Let’s Talk About Snacks, Baby.

Is it wrong that I want to write about delicious, flavorful noms?

I said SNACKS, not sex. However, it's very hard to find a picture of Salt n Pepa eating Twinkies.

No.  No, it is not wrong at all.

Honestly, there really are only two kinds of people in this world:  Salty or Sweet.  If you know me, you know that I’m definitely Salty (in word and deed, motherfuckers.)  I do not deny that cheesecake and cookies (good, homemade ones) have the power to sweep me off my otherwise chip-happy feet, but if you set an open bag of pretty much any kind of chip before me, chances are I will not be able to resist.  Nay, I will rip into it with the ferocity of 1000 direwolves.  Sorry about your chip-vessel of choice.  It is now on the floor.  In smithereens.  Blam.

I have long studied my chip addiction, and studied my friends’ similar addictions as well – most of us would indeed eat Wavy Lays or Italian Cream Cake for breakfast, which leads me to ponder the question of whether we are somehow programmed incorrectly or what leads us to our actual malfunction.  I realize we are the products of an incredibly shit-tastic environment, where poisons are designed to be attractive, where the salads are laced with sugar  and the water can only be life-giving if it’s injected with fruity flavoring (with which I totally agree.) I know what is healthy and what is not.  Yet, I want a bag of taco Doritos.  Now.  In fact, it’s all I can think about.  IT IS 9:57 AM.  There is nothing wrong with that either.

You know what else is good?  Fucking brownies.  Brownies are good.  Sometimes I like to act healthy though, so I casually and effortlessly peel a banana and top each bite with crunchy peanut butter.  Nothing like the one-two punch of POTASSIUM AND PROTEIN, right?  I’m such a badass.

If I had to make a Snack Priority Scale, it would look like this:


We all love and crave different shit, but you gotta admit – a kettle-cooked potato chip is very hard to turn down.  I would make homemade potato chips if I had time, energy, and the key ingredient, which is apparently a kettle.  Those of you who are busy making your own snacks, good for you.  I will eat my processed shit right from the bag any day of the week.  I do admire you, however.  As a good friend of mine announced to me the other night via text regarding her triumphant yet hard-fought battle with making rice pudding,


And nothing says delicious like dick-flavored pudding.

Nobody Can Rock a Blouse Like 1973 Robert Plant

I mean, look at him/it/this:

Sir, that’s a girlshirt. But you wear it well.

My husband, although The Song Remains the Same might as well play on an endless loop inside our home, thinks that I somehow am immune to the allure of 1973 Robert Plant due to two factors:  1) I do not pay attention to the television because it is very loud and explosion-y most of the time, and 2) Because it’s clearly not 1973 and we do not own a time machine.

He is wrong.

I am, in fact, in deep and abiding love with 1973 Robert Plant and his many blouses of fancy.  It is not his strategically ripped jeans that make me love him; it’s not necessarily the way he parades around the stage like a peacock (although that might be a little of it); it’s…just…goddamn,  THAT IS A WOMAN’S TOP YOU HAVE ON AND IT LOOKS UNBELIEVABLY AMAZING.

Don’t get me wrong.  I am in full appreciation of Robert Plant’s incredible, soul-filled voice of passion and his impeccable timing – he is an improvisational wizard, a rock god, and possesses a stage presence that is second to none.  But it’s the shirt, my friends.  It comes down to that one small fashion choice he made before he went on stage at MSG.  It makes me stop whatever I’m doing, stare all wide-eyed and goofy at the television every single time, rapt in His Glory.   I can’t help it.  The wearing of the blouse was, at that time, What Is and What Should Never Be. But it WAS.  And it worked like a fucking charm.

I am fairly certain this particular article of clothing, with its dreamy ocean-blue fabric and white accents, has magical powers.  Come forth, ye who owns this GirlShirt of Glory, this Blouse of Beckoning…I do believe it is my Precious.  We wants it.  Gives it to us.

The Best Friendship Dream Ever

No, it’s not what you’re thinking. But BY GOD what I dreamt last night was so freaking cool that I have to write about it.  Let’s see if everyone else thinks so.

If you don’t know by now who Greta X is, that’s a damn shame.  But either way, here’s the completely amazing dream I had last night.

Stoney and Greta, Sarcastic Smile Mode

I have never, I repeat NEVER written down a dream before…until 3am this morning.  So without further adieu, let me tell the story.

It would appear that Greta and I have made hasty plans to visit St. Louis for the weekend.  While this is believable for me as I used to live there and know people there, I have no idea why Greta would agree to do this as a “fun girls’ weekend!”  I dare say, St. Louis is really not what you would call “irrational and reckless fun.”  We meet at the airport, and Greta is carrying a large, handled paper sack full of her dirty clothes.  This in no way seems strange to me.  We embark on our journey.

As we board the MegaPlane via the rear, Greta goes ahead and continues through the plane while I stop to use the plane’s laundry facilities.  And by “facilities,” I mean the plane’s one washer and one dryer.  Because I do so much laundry IRL, I suppose that this is just carrying over into my sleeping life.  After all, does it not seem absolutely natural to have the ability to do laundry everywhere, especially on a plane?

Needless to say, I have to do her laundry as well as my own, and by the time I get it all loaded, I am the last person to enter the actual plane.  But oh, wait, fuck me, this plane has TWO PARTS and I am somehow in the portion of the plane that will be travelling to BOSTON.  Greta, having entered the plane early enough to get a seat in the “St. Louis” portion of the plane, tragically does not know that I will suddenly not be joining her.

(I find out later in the dream by looking out a window that the plane is joined together by what looks like an accordion made out of a sock.  Surely this is the height of safety.) 

So after resigning myself to the fact that I will not make it to St. Louis or see Greta to tell her, I just sit back (sort of – there are no flight attendants, and I have not buckled in, so I slide around in my seat until I figure out that the lack of a seat belt could potentially be a real problem) and enjoy the incredibly WEIRD RIDE.  Which sort of feels like the plane is slowly going over each building, as if it were made of putty.  For some reason we are taking off from Houston, which is not where space rockets take off from (nor is it where either of us live), but we putty over a rocket launch tower, as the pilot comments on how proud the city must be to have that launching pad.  Rocket is indeed attached.

We bank extremely hard to the left and are more “in the air,” instead of just skimming rooftops, and there is a scheduled intermission for all passengers.  This intermission takes place in what I can only imagine is the accordion sock.  I see Greta!  Hurray!  I tell her what has happened, and how we are obviously beset on all sides by tragedy.  Our intermission time is over, and I make my sad way back to the Boston portion of the plane.  I scream silently to Greta, “Staaaaaaaaay with meeeeeeeeeeee!!!!”  She keeps walking.

But wait!  What soft light from yon window breaks?!   It IS Greta!  She is now stuck on my side of the sock!  If we can’t have St. Louis, then dammitall, we will have Boston.

The end.

But it wasn’t.  I woke up at this point, in total awe of this dream.  I wrote as much as I could (given the fact that I was half asleep) and my last line says “you got stuck on my plane!  YAY!”

This only made sense at 3AM

I returned to my slumber, and the dream continued.  Greta and I were magically transported to Las Vegas, where getting into a hotel is evidently really difficult to do, and they just give you a packet of guitar strings upon registration.

Thank god we are both gifted guitarists.  In dreamland.

Resolutions 2012: F*ck It, I Choose Reality

Ok, sure, let’s talk about all the shit you THINK you might stop in 2012, or start in 2012, or that you would like to accomplish, whatever.  We can talk about it.  It’s not going to make it real or make those temptations stop riding in on the backs of beautiful imaginary talking Clydesdales.  “Why, hellloo there, my child!”  (note:  Clydesdales have voices like God.)  “Looky here what I brought you!  It’s a big bowl of cherry pie filling sitting on a pedestal made entirely out of cartons of cigarettes and completely full wine bottles, surrounded by a bed of PIZZA AND FRENCH FRIES!!!  ENJOY!”  Fucking talking Clydesdales.  So destructive.

So yeah, I’ve made a list.  Let’s go ahead and get it rollin’ just for fun:

  1.  Lose 10 pounds.
  2.  Make backyard look as if non-homeless people live in it.
  3.  Keep trying to become a better derby player.
  4. Quit being an asshole every morning upon waking.  
  5. Get Organized!  Just because The Container Store says I should.  
  6. Join Costco.  
  7. Consider replacing fence.  
  8. Buy an oven that doesn’t catch on fire. 
  9. (Here is where “drink less!” would go) 
  10.  (Here is where “try to quit smoking!” would go) 

I’d say that’s a fairly ambitious list, even without 9 and 10.  I think losing the 10 pounds is manageable, but I lose hope and momentum down around 4.  That’s not really much of a start then, is it.  Or is it? It is technically still morning.  So I could just be continuing the Asshole Tradition.