Nards of doom

I should spank my spam filter, for all the spam it let through recently.  For shame!

I was thinking the other day of words and phrases that I say too often. A sampling:

“On what planet?!”

“How dare you!”

“I knew it!” (Apparently I have gone so far as to say this in my sleep.)

Words of frustration: Nards! Boof! Paul Blart!

Things I say for no apparent reason: pinky mouse, pea pod,buttress, butt sponge, bleck ket

Speaking of pea pods, I’m hungry and can’t figure out what to eat! Mr. Smarmy is doing a bizarre diet thing, so I’m left to fend for myself. At first the prospect of being able to cook whatever I wanted without considering someone else’s opinion on the matter sounded kickass.  As it turns out, my motivation for cooking fanciful things hinges heavily on having an audience. It’s no fun to cook an elaborate meal when I’m the only one eating it.

So far I’ve had a grilled cheese, ramen, an omelet, and leftovers. LEFTOVERS! You don’t get more boring than leftovers.

I’ve spent the last hour searching for recipes that strike my fancy online. You know what gets my goose? Recipes that read like so: 1 can of cream of mushroom soup, 1 can of cream of chicken soup, 1 bag of frozen potatoes, etc.

That, my friends, is not a recipe.  If I wanted a bunch of canned garbage in my soup or casserole, I’d buy a can or soup or a frozen dinner. (Yeah, I know. I’m a food snob. Sue me! (P.S. I think we should all make an effort to say Sue me! more often. And Whatever floats your boat. And Take a chill pill. If you have any other dated phrases I should add to this list, let me know.))

Alright, I’m off to forage.

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