And where the heck are the chickens?

"Chuck, honey? I'm in the mood for barbecue chicken. Can we fire up the grill?"

"I don't think—"

"Don't tell me we're out of propane!"

"No, we—"

"I'm dying for it. Please?"

"It's not really—"

"Fine! I'll just light the grill myself."

 

 "Suit yourself."

"Um, Chuck? Where is the grill? Chuck?"

 

Random Tuesday thoughts on the sly

I told Chuck I'm working on a freelance project right now. Except I'm blogging. Mwaahahaha.

Our house was built in 1020 BC. Honest. They didn't have that pink insulation back then, so some of our rooms are fr-fr-freezing. Our bedroom is one those rooms. It's also Diddly's bedroom for the time being, so I've been cranking the heat.

Guess who's bedroom isn't freezing? Junior's. He's melting. The poor kid asked if he could sleep with frozen corn under his pillow. I wasn't sure what to say. I mean, I guess it's ok if he sleeps with vegetables, but what if this is how fetishes start? What if Junior gets hooked on niblets? What if he brings some chick back to his dorm room and she finds frozen peas in his bed and spinach in his sheets and he never gets laid again?

You just never know.

My mother is visiting. Thanks to another snowstorm, she'll be stranded with us for a few days. I love my mother. Honest. But she does weird things with my sponge. She thinks I keep lubricant in my refrigerator. She thought my house was haunted.

In all fairness, I can understand why.



One of the reasons I love having a blog is that I get to play the "Where was I at this time in [insert year]?" I'd completely forgotten that two years ago I was channeling my inner rebel by building a snowslut. One year ago I became a redhead.

This year? I'm about to buy Pajama Jeans.

Hold.Me.Back.

Shit, here comes Chuck. For more randomness, visit the UnMom. She saw Elvis at her blog conference. Honest.

It's a scientific fact: Connecticut is Hell on Earth

When we woke up this morning we couldn't open our front door:



Those are our cars (we don't have a garage, so Chuck covered them with tarps):



And this is Chuck shoveling:



If you could hear him now, he sounds something like this:

"F**ing snow. F***ing winter. F***ing cold. F***ing Connecticut. I hate Connecticut!"

Chuck's not alone. In fact, he's commiserating with a fellow shoveler as I type:



The fact is, everyone's talking smack about Connecticut. It recently ranked number 50 on a list of the states ranked highest for happiness levels. Number 50. New Jersey ranked higher.

New Jersey.

I think this article says it all. I'd summarize for you, but Chuck's lying in the middle of the road right now and I think I should ask traffic not to run him over.



Sigh. If we lived in Jersey, this would never happen.