Tag Archives: You Can Buy My Friendship With Ice Cream

More Snow? Screw TP! We Need Booze!

You’ve probably heard about the crazy cold weather we’ve been experiencing this winter.

Because expected snowfall maps in inches have been done to death, this is the new snow map:

I live in the “15 cases” region. Since I’m pregnant, this map makes me a little sad. I haven’t found a hot chocolate equivalent map.

But we have ice cream and Girl Scout cookies, so we’ll be fine.

Up until this point, the snow we’ve gotten has been manageable. Sure, the kids haven’t had a full week of school since Thanksgiving, but inchwise, we haven’t gotten more than 6-8 inches of snow with each storm.

All of that changes today. I can no longer see the tires on Kiefer’s car. That’s how much we have right now, and it’s still coming down. How tall are Honda Accord tires?

What does that mean exactly?

It means bread, milk, and TP will be worth more than gold for the next few days.

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “Have you considered dressing like that for the remainder of the pregnancy?”—Omawarisan

Not on Apple Dumpling Day

Dear Baby,

It’s fall. You know what that means?  It’s overstuff-yourself-with-yummy-dessert season.* This season begins on Halloween and runs until the last Christmas cookie is dipped in hot chocolate and devoured.

*Pumpkin pie is not included in this season in our house. In fact, even uttering the word “pumpkin” will get you a mouth full of soap.

Up until this point, I’ve tolerated your fruity cravings and indulged you with popsicles instead of ice cream. But now…now we need to talk.

While I appreciate that you’re no longer squishing my bladder, I’m asking you to occasionally stop squishing my stomach. If that means returning to bladder bouncing, so be it.

The other day work was selling warm, homemade apple dumplings. Warm. Homemade. As if that wasn’t enough, a scoop of vanilla ice cream graced the top and meltily trickled down the sides.

And I couldn’t finish it.

Lucky for you, no one saw the leftover goodness in my trashcan.

Thanksgiving is just over a week away. Step up your game. We have a reputation to uphold.


Your Mama

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “My favorite response from IT is ‘I realize you’re young and tech savy, but my boss remembers when the technology of calculators could run the space missions; and I’m being recorded, so as much as I hate it, I need you to unplug the computer and plug it back in.’”—The Jessence

It Feels Good to be a Gangsta

Whenever I see other bloggers, we tend to exchange gifts. Usually people give me Pop-Tarts, and I give…booze.

And I don’t do the classy thing and give a nice bottle of wine, I give flavored liquor…in tiny bottles…to carry in your purse and whip out in an emergency.

Why? Because you never know when you’ll need a shot of vodka…to sterilize a zombie bite. Obviously.

Are you following my logic here? Probably not. Just know that on this blog, everything comes down to 3 5 things:

  • Zombies
  • Pop-Tarts
  • Dessert
  • Key Lime Pie Martinis
  • Gifts for Me

Anyways…last weekend was all about Pop-Tarts and Gifts for Me.


Misty made me homemade Fig and Bacon Pop-Tarts.

I was so impressed with the homemadeness I blocked out the bacon part. You see…

Confession #1: I don’t really like bacon.

GASP! There are only 2 exceptions.

  1. The first is the bacon that’s crumbled up on salads that’s covered in so much brown-sugary-maple goodness that all you taste is sugar.
  2. The second is this:


Hesitant Bite #1


Need-a-Bigger-Mouth Bite #2

That’s right, Misty. Your Pop-Tart was yummy. I mean that in a undirty, uncreepy way.

But wait…that’s not all. I got even more Pop-Tarts! Some from Misty and more from The Hipster. (Note: I did not give The Hipster booze. I gave her cookies.)


The Hipster and I also had the 3 Cs this weekend: crab, chocolate, and ice cream. Life is good.

Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta Pop-Tartsta.

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “Honestly, if you’re being attacked by a shark, you’re pretty screwed no matter how many heads it has. (Except zero. If a zero headed shark attacks you, you’ll probably be OK.)”—The Cutter Rambles

Where in the World Is Carmen San Diego?

I am about to become a real-life Carmen San Diego. Except I won’t be a villain. I’ll just be traveling…a lot. Like a lot-a lot.

I wonder if she’s with Waldo….

Here’s a few of my upcoming trips, so feel free to post suggestions of what I should do while I’m there.

I won’t have a lot of free time, so you should probably just post directions to the best ice cream shops.

Right Now/Week 1: San Antonio

Week 2: Reno

Week 3: The Florida Keys (for vacation, not work)

Week 4: Alabama

Week 5: Exhaustion

Oh wait…so that last one’s not a real place, but you get the idea.

When Everyone Is Pregnant But You

You’ll see pregnant women everywhere two times during your life.

1. When you’re pregnant…but don’t know it yet.

If suddenly every woman you pass on the street is about to burst forth a baby, go buy a pregnancy test because you’re probably pregnant.

I think it has something to do with the increased sense of smell. You can smell out your own kind.

2. After you have a miscarriage.

After a miscarriage, pregnant women will also run rampid. And not just pregnant women, but babies.

It’s the babies that get to me. To date, I’ve broken out into tears upon seeing babies in the grocery store, on the street, and at a restaurant in the middle of dinner.

Here are my solutions to stopping crying. Not just miscarriage crying, but crying in general.

  1. Hugs from Kiefer. But not my Kiefer. Get your own Kiefer.
  2. Kisses from puppies. Like Ozzy. I’m willing to lend out Ozzy…for a small fee.
  3. Pop-Tarts. That’s why they come in a two-pack. One for you, one for me.
  4. Ice Cream. It’ll make you feel better if you share ice cream with a friend me.

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “You should keep your eye on her…you DID say she was kind of slutty, and she IS kind of making moves on your man while you’re at work. Or she’s buttering him up for the kill. Either way—pay attention.”—Sugar Dish Me


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