Okay, so now I read that infomercial pitchman Billy Mays is dead. Good grief.
Made a pan of S'mores Brownies today. Probably overkill, but ridiculously easy.
Break up some graham crackers (or better yet, use whole Teddy Grahams--they have a better consistency after baking) and either chop some marshmallows into quarters, or use mini-marshmallows. Make a bowl of your favorite brownie mix or scratch brownies. Stir in the Teddy Grahams and marshmallows and bake as directed.
I like to frost mine with chocolate glaze or milk chocolate frosting, just to up the gooeyness factor. And as usual, I maintain that they are best when still slightly warm. Oh, and a scoop of really good vanilla ice cream doesn't diminish them in the least.
...looking out my office window at dusk.
April, asleep on my desk in the sun.
Posted via LiveJournal.app.
I have (perhaps) coined a phrase with which I will now proceed to identify myself. (See icon.)
I support my right to be a girl. I just happen to curse like a truckdriver, haul firewood all winter with which to heat my house, and know more than my boyfriend does about his car. I also love french nails, ridiculously high heels, too many handbags, and long hair. I have an entire room for a closet, get off on the perfect shoes, and buy things that are *pink* jut because they are, and I can. I'm service-oriented, a bottom, and a collared submissive. I love, love, love being a girl, and I resent the annoying tendency of the world at large to label any female who hauls a cord of wood a "feminst", to rhyme with "butch."
I. Am. A. GIRL.
"Woman," frankly, doesn't even come to mind unless I am nudged to actively consider it. And that doesn't bother me. I can talk farming and trucks and alternative energy while leaning on the back of a pickup in the middle of the workyard in 4-inch heels. And while that probably makes me white trash, it doesn't make me butch. I like who I am, and I don't like being pigeonholed any more than butch-identifying folks do.
I'm so annoyed, I think I'll go blonde again.
Because I can.
Via
Child abuse, anyone?
Raw video can be viewed by clicking here.
From Helen Fielding's Olivia Joules and the Overactive Imagination:
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Rules for Living by Olivia Joules
1.) Never panic. Stop, breathe, think.
2.) No one is thinking about you. They're thinking about themselves, just like you.
3.) Never change haircut or color before an important event.
4.) Nothing is either as bad or as good as it seems.
5.) Do as you would be done by, e.g., thou shalt not kill.
6.) It is better to buy one expensive thing that you really like than several cheap things that you only quite like.
7.) Hardly anything matters: if you get upset, ask yourself, "Does it really matter?"
8.) The key to success lies in how you pick yourself up from failure.
9.) Be honest and kind.
10.) Only buy clothes that make you feel like doing a small dance.
11.) Trust your instincts, not your imagination.
12.) When overwhelmed by disaster, check if it's really a disaster by doing the following: (a) think, "Oh, fuck it," (b) look on the bright side and, if that doesn't work, look on the funny side. If neither of the above works then maybe it is a disaster, so turn to items 1 and 4.
13.) Don't expect the world to be safe or life to be fair.
14.) Sometimes you just have to go with the flow.
15.) Don't regret anything. Remember there wasn't anything else that could have happened, given who you were and the state of the world at that moment. The only thing you can change is the present, so learn from the past.
The kitten has toys. Lots of toys. Squooshy mice, furry mice, LARGE furry mice, a pink knitted sock-mouse type thing, balls with bells, balls without bells, my feet... And yet, what is she playing with, to the exclusion of all else?
A green highlighting marker that fell off my desk. She is kicking its green, highlighting ass from one side of my office to the other.
She is really, truly a kid. Buy them a toy kitchen suite, and they play in the box it came in. *shakes head* Still, she's devastatingly cute.
