This is a special day! 6/6/06 only comes once every hundred years. What’s on the menu? Something SPICY, of course!

I’m making peanut-crusted chicken from this month’s Everyday Food. Don’t be surprised that Our Dark Lord likes Martha Stewart!

On the side I am making some oven fries with chili powder, and to dip everything in I am making super-spicy adobo sauce. I added an extra chili so I may have to bust out the goat cheese to cool off my unholy mouf.

Spicy Adobo Sauce

2/3 c. mayonnaise
lime juice (I use anywhere from a tbsp to the whole thing)
1-2 adobo peppers (you can get them in little cans)
dash salt
1 clove garlic

Food process until creamy! Delicious with potatoes and broiled/grilled meats.

Ganked from here: Moosewood Restaurant Celebrates: Festive Meals for Holidays and Special Occasions

I love adobo chilis. I made enchiladas with them the other night. I used to get frustrated with them because I can never use the whole can up in one go. So I started keeping the leftovers in a cleaned jar from artichoke hearts, and they seem to keep much longer than in plastic containers, plus this way your Tupperware won’t get all whiffy.

Happy Satan Day, everyone! How are you celebrating? Devil’s Food Cake? Listening to Sympathy for the Devil? Tattooing a swastika on your forehead? Yeah, I thought so.

Ooh, I have some leftover peanut-breadcrumb mix for my very devilish freezer!

Alright, so I know there’s been the sound of crickets coming from over here lately, but I have to tell you that things are a little off. Companion’s contract at Giant Local Software Company ended last month; he was supposed to segue into a new contract with a new company after a well-deserved four-day weekend off, and that four-day weekend has turned into about three weeks.

They kept him on the hook, waiting, without a peep about his status or contract, for about a week-and-a-half. Then we had that flu, and then, damn, three weeks had gone by. I was so used to the rhythm we had fallen into when he was working, where I took care of the Strudel all day, and cleaned, and cooked most nights. You know, full-on Beaver Cleaver style housewifery. It’s been a little jarring to have that disrupted after a year.

I don’t think full-on housewifery is my ultimate dream. This website has seen me go through a few transformations, from student, to graduate student, to psychotic divorcee, to wage slave, and I imagine someday it will see me go back to work. But I did like my routine. Not everyone knows this, but one of the rewards of being a stay-at-home mom is that most people and older children go back to work on school on Monday, so you can have a few minutes to furtively flip through a trashy magazine, eat the rest of Saturday’s cheesecake, or masturbate, without anyone interrupting.

Now I don’t necessarily know what day it is, which is something that used to keep me on a writing schedule. But I always know where my companion is now, because I can follow the trail of partly-cleaned up Strudel snack, living-room soda cans, and dirty socks, which only used to plague my obsessively-orderly ass on the weekends. Pots on the stove don’t go unstirred for more than thirty seconds, even if I’ve said I’LL BE RIGHT BACK. SERIOUSLY.

But for all the stir-craziness (heh) over here, there are always some good parts to this break. I have someone home with me who likes to go for walks as much as I do. I have someone who will say, “I want to hang out with you,” instead of “You always want to hang out with me,” like when I was married. I have someone around who may not clean up after the baby as well as I do, but puts his whole self into playing with her and taking care of her, instead of just planting himself on the couch in a half-assed fashion like so many fathers I’ve seen.

And very soon, like Monday, he will go back to work, and I will be happy with the special quiet of just me and a tower-building Strudel, but I will start to look around at about 11:30 or so and wish he was here to take a walk with me.

ALSO, God I’m enjoying this. Moustache tattoos. You can carry your disguise with you wherever you go. And stick around for the commentary at the end…more insipidly hilarious than usual.

1. As I am typing this, Franny is playing a clever joke on my Companion by hiding under his computer desk. I bet he’ll be surprised when he’s done feeding Strudel and comes downstairs.

“Mom, I’m hiding under P.’s computer chair,” Franny said.

“Okay.”

“Mom, tell P. you don’t know where I am. Say, ‘Where’s Franny, I don’t know where she is.”

“Okay. (Louder, up the stairs:) P., I’m supposed to tell you I don’t know where Franny is.”

“Okay,” Companion replied.

“Good job, Mom!” Franny said.

2. Early today we went out to the Kelsey Creek Farm in Bellevue to see the annual sheep-shearing event. We saw a sheep that did not want to hold still, and thrashed around, trying to get away. If you look at how sheep are shaped, it makes sense that they don’t want to be on their backs.

Franny patted a llama named Mercy.

I think that’s a great title for one of those corny Hallmark Hall of Fame movies.

“A redeeming, life-affirming story of one girl’s love for life and llamas.”

Anyway, we also saw some chicks and a wool-spinning demo, and a really naughty sheepdog who was super into menacing the sheep. Franny was really intrigued.

3. My sister came over yesterday and bleached my hair, and I dyed it this morning, so now it’s official: Spring is Here! Morgan did a great job and I got carded for the first time in two years at the store today. Do underage kids buy boring shit like viognier?

Morgan was oohing and ahhing over my “before” hair in the sun yesterday, amazed at how shiny it was. “Yes, and now I’m about to ruin it,” I said. It gave me pause, but I went ahead with it. I needed a change.

Companion got to sleep with a tawdry blonde ho last night. He was sad he was too sick to enjoy it. But I will walk around with one bra strap hanging out and a cigarette hanging off my lips any time he wants. I was raised right–I can cook bacon, smoke, and hold the baby all at once.

Hooray! Now I can delight small children again.

4. Strudel woke up early, so I had a little quiet time with her at 6:30.

And tonight I am making Grand Canyon Cake with chocolate frosting. I’ll let you know how that “pans” out. Whoa! I am lame today. Lame!

1. Jesus Christo, people, can you believe this bug that is going around? I don’t think I’ve ever had anything that gave me a sore throat, congestion, and nausea (but no puking, thank you Giant Head of Perez Hilton) all at once. Unfortunately, when I get sick or busy now, I tend to forget that my pathetic, lying-in ass could be using her audioblog to complain. Ah well. And now poor Companion has caught the bug as well.

2. The good news is that my friend Supa is back from her trip to California, and sent me the most fabulous socks while she was there.

Figure 1: “WHEEE!!!”

Sock Fridas look happy, so perhaps they can cheer up Wall Frida, who wants you to feck off and die. Perhaps Sock Fridas haven’t discovered that Diego is schtupping their sister yet.

Figure 2: I said, “FEK OFF!”

3. There are some interesting developments with the neighbors, and now I am realizing I haven’t even told you about the neighbors. They are a young couple, and the woman seems really nice. She’s not working right now, because she’s about to give birth any minute. She’s at that stage where she looks sort of glazed and I can see a sliver of her belly hanging out of every shirt she wears.

I have been trying to have coffee with her and be friends but to no avail, because she’s usually busy shuttling her husband to and from the university where he works, and now her mother is here, which is creating the interesting development. Her mother took one look at the yard and declared it “horrible,” and has been running around like a bulldozer putting plants in and pulling weeds. This would be great, but two weeks ago I asked the residents if they had any plans for the yard, and the mother-to-be told me she had absolutely no interest in gardening, and that we could take over the front vegetable garden for our own use.

Figure 3: Look at that dirt goatee. Yuckers.

Well, on Saturday, while Companion’s father was here, we noticed the woman’s mother pulling weeds out of the front garden, and by dinnertime she had completely planted it, mostly with stuff that does really poorly here, like corn and tomatoes that do better in places like the Midwest. By Sunday night she was taking over the back bed on our side of the yard with kale, so I ran out to have a word with her and split up the rest of the yard equitably, only to find out that she speaks absolutely no English. She was nice enough to get my neighbor, however, who spoke to both of us. She apologized and explained that her mother wasn’t really hearing that we were interested in the yard, and we worked it out. She’s about to have a baby so I didn’t want to make aggro for them, and I am hoping we can be friends. I wanted to say, “Give us a minute, lady, we just moved in a month ago.”

I told her that we would dig up another bed in the front, where there’s sun all day, and we agreed on how to split the rest of the beds in the backyard. I’m bummed because her visitor will maybe stay for a month to help with the baby, and then their beds will die or will only produce green tomatoes and some straggly-assed corn. So my companion, the former organic farmer, and me, the flower freak, will squirm this summer while this happens.

In the meantime, however, we are tending to our own patch, as they say. I put in snapdragons, cosmos, and impatiens in the front, and we put in dill, basil, chives, and mint in the back. I have missed having a yard. If only I could sneak in a couple of chickens…but I think that would make our neighbors’ little yap dog completely apoplectic. Their dog already has a hard enough time keeping track of the Evil and Stinky Taibas Jones.

Figure 4: My new gardening system is unstoppable.

Other neighbors, who also have kids at MonsterSorry, came by and sort of made us feel better. “Ah, you don’t want to grow anything in that patch anyway. Look at that border. That’s that arsenic pressure-treated wood. Poison veggies.” And the neighbors won’t be poisoned either, because the tomatoes are not going to make it. Next year, I am putting in flowers there.

4. Companion has discovered the dubious pleasures of Alice Hoffman. I really liked her a few years ago, but something has changed for me. I picked up his copy of Practical Magic, which I read probably eight or nine years ago, and have been snorting my way through it, though I CAN’T PUT IT DOWN. The snorty page-turner I read last summer was The Da Vinci Code. “And then Langdon woke up. He discovered he was on fire, had been shot with an arsenic-laced dart, found himself hurtling towards the ground out of the airplane he had just been tossed out of. He pondered the fact that Venice was founded in 421, and some other historical stuff. End of chapter! What will happen next? WHO CARES.”

If I ever write a book like that, a snorty page-turner, I am going to change my name and move to Humptulips.

Companion declared himself “part female” after reading it, because he got sniffly at the end, when everyone decided to give love a second chance or something. This is the man who ate three giant pieces of my lemon curd tart on Sunday night, to “finish it off” and then proceeded to be a sick beast all day Monday when I was cleaning the house.

“You’re not part female,” I told him. “But you do resemble some dogs I’ve known.” He responded to this with a wounded, soulful look, just like the Siberian Husky I had when I was six would when you would pull your half-chewed panties out of her mouth.

5. Speaking of doglike tendencies, Strudel was racing around in the yard while Companion was digging up our new veggie patch.

Figure 5: A man who can bring projects to completion. Oh, I am overcome. SNIF.

“Hey, I’m going to go inside and get the camera,” I said. “Can you spot her?”

“Sure,” Companion said, and set down his shovel. When I came back out, he was frowning and holding her. “She raced around the corner when you went in,” he said, “and I caught her and picked her up and a pillbug fell out of her mouth.”

Figure 6: “Pillbugs taste better than soap, mmmkay?”

So it’s official–we have a Runner and an Eater. There goes my theory that you have one or the other.

6. And now I am happy, because it is warm and I can yell at drivers when they punk me, because they have their car windows down again. WALLINGFORD REPRAZENT, BITCHES! Yield to PEDZ!

Figure 7: Poppin off in my yard.

Oh, and, not the best page for people who are trying to reduce their Giant Librarian Cans: Pimp My Snack.

It’s the old story: you try to have a nice weekend, get in a little relaxation, and enjoy the children (ha) instead of rushing around, and life bites you in the butt in new and heretofore undiscovered unpleasant ways.

My companion’s father came to visit and see his first (and currently only) grandbaby. Strudel was in fine form–she gave her special scrunchy-face smiles, screamed with delight, and threw food adorably. As we wrestled her to the ground to give her eye drops to combat the nefarious eye goop she’s suffering from (for the third time that day), Strudel’s grandpa remarked, “Well, that kid doesn’t pull any punches, does she?” She was howling so loudly and intently anyone could have seen the back of her tonsils or even down to her stomach if they cared to.

What was less pleasing was Franny’s behavior. I don’t think we’ve ever spent such a horrible weekend together, and that includes the times of rocket-vomiting toddlerdom. She’s got some major issues going on right now, and I don’t know exactly what to do for her (I have some ideas of what I’d like to do TO her). She clamored for attention all weekend, in that “HAAAY, LOOKIT ME, aren’t I cool and shiny and awesome?” way. She attempted to bogart Companion’s father all weekend, and I had to keep pulling her aside and gently reminding her that “he isn’t just here to see you, so give him a break.”

I got sick on Saturday, some weird thing that involved a sore throat and congestion, and stomach pains, which was a new one on me. I felt totally out of gas, which was probably for the best since if I’d had any energy I probably would have taken Franny to the Wallingford Post Office and left her there. I was so fuzzy-headed I didn’t have my usual Mom Arsenal of Child-Thwarting at my disposal–I was effectively defenseless. I was supposed to take Franny and a friend to a birthday party for a child at school who we don’t really know (what happened to FAMILY parties, for Petey’s sake? How is one supposed to shop for these unknown children?) and then I realized I was feverish and didn’t sleep well the night before (“can’t sleep, Tom Cruise will get me”) and so bagged on the party. Our friend offered to take Franny, but I decided she was banned from party-going anyway.

My companion insisted that I take a nap, which I was all for, but first we made a plan for Franny, which was that she would get the rare treat of watching a movie on her own, in the basement. I got some sleep, and when I woke up, Franny was still in her pesty, antagonistic mode. I gave her the choice of being in her room or the backyard, and I heard her screaming “I HAVE BEEN IN MY ROOM ALL DAY” at the forty-five minute mark. There was much weeping, and for some reason the snot all went on the mirror, instead of in a tissue, and in spite of repeated talks on the subject of “Bodily Fluids Should Only Go Into Tissues,” which I believe was the theme of the month around here in February ’05.

There was more general freaking out before, during, and after dinner, which resulted in a complete loss of storytime. Companion and I decompressed after bed by talking about how horrible the day was, and by going downstairs to noodle on the Internets a little bit. We are still practicing our side-by-side Internetting, which is still loads of fun.

Companion: “Whoa, what’s that?”
Me: “Charisma Carpenter’s nipples. What are you looking at?”
C: “College Roomies From Hell.”
Me: Nice.

A few minutes into the Internetting, Companion started to wipe his screen. “I think it’s dirty…wait…what are these scratches?”

The scratches were Franny’s coup de grace: during her solo movie time, she picked up a screwdriver and made gouges in Companion’s flat screen computer monitor, which is the computer we watch movies on. I confronted her about this during breakfast this morning, and when asked why she did it, she said that she “was bored.” Once she admitted it, and apologized, we told her that she had lost solo movie time.

So, needless to say, there is some residual resentment around here, and there probably will be for the next few days. What do you do with young children who wreak havoc and then go skipping merrily along the next day? We had a talk with her this morning, about all the issues this weekend, and told her our expectations for her behavior, but we’re really not certain that it sunk in.

Things haven’t been this bad in months, so we’ve decided to punish her for the next few days. She is losing storytime until Thursday, and is losing any spontaneous after-school park time, and we are canceling a playdate she was going to have tomorrow. She’ll have access to all her normal stuff around here, of course, and I am trying to relax and let the weekend go, so as not to be gruff with her.

What I’m hoping is that by punishing her this week, she’ll realize that when she’s having a bad or freaky day, there are more consequences for her than just “everyone suffers on that day,” and maybe she’ll decide to modify her behavior. It’s tempting to blame everything on her father’s house, and the lack of consequences and capricious punishments I have seen from him in the past. But she’s here with us half the time, so I need to step up and change things, so we can all live with each other while she’s around.

Well, well, what a weekend. Frannie is in a mega-dither because of the goings-on at her father’s house. Are you ready for some hot gossip about people you don’t know and could care less about? I thought so. Remember, this is through the awesomely bizarre filter of a five-year-old, so actual mileage may vary.

So, as I mentioned, That Poor Woman (Franny’s pseudo-stepmother, who is a living-in-sin slut like me) had her baby. Apparently, it was forcibly extracted through a scheduled c-section, because TPW’s vagina is “too tiny.” I think this is code for “I don’t want my hoo-hoo stretched out, and my doctor would like the insurance money,” but, hey, I’m not always right. TPW should worry less about the size of her vagina and more about the size of her bank account, in my excruciatingly humble opinion, because that seems to be the main factor of attractiveness for some people.

(Meaningful pause.)

Frannie said that the whole thing was “just gross” and that TPW’s brother snapped photos of the vivisection. Frannie was “abandoned” at her grandparents’ house for four days, during which time she was taken (forcibly and under protest) to get her bangs cut, which she has been growing out for about three months. So she’s pretty pissed at her grandpa right now for undoing her work, and is also pissed that her favorite barrettes don’t really work right now that she’s trimmed. TPW was in the hospital for those four days and now that her dad is home “he has forgotten about me.” *cue dolorous violining of five-year-old melodrama*

Okay, so I’m being flippant here, because I think it can’t be that bad, but it does suck to go from being daddy’s superspecial princess to the dog’s breakfast. She’s drawing weird lines, too. She seems to be aligning herself with her sister Strudel, because “we were both in your tummy.” Maybe she’s not too little to be seeing her father for the sperm donor that he is.

There were also some more blood-and-guts tales about her dad falling down the stairs with the new baby, TPW’s horrible breast infections and intestinal problems. It’s a car wreck, I tells ya. I know way too much about life in Bumbling Idiocyport.

Franny’s conclusion to the whole gory story: “I’m glad I came out of your vagina, Mom.” What a thing to be glad about. That’s my girl.

The PS on this story is that Franny also came over talking about her “new teacher” and “new school” for next year. Of course she couldn’t remember any pertinent names, so I had to email SeaFed, who was all, “Oh, doi, the letter came a few days ago.” I’m not going to lie to you here: it’s making me a little bananas that Senor Incompetento is listed as the primary contact for Franny’s foray into public school next year. He told me he listed me on the forms, too, so I should “probably contact Seattle Public Schools so I can get the mailings too.” He just took this project upon himself a few months ago. I was feeling, like, “eh, it’s public school, so it doesn’t matter where she gets in.” (Yes, I know I have a Bad Attitude, so you don’t need to email me about this.

The thing about incompetent people is that they never concede defeat. They just take a project and run with it and fuck it up. I suspect that someone’s been working on his self-esteem again, which is never a good thing. People in his life encourage him, and then he all thinks he should like, have more children or drive a car be let out of the house or something. Ridiculous.

The good news is that she got into an alternative program that I was pulling for that won’t be too different than MonsterSorry (tm Badger or Squid?). And it’s in our general part of town. So yay.

In Other News

Obligatory Easter Egg Photo:

We had fun dying eggs but realized at the last minute that we only had four drops of red left, and decided to use it for purple. So the eggs look a little color-schemey, but that’s purely due to carelessness on my part. We had French press coffee no one felt like drinking, so the coffee came into play too, and made the eggs look pretty. Red is for suckers.

We also went to the Bunny Bounce at the Zoo, which was quite the fiasco. I think Franny had fun, but I’m not sure. The egg “hunt” there consisted of zoo workers dumping giant trash bags of plastic eggs all of the lawn and sort of kicking them to spread them out. Franny and two of her friends “hunted” about two dozen of the suckers and the field was stripped of thousands of eggs in seven minutes.

To entertain us while we queued up, there were preteens and young teenagers standing on hay bales next to a giant sound system. The oldest one attempted to banter with the crowd of three-to-five year olds, who weren’t having any of it. She then warbled her way through a song, the sound of which may have induced internal bleeding in some members of the crowd. The preteens danced sexily on the hay bales, accompanying the “singer.” As usual, I was not wearing my glasses, so I didn’t see exactly how young they were until one came close and I saw she couldn’t be older than twelve. I don’t think I knew how to hip-grind like that when I was that age.

Apparently, I was spotted by another loc, Jope, who chose not to say hello to me, possibly because my family and I were heckling the oldest teen girl, who has a great career ahead of her if Ashlee Simpson is any indication of things.

Finally, Strudel developed some sort of nefarious eye goo and had to be seen by a doctor today. It’s some variety of conjunctivitis, probably, and we got eye drops in case it’s bacterial. I hope there’s enough in the bottle for the whole family, because none of us can stop kissing that kid.

And then we wonder why she gets an eye infection.

Friday, at Strudel bathtime.

Me: Hey, you’re using my towel on the baby.

Companion: Sorry. It was white, so I thought it was hers.

Me: Are you saying I can’t use a white towel?

C: I don’t know, I just saw the towel and thought, “white…virginal baby color.”

Me: So filthy whores can’t use the white towels?

C: Um….

Me: Fine, I’ll use the lavender towel. Can you associate me with lavender?

C: Sure, lavender’s a slutty color.

1) Explanation/Apology?

Hey jerks, what’s poppin? Oh, me? I moved, and it almost destroyed my will to live. It turns out that A.) twelve Diet Cokes a day is actually not the same as exercising, and B) we have more stuff now than when we moved in. Actually, I’m just kidding. I’m only drinking EIGHT Cokes a day. And I thought that taking vigorous walks with the baby strapped to my back would be enough to help me move our cryogenic chamber and my great-grandfather’s tomb, which I should really stop moving and just throw up on ebay, but whatevs. I were so tired and busy chasing my little fuzz-muncher that it took days just to get the computers plugged back in. Now I can go back to my very important work as the Vice-President of the Leifettes.

Anyway, can I tell you that I just had an erotic dream about a squash instructor? I was talking to my friend yesterday about being in goo-goo teenager love with someone, which made me think about making out with people, which lead to my brain forcing me to make out with an incredibly hot squash instructor on a layover in Scranton. My brain’s pretty good to me, except when it says, “Hey. Are you sure you locked that door? Maybe you should check again. How about one more time? If you check seven times you can be sure it will be locked.” Or, “You should probably make the lead singer of that Spanish heavy metal band give you head, even though he looks scared of you.” THANKS a LOT, BRAIN.

B) Capitalist Freakout

So now we are having fun buying things to fill up the empty spaces here. Strudel eats it seventy-thousand times a day on the wooden floors, so buying a rug for the living room is a top priority.

Yesterday:

Me: “So I’m at Fred Meyer, and I know we said that we were going to IKEA this weekend, but I found a rug here, and it’s the perfect size and color, and it will fill up the space really well, and it has a cowboy lassooing a steer on it…”

Companion: “NO.”

Me: “Man, I have no bars in here. I don’t think you heard me. There’s a cowboy rug….”

Companion: “NO.”

Me: “DAAAAMNIT.”

I need to charge first and ask questions later. The cowboy rug could have had fights with my black velvet bandito painting and I just know that if I go back there today it will be snapped up. WEEP!

C. And Now She’s a MILF, Am I Right?

Franny’s dad, the vainglorious and ignoble Seattle Federline, has brought forth another spawn unto this poor world to carry on his legacy. It’s another girl, which is kind of a shame, because the most current research shows that sociopathy is carried through women.

One of the moms at Franny’s school dropped by my house (I now live so close to her school that this is freaking Wisteria Lane) and told me that That Poor Woman took one look at the whelp and declared that it was a “Frances.” SeaFed claimed that they had never considered that name, and that he had never thought of it before.

“That’s funny,” I replied. “Frances was on the short list to be “Franny’s” name.” The mom got a kick out of that. The fact that “Frances” was a contender for “Franny’s” name is the reason I call her Franny when I write about her. Ah, well. When I was married to him, he couldn’t remember what he had had for lunch by eight o’clock. Sometimes I wish had the gift of forgetfulness. You may absolve yourself of your own sins through the Power of Bumbling.

I sent Franny a bunch of tulips to congratulate her, and she sounded pleased. She said she’s keeping them on her dresser.

D) Destroy All Humans!

Finally, big ups to my companion, who insisted I go downstairs and WRITE SOMETHING, and even brought me eggs and hot tea. Strudel is standing at the top of the stairs shouting at me, because she can hear me clickity clicking. WUV companion, who can sense what needs to be done so that my brain doesn’t melt, turning me into a momomaton.

Oh my god, you guys, I almost died this week. Okay, so that’s a total, total lie. Maybe what I wanted to say was that I wanted to die this week. Anyway, we had weaning problems followed by some kind of Strudelly intestinal flu. But we are getting better.

Weaning totally kicked my ass. Or I was perhaps kicked in the taco. Or, as I finally implored my companion to stop calling them, my “lady nuts.” Boy, have I ever been so sorry that I coined a term around here? Perhaps not.

Today I got that manic injection of energy that you get after weaning. The one that makes you go, “I have SO much energy as a normal, non-pregnant, non-nursing civilian. Why did I want to have children? Maybe I imagined that two years of tiredness. Maybe I don’t have children at all. Santa, is that you? Nice rack. I can see Mexico from here. Maybe if I run for it?”

ANYWAY, people, I think if the urge to procreate strikes again I’ll just get myself a purse dog. Because if you get tired of those, you can get yourself one of those new badger-chinchilla hybrids, at least that’s what PARIS does. I’m just saying.

So I am just writing you, MF diary, to tell you that I have:

1. Lost ten pounds in water weight this week. I have peed oceans, now that it’s not shooting out of my boobies.

2. Become a little psycho now that my energy’s come back. There may be, at some point in the near future, some mosaicing, or some appliqueing, or some gold-leafing. Soon coherence will return.

3. Bought two pairs of cute sandals at Nordstrom today. One of the labels may have said Jessica Simpson on them. I AM GOING TO HELL. I will miss you.

I think I was deeply high when I bought these. Who buys shoes like these? Oh, it’s me. Disco gladiator? I don’t know. How do you make the strings stay up?

Also, Strudel with her new sock monster, a birthday gift from Supa. She loves it!