Dead Elvis has graciously moved my entire blog (old and new!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) to my very own domain!! Or his domain, but my own name. Or something computerish like that!!! So check out:
no wordpress, no blog….just dailydiatribes.com!!!
Dead Elvis has graciously moved my entire blog (old and new!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) to my very own domain!! Or his domain, but my own name. Or something computerish like that!!! So check out:
no wordpress, no blog….just dailydiatribes.com!!!
I love this town!! We are here for our last soccer tournament and as usual, I have my eyes open for weirdness. Which I have found in Spades.
We got to the field on Saturday morning at our appointed time. And I didn’t even get lost. Which is not so weird, since I was following someone who knew where she was going. Anyway, it was freezing cold, but as I shrugged into my jacket, I found a pair of mittens!! Ok, fine, it was a lucky chance, but I am still chalking it up to my good planning and general preparedness.
The girls have to be at the field an hour before the game to warm up and do war dances and make ritual sacrifices to the soccer gods and that sort of thing. That leaves the parents with a lot of time on their hands to moan about how they are freezing their asses off and wonder aloud why they indulge their children in their pasttime. A group of us were huddled together and trying to decide if we would get arrested for building a fire out of old shinguards when the wife of the team manager walked over to us.
“Hey, come over here,” she whispered conspiratorially.
We all huddled around her, she glanced around to make sure no one else was listening and she said “Steve just got the bags for the tournament and he refuses to hand them out. He says it’s not appropriate.” For the uninitiated, at every tournament we get some sort of party favor. It’s usually a patch or a doodad, and sometimes we get brochures about what there is to do in town, that sort of thing. My interest was immediately piqued. What was in those bags? Naked pictures of Beckham?? Cigarette lighters?? Rolling papers?
She went on “I have no idea why they’ve done this, but there are bottles of FEMININE POWDER in every bag.”
I immediately fell over, howling with laughter. She looked pained and said “there are ten-year old girls at this tournament! What in the world were these people thinking?? Steve said he WILL NOT distribute them!”
Well, I volunteered immediately. Far be it for me to miss out on the fun of watching the girl’s faces when they pulled out their goodies! We agreed that I would be the one to distribute them.
The game started, my child was a maniac, and the game was good. But when she was subbed out of the game, I decided it was time to visit the facilities. So I headed for the bathroom. And there, to my surprise and delight, was a table with bottles of COMPLIMENTARY FEMALE POWDER!!! And a big sign over it that said HELP YOURSELF!!!
This disturbed me on so many levels!! They were large bottles, not small ones. So if you were actually going to “HELP YOURSELF” it would be hard to disguise from the world that you have a problem with feminine odor and wetness!! And who is going to take a big, community bottle of powder into the stall, use it, and then PUT IT BACK OUT ON THE TABLE FOR SOMEONE ELSE TO USE!!!!!!! No wonder MRSA is rampant!!! How about CRABS?? How about GENITAL WARTS???!!! How about the whole concept is too disgusting for words!!!! Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Well, I declined the honor of using the feminine powder, did my business and went back to the field. After the game, I got the bags and another mom and I headed across the field with our prizes. The coach was talking to the girls seriously, trying to address mistakes made, trying to pump them up for the next game. I took one of the bottles out of a bag and held it up behind his back. The girls looked at me strangely. I then proceeded to shake it on my head, in my armpits, on my butt, whereever I could.
Finally, the coach caught on and said very coldly “GIRLS…EYES ON ME PLEASE!!” Oops, I guess I was in trouble. After he was done, I apologized and then gave the girls their bags and told them to put all the feminine powder in the coach’s bag. After all, he deserved to enjoy the product too!
I’m catching a LOT of flak about the BORING names I’ve given my family. Never mind that I had to keep them simple or I’d forget them when I blogged. It’s not enough that I have to constantly stay on my toes to entertain you people with amusing anecdotes from my oh so boring life. Now you want interesting names????
Fine! Y’all name them. Majority rules! Here’s what i need:
14 yo son—-
12 yo daughter—–
Go ahead, fill in the blanks since you are all sooooooooo SUPERIOR to me! I’m sure you can do a MUCH better job than I. And maybe some of you dreadful lurkers will come out of the bushes and actually make a comment. Blue Momma gets 36 comments a day; where’s my love???? Altho her kid is much cuter than me, I’ll give her that!
I’m going to Atlanta now, so leave me alone! I’ll announce the results next week!
We took a nun to dinner last night. We knew her in college; she was part of the campus ministry. A sweeter, more delightful woman never lived.
On the way to pick her up, I snarled at the children as only I can. “John,” I warned, “you better clean up your vocabulary NOW!! I don’t want to hear a single ‘freakin/crap/rape/butt/jerk/stupid/retarded/moron’ out of you, understand??”
“yes ma’am,” he said meekly.
“Goddess,” I said, “DO NOT WHINE!!!”
“I’m not,” she whined defensively.
“Good, let’s keep it that way. Amy,” I continued, “no nastiness to anyone, especially me. Got it.”
“Whatever,” she said.
Who knew I would be the trouble? We arrived at the convent, picked up Sister B. and had a round of hugs. Then we headed out to eat. Only, we didn’t know where to go. We have a hard time making decisions like this. Frequently, a discussion over where to go eat results in epic, near marriage ending, fights.
But before that discussion, we had to find our way back to the main road. My husband hates to drive downtown. He has a very small geographic comfort zone, and he seldom strays from it. Anything north of 459 is off limits for him. He got to a stop sign and said “do I turn left here?”
“Sure,” I said, “why not?” Of course this was the wrong way and we drove around the dark and menacing streets of downtown Birmingham with no clue as to our direction. Several left turns later, we made it out to the road we were supposed to have been on in the first place. “Do I stay in this lane to get on 280?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said. “Why not?” Of course this was also the wrong way and we found ourselves on 280, heading in the wrong direction. The ONLY reason he was not shrieking obscenitites at me is because there was a nun in the front seat with him. But even from the back seat, in the dark, I could see his whitened knuckles clenching the steering wheel. He was NOT happy.
He exited at the next off ramp and we turned down several more dark and menacing streets before we found our way back on to a road we knew. Then the argument began about where we were going to eat.
“Is there anyplace around here to eat?” he asked.
“Sure, lots of places,” I said.
“Well, where do you want to go?”
“Oh, I don’t care, whereever you want to go.” This conversation is one of the hallmarks of our marriage. Neither of us wants to make the ultimate decision, even though we both have a preferred destination in mind. No one wants to be the bad guy who picks the crappy restaurant that the other person hates.
“Where is Southside?” he asked.
“Oh, I think it’s up there somewhere,” I said vaguely, waving my hand in a circle. So the idiot believed me and headed out into yet another dark and mysterious part of Birmingham. Meanwhile, John and the goddess were tickling each other to death in the back seat and my stress level was peaking at VOLCANIC ERUPTION IMMINENT!
Ten minutes later it was evident there was no food in the area in which we were driving. Tom suddenly said “I see a sign for I 65 and that’s where I’m going! I know my way around there!”
“Fine, wherever you want to eat is fine with me,” I said fake cheerfully. Sister B. was making polite conversation with my children and the goddess had only just started the “i’m hungry” chant, so it was ok. Then my phone rang.
I hate my new phone. Aside from the camera issues, the volume is a problem. It’s either soft or loud; there is no in between volume. And so it erupted into an ear splitting rendition of Nickelback’s “Rock Star”. I love Nickelback. So raw and edgy! Are you familiar with the lyrics of that song? No? Let me educate you: SO WE ALL JUST A WANNA BE BIG ROCK STARS AND LIVE IN HILL TOP PALACES DRIVING 15 CARS….”
Not too bad, right? Well, it was hugely loud, the phone was plugged into the car charger and was on the console RIGHT next to Sister B., the kids were snickering because THEY knew what was coming next and I was frantically trying to unplug it before the next stanza played. No such luck.
“THE GIRLS COME EASY AND THE DRUGS COME CHEAP AND WE ALL STAY SKINNY CAUSE WE JUST DON’T EAT….”
“Well, that’s embarassing,” John remarked to no one in particular. Thanks son. I finally got the phone into my hand and muted it and then hit “reject” for good measure. Sister B. tactfully said nothing about my questionable taste in music.
We got on the interstate and headed to Lakeshore Drive where a number of chain restaurants are located. We picked one and ate dinner without further incident. We managed to get Sister B back to the convent without getting lost again and with no further outbursts from my phone. I am sure she will be ramping up her prayers for us, though. An evening with my insane family is enough to make one question God’s divinity in Creation!
I figured I better write something or people would abandon me! I have been sick this week, with lovely case of strep throat, courtesy of my son. He took one dose of antibiotics and was completely healed; I am on day three and still feel like I am swallowing swords. Renee has assured me I won’t die, but I’m not sure I believe her.
Speaking of death, please keep Kathy over at Birmingham Blues in your prayers. Her brother died very unexpectedly this week. It’s hard enough to lose someone, but when it happens out of the blue, it’s even more difficult. We love you Kathy! Be kind to her Satan!
Personally, I’m a bit death obssessed myself. Don’t know if you’ve noticed that or not. Reading the obituaries is a part of my daily newspaper regimen. I start by glancing over them to make sure everyone who died that day was over 80. Not that I am gunning for the octogenarians; it’s just they’ve already lived a full life, so it’s not quite as painful to read their obituaries.
If there are younger people listed, then I have to read the entire obituary to try and figure out why they died, so I know what to avoid myself. Sadly, the obituary writers never go into enough detail. “Died in a local hospital after an illness” is a favorite phrase. I want to know what kind of illness. Was it strep throat???? Or MRSA??? Or something more exotic like Ebola? If there’s an epidemic, I need to know. Usually if you read down to the end, it will say “in lieu of flowers, send donations to the cancer/heart/leukemia/society.” That helps fill in the blanks.
If there are really young people listed, then I get obssessed and sad. I spend the rest of the day wondering why that person had to go. Which is really silly, to get worked up over perfect strangers, but I never said I was normal. If I was, I wouldn’t be reading the obituaries in the first place.
Here is my obituary. Please make sure this is the one that runs in the paper:
Jennifer Bruno, mother, sister, friend and humorist, died today at the ripe old age of 101. She was a gossip until the end and mean as hell to everyone who encountered her. She is best know as a passionate activist, working tirelessly to control the squirrel population in and around her home state. She is survived by her children; son, John, daughter Amy, and daughter the blonde goddess and a host of grandchildren, great grand children and also by many of her nursing home friends. She is currently at home in Hell, but reports the weather is just fine and she has reconnected with many old friends, including Satan. Unfortunately, she is working in the squirrel room, being ordered around by all the squirrels she consigned to hell.
Notice I have made myself a Bruno, in the interest of concealing my identity, especially from my lecherous stalker Don. Do not think this means I own a beach house, a private jet or any fabulous real estate. And I won’t be leaving you anything fabulous in the will, so no reason to start sucking up!
Hope you all stay healthy and stay out of the obituaries! But if you do kick it this week, have your family give me a call, and I will gladly pen your obit!!
Do your kids grab your phone all the time? Mine do. It is a source of endless fascination for them. I’m not sure if they’re entranced by the idea that I actually have friends who want to talk to me or if it’s the shiny red cover or if it’s just the nature of children to be interested by anything their parents own.
For the last few weeks, the phone has been displaying a “memory full” message. I just ignored it because I have found that is the best course of action to take with technology. If I don’t understand it, I don’t worry about it because eventually some techno-geek will pick up my phone and fix it for me without being asked. That’s why it pays to befriend a few techno-geeks!
Anyway, today the phone started this intermittent ringing noise; apparently, it was not happy with me for ignoring its message so it decided to step up its campaign. Every five minutes, a shrill ring would issue forth, letting me know it was in the car with me and its memory was full. I guess it was the techno equivalent of a child screaming “I Gotta Go Now!!!” Finally I picked it up and attempted to solve “The Mystery Of The Memory Full Message”.
The logical place to start was with the camera application. Photos take up memory; even I know that. I clicked over to the photo album and stared in shock. Mystery solved. I had over 80 photos and they were consuming 97% of my available memory.
But I never take photos with my camera; I only learned how to use the camera two months ago. The only reason the phone has one is because you can’t buy just a plain phone anymore. I have voluntarily taken about three pictures with it, so someone else has been snapping photos. Here is a sampling of some of the photos I proceeded to delete:
Three random pictures of people I don’t know at all; about twenty pictures of blackness; several pictures of the goddess’s left eye; three pictures of her bottom lip; five extreme close-up shots of John’s nostrils (thankfully empty!); and several side shots of Amy tossing her hair coquettishly.
I took none of these photos. Ok, I might have taken the blackness photos. The camera button is on the side of my stupid phone so I could conceivably be pressing it accidentally and taking pictures of the inside of the phone. But there is no explanation for the pictures of complete strangers.
And no logical explanation for my son’s fascination with his own nostrils other than he is a boy and boys are weird that way. I am considering printing a series of them and having them framed. I mean, if someone can cash in on a dead shark by calling it art, I ought to be able to make some money off of a montage of my kid’s nostrils! Let’s call it “Portrait of the depravity of youth with too much access to technology”. Or something like that! I will do a similar series with the goddess’s eye shots.
I managed to delete about thirty of the pictures before I got sick of the process. I got rid of most of the black shots, all of the nostril and eye shots and the extremely blurry ones. I saved the strangers so I can interrogate my children as to the possible identity of them. One sure did look a LOT like Elvis!!
I consider myself to be a tolerant person. I live my life trying to respect others and the choices they make. I understand we are all different and require different things to achieve happiness. But some things are natural and to tamper with them goes against the very grain of humanity. You know what I am talking about. Birds mate with birds, bees with bees. Some things are ordained by God.
So just who in the HELL thought it was a good idea to deep fry macaroni and cheese???? I pulled up to the Sonic Drive Thru and when I pushed the button, the disembodied voice intoned: WOULD YOU LIKE TO TRY OUR DEEP FRIED MACARONI AND CHEESE BITES? No thanks, but I’d like to vomit all over your machine!
On the 8th day God created the Kraft company and He saw that it was good. He caused the Kraft company to issue forth many products to please the man and the woman He had created. He caused there to be Kraft American Singles (a pasteurized, processed cheese food) and He saw that they were good. Then God caused there to be Kraft Macaroni and Cheese and the man and the woman rejoiced in the glory of powdered cheese sauce.
From the beginning, Kraft mac and cheese has been a pure food. So, possibly, the bright orange powdered cheese is not completely natural. Maybe there are a few unneccessary additives. Fine, but it still tastes good. Nothing sums up the essence of childhood like Kraft mac and cheese.
What I want to know is which genius on the Sonic management team decided to deep fry it? Here is the advertising pitch from their website:
|Mac & Cheese Snacks|
|Today I’d like to introduce the term “unrestricted eating.” It refers to eating whatever you want, whenever you want it. Like macaroni & cheese, for example. Typically, you’d need a bowl, spoon and both hands to enjoy this quintessentially American dish. Lucky for you, SONIC® invented Mac & Cheese Snacks—a cheesy favorite packed into crunchy bite-size morsels. It’s portable and pop-able. Which means you can now have Mac & Cheese anytime, anywhere. So like I said, it’s “unrestricted eating.” Got it?|
Yes, thank you very much, I GOT IT!! You need a bowl and a spoon to eat mac and cheese because that is how God INTENDED us to eat it!! Nowhere on the Kraft box are we given the instructions for deep frying it. Microwaving, yes, but no deep frying at all. Because that is abomination of the highest order!! And by the way Sonic geniuses, unrestricted eating is exactly why America has the highest obesity rate in the developed world. Unrestricted eating equals oink oink!!
I have to admit I am a wee bit curious as to how a mac and cheese bite is created. How do they clump it all together? Super glue? Rat droppings? I would love to know the secret. It looks battered, so I guess after they clump it together with their top secret (patent pending) clumping technique, they glop it into batter and it’s ready to be shaped into a round patty and deep fried. I don’t know about you, but the idea of eating a deep fried macaroni and cheese patty is morally repugnant. It goes against everything our founding fathers stood for when they helped create this great country. It goes against God.
I dare one of you to go to Sonic and order some macaroni and cheese bites and eat them. They must be tasty, right? Don’t you want to try them? Call me and I’ll go with you. It’s my treat.
ap….A Hoover woman was hospitalized when her ass ballooned to the size of the Hindenburg after she apparently ingested too much Halloween candy.
“I just had 27 of the fun size Snickers,” she tearfully told reporters from her hospital bed. “And I know I picked out all of the Butterfingers and the 3 Musketeers and the Milky Ways and the Kit Kats and the Almond Joys and the tootsie rolls, but I swear I didn’t eat anything else! Well, ok, I did eat a few of the Reese’s cups and some tootsie pops, but not many.”
Doctors at UAB Medical Center say this condition is all too common after Halloween. “What happens,” said one expert, “is the victim picks one candy bar and eats it, reasoning it is small, so it can’t have a lot of calories. While technically true, the problem begins when the victim eats ALL of the candy bars. Those calories have to go somewhere, so they are displaced to the ass, which then begins to swell. Although there’s no official name for this syndrome, we like to call it ‘Snicker’s Butt’.”
While there is no cure, the patient is usually admitted to the hospital for intensive detoxification. She is placed on a severely restricted diet and is allowed to eat nothing but boiled eggs and wheat germ until the gluteal edema is reduced.
Behaviorialists are experimenting with a new aversion therapy, in which the boiled eggs are packaged as snickers bars. The theory is the patient will come to associate the taste of boiled eggs with Snickers, thereby interrupting the neural transmitters for chocolate/peanut cravings. The patient is also shown graphic footage of people literally exploding after bingeing on Fun Size candy bars.
“I never thought it could happen to me,” the Hoover woman told reporters. “Next Halloween, I am handing out sugar free granola bars. If I can prevent this from happening to one person…”
I was in the car, on my way to pick up the goddess, when the phone rang. I had already had a stellar afternoon. Amy threw up on the bus on the way home from school and I had to meet the bus to pluck her from it. She cried all the way home and blamed me for buying her the Nacho’s Lunchable which had caused her to throw up. Typical. It’s not a virus, it’s mom!
I picked up my phone and saw it was my friend Debbie, so I answered immediately. She’s always good for a laugh.
“Hello,” I said cheerfully.
“Hey,” she said. “Is there something you want to ask me?”
This blanked me. What kind of opening was that? What was I supposed to ask her? If she wanted to go to the prom?
“Uh, no,” I said cautiously, not sure where the conversation was going.
“Are you SURE there’s nothing you needed to ask me?” she said again.
I was completely confused. I was already rattled by the vomiting child and the traffic and now we were playing twenty questions.
“Um, uh, well….” I said intelligently.
“I was talking to Dava after school and she asked me if we were going to the Brunos she said. “So when I got home I checked my email, but there was no invitation.”
There was silence on my end. A huge panic was beginning, deep down inside. Had I invited someone to a party and then forgotten about it?? Were people going to show up, ready to party all night, only to find me in my pajamas, eating popcorn?
“Um, Debbie, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I finally said. “I don’t think I’m having a party, but if I was having a party, when would it be?”
“I didn’t ask,” she said. “I just assumed my invite would be there when I got home.”
This was quite a conundrum. Now I was in the position of having to apologize to someone for not inviting her to a party I didn’t even know I was having. I started to wonder what kind of party I was having and if I hadn’t invited Debbie, just who had I invited?
“Are you sure she said she was coming to my house?” I asked. “Because as far as I know, to the best of my knowledge, I’m pretty sure I don’t think I’m having a party. Unless I invited her and then forgot about it.”
“Well, she said she was coming over,” Debbie said adamantly.
“I guess I’ll have to call her and see when I invited her over,” I said. “Because I don’t want her to come over with her family and me not know she’s coming.”
“Don’t do that,” she said immediately. “Then she’ll know I was upset and I called you.”
“But Debbie,” I said, “I have to call her. Because I need to know if I did invite her over and when she’s coming and who else I invited. What if I’m having a party and I forgot???”
I was really in a panic. I do stupid things ALL the time; just read my blog! So it was completely conceivable that I could have invited someone over and forgotten about it. I can see it now, she and I are talking and I say “why don’t you bring the kids and come on over? I’ll roast a lamb in the front yard and we’ll play spin the dreidl.” I mean, stranger things have happened in my life.
So I hung up with Debbie and called Dava.
“Hey, how are you?” she said cheerfully.
“Great,” I said. I was uncertain how to proceed because this was a strange conversation. I decided to just bull ahead and blurt it out. “Um, Dava, hey, did I um, invite you over for a party?”
“Wha–at?” she said.
“Well, um, Debbie called and said you said you were coming over to my house and well, um, I was wondering, um, when exactly you were coming over and if I, um, well, you know, invited you over? Cause you know you’re always welcome, but well, I was wondering when you were coming??!!” I was feeling more and more stupid by the second.
She burst out laughing and said “No, you didn’t invite me over. When did Debbie say I was coming?”
I was immensely relieved and said “she didn’t say. She just assumed she would have an invitation too. I’m just glad I didn’t forget I invited you over!!”
We puzzled over it for a few minutes, trying to decide how Debbie had gotten the idea, but we couldn’t figure it out. By that time, I had pulled up to the school, so I told her goodbye and ran in to get the goddess. But as soon as I was back in the car, I called Debbie back.
“Hello,” she said, and then started to laugh. “I don’t know what the HELL I heard,” she said. “I could have SWORN she said she was going to your house! But Dava says what she said is ‘are you taking the CHEESE to the Brunner’s house?”
This actually made sense to me. Last week, Dava had borrowed our sacred Cheddar Heads, worn for all Green Bay Packer football games, to use as props in her school play. Debbie lives close by, so it made sense she would be the one to return them. Let me also interject here that Debbie is insanely, hugely pregnant with her SIXTH child, so she can be excused for lapses in sanity!
“Well I’m glad I’m not having a party I don’t know about,” I said. And I promise next time I have a party, I’ll invite you first!”
In conclusion, if you ever think I am having a party and you are not invited, please check with me first to see if I am even having party. Because I might not remember I am having one!
It’s a thought which has kept me awake many a long night. You know how raw carrots are; you chew and chew and chew but they fragment and it’s hard to keep up with all the little pieces. Pretty soon, you are coughing your head off, spraying carrot chunks on everybody. I don’t see why people insist on putting out raw veggies for appetizers. Between the e-coli and the choking risk, they’re just too dangerous. The FDA needs to put a warning label on every package of baby carrots.
Tonight I was at a party and after eating multiple, large helpings of pasta drenched in oil, after munching my way through many baby quiches, and after consuming more hummus than is really good for anyone, I reached for a carrot. I’m not sure how eating a carrot would nullify the other calories, but it seemed like a good idea. And these carrots were actual carrot sticks, the kind people used to make before baby carrots were invented.
Personally, I find a carrot stick more approachable than a baby carrot. Carrot sticks are thin and easy to bite through. Baby carrots require more of a gnawing action which is not always appropriate in mixed company. I was pleased to see someone taking the trouble to return to the carrot sticks of our youth.
I took a couple of crunchy bites and savored the carrot taste for a moment, although in the back of my mind I was thinking about eating more pasta. I guess it’s because I was distracted, or maybe my thesis is correct and it is the essential nature of carrots to choke people. Perhaps it’s a Darwinian survival mechanism, evolved over the centuries by the carrots to deter people from eating them. Whatever the case may be, I choked.
The fragments of carrot worked their way to the back of my throat and crept up my windpipe, depriving me of air. I started coughing, but discreetly, because I would rather choke to death honorably than be known as THAT CHICK WHO SPEWED CARROTS OUT HER NOSE AT TOM’S BIRTHDAY PARTY.
The discreet coughing wasn’t getting the job done, so I moved into the bathroom to hork up the carrot more discreetly. The problem I was facing is a common one. I had just gotten over a bad cold and there was an excess of mucal matter in the back of my throat. The carrots were trapped in the snot and they were comfy. They had no intention of being dislodged just because I couldn’t breathe.
I coughed and gasped for a few minutes, and they finally loosened up a little. I walked out of the bathroom and got a bottle of water. I know you’re not supposed to drink when you’re choking, but it seemed like a logical action to wash the carrots down my throat. Within a few minutes, I was feeling better.
But now I am obssessed. What if some carrots pieces are still stuck in the mucal matter? What if, even as I write this, they are creeping up to my brain? Stranger things have happened. I read the Enquirer, so I know! What if the carrots pierce my brain and cause an aneurysm?? What if I become a VEGETABLE????
Right about now, you’re probably wondering why I have written this post at 1:00 a.m (12:00 with DST!). I’m wondering that myself. The carrots must already be in place, affecting my judgement, waiting for the perfect moment to infiltrate my medulla oblongata and end it all. Then again, I am probably just completely exhausted and I need to go to bed! But the moral of my story is do not put out vegetable trays for your guests. Or if you do, make sure your homeowner’s insurance is paid up!
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