One of these things is not like the other (in our favorite sushi restaurant)

(Why does everyone always pick on the French?)

I'll just get them to tile over the existing bloated corpse: Random Tuesday Thoughts

Hey, it's Tuesday and I'm BACK! I'm no longer self-medicating and feeling sorry for myself!

Well, okay, I am. But I'm blogging anyway.

Did you guys have fun over at Amy's place last week? It's bitchin', huh? Like some kind of bitchin' wives club, or something.

Anyway, regarding the Tuesday randomness: You know the drill - write a random post, grab the fugly purple button, and link up! Then visit some of your cohorts and make friends. The four people above you or something. Or, y'know, do whatever you want. I don't care.

Wait, did that seem bitchy? Hm. Surprisingly, I don't care about that either.

Hubby and I just spent part of our date night at Home Depot. I know, we rock. First Wal Mart and now this. But we were picking out tile for the bathroom, which is getting a little facelift. I am super pumped about that. It's starting to look a little...well-used.

Actually, if you squint, and not even that much of a squint, it looks like the kind of bathroom that your bloated corpse would turn up in after you took up heroin and your family lost track of you for a while.

I'm even more super pumped about how we're paying for said facelift, which is not with money that we don't have or we would have reno'd long before it started looking like a place where crack whores pee. No, hubby is trading one of his contractor friends a bunch of Metallica crap memorabilia for painting, tiling, and possibly installing a fan. So - winnity-win for ME!

So glad I didn't drop a match on that stuff that one time.

I have a job interview tomorrow. I feel like throwing up. I haven't had to interview for a proper job since 2003.

Are nipple tassles still appropriate?

My tooth hurts.

I'm completely repulsed by this girl who got her tongue forked, but I can't stop watching it anyway. I bet she's popular. I'm really, really glad nobody suggested this to me in high school, when I was younger and stupider. (Well, younger.)

I feel like I need to go study for this job interview now. Kill me now. Er, I mean, wish me luck.

Random up!

<a href="http://www.theunmom.com"><img src="http://i206.photobucket.com/albums/bb9/superkeely/randomtuesday.jpg" width="200" alt="randomtuesday" /></a>

The social implications of not partaking in the Rite of Dead Cow

So if you've been keeping tabs, which I totally wouldn't blame you if you're not, I'm on the 'eat vegetarian' portion of my 2 Week Resolutions. Which means I've been a vegetarian for...about a week.

(Since I've also been denied dairy, wheat, and sugar by the naturopath, I'm having a hard time with the meal planning. Lint, anyone?)

So far, it's pretty easy. Other than when I have any social contact whatsoever, that is.

Living in a bubble for one? Eating vegetarian is a breeze. Living with and (gasp) socializing with other people that reside in this redneck province? Um...not as easy.

The second day of my vegetarianism, we were invited over to a friends' house for Sunday dinner. I don't really know these people that well, they're more hubby's friends than mine, so I didn't feel totally comfortable announcing my recent conversion. I mean, there's a conversation custom-designed to make you feel like a tool:

"Oh! I'm a vegetarian, I can't eat that fragrant, delicious-looking, Flinstones-sized slab of ribs."

"Really? I didn't know you were a vegetarian."

"Um...well, just this week. And next week. If it lasts."

"You're a vegetarian for 2 weeks? Why?"

"...just because?"

Anyway. I now have an extremely belated sympathy for my friend Politika, who doggedly remained a vegetarian in this animal-flesh-loving prairie town, all through high school and maybe a little while afterwards until she could make her escape to the much more enlightened West Coast. It couldn't have been easy, trying to eat out and attend social gatherings like barbecues and dinner parties and the annual Bacon Dance. All the while obnoxious, meat-eating heathens demanding to know why you couldn't just eat ONE bite, I mean, c'mon, it's not going to KILL you. It's delicious!

(I may or may not have been one of those people. I refuse to answer on the grounds that it's pretty fucking obvious that I was.)

Like most places, social activity here just revolves around food. And the assumption is, on the prairies, that food means meat. Usually red meat. And potatoes. With beer. (Sometimes one or all of those things is deep fried.)

My third night of vegetarianism, hubby and I had a pre-arranged date night. At a steak house.

Tomorrow night? Fundraiser steak night.

Well...ONE bite isn't going to kill me, right? C'mon.

(...This resolution is doomed.)

You could call it the When Angsty Renaissance FairsTurn Into Obscure Orgies Blog, or something. Though I'm sure that's kind of a niche market.

Someone left this comment on a really old post of mine, and I've been snickering over it for a few days. I mean, it's even odder than the spam comments I get linking to blue cheese. Is this how budding romance authors spread the word about their writing now?

Grateful, he wrapped his arms around his friend and buried his face in his neck. His throat worked to swallow, and a fine sheen of sweat shimmered on his skin. He nodded, slid an arm about Irins shoulders, and led his truemate from the room. But she knew firsthand that knowing and seeing it happen were two very different things. Someones strong arms surrounded her, and a broad chest met her cheek. She glanced away before her visual admiration sparked lust. She had neither seen nor asked after Tykir, Lanthan, nor Brevin. Gala sat back, hands on Eyrhaens shoulders. Blue eyes stared at her from an expressionless face. Anything but admit she was wrong, even if she now knew she had been. He smiled at her glare, the red simmering behind the hazel of his eyes. Stubbornly, she refused to cower into the wall behind her. A gasp puffed past her lips as Lanthan pressed a kiss just underneath her ear. She writhed, prodding the tip of him with her drenched folds. he growled into her ear. Behind her, Tykir nestled close, his cheek resting on the back of her shoulder. He tilted his face back up toward her. He shared in her laughter, and she gloried at how easy it was. But she needed to know one more thing. She met his gaze seriously.

If that's the case, you might want to consider leaving your name, Anonymous.

(Or just get your own damn blog!)

(Seriously, "drenched folds"?)