Another exciting Friday night around here, where I have just grumpily accepted the inevitable truth that my phone is not going to ring, taken off my work clothes, put on yoga pants and settled down with a beer and the internets. Bah. I am drinking something called Slim Chance. I keep trying new light beers lately which has made me consider occasionally running Light Beer Reviews around here in the faint yet constant hope that a beer will suddenly appear that has hardly any calories and lots of taste. So far, I'm striking out. Unfortunately, the reason nobody ever reviews light beers is that the reviews are always so short: in a word, UGH. The name of the stuff is cute and the label is not objectionable but, well, UGH. The irony does not escape me that the beer I adore is called FAT tire while SLIM chance is completely godawful - you can see the result of this dichotomy in my ever increasing, Humpty Dumpty like girth. Well, it's either that or the stress baking.
I have also been considering writing a book of advice for the Young. It seems to me that the Young could use some advice and who better to dispense that than I, the Old? I have absolute tons of advice floating around in my head, running the gamut from the useful: Peel hard boiled eggs under running water, unless they're fresh eggs, in which case, you shouldn't have hardboiled them, idiot. to the slightly more recondite: The dark lord doesn't really expect you to sacrifice an entire goat. A hot dog will do. Not only do my children not show the slightest interest in any of this advice, alas, they even have been known to say actively mean things about my advice, much like my directions. Everyone, actually, says horrible things about my directions, which pains me deeply. I am firmly convinced that I give the best directions in the whole world, but everyone I give them to, no matter the destination, gets lost, which clearly means that I am giving directions to the wrong people. I mean, I never get lost, myself, so they must be good. Right? Therefore, I feel that it is time I unleashed some advice on the general public. They had better watch out.
In other news of the crashingly dull, I finally got a Sams Club card in my own name and I'm unspeakably pleased. Already, there are giant bags of onions and potatoes and diet crackers (not bad if you eat about 30 of them with cheese) sitting around my kitchen, to say nothing of the dogfood that was my gateway Sams Club entry drug. I had been going mostly just for work with my boss' card (which always made me feel just slightly, tinily illegal, which is probably the reason I liked it there) and, while I was there, naturally, buying cases of Faygo and bags of deep fried ultra seasoned frozen processed vat meat for The Hungry Thing who lives in the basement. Then I discovered that their brand of dog food, while not perfect, is actually not all that damn bad. It has meat as the first ingredient, which I have on good authority is what you are supposed to look for in dog food. For the record, you are supposed to look for cat food that is pretty much all meat, but good luck with that. Now I have to go there every other week or so (3 dogs eat a lot of kibble, let me tell you) and so now I have my very own card and soon, according to the Sams Club plan of world domination, my whole house will be knee deep in Giant Economy Sized Vats of Everything. Yay. I think.
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