I think I’m at the point where I need to hire someone to come over here and shovel food into my gaping maw as I work. I’m hungry all the time the past few weeks. If I’m not stuffed to the gills, I’m starving. I know I’m gaining weight… Icky. Poo.
I had a Captcha that I could actually read today! Huh!
I like this wine, sorta, but every time I take a sip I make a funny face for about three minutes. Sorta like this guy, but with a beard. I have a beard. This guy doesn’t.
He could use one.
All male-type personnel should have beards.
The Unmet Yearnings of Country Living
Wifey has been moping around for weeks wanting a Jerry’s Pizza, and the cravings I’m having for chicky wings are nearly paralyzing. But the nearest Jerry’s Pizza is about 20 miles away and they don’t put their mystical magical food in boxes but rather just put it in a thin paper bag. It’d be cold by the time we got it halfway home…
Beloved Wifey is now taking subcutaneous infusion treatments for her illness (CVID). They seem to be working (yay!), but I have to laugh…
They ship her treatments to her weekly via FedEx. Our UPS guy, Mr. Mick, is fantastic, he knows us and our pups, and is a wonderful person. The FedEx guy, while I’m sure is a wonderful person, doesn’t know us or our doggies. Each week he shows up to drop off the box of assorted goodies (plasma, needles, IV lines, etc.). The box has various scary warnings on it (not quite “CONTAINS HUMAN PARTS,” but close), with lots of big red scary stickers on the side. I’ll peek out the window when he pulls up to see him very, very gingerly carrying the box, eyes wide as he reads the warnings, trying to pull off the miracle of carrying the package without actually touching it. Invariably, just as he walks past the window on the way to our door, Buttercup Pup will see him and go into her “BARK BARK BARK LOOKIE AT THE PRETTY DOGGIE BARK BARK” routine, which generally includes hurling herself bodily at the window, wall and door (thud BARK BARK BARK thud thud BARK BARK jump thud). Invariably the FedEx guy, eyes still glued on the scary package he’s carrying, will jump about six feet. He never makes eye contact but instead sets the scary package on the deck and scampers back to the safety of his van, most likely wondering just what the story is behind the folks who seem to be ordering body parts online to feed their killer dog…
If Wishes Were Fishes
I’d be out of tartar sauce. But I do wish the Publisher’s Clearing House folks are taking my application very seriously this year. We could sure use the money. And I also wish I had a chicky wing to eat. Om nom nom.