Sorry, starving people in Africa

Which should I feel more guilty about? Wasting food or wasting money?

At the local grocery store one gallon of milk costs less than whatever the next wacko American size down is. Half gallon? Quart? Who cares. Point is: a lot of milk = $1.46, way less milk = $1.54 (I might be off by a few cents here; it’s not like I employ a fact checker).

There is no way in hell my husband and I will ever use an entire gallon of milk before it spoils. Frozen milk is just bleh, plus I’m way too lazy and short of freezer space to do that anyway. I only buy milk once in a while for recipes.

I bought the gallon. Half of that might end up in stomachs. The other half will be poured down the drain in chunks while I make my disgusted face.

Stupid. Just stupid. So let’s just turn this post into another excuse to quote The Simpsons.

Kent Brockman: Coming up next, a new fad that’s sweeping the nation — wasting food.

There’s also a Facebook group for this shit, since there’s a Facebook group for absofuckinglutely everything: New Craze sweeping the Nation–Wasting Food. Actually, there are several wasting food groups, that’s just the first one I found. Arggle blarggle.

Also, I am making cupcakes.

And one cake. Or Twelve Very Small Cakes and One Regular-Sized Cake. They are marbleized and such.

I am going to put the Regular-Sized Cake on a cake plate, because I can and for some reason… I own a cake plate.

Unrelated: music reviews are nothing but a dumping ground for underappreciated vocabulary words. Sean’s trying to write a blurb about the new EP. It’s taken him… geez, it’s 5am? Many hours so far. Hurry up, I want to have cupcakes!

News flash!

I’m a failure! Bah. Doing arbitrary things for arbitrary reasons was never my strong point. I learned the word “arbitrary” at a very young age, by the way. It seemed to apply to a lot of the rules my parents made up. “Because I said so” is something I hope not to overuse on my own children, if I ever have any. But I can see why it would come into play (i.e. kids are freakin’ annoying). Still… I always felt like my parents should have had a little bit more justification for things.

In other news, the vegetable selection at our local grocery store is abysmal. Moldy red bell peppers were on sale 10 for $10. Um… Good deal, I guess. But pass! Therefore the spaghetti I’m currently eating has no peppers, and that is disappointing. Needs more crunchy. I bought regular spaghetti today, instead of whatever funnily-named pasta we usually get just because I recently found my spaghetti cannister in a cupboard, and felt the need to find something to put in it. Even though every time I try, I manage to get most of the spaghetti on the floor. This time was not an exception. I think that’s why I put the blasted thing away. Anyway, this spaghetti, it’s damned good. I’m too lazy (and broke) to make my own sauce, but what the hell did I add to this shit… Bought the cheap shit and stirred in some cumin, salt, pepper, onions, cayenne pepper, hot salsa, and probably some other junk. And now I’m going to go eat the stuff properly. In front of the TV, like civilized humans — not in front of the computer like a cavewoman, or uh, something. Yeah, we (kind of) have a dinner table, but the centerpiece at the moment is a sewing machine. Ew, I’m turning into a horrible little housewife.

Hm, I really do think that Twitter has cut back on my blogingness, just on account of I never get my complaints worked up to the point where they’re full paragraphs anymore. Good for my state of mind, bad for you. Well. See ya.

Once upon a time

This is the story of how alcohol is responsible for the entire last fiveish years of my life.

I first met Sean on the interweb, because we’re just cool like that. He lived in La Porte, Indiana and I lived in Toronto, Ontario. Obviously a little hard to arrange dates for Friday and Saturday nights that way. Being mightily persuasive, Sean somehow managed to get to Canada and back a couple of times while I had to be in Toronto for classes, despite not owning a car or even having a license. How one goes up to someone and says “hey… do you think you could give me a ride to CANADA?” I am not entirely sure I understand. When Christmas vacation came around, he got a ride up to my campus, and we drove back to Indiana, where I met most of the people I am still acquainted with here, and we had a marvelously drunkenly drunken time.

My family wanted me home for Christmas though, so despite not being happy about leaving, we arranged for one of his friends to drive us all the way back to Canadia. He’d be going with me, of course, but it wasn’t bound to be the same kind of super funness, what with my family being around, and my family living in the middle of nowhere and my friends being busy and all. So he would just be along for the ride, and would head back right away.

In order to celebrate our last night before the trip back, we decided that fun was in order. Now, at Sean’s mother’s house (an A-frame known as the Gnome House), there wasn’t exactly much fun to be had. Also, there was no transportation available to convey us to a more funner-like location. There was no cable, just the few channels we could pick up in the middle of nowhere (all Christian, IIRC — and while those are entertaining, you can only watch so much of that retardedness in one sitting). There was no DVD player. There was no Internet. There was no nuffin. Therefore we did the only other entertaining thing we could do (and hell, we’d probably have chosen it anyway); we drank us some drinks.

The only alcomahol available was a bottle of Southern Comfort. Deeeesguuussssting! I don’t remember if we started out with a mixer or not, but we certainly didn’t have one by the end. As horrible as that stuff tastes, it goes down pretty durn easy. Hardly realized how friggin’ much I drank. Well. Or maybe I didn’t drink a terrible lot, considering that the only thing I’d really had to eat that day was probably half of a tub of marshmallow fluff. Yeah, you can tell this is going to end well. Details are probably lost here since I entered blackoutville at some point here…

Our ride showed up a little early, I think, on account of the weather was getting bad, and it was my last chance to get the hell out of Indianer before happy happy Jesus day. As fun as driving around (in a blizzard) is while you’re seeing 28 of everything, we packed ourselves into the back of our friend’s teensy two-door sedan and headed off to Eskimoland.

Interesting fact: two-door sedans do not have four doors. You would think that this would be obvious to anyone, but it certainly wasn’t obvious to me while I spent the first portion of the ride frantically trying to open the non-existant back door in order to not puke on the inside of the car, which is clearly not where puke belongs.

So, lacking a convenient escape hatch for my vomit, we stopped at the first rest stop along the way. Yes, this journey was definitely promising to be a joyous one. I spent, um… well, I’m not sure. An hour? Two hours? Three hours? Seventy-four years? A long-assed time, anyway… in the women’s restroom with Sean holding my hair (such a darling) while I puked. And also vomited. And then puked some more. I don’t really remember any of this well, but I believe it based entirely on the fact that I don’t remember it. I mean, usually blackouts mean I’m super sober, mhm. I do remember now that I MUST have had some mixer at some point. I can even tell you what it was. Coke. That evil bastard soda. I don’t know if I’m alone here, but Coke has a very particular texture and appearance while floating around in the toilet bowl that is recognizable every time… yeah anyway…

Eventually the toiletfest ended, and we got back onto the road to continue on our merry way. The weather outside was frightful, or something equally festive. We made it for uh… okay, well I don’t know. I was conscious, but not particularly with it, and certainly not hip to the jive. Sooner or later (I am guessing later based on the later annoyance level of our driver), a drunken Sean realizes a very important part. He had killed off those braincells that remind you before going on trips to places that are particularly international that you ought to bring some form of ID (actually, he forgot his entire wallet — he still does this on a regular basis, drunk or not, but not usually if we’re leaving the country). Durrrr. Here is an equation: vomiting + blizzard + inadequate paperwork = FUCK THIS SHIT YOU JERKS I’M TURNING THIS CAR AROUND.

And so, we never did make it to Canada that night. Because of the blizzard, I wound up being stuck in Indiana (and trust me, if you’re ever in Indiana, the only word that correctly defines your situation is “stuck”, because if you weren’t, you would leave) until New Year’s. Being stucked, even trapped, in the middle of nowhere with no form of entertainment whatsoever except for eachother inevitably led to kissy kissy etc. etc. Maybe it wouldn’t have turned out so well without inappropriate amounts of SoCo. But despite what SoCo has done to me, just thinking about it’s lurrrrrrvly fragrance makes my stomach want to leap out of my body. Even moreso than the smell of rum, and rum was responsible for many more notable occurances of stomach escapism. Delightful, no? I think I told him I loved him for the first time somewhere in there, but you know… I’ve killed too many braincells in my short life to remember that kind of thing. What kind of woman am I, anyway? Where is my mental Rolodex of every event that has ever happened to me, and every stupid thing the men in my life have ever said?

Anyway, I started off writing this as a story about how liquor made me tie the knot, but come to think of it… I think maybe I ended up married because my husband is such a goddamn idiot and forgets to take his wallet with him anywhere. I had it in my head that it was somehow booze-related forgetfulness on his part, but really… I don’t think he was nearly as drunk as I was. He’s just dumb. The only reason he ever brings that shit is because I pack it for him. Hm. Well, oh. I guess that the liquor was responisbile afterall, then. I was too drunk to remember things FOR HIM. Geez, what a loser.

The End

P.S. I hate the editor in WordPress. Remind me to change the settings one day when I’m not so lazy.