Pie Wagon!

The Butcher and I went to the Pie Wagon for lunch.  He had the meatloaf; I had the Cajun fried chicken.  We both had the mashed potatoes, which were fantastic.

I have half a mind to get my hair cut like Colette.  Shoot, if I were that hot, I’d sit around all day at the Pie Wagon in a man’s suit smoking and making folks nervous, well, and eating pie.  Because, folks, they have the most fantastic pecan pie.


Also, I would make such an awesome zombie.  My fingers are turning purple and green from the whole drunken iron chandelier incident this weekend and I must say, I think I look cute purple and green.  Some of the Fugates were dark enough to be purple… But I don’t see how that does me any good.

There’s something to mull over.  Is turning the Fugates pink good or bad?  Is being blue a defect that needs to be fixed or did we lose an extraordinary bit of diversity?

Any Sleep Experts Out There?

Recently, when I wake up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom or tell the dog to stop whining or to discover that the cats have stolen all the covers, I have a clearly formed thought in my head.

Last night, I got up to go to the bathroom and I don’t remember what I was dreaming right before I got up, but there in my mind was this thought: "And that’s why we don’t put mustard on Steve."

What the fuck?

They’re all like that.  These weird little resolution-thoughts right before I wake up.  "And so I never did get to Europe."  "That’s how come no one in your family eats blackbird pie."

Am I being visited in the night by a ghosts who tells preposterous stories?  If so, why can I only remember the ending of them?  Or am I telling myself stories I don’t remember as I sleep?  Or do certain dreams have structure and I’ve just been having the "stories get resolved" dream over and over again?

I don’t know.  It’s strange.

The Shorts of Infamy

So, I complain about the photos my dad sent and then don’t post any of them, even after Tatiana complained that I never post any pictures.

Well, fine.

Here’s me and the littlest nephew playing in the fountain down to Bicentennial Park.

Those are the shorts that fall off for no good reason. That is my curly hair, which is going gray, which, thankfully, is not yet apparent. But look at those curls!

If you can’t be thin, have curly hair and big tits, I always say.

Okay, I don’t. I just made that up right now, because I’m so tired I’m slap happy, and for some reason that strikes me as hilarious, even though it’s probably not actually that funny.

Oh well. What can you do? Some posts kick ass. Some posts are like this.