Nerd. Purveyor of Shenanigans and Bacon.
Aspen is a West Highland Terrier. In the Gaelic language, this apparently stands for dog “will eat anything when you’re not looking.”
God forbid anyone might have to answer the phone. Or poop. Or clutch their chest in a Fred Sanford style heart attack with a candy in one hand. My dog would step on my face as soon as my lifeless body hit the shag carpet and she’d go unapologetically for the nougat, prying my lifeless fingers open long enough for her slimy butt tongue to make a grab at the sweet.
The things low-carbers text me generally rock my socks when we’re keeping in touch across the miles. Case in point: Here are the kinds of carb-deprived keto commentaries I receive on a semi-daily basis from my college student. I’ll mention here, on the record, that he’s pretty ridiculously rad (some might say I’m biased. That’s on you, my friend. That’s on you).
Then again, I’m probably not headed in the heavenly direction.
I mean, not when I think about some of the bad things I’ve said over the years. Like the time I said that three-legged dog’s name was probably Eileen. Or that other time I told my husband he dropped his nut sack and handed him back his pistachios. Or even the one when I asked my kid–who’d just had an impressive bout of diarrhea all over the side of an abandoned road–if she was okay or too pooped to go on. In fact, I’m pretty positive I’m not only going to hell, I’m bound for the special hell where people tell really bad knock knock jokes all day long.
But before I get there, it’s Black Bear Cafe, a massive taco salad without the shell and refried beans, and a fork. Thank you, Jesus*.
*Note, this isn’t really a religious post. It’s more of a red Starbucks coffee cup kind of deal. Or maybe this.
Probably someone’s last day at the sticker factory.
Oh! Oh! I know what you’re thinking:
The world needs a fat, shlubby, snackhappy nerdygirl who’s completely self aware talking about her weight loss issues and everything else happening in her world that she thinks is interesting enough to write about.
If that’s the case it’s your Birthday because shlart’s* about to get very real up in here. making that hand gesture all around my face like Madonna vogueing, only notsomuch (*keeping it safe for work, yo).
That’s right! The birch* is back, y’alls.
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