracks me up. We just named the new kitten Daisy)

Where was I? Oh, yeah. Granny’s coffee mug. I am the only one who drinks out of this mug…and it is the one that I reach for if it’s clean. It’s my favorite mug for many reasons: the size is JUST right for the large setting on my Keurig + the amount of creamer I like; the wide opening enables the coffee to cool off enough to drink fairly quickly; the glazed ceramic keeps the coffee at just the right temperature long enough for me to enjoy the entire cup of coffee at just the right pace. But most importantly, the coffee cup reminds me that I am special. Let me explain. I have a LOT of people in my life that love me. I am SO lucky at the fantastic family and friends that I have that think the world of me. My husband loves me. My parents are proud of me. My daughter (even at the age of 17) thinks that I am someone to help her with her worries and concerns. My friends love me and even without the ties of marriage or blood seek me out to be a part of their lives. But no one, NO ONE, has ever loved me like my Granny. My Granny thought I was perfect. Period. All of the wonderful people in my life love me despite my flaws. My grandmother believed that I had none. She thought that I was the prettiest, smartest, kindest, funniest person to ever grace this planet, and if YOU couldn't see that, you were either ignorant or blind. She would not hear one word against me, ever. She would vehemently deny any flaw that anyone might try to point out regarding my behavior. I could have axe-murdered a busload of nuns and my Granny would have found some way to justify why I’d done it. Her opinion of me was, of course, a far cry from the truth…but her belief in me gave me the cornerstone for a rock-steady belief in myself that has served me well my entire life and seen me through some absolute shit-storms that have come my way. I think that EVERYONE needs someone in their lives that love them in this way…who see them as better and more perfect than they actually are…who is their steadfast champion. God, I miss her.

P.S. The only thing that the KFC cup over by the sink is saying is that I fell prey to their “I ate the bones!” commercials. First time I’ve had KFC in freaking years, I swear.