Hello again. I’m experiencing another week of nothing specific that I want to write about. I mean, I can write a bunch of bullshit like I did last week, but is it really worth your time? That could be said about most of my blog posts … I suppose. Here’s an update from our household: I got my dog a new collar and he looks like one dapper mother fucker, and I managed to keep a plant alive (which is goals trust me) and it’s bearing one, teeny tiny little strawberry. Which is pretty much a win in my books.
We’re also moving soon, and packing excites me about as washing Ziploc bags – because you feel guilty throwing them out but they’re so fucking hard to wash. And how the hell am I supposed to dry them? So I was all, “I’m going to pack like wayyyyy before hand so that everything will be ready and I can go through everything and throw a bunch of shit out, we’ll be super functional, and I’m super functional and not at all mentally ill, and oh where was I?” Yeah that didn’t really happen, I’ve known I’m moving for about a month and all I’ve managed to do is pack my books. I’ve spent more time trying to decide HOW I should pack (Like rubber maids vs. buying boxes vs. getting boxes off swap and buy… ugh) then actually packing. SNAPS FOR MEAGAN.
Can we real quick just like talk about how not helpful swap and buy sites are? I think it’s where all the people with missing brain cells and new mothers congregate. So, what you end up getting is a lot of unsolicited parenting advice and redundant/not helpful/punch worthy comments.
Did you guys hear about the person in my tree? When we got home from dinner one night there was straight up a person hiding underneath our tree cause it’s massive, and all she could say when we asked her why she was on our property was that she was meeting Rodney. RODNEY. Which can obviously only mean one thing, our tree is now the local group orgy spot. You stay away from our tree Rodney. I’ll cut you.
See? It’s like one big magical bed to lay under, with dirty Rodney and the boys.
Lately I’m trying to meal plan, because the biggest recurring argument/never ending decision between the husband and I, is what we should have for dinner. Every single night it’s the same thing.
“What should we eat for dinner?”
“Ugh I dunno, and everything is frozen. Because in between trying to pluck my nipple hair with my fingers ’cause SOMEONE lost my tweezers, and re-watching shows on Netflix, I didn’t have time to bend over and pull something out of the freezer.”
“McDonald’s it is!”
Every. Time. (Let me clarify we don’t live off of McDonald’s when we’re frustrated with our privilege or I would be typing this from a hospital bed, most likely) On top of that, every two weeks either my husband or myself gripes about how one of us has gained weight and how we need to start eating better. This is usually a conversation happening at the very same moment we’re stuffing a loaf of bread into our wide open traps. So, meal planning is obviously the only answer here. We’ve started today and on tonight’s menu: home-made chicken noodle soup. (In the crock pot, obviously. The least amount of work I have to do, the better). Let me just point out that I’m usually in-fucking-capable of cooking, and for the longest time husband has been the primary chef in our household. I usually stand and stare quizzically at our open fridge hoping that something will magically make itself before whining quite loudly “CAN YOU MAKE DINNNERRRRR YOU’RE BETTTERRRR AT IT.” This would only get worse whenever he would leave town for the night. I would usually end up making ramen noodles with pickled beets (shut up they’re so good) and sending him a frown-y face via text about how sad and depressing my dinner is. So the fact that the crock pot is even being utilized and not sitting on a shelf collecting dust and dead spiders (or those dumb red and black beetles we get around here) is fucking impressive y’all.
Other currently pressing thoughts: Could I live off of humus forever? Why are turtlenecks a thing? Who wants to wear a giant sock on their neck? Dogs are an alarming reflection of their owners – my dog is a cantankerous, asshole, who doesn’t want any friends. Sounds like both of his owners.