Social Pariah

I just ate cabbage and lentils for lunch. I will probably be leaving work early in order to spare my fellow employees the wiffs of inevitable gastronomic fumes that will be following shortly. I'm such a thoughtful girl.

Chubby Bunny

I just remembered this game we used to play at church called Chubby Bunny. You stuff marshmallows in your mouth and have to say "Chubby Bunny" between installations. When you couldn't say it anymore, you were out. Whoever could stuff the most marshmallows into their mouth won.

Those people who milked it forever by allowing their spit to decompose the marshmallow and drain down the back of their throats really bugged me. No 12 year old girl could fit 17 full sized marshmallows into their mouths at a time. Whatever Samantha.

Most people sit around reminiscing about beer games they used to play when they were 12. Or at the very least spin the bottle. I think Chubby Bunny differentiates me. This is going to be my response next time someone asks me what characteristics set me apart. I can see it: I'm interviewing for a position on the NPR board of directors and they say, "So Ms. McDonald, what is it that makes you uniquely qualified to give our hottest and most hilariously brilliant Steve Inskeep sage advice on his next Morning Edition segment?"

"Chubby Bunny" I will answer smugly. So there.

City Chickens 101

I just took a class on how to raise chickens in an urban environment. Fortunately for me, I have an acre and a half to put chickens on, so I'm going to become a FARMER. I cannot wait. I will name my hens Henry, George and Anastasia. Hurray!!!

And after the chickens come the goats!!!

How My Morning Latte Was Completely Ruined

I don't understand why men think it is ok to wear sweats in public. These public sweats-wearing men tend to gather at Home Depot on Sunday mornings. Church of the Free Ballers. They should post welcomers at the front doors who hand out dark glasses to women entering. Or better yet, those big cones they put on dogs so they can't scratch. I wish I had one of those cone things to wear when I go to Home Depot so there's no way I can accidentally look down and accost my eyes because some sweats-wearer is passing by.

blogging head

I'm back to blogging. First I was laraemcdonald, then I turned into Fauxmas, for my family to discuss our next Fauxmas Bash, but as that has fizzled due to my family's innate lack of a desire to blog, I'm now turning into laraelaraelarae. No self-interest there.

I have chosen to return to blogging because SOME people in my life want me to blog. Their names are unimportant, but let's just say they are the 2 people closest to me who possess the most intellectual interest as well as online electronic community or whatever the academic term for bloggers is - interest.

Why my blog should be a subject of interest to me is unknown. Perhaps it's due to my wit and brilliance. Perhaps it is due to their boredom at work and desire to distract themselves with the whimsical banter of someone other than their brainiac pals. Perhaps it is because they want to be reminded of my sister, whose writing style I have suddenly adopted on this current paragraph (although I failed to include thousands of items in a series, separated by commas, typically in the genre of efervescent adjectives, but still the language has notes of Holly-esqueness).

At any rate, there should be a theme to today's blog. And there is. It is Parmesan. The tragedy of Parmesan, besides its expense, is the fact that if one is attempting to be a locavore, one inevitably must eliminate Parmesan from one's diet. That, coupled with the lack of coffee one could drink while adhering to such an austere eating plan, makes becoming a locavore one of the items I will be checking off of my "Can't Do" list. Sad, really, because in my heart I'd love to eat only within 100 miles of my home, but alas, no one can live both in South America and Italy simultaneously, so no one could ever be truly happy as a locavore.

The End.