Canned Corn

When my older brother was very young, maybe two or three, and my grandfather was visiting, they bunked up together for the night. The next day at breakfast my grandfather asked my mom, "Does Mike not like green beans?"
My mom said, "Gosh, no, he loves them. We eat them every night with dinner."
They did, canned green beans, French cut, every night.
The night before, as my grandfather lay on the top bunk, and my brother on the bottom bunk, they had a little chat. My brother asked my grandfather if he liked green beans, and then went on, at length, about how much he hates green beans.
I suppose that explains why, by the time I came around, we ate canned corn every night with dinner.

Barbie Has a Booty Now

Big news today, Barbie now comes in all shapes and sizes. Well, not big news because I don't think anyone has taken Barbie seriously for, oh, um, well, like ten years.
Mattel must have spent their 2016 marketing budget on the TIME magazine cover story where the tagline reads, "Now can we stop talking about my body."
Hmmm, quite a contradiction.
Mattel's stock didn't seem to jump. It's actually valued slightly less than it was on Monday.
It might turn out to be effective marketing, they are the professionals, but from where I stand, I don't think I'm rushing out to buy a Barbie just because she has a fat ass. I see this more as the pornification of Barbie, she has morphed into modern sex pot, a la Kim Kardashian or Amber Rose. I don't think this is a point of liberation or implying lack of subjectivity.

In the photos were shown Big Booty Barbie in her business lady attire or casual clothes. I'm curious what she looks like under the clothes. I wonder how they "keep it real" in the nude. Does she have a fanny pack looking FUPA, or some cellulite on her ass?
Currently, my fanny pack FUPA is at max capacity. I ate four bowls of cereal for dinner, and now I feel like I could explode. I call it, Cereal Expansion. I'm sedentary, and in pain because cereal seems to quadruple in size after it's been eaten. Considering I've coined a name for this situation, I do this too often. I didn't think Cereal Expansion would hit me this hard because Honey Nut Cheerios is gluten free, which means it's basically a Super Food.
Good God, listen to me. Rambling on about my Big Booty Barbie problems. Ugh, there are bigger problems in the world. *hair flip*

Backpack

Now it's my turn to use the backpack

My mom gave the kids backpacks. Kiki's has a Doc Mcstuffins decal and George's has a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles decal. Kiki opened hers first and George was ecstatic at the possibility of having a Doc backpack too. He pulled his backpack out of the gift bag, and looked terribly disappointed.
My mom noticed, it was hard not to. George played the moment with the expected graciousness of a two year old. He said, "I want Doc!"
My mom tried to make his backpack look appealing, "Look how cool this Ninja Turtle is!"
He just stared longingly at Kiki's bag. I was half expecting him to snap, "What the fuck is a Ninja Turtle, Grandma?"
Kiki agreed they'd share backpacks, and the crisis was averted.
And thats the story. Now I'm craving pizza.

Dress To Unimpress

This hair might give me away

Someone asked me what I wear to my lectures. They thought I'd come into class looking like the cool teacher in black skinny jeans and a leather coat. I had to explain that I intentionally dress the opposite of cool because I don't want anyone to get the impression that I am cool.

I dress like a male scientist who graduated from MIT in 1975. It is a look that screams, "I like to read, a lot!" And, "I'm just passing time till the 2016 Analytics Convention after party."

My hair has taken on a life of its own since I returned to brown after bleaching it for a year, and can almost stand up on end. So I oil it down and wrap it in a tight military bun.

A couple people gave me the advice to be animated in class, like putting on a performance. I'm basically doing a drag show, so I'd say, that's entertainment.

Maybe in a couple weeks I will remove some layers and let the cool out of the bag. Although, I'm really growing fond of my oversized suit jackets, it's like being wrapped in a hug. Those MIT scientists are on to something... Other than all those other things.

Email Blast By Day

Head In The Clouds

Last night I had a sex dream with Marc Maron, randomly. I am not sure how he elbowed his way into my psyche, but I'll take it! Today has been a crazy day on the email front. I'm being blasted by a tutoring company I signed up with a couple months ago, thinking I'd make extra money. I hardly find work through it though because there's something wrong with each email request.
A common request is from the middle-aged man, back in school, needing to take a dreaded statistics course. These requests involve meeting at their house. An automatic deny, since they are obviously a killer rapist.
I frequently get requests to online tutor students who are in the senior year at an Ivy League school, and managed to put off math till the end. Their bio is a laundry list of accolades, and after eye rolling ten thousand times while reading it, I say, "You're so damn smart, I think you can figure out common core math," and then click deny.
The other common tutoring request is from a parent whose middle school or high school kid is struggling in math. The parent is on top of their kid's life. The kid usually has a very rigid schedule that doesn't fit with mine. They have after school clubs, spots and music lessons. The red flag with these candidates is often the parents complaining how previous tutors weren't dedicated enough to the students' curriculum. The parents are looking to pay someone to do their kid's homework, and unfortunately our schedules don't overlap. Nah, I'd feel too uncomfortable getting into a situation like that, like a wet nurse for a teenager.
It's the end of the day, so I'm going to watch Netflix and eat Jell-O. Or maybe, I'll watch some Maron. And now that I have a consistent thing, I'll figure out how to cancel my tutoring profile.

A Stand Up Show

Take A Bow

I watched Amy Schumer's HBO special last night, and had some good laughs. I wanted to watch after reading she's accused of stealing other comics jokes. She is sex positive... sort of. I don't understand her "no condom" stance. Her persona is all about being down with casual fucking, yet she doesn't wear condoms. If she is free fucking the way she puts on, then show us the receipts for the chlamydia, gonorrhea, & herpes that comes along when barebacking by the dozens. Never have I seen someone so boldly laugh in the face of HIV. I call bull shit, and have a think-about-the-children moment because kids shouldn't be diluted by false notions that condoms will prevent them having a pleasurable sexual experience. They need to wrap it up, syphillus is on the rise!
Although 90% of her material dealt with sex, sex acts or sex organs she gripes that being labeled a "sex comic" is gender biased. She does talk about other stuff; when she isn't talking sex, she talks about eating and her weight. LA is the land of anorexics, so she is right in saying she is not the "blonde skeleton" most often found prancing after a schlub in romantic comedies, however, being a big boob blonde isn't really shaking up conventionalism. And secondly, SHE IS NOT FAT. Since when did not being anorexic equate to overweight.
It reminds me of the part in Sex and the City the movie when Samantha comes back from LA and she is supposedly a grotesque fat heifer because her midriff baring shirt isn't exposing rock-hard six pack abs. My one friend watched in the theater completely dumbfounded as the audience shook with laughter looking at how disastrous Samantha became without her gal pals. She was oblivious to the joke because, heres the kicker, Samantha pushing her stomach out like a pouty lower lip, did not transform her into a fat person.

Amy Schumer is a not-fat-not-anorexic comic who talks about sex most of the time, I'm not too sure about the joke thievery, but she is rich as fuck, so I doubt she'll suffer much of a blow. It's nothing her thick waistline of cash can't absorb. The jokes she told were funny, wherever they originated from.

Off to College

Oldie, but a goodie

Tomorrow I'm back to school, but as an instructor. I landed an adjunct professor job, and am overjoyed. I've been practicing this week because I want to do a good job. This afternoon, as I was reading my power point presentation to my kids who were running around in a whirlwind, I noticed George disappeared, and shortly after, I heard sloshing water. I flipped the lap top shut, and found him with his head over the toilet, the top of his hair wet and hanging over the bowl.
He has never done anything this repulsive yet, but he certainly knows how to get my attention because I spent the rest of the day doting on them with undivided attention. Which was his intention, since he smiled right when he saw my face of disgust followed by yelps of bad behavior, and tossing him in the bath.
I'm excited to go back to the workforce, and as I'm reminded by everyone, it's going to be hard to juggle everything, but it will be worth it. Just like when I was 18, I am excited for all the new things coming my way, and life lessons I'll learn.
When I first left home and went to college after high school, there were a couple things completely foreign to me. Born-again Christians, for example. Never heard of them before I went to college, and I went to mass every Sunday my entire life. The posters up for bible study and recruitment around campus was overwhelming, but I figured their relentlessness was perhaps due to missing church for close to two decades.
Second, I heard someone mention a sport called "water polo." If you've never heard of it, then I was just like you. What was this bizarre sport people spoke of? I imagined it to be a fantastical show of people riding horses in a gigantic swimming pool, pushing a beach ball along the water's surface with mallets. What a let down. I still don't know what the hell it is, but I do know it does not involve horses.
Tonight I read Kiki Dr. Suess's Oh, The Places You'll Go. She was more concerned with the bizarre creatures drawn than the text. Every creature she asks with a tinge of fear, "What is that?" I don't know, they all look like dragon/bear/elephant/lizard/horse/duck mash-ups, so I just shrugged and read on. This book is INSPIRATION gift wrapped. My little sister got in the habit of giving this book to people for any occasion, and after she'd have a couple wines, she'd get up on a chair, and read it to the entire party. So, aside from it flaring up my gusto, it really warms my heart because it makes me think of my sister out there making the world a better place.
After we put George to bed, we started reading more. Kiki picked out a book of fairytales. She has her instructions for everything, so I listen up. First she wants to read Golidlocks and The Three Bears, but we need to stop reading before the bears come back home. It is funny to watch the tension build up in her, and at the point where Goldilocks heads upstairs to test out the bears' beds, Kiki was sitting straight up, her eyes open, and she shouted, "OK, thats enough!"
Then we read Little Red Riding Hood, but I had to stop before Red meets the wolf. We ended on Cinderella, a story I was able to read to the conclusion, probably because no one is eaten alive.

I'm continuing my life education through another form tomorrow, and I have loads of lessons from fairytales to help me on my way. I'll move mountains as Suess says, and hopefully, not get eaten alive, in which case, I can just shut the book and walk away. How's that for gusto.

The Plumber and The Lotto

We Already have A Plan

Today the plumber came by to fix leaks in the shower and bathtub. As he was filling out the invoice we started chatting about LA, which led to Chino Hills, which led to the 1.5 billon dollar Power Ball winner. He said, "If you win the lotto this is what you do..." Blah, blah blah.
He was talking about interviewing lawyers, financial analysts and setting up a business to shield your winnings, then with his "team" locked in, go public about winning.
Excusez-moi, I already know how I will handle things when I win the lotto. I didn't want to say, "Fuck that! I'm taking the lump sum, paying off all my shit, and then moving to Buenos Aires for a couple months. After I get bored, I'll come back, and take all my family on a cruise around the world. After a year on a boat with each other, no one will want to see me again, so I'll be able to keep all my money stuffed under my mattress. I'll be the opposite of the Princess and the Pea, the lumpier the mattress, the better I'll sleep."
As the plumber filled out the invoice, I had to smile and nod, "Yes. Yes. Yes. Tell me more!" Acting happy to be word-fucked by him because he had the power to all of sudden say, "I've been here for five hours. You see the 3 minutes after the fourth hour, that counts as an entire hour, so why don't you just hand over one of your kids as payment."
After he handed me the bill, for three hundred and fifty dollars, I wrote the check, and ceased the chatting, with an effective, "Adios."
Money well spent for the Almond Lovers cause, and perhaps it was a tad late in the game since it's been raining in buckets, but I will take the good will and parlay it into good lotto karma.

Clearing My Mind With Yoga and Parapsychology

You are what you eat? think? collective mind?

I do yoga when I'm looking to calm anxiety and clarify my intentions. I like to do a Recovery & Rejuvenation video on YouTube. It's perfect since it's less than 20 minutes, so George can attempt alongside, crawl all over me, and play with his toys, without noticing I'm doing something for myself, and demanding I stop.
This morning I needed to get into yoga after talking to my mom, who doesn't realize what an anxiety inducing person she is. She thinks she is doing me a favor by continuously pointing out the least favorable scenario, and reassuring me that if this does occur, I'm still a good person.
So when I calmly hang up on her, I'm directed toward yoga where I can absolve myself of the feelings recently injected into me, causing havoc on my intentions.
I was thinking about yoga, and how in the Western world, it's such a "housewife" thing to do, or a way for a woman to claim her "me time." My best idea of why women, in particular home makers, embrace yoga is because the mind is given a lot of opportunity to process information. My day is filled with a lot of deep thought. Even when I'm playing with the kids, I can think about things that I would not be allowed to do if I were in a cubicle waiting for clacking heels to come up around my door, and the body atop, cackle at her every word, while waiting for me to cackle along in an obligatory ego stroke.
While I clean toilets, cook food, sweep, organize, and nurture, I think. This is a luxury. As people skim Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Snapchat and various other online favorites, they are pulled away from their own mind. It's an unconscious abandonment, one that distances the self from the mind. So are homemakers better at being with themselves because they are used to thinking?
Perhaps it is all marketing. Lulu Lemon slings two hundred dollar yoga pants to women, and it's because they are able to convince them that $200 brings them closer to becoming a spiritual being. Are women just more susceptible to marketing, and buying into the hype that is dispelled from the powerful machine that is marketing.
I'm boycotting Whole Foods since my last stroll through the store where I felt the strings tugging me, a puppet in an entity that mastered marketing to deception. My natural inclination to distrust any nationwide, most especially worldwide, corporations gives me a bias, but Whole Foods clearly holds costs over product. The thing is, there are "natural" grocers in any city that are small-scale and much more reliable than Whole Foods. Sure they are not excellent marketers, with chalkboards propped up everywhere, but the costs are comparable, so do small-business a solid and shop at the local health stores rather than the giant corp that will eventually figure out how to package expired dog food and sell it as human Super Food.

This morning, I had Whole Foods on my mind. Last night, I had The Big Short on my mind. I'm reading The Smartest Kids In The World, which is currently on my mind. The book depicts how the US has successfully segregated schools again, and leaves minorities with far less resources than affluent white-kid schools.
There are some variables the writer has not yet discussed that I think would be interesting to examine in her PISA data. Firstly, Divorce rate, an indication if the student is from a single parent household. Secondly, how many siblings does the student have. From her three subjects she follows, it seems they are from single child households, and perhaps the countries she is visiting where the kids perform highest worldwide, families tend to have one, at most two children. And thirdly, dietary, how much fish oil is found in the diets. Omega-3's, most especially fish oils, lead to brain development, so are the countries examined having a more fish based diet than in poorer performing countries.

I thought of another parapsychology study to conduct; Do people have "good days" collectively. Yesterday I read my horoscope, and it was "the luckiest day of the month." Damn straight, I went out and bought my power ball ticket, but I also felt comforted since I had an interview for the job I WANT. Yes, it exists. My horoscope said, "go for something big." And, before I even knew my horoscope predictions, I was. I felt very pleased to know I have cosmic powers working in my favor, and realizing that yesterday was the luckiest day of the month, and that some lucky woman or man won 1.5 billion bucks, I thought maybe good days come in waves for people as a whole. Would it be possible when administering a simple survey, such as how would you rate your day from sad face to smiling face, there be a trend in the data, meaning do people tend to have good days together, and bad days together?

I'll think more about parapsychology studies, do more yoga, and stay off the phone with my mom until tomorrow night, when I'm expecting a big decision.

Going to stay cool

Hello, Alicia. It's me, Alicia. Who?

Consulting my intuition

Yesterday I had a doubtful day. After receiving a rejection notice, I worried about what I'm doing with my life. I don't like feeling wayward. Shouldn't my ten year plan be a paved path with roadsigns and directions?

There are signs, but having the ability to read them is the ticket to self-assurance. Feeling a lack of clarity, I googled Third Eye, and read about ways to channel intuition. My cyber search led me to articles on auras. I read instructions on reading auras, which used the term "fuzzy vision" to explain the easiest way to see someone's aura. Most articles said, reading auras of adults can be difficult due to modern materialism.

I can easily do "fuzzy vision" to my eyes. Laying in bed at night, when I stare at the ceiling, it starts to swirl. Or sometimes, I will sit on the toilet, and stare off at the stucco texture on the bathroom wall till it starts swirling. I don't know the technical term for it, but I think it's from my eyes not blinking and water building up, making me see through a watery lens, and giving my vision a waving, swirling effect. 

I thought being able to give myself swirling vision is a somewhat unique gift, kind of like ladies who can make themselves cum by sitting cross legged and mentally focusing on climaxing, driving them to orgasm without any physical touch. My swirly vision gift is much less awesome than orgasming on command, but  being able to trip without taking hallucinogens is still pretty cool.

I was reading the aura article while putting Kiki to bed. She laid next to me, and I tested out my ability. I fuzzy visioned on her profile, and shortly after saw a thin green color outlining her profile. Later, I told my husband that I was trying aura reading, and I wanted to see his. He laid on the bed and I fuzzy visioned on his face. He was harder to get a color from. The awkwardness of going cross-eyed while staring into his face could have been distracting, plus, he kept moving around. After he pulled off his prized Frye boots, and stayed still, laying on his back so I could stare at his profile rather than face-to-face, I think I saw brown, but it wasn't as clear. I let him know his materialism is blocking his aura. We started laughing, and he said, "You're not convincing me with your ability."

As I read characteristics of aura colors, I figured I'm presently blue because of the "cries easily" description. Yesterday the kids and I were driving and a song brought me to tears. It is called "They Come Back." It's about anxieties with being dropped off at daycare by a parent. The song goes, "Who says she's gonna come back? Momma does, thats who. Whoever takes care of you comes back, because they do love you."

My daughter had me play the song on repeat and she looked out the window, deeply contemplative, absorbing the song's message. I looked at her in the rearview mirror, and started tearing up, thinking about her worrying if I will pick her up from school or doubting my love as I leave her with the teacher. Just thinking she has a shred of doubt that I love her completely brought me to tears.
Another characteristic of a blue aura is having a hard time listening to intuition. Since this is exactly the reason why I started looking into third eye and auras, I figure it's time to consult an expert. Next week, I'm going to see a psychic healer. I want her to try and clear the airways, so I can get a better idea of what I'm telling myself. 

Wow, I'm sounding a little bonkers. "Do you hear your self, Alicia?"
"Umm, no. Not, really."

Much Needed RHOBH Girls Weekend

Ready for the RHOBH Girls Weekend?

Real Housewives of Beverly Hills has been dropping a lot of husband action lately, and quite frankly, it's pissing me off. Reality TV is an editor's fiction (learned that from The Comeback season 1), so I don't get why were having to deal with all these husband scenes. The show's compromising it's flying colors in the Bechdel Test.
David Foster came off as plain gross after he asked Yolanda's doctor if she was ready for sex as she laid half knocked-out on anesthesia from oral surgery. He kept the creepy vide going when Erika asks him to listen to her album, and he replies with a patronizing grin, "I don't know anything about dancing." No, David Foster, she didn't ask you to critique her Pat The Puss dance routines, she asked you to listen to her music.
And, Ken. Yuck. He was on my shit list a couple seasons ago when he scolded his maid after she jokingly said she would take a ball gown they were donating to charity, basically telling her she should consider herself lucky to be his servant, and not be so greedy. This season he really let his charitable spirit shine after he graciously told Yolanda she looked pretty, when he found her to look ugly and sickly, but it was rooted in his belief that, "All women want a man to tell them they're pretty." Shut up, Ken. You look like the damn lion in the Wizard of Oz!
Erika's husband seems fine. He hasn't said much except a nod of approval on retiling their pool.
Mauricio has been surprisingly low-key, aside from prompting Kyle to further degrade her family. Does he not want his wife to have sister love? She is going to spend a decade in a fight with her damn sister, and Mauricio isn't helping because instead of telling her to pick up the phone, he says, "You need more time to heal." Don't abandon your sister, Kyle! She is the only one you can count on to tweeze and pluck your face if you fall into a coma. You'd hate to wake up from a week of soaring through the afterlife, and have your joy slightly dampened by a spotty soul patch. I doubt any of her Beverly Hills friends would do that for her, they'd likely accuse her comatose body of Munchausen Syndrome, and then go get their butthole waxed.
Oh, fuck, and then Eileen's husband! I don't even know what that guy does, but comb his hair. She's the one working, and while running in circles to get her kid to school in the morning, she asked him for help. He actually called her an idiot! An idiot! She should have ripped his hair right out of his head, but instead she laughed and took a glug from her "extremely dry chardonnay." I think that could be grounds for divorce; calling your partner an idiot, with a camera crew in tow.
I didn't get to watch tonight's episode. I had a stockpile from traveling over the holidays and I have been catching up. I need a night off. The previews for tonights episode show a RHOBH "girls weekend." Thank Goodness!!

Campy Joy

Living La Vida Loca

I watched Joy the other night, and in the end I said, "There is something about that movie, its like poppy, or just over stylized. I don't know the word for it."

"Campy!" Someone said.
"Yeah, it's campy!" Parts of it come off as downright ridiculous, like the way Bradley Cooper's eyes twinkle at the camera, while he pontificates about the products he decides to place in Kmart stores. Or the extreme closeups of Isabella Rossellini asking her husband's four questions for business partnership. It seemed more over the top than her character in Death Becomes Her.
After I watched American Hustle I felt bamboozled by the reviews of the Oscar contending movie. As the credits rolled, I said, "That movie reminds me of the last few seasons of Mad Men, a video catalog of STYLE, and thats about it."
David O. Russel could be the next Wes Anderson, and not because he likes to recycle his casts in new films, but because his style is so unabashedly distinct. Wes Anderson released The Royal Tenenbaums which is in my top ten favorite movies, so I don't mind that he went a little screwball. His greatness was identified, and now his fans indulge him because the quirkiness is interesting.

Kiki was laughing maniacally to herself the other day. I asked her, "What are you laughing at?"
Through her laughter, she said, "I thought of a movie called Dirty Potty, Dirty Potty. It's about a woman who sits on a dirty potty."
Not really shocked by her schadenfreude, I figured my exaggerated narrative when I give the public potty a wipe down before we use it had a lasting effect on her. I understand there is a time and a place for camp. So when I give real-life camp, like close ups of me shrieking, "yuck," as I wipe someone else's urine from a toilet seat I'm about to sit my kid on, it's to teach her that a dirty potty is something to be on the lookout for.

The Royal Tenenbaum soaks in its campy story because the goal is to portray an overall theme, like love and family, and in the case of Dirty Potty, Dirty Potty, cleanliness. I think the telling of an entrepreneurs rise from hardworking single mom to QVC mogul might have been better served with less camp. Not to get too political-correctness-gone-mad, but the campy story is making fun of the situation; a woman becoming successful in business. A story like this is so rarely told, and then it's clouded by style, the distinct style of a male director. This was an opportunity for Hollywood to do the right thing, and enlist a female director, but instead, we got American Hustle II, and the story of Joy was thrown out with the dirty mop-water.

Personal Time Please

R&R at home. Alone.

Today is New Years Day, and I'm burnt out. I'd like to spend today in bed, surfing the web, watching Bravo and eating a smorgasbord of delicious food, starting with a glazed donut, moving on to nachos, and then a milk shake. The inevitable food coma would settle in, and I'd take a nap. It should be a Garfield day, but were making the most of it. Noshing while watching cartoons. I can't actually drift off to sleep because George is in his big boy underwear, and he would roam off and poo poo in the corner of his bedroom.

What I've learned from this holiday season: foodie culture is for fucking boring people. I listened to someone drone on about how a cold pressed juice is the ticket to their daily happiness, and I felt sorry for them and then angry for making me listen to their dumb story about cold-pressed juice. I felt like shouting, "Really, this is the story you're telling right now? This is the type of shit you find interesting!? You make me want to fucking kill you right now after wasting five minutes of my life with juice praise!"

I finished the book Kitchens of the Great Midwest a while ago. I didn't review it yet because I needed time to think it over. I could tell the book was written by a man from reading the female narratives, which aside from Eva, are all neurotics consumed with female competition. This could have been why his pen name was not gender specific, just the first initial in place of the first name. If you judge this book by it's cover, it looks like chick-lit, perhaps it was best to have the author possibly be female because, not surprisingly, chicks write chick-lit better.
Also, I was unable to fully link all the characters together through their seven degrees of separation, and by the time the lady who makes peanut butter bars' full blood son, with a Swedish name, was introduced I didn't care enough to go back and find the link between him and Eva. 

In the end, Eva turns out to be a mastermind, who has been plotting her entire career and successes in hopes of making her mother regret abandoning her as a baby. There were a lot of unanswered questions, or perhaps I didn't notice the answers. Firstly, what the hell was the point of going to New Mexico? Did she want her first boyfriend to regret being shitty to his step-mom, and how did she know he was a shitty stepson? The unbridged gaps were huge, making the stories incomplete. 

Aside from the story, the book is informative about food. Anyone looking to sound like an annoying food snob should read this book because it could expand their knowledge to unbearable depths. 

This book, and rambling douchebags in 2015, left me burnt out on food culture. I like good food, but I don't like people who talk about it like they're professional and progressive chefs, and in the case they actually are producers rather than consumers, then I'm all ears. Foodie culture has gone mad and, like me, needs to take some personal time.
Here's to 2016 being successful, happy and to food snobs taking a much needed chill-pill. Cheers! *two mason jars of small-batch home brew cider clank*
*eye roll, pops a Coors*