Later this week we are heading out of town. Now, just in case there is any crazy person reading this post—this information DOES NOT give you permission to show up at my house under the cover of darkness and make off with all my crap…er, my priceless treasures that I have spent years accumulating. Just so you know, I have a feral cat who will scratch your eyes out if you even think about trying. She’s huge, she’s powerful, she’s intimidating. She’s about eighty pounds overweight and will just lay there all fat and happy, licking her private areas and looking at you like, “Whassup? Got any food? Need me to ride on that sofa you’re piling into that creepy, windowless van?”
Whatever. Stay away.
So I’ve been shopping for said trip this week, buying essentials like sunscreen and towels and swimsuits (I just threw up a little) and sand buckets. And food. And as I was reviewing this pile of necessities earlier, I came across something odd. So far, my stash of what I consider essential food is relatively small. And consists of this:
Powdered donuts, chocolate brownies, honey buns, Pop Tarts, Snickers bars, Doritos, microwave popcorn…
There’s not an orange in there anywhere. Not even a raisin. But at least there’s fiber. Because if it crunches, I’ve heard it’s all fibery and stuff. Everyone knows that. So maybe I should buy more Doritos. Or Crunch ‘N Munch…
And speaking of getting ready for our trip, I’ve been cleaning my house. Because I don’t know why, but I cannot leave home with junk lying everywhere. Many a vacation has been ruined because of one persisting thought rolling through my head: “Why did I leave that dang sock on the living room floor?” It’s just the way I am. I can go weeks clearing a path around my house and stepping over bed pillows and toys and balled up t-shirts, but I can’t leave town with my house that way. And I’ve (not really) spent thousands on therapy, stretched out on a couch in a dark room while some woman with a super-soft voice lists out all my issues. She’s written whole chapters. It takes hours.
But it doesn’t work.
So as I was tidying up my son’s room this week, I came across something and sent him this text: “I found your blue shorts under one of your bed pillows…which you would’ve found forever ago if you ever made your bed.”
And this is what I got in response: “That’s bull! I’ve made my bed at least once in the months those have been missing!”
And…that’s the house I live in. Because I have a teenage boy. And a nine-year-old boy. And “boy” is the key word in both of those sentences.
Which leads me to my next subject.
Today is National PI Day. Not to be confused with yesterday, which was NOT Nat’l PI Day, but just Tuesday. Plain, ordinary Tuesday with no dessert to make me feel better. But anyway, has this holiday been around forever, or am I just now hearing about it? Because any excuse to eat pie is a day I want to celebrate. And I know this holiday is all about math and stuff, but I don’t like math, so I’m not celebrating that. I’m celebrating Peanut Butter. And Chocolate. And Pecans. And I’m not kidding—think I’m gonna buy all three. But not make, because no one wants to eat anything I attempt to bake, not even frozen pizza. Which is also, interestingly enough, a pie. Cool.
And while we’re on the subject, I’d like someone to invent a National Cake Day. Not sure what useless, boring school subject we could tie that into, but I’m open to suggestions.
And since this blog has somehow wound up being all about crap food, I must say that I CANNOT WAIT for the Hunger Games to open. Because I’m hungry. And because in one more week I can grab some popcorn, settle into my seat, and watch Peeta and Katniss (and Gale, who was not my favorite) battle it out onscreen. And kiss. Because what I’m-Fighting-For-My-Life-And-I-Won’t-Hesitate-To-Kill-You-With-My-Bare-Hands-Or-My-Trusty-Flaming-Arrow movie is complete without a kiss?
Which reminds me.
Hershey’s Kisses. Forgot to buy those.
And now I’m off to the store.