Wrong (stomach) turn

Let me tell you about how a wrong turn transformed into a stomach turn (times 50.)

Headed to lunch, we were all set to cruise to Long John Silvers for J. (Undecided location for me. I don't do LJS.) Upon exiting the parking lot, pure instinct took over - J turned right instead of left. (Enter: wrong turn.) In lieu of correcting our directional mistake, we went somewhere in the River Market. The stomach-turning culprit? Winslow's BBQ.

I initially intended to type out the entire "bad restaurant experience" ... but it was getting long and boring to type. To read? Worse.

Long and boring story turned short and boring story ... the people behind us in line, sitting in a booth next to us while waiting for lunch, got our food. J was sure of it and went to retrieve the food after they shortly realized it wasn't theirs upon examining the ticket. I asked J if they had touched the food at all ... he was certain they hadn't.

Chew chew chew, nom nom nom. Second half of sandwich, J says, "Is that gum?!" while pointing to his food tray. I say, "That's not yours?!" Yeah. The people who initially got our order had put their chewed gum on the tray and still let J take it! (Enter: stomach turn.)

Appetite? Gone. J got refunded for his meal, but I certainly stopped eating mine even though the gum wasn't resting its sticky laurels on my tray. The food was awful to begin with.

Ew, my tum tum is still unsettled.

Potty Mouth

Cussing typically isn't in my vocabulary's repertoire. But lately, I've had a few choice words for certain situations. And I've realized that once you open the floodgates of profanity, it's hard to shut them off. So it's taken concerted efforts to clean out my mouth with a proverbial bar of soap. Blech.

This morning offered me validation of these efforts.

I had just poured my awake juice ... aka coffee. Freshly ground beaners, delicious half and half, a whole lot of yum. I took a sip and sauntered to the bathroom to finish prepping my head for work. As I brought the flat iron across my body to reach the frizzies on the right side of my dome, the cord decides to give my coffee mug a nudge. And a nudge was all it needed to go tumbling into the sink. And there goes my motivation, right down the drain. My piping hot motivation ... gone.

It all happened so quickly. And here was how the audible response went, "FFFFFFFFFFFFFF.... Fart!!" No censoring, folks. I actually said, "fart" instead of the other f-word.

The best part? The boyfriend yelled in from the bedroom, with closed door, "I'm proud of you for saying 'fart'."

Judging January

January, this is why you suck:

• You force me to remove my Christmas decorations from all the nooks and crannies of my home. And I will always resent you for it.
• You are cold. So cold that even when I'm donning 90% of my cold-weather wardrobe (long undies, flannel jammies, socks, slippers, sweatshirt, robe and blanket) I still get the shivery shakes.
• Your snow is the sloppy seconds of weather. December's snow was pretty. Yours is not.
• You insist that I reap the credit card damage I sowed in December. Rude.

January, this is why you're kind of ok:

• You're only one month away from V-Day and B-Day.
• You have things like hoarfrost. And that's just funny to say.
• You're usually the inspiration of killer clearance sales at several of my favorite retail locations. This is the kind of sloppy seconds of which I can approve.
• Well ... that's about it, really.

Uggly

I'm typically against the idea of spending $150+ on boots whose sole purpose (heh ... sole ... get it?) is to schlep in the snow and sludge. So last winter I opted for Target snow boots, instead. After just one chilling season, they were about as warming in the snow as a pair of flip flops, so my position on the matter shifted. I wasn't convinced but certainly open to arguments. (As if someone was going to give me a lecture on the benefits of a pair of boots.) The decision was made for me when I tore into a candy-cane wrapped Christmas gift and Uggs were there to greet me. (If my new Uggs had a voice, I imagine they'd sound like Barry White, FYI.)

I love them. I really, really love them. My feet are so warm. Warmer than a desert fox's toenails - see what I did there, OutKast? Every time I take a step, it's like I'm traipsing on a soft, cuddly puppy. That sounded wrong... just a second, I have to go block PETA on my email account.

But one issue I've noticed in the last three weeks - I've worn them every day, yes ... have you seen Kansas City lately? - is that my socks tend to gradually shimmy down my leg, ankle, then foot so it can hang out all bunched up with my toes. I appreciate the social gesture, but it's quite uncomfortable.

So I tapped my resident Uggs expert, Bop Bop. (It's not like she has stock in the company. At least I don't think she does. She's just the only person I know who wears them on a semi-regular basis.) I prefaced my inquiry with "this is probably dumb" and asked away ... does she have the same issue? With her answer, my fuzzy boot world was rocked to its core: "MOLLY! You're not supposed to wear socks with Uggs!"

After quick internet research ... and by "research" I mean "google search, clicking on the first two links listed" ... her answer was confirmed.

I have minor concerns about stink and true warmth, but you better believe I'm going to try it out. Starting now. It's like I'm going foot commando...

I Want a Golden Ticket

There are tons of things I don't understand ... Snuggies, Team Jacob, the re-emergence - let alone the emergence - of harem pants and the appeal of Jagermeister, to name a few. But what I also can't comprehend is why on Earth Bed Bath & Beyond doesn't just mark down their entire flippin' store by 20%.

Seriously, visit any home and I all-but-guarantee you'll find at least one, if not multiple, BB&B 20% off coupon. If I'm going to get a special coupon, I want to feel like Charlie freakin' Bucket. But instead, I get a BB&B coupon and hear Charlie Brown teacher commentary ... wah, wah.

Ok, I'm not really complaining. I just don't get it.