Tag Archives: frat boys

The Frat House Gets Grown

We had a frat house original reunion a couple weeks ago for Roommate A’s wedding in Gulf Shores, Alabama. Look at us. We all look so cute. And I can barely fit into my dress, but I am still not ready to talk about that.


If you ever find yourself in Gulf Shores, Alabama and no – I have no idea why you would ever go to Gulf Shores, Alabama – except for FLORA-BAMA. Which is only the best people watching of all time. And my mother and I have made a sport out of people watching (and eavesdropping).

I’ve never seen so many multi-generational drinking situations – grandma, mother in skin tight dress and gladiator high heels, daughter in equally confusing yet more age-appropriate outfit, 18-year-old granddaughter because it’s 18+.

I bought like eight beers for $20 and the bar advertised a mullet toss. Which we all thought was like literal mullet wigs that you threw at each other until Sunday afternoon when we were heading to the airport that he realized there is a mullet fish and that’s more likely what they were talking about, which some light research confirmed.

Seriously, they throw fish at each other in Alabama for bar entertainment. How could you not want to hang out there.

Former Roommate A and his bride put up their respective wedding parties in a beach house which was about 17 feet from our hotel. The beach house had a pool and numerous fridges that just happened to be filled with beer and I think we successfully drove every bridesmaid away by the end of the weekend with our (super responsible, grown-up, respectful, quiet) shenanigans. Because we’re fun like that.

The standard information: Former Roommate A’s bride looked gorgeous, Former Roommate A also looked pretty handsome, the food was incredible – and I don’t mean just for like a wedding good but I want to eat those shrimp and grits and mashed potatoes for every meal good – the 80’s cover band was amazing.

R has a firm set of life rules that include 1) no dancing and 2) no karaoke. I kindly suggested that if he wasn’t interested in dancing with me, I’m sure I could find someone else to grind on and then refilled his wine often until he was ready to cut a rug. He even continued dancing with me after I knocked a whole glass of red wine onto his white dress shirt during a particular vivacious dance move during the Bee Gees’ “Stayin’ Alive.”

After the wedding, we went back to the beach house and I proceeded to take off my dress and jump into the pool wearing nothing but a bra and boy short underwear. Which, in my defense, covers more of my person than my bathing suit.

There were two crucial issues with this decision, the first and minor of the two being my friends lovely parents were standing on the deck. And the second, I was in the pool wearing the only bra that I brought to Alabama.

Behold, how to dry your bra you washed in the hotel sink while on the way to the airport:


Worked like a charm.

The wedding night conclude with a vigorous game of Marco Polo and me serving frozen pizza to those still in the pool. It was all around classy and wonderful.

Former Roommate A + Wife moved to Atlanta a couple weeks later. I only cried a little. And then Former Roommate hauled out and moved to San Fransisco. A decision we mourned by karaoking R. Kelly’s Ignition (Remix) on a Tuesday night.

Former Roommate B and I are the lone holdouts in Washington, D.C. at this point.

(And this without a doubt the song of the wedding weekend for your Friday listening pleasure.)


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New house, some problems

After 3 ½ years, I officially moved out of the frat house last month—which I’m sure I haven’t mentioned.  It was something I’d been considering for a while and finally committed, sadly confessing my betrayal to the boys the day before I signed my new lease, swayed by promise of my own bathroom and a dishwasher.  The boys kept saying things my last night in the house like “you’ll be just down the street” and “we’ll still see you all the time” instead of throwing themselves on the ground sobbing, wrapping their arms around my ankles and begging me to stay.  It was weird.

But anyways, I really am just up the block in a small row house with two rooms on the second floor and a finished basement, which is where I reside.  With my own bathroom, guys, my own bathroom (and as such, with the absence of a shower schedule and knowing I had exactly 18 minutes before Roommate B would be banging on the door because it was his turn to shower, I have been late almost every morning)!

I live with girls now as well, which really isn’t so bad—there are more than four plates in the cupboard, we have things like a turkey baster, and a pizza stone and decorative plates on the wall.  There is not a sports poster in sight.  There are two cats—Gracie and Sam.  Sam has yet to come downstairs because Gracie is a bully.  Like a serious bully.  She held me hostage in my room for a whole half hour the day I moved in, swatting and hissing and blocking the my path upstairs until I established my dominance with the help of a broom.  She also likes to stand on the shelf near the front door and sneak attack me when I come home.  There is also a little dog named Lily that hops more than walks and is a touch on the dumb side.

Other marked differences—when I ask my roommates “how was your day?” I get more of a response than “fine” or “terrible” or “good.”  It’s more of a high and low of the day situation with girls.  There is more than just beer in the fridge, which I have mixed feelings about, and no designated mini fridge in the living room solely for more beer.  Sports have not been on the TV once.  And there is only one TV in the living room.  And now I actually have to do stuff.

When I moved into the frat house Roommate A told me—no female in his household would be mowing the lawn, which was just fine with me. I hate mowing lawns.  So I happily obliged, and didn’t even once consider mowing the lawn for the 3 ½ years I lived there.  When something broke, they fixed it.  When I couldn’t reach something on the top shelf, they retrieved it.  When I set the toaster oven on fire, I walked into the living room and said “Roommate B, I set the toaster oven on fire.”  That’s not to say that I’m not completely capable of these things of course—I was raised in a “don’t be a helpless girl” household, and would’ve put the fire out if I was home alone, obviously, but they always said they’d just take care of it.  And then they did.

So Monday—I had plans to make quiche and relax like a mother fucker and enjoy a quiet evening at home.  I put the quiche in the oven and was all ready to start watching Sons of Anarchy with ALL the lights on when I realized the 10 small ends off the asparagus and a couple egg shells I tossed in the sink had clogged the disposal.  And then I realized I had to fix it.  I tried baking soda and vinegar, a plunger, the power of positive thinking and a whole bottle of Draino before quitting for the night.  Google told me that the Draino may take 24 hours, so I crossed my fingers and went to sleep.

The next night I came home and we were in the same situation.  I’d had a couple cocktails.  I was in a great mood. I was looking forward to crawling into bed at 9pm with my book and going to sleep early.  But no. I had to shove my hand down a drain full of Draino and fish for hunks of food.  I had to attempt to snake the drain.  I had to put a bucket under the sink and take apart pipes.

I tried.  My roommate tried.  We texted her boyfriend.  We sent pictures.  I googled things.  I splashed gross water on my business dress, because a true lady snakes her drain wearing a business dress and pearls.  And nothing.  I could taste the Draino in my mouth.  I can still take the Draino in my mouth.  We finally caved after an hour and emailed the landlord, asking them to send over their plumber.  And while the dishwasher and my own bathroom and the decorative plates on the wall are great, I missed the days where I could really be a helpless girl at my leisure.  And the frat boys too, of course.

By the way—anyone know how to get the smell of Draino off your person?  Anyone?

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Ringing in the New Year

It is said that how you spend New Year’s Eve is indicative of how you’ll spend the rest of the year.  Not entirely inaccurate, I suppose.  I rang in 2012 with the gentlemen I was dating at the time.  He pissed me off, we argued, ate pizza for dinner, bellied up to the bar at a dive in Dupont Circle, drank champagne and kissed at midnight.  And were home and in bed shortly thereafter, because he was old like that.

He set an alarm for 8AM on New Year’s Day, so we could start off 2012 right, or bright and early, or seize the year, or something equally ridiculous.  Which I’m certain I was furious about for the entirety of the time it took me to commute from breakfast to get back into my own bed that morning.  Because as far as I’m concerned, I will be seizing absolutely nothing until January 2nd.

A fair assessment of my how year continued, as this gentlemen and I spent very much of 2012 either pissing one another off or enjoying each others company over pizza.  Until we started pissing each other off more often than not.  One thing is for certain though, he always insisted on getting me out of bed far too early.  Because again, he’s old like that.


I feared I was at risk of literally welcoming in 2013 alone on my couch, with a bottle of red wine and the 5 seasons of “West Wing” I have yet to watch.  Because when I said, “Yes!  ‘West Wing’ is on Netflix.  I won’t be leaving the house for the next month!” I was kidding.  Until I wasn’t.  And everyone else I knew was either still out of town for Christmas or doing something romantic.


The frat boys invited me to Baltimore, or I invited myself, depending on how you look at it.  I worked until 1PM (completely unfair), spent 45 whole minutes at the gym (15 exercising, 20 in the hot tub with a trashy magazine) and was home, showered, napped and dressed by 5PM for our short venture north.


We drank wine, ate mussels, ordered fancy cocktails, took shots of Fireball Whiskey at a house party, watched fireworks at midnight and danced at a local bar.  We ate late night snacks and piled 6 people into a cab.  Roommate B’s girlfriend took her high heels off and walked barefoot down the street.  We all offered piggyback rides.  Because that certainly isn’t wise.


I started 2013 with no alarm, bacon and eggs, setting off the smoke alarms and a good cup of coffee.  After a shower, I was hauled to the bar for the start of the South Carolina football game.  Which is, I’m afraid, a very accurate assessment of how I’ll  spend my year.  Although mostly against my will and often countered by reading a book on the living room floor.  Did you know football is on every single day of the week?


We drove home and I crawled into bed around 8PM in my pajamas, started a new episode of “West Wing” and prepared myself to seize the year.  On January 2nd.


There is something about New Year’s that always makes me feel thankful.  Thankful for the good people around me, fresh starts and slight hangovers easily cured with bacon and a good cup of coffee.

I rang in 2013 with people I adore, roommates that– after almost 3 years of shacking up with– feel more like brothers than housemates.  Properly intoxicated, full of good food and wearing a very pretty dress stitched with hot air balloons.  And if Tuesday night was indicative of how I’ll spend my year– well, that’s certainly something I can get behind.

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Back (we all hope)!


The church ladies in my neighborhood like to go door to door on Saturday mornings about once a month to recruit.  Despite my lack of religious upbringing or beliefs, I’m totally into it because the church ladies have phenomenal hats and I’m way into other people praying for me.  Because I certainly need it.

A couple Saturdays ago I was sitting on the front porch drinking my morning coffee checking out the neighborhood when Roommate A walked up to the house and started yelling at me, “WOMAN!  I thought I told you to mow the damn lawn*!” along with some other expletives.

I opened my mouth to respond in kind when I saw the two old biddies across the street, canes in hand, hats on head, clutching their church pamphlets to their chests and looking at us in horror.  Roommate A and I, both raised with a whole lot of “respect your elders” and a moderate amount of Catholic guilt, felt our eyes go wide and slight panic course through our bodies.

We both started to wave frantically, smiling as broadly as we could and yelling “we’re joking!  Totally joking!  Have a nice day!” before running back into the house to hide.  I doubt they’ll be inviting us to church anytime soon, but they’ll certainly be praying for the disrespectful white kids on 17th Street.


Does anyone want to move in?  We’re losing Roommate R at the end of the month to the Peace Corps.  The rent is cheap, the house is falling apart, there are sports posters on the wall, but our house is a home, damnit.  And it’s filled with love.  And football.  And Miller Light.  E-mail me at dointhegrownup@gmail.com if you’d like more details.


Welcome home, Jimmy Q!  T-Bone’s boyfriend returned home from London this past week and we welcomed him back to the great District of Columbia by allowing him to make us all dinner on Friday night.  With him came a whole bottle of Icelandic liquor, which was straight rye.  That LITERALLY will put hair on your chest.

There was an official welcome home party on Saturday evening that I never made it to.  I had spent the entire day at the Gay Pride Parade and then was fed the largest plate of spaghetti in the history of the world upon my return home by Roommate B.  I was laying on the couch in OMG-I’m-so-full misery when I got a text around 9PM asking when I was showing up to the party.

“I don’t know,” I responded, “I’m really full and Finding Nemo is on TV.”  I was going to head out once the movie finished around 10PM but Aladdin directly followed, so obvious I stayed home.  The hottest Saturday night of all time for the win.


I’d like to state in a formal environment that Hilarity In Shoes is the coolest human on the face of this earth and certainly the most talented.

*I use the term “lawn” loosely.  It’s more a plot full of weeds.

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Weekend Update


Hey y’all– I’m coming to you live from a hotel in downtown San Antonio. I have not left the hotel since I’ve arrived, but I’m told the River Walk is nice. Maybe I’ll see it.

I’m moderately ashamed of myself, as I ditched my cowboy boots in DC in exchange for fitting the work projector in my suitcase, as promised. Do you think I’ll be shamed out of the state in my Toms? Maybe. On the bright side, the hotel conditioner is sub-par, so I’ve got really really big hair today. That’s a step in the right Texas direction.


For whatever reason, we’ve decided we don’t like our backyard. It’s a perfectly fine backyard, but we have started wheeling the grill to the front of the house and posting up like we’re scoping out the freshmen on move-in day. I’m just waiting for the boys to install a rusted bench press machine.

We had a cookout at the house Saturday afternoon– our chairs in a circle, the grill smoking on the sidewalk, music blasting, beer and hotdogs in hand. All of the dudes had either taken their shirts off (sun’s out, fat’s…I mean gun’s out) or were rocking t-shirts with the shirt sleeves off.

Like I said, we’re the classiest crew on the block. And I assume arranged in this fashion on Saturday afternoons for the remainder of the summer– so if you see us, stop by for a beer.


We were housesitting the oldest black lab ever this weekend. I adore Rowdy and would be very pleased to big spoon him if he could make it up the stairs to my bedroom, but also petrified that he’ll drop dead when we’re in charge.

Watching him sit down or walk up stairs is like watching your grandfather get off the couch– slow, painful and arthritic looking. But sure as shit, the postman showed up and sparked something in Rowdy– he barked and came alive like we’d never seen before. Good dog. She never brings us anything but junk anyways.

Hope y’all had a good weekend. And if you’ve got any good recommendations for what to do in San Antonio, shoot me an e-mail at dointhegrownup@gmail.com. Or you can Tweet at me @dointhegrownup. Or send an owl. I’ll be here, hollering about how I voted for Obama, until Friday.

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What’s your major?

Former Roommate C is gettin’ hitched at the end of the month.  The boys and I have decided to drive because once you add up the hours it takes to get to the airport, fly to Cincinnati, rent a car and drive to wherever it is we’re going in Kentucky, it doesn’t take that much longer to go by car.

Being that women can’t drive, nor navigate*– I’ll get to spend the 8 hours in the back seat watching movies and reading books, so what do I care?   And as Roommate B added, “demanding we pull over every half hour so you can pee because that’s what women do.”  I plan to keep myself actively dehydrated to refute that claim.

Roommate A is in the wedding and therefore has related duties.  Roommate B and I, however, have nothing to do that weekend but drink bourbon and try to show up the wedding ceremony on time.  Which roughly means we have lots of unscheduled hours to get ourselves into trouble.

Roommate B has been scouting potential activities for us on Friday night and during the day Saturday.  There is a race track and some distilleries and maybe a pool.  Meh.  After some more in-depth research yesterday afternoon, I got the following g-chat:  We’re next to a college!!!!  I’m researching sorority functions that weekend.

At first I thought– this could be bad.  Real bad.  And then I got a little bit excited.  I’ve never been to a sorority function!  Damn liberal arts school in a large urban part of the Midwest.  What’s my major going to be?!  Roommate B has decided on anatomy.  I’m going for a MRS.

BOOM!  Bring on the south!

*Or mow lawns, which I’m totally in favor of given that I was the sole lawn mower for the household the second I was strong enough to get the lawn mower up and down the hill in the front yard without tipping over.

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10 on Thursday

1.  Full disclosure:  I have not posted all week because I’m a lazy bum.  Which is also why this is poorly written and edited.  Enjoy!

2.  I left for Minnesota on Thursday evening to spend the weekend with my grandpa in Duluth.  I had just enough time between the end of the work day and take-off to drink slightly more than recommended before a 3 hour flight.  Being friends with the bartender is both a blessing and a curse.  Because while T-Bone and I only had a $19 bar tab, the 3 glasses of wine were poured heavy and the shot of tequila on the house.

I have very mixed feelings about tequila, but generally subscribe the theory that it should never ever ever be drank, unless you’re super interested in making bad decisions and/or taking off your clothes.  Turns out the combination of wine, tequila and french fries just made me pass out.  I was asleep from the moment I buckled my seat belt until our wheels touched down in Minnesota– making it effectively the best flight I’ve ever taken.

3.  It was touch and go for a minute when I was on the train to DCA, as I was 100% convinced I was going to miss my flight.  That would have been a terrible phone call to make to my mother.  To be fair, I’m notorious for cutting it really close on my way to the airport but have yet to actually miss a flight.  So I’ve got that going for me.

4.  Time spent with my grandpa mostly revolves around when he likes to smoke his cigars (for medicinal purposes) and eating.  Saturday afternoons include a “cigar run” which is a scenic drive around the city of Duluth, some moderate trespassing on the docks now managed by Homeland Security and the driver inhaling a shit ton of second-hand smoke, as he prefers to drive with the windows up.

5.  Post-dinner cigar.  I look fabulous.  He looks like ET.

6.  My mother loves a good deal more than anything else in the world– it doesn’t matter if she already has 3 polar fleece jackets, this Mountain Hardware jacket is 50% off!  She likes to stash her finds in the study closet and therefore, is always prepared for birthdays, weddings and all other occasions that involve gift-giving.

As we were going through the jewelry picking out a pair of earrings for her friend’s birthday the night I got into town, she started gifting me things as well– wool socks, a small clutch and a cheese cutting tool set.  I stashed it all in my carry-on and didn’t think twice about any of it.

Until 5AM Monday morning.  In the airport security line.  I had successfully retrieved my shoes, purse and belt from the conveyer belt and was waiting for my suitcase when I saw the cheese cutting knife blown up and looking incredibly menacing on the x-ray machine.  That obviously got confiscated.

Further proves my point that I am capable of absolutely nothing before 8AM.  What kind of idiot tries to take a knife onto an airplane?  Even if it’s specifically designed to cut soft cheese and not people.  Quite frankly, I’m pleased I didn’t get arrested.

7.  This has been making me smile week.  I’ve got it bookmarked for rough days at the office.  Or in life.

8.  I’ve decided to take a crack at running again.  It’s not that I particularly like running– in fact I think it sucks.  But as a moderately athletic woman, I find it embarrassing that I can’t run three miles without wanting to keel over and die.  Plus I’d like to be able to run away if I was being chased.

I’ve only a gone 1 -2 miles at a time so far, either home from the gym or around the neighborhood, but I’m feeling good.  I’ve strategized my routes to end every mile at a Capital Bike Share stand in the off chance I need to bail.

Last night I was running down 2nd Street enjoying the spring weather, the wind blowing in my hair, super super stoked that I was still able to breath as I neared the end of my second mile.  As I mentally congratulated myself for being SO AWESOME at running and took a deep breath– I swallowed a bug.  Job well done, as per usual.

9.  The boss man has been out of town for almost three weeks.  Most of our correspondence since he’s left has been to remind me to water his plants.  I’ve excelled at killing plants around the office in the two years I’ve been here, so the reminders are necessary.  I’ve got post-it notes all over my desk along the lines of WATER THE PLANTS!!! and I’m delighted so say they are all still alive.

10.  Roommate B and one of the frat boy friends got into a heated debate with some kids a couple years younger than us about the best rap album ever.  They were voting for 50 Cent, but we’re  standing by Nelly’s Country Grammar.  I used to rock out to this song.  You know– in my mother’s minivan.  When she was driving.  Super bad ass.

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10 on Thursday

1.  There are still pockets in the house that smell like burnt lentils but overall the smell has dissipated.  The boys could mostly care less and kept asking me to stop asking them if they can smell it.  They can’t.  I should get over it.  Bless living with dudes.

2.  That’s not to say the jokes aren’t coming and I certainly deserve them.  They gleefully remind me to not burn down the house every time I go near the stove, but I can’t even be mad, because apparently I do need those reminders.

3.  In an effort to cook the smell out of my house (seems dangerous, doesn’t it?) I’ve fried no less than an entire package of bacon since Sunday.  And eaten slightly less than an entire package of bacon.  T-Bone came over for dinner Sunday night, so she helped a little bit.  But not enough to make me feel any better about the fact that I cooked and consumed a significant amount of bacon in the last week.  It’s amazing my heart is still pumping.

4.  In case you’re curious– I made and ate the following:

  • Brussels and bacon, fried in a touch of bacon fat.
  • Roasted broccoli, bacon and gnocchi with cheese, cooked in a touch of bacon fat.
  • Straight bacon, eaten straight from the plate.  Normally served with a side of eggs and toast, but man– did that seem like a lot of work to cook too.

5.  The frat boys have started doing the PX-90 workouts, which means we are now in possession of a pull-up bar.  I tried to do a pull-up last week and could not do A SINGLE ONE.  I have made it my summer goal.  I will be able to do at least one pull-up and have super big muscles.

6.  We now have a wellness incentive at work.  I was joking with my mom at Christmas that I was going to make my goal 25 push-ups, so that during my performance review in December I could drop down in front of my former-military boss and give ’em 20.  This prompted my mother to challenge me to a push-up off in my grandfather’s living room, which I’m ashamed to say that I lost very quickly.

7.  That brings me to summer goal #2– beat my mother at something.  She has challenged me to a plank-off this weekend.  I can do a solid minute, so I think I’ve got a chance.

8.  I’m heading to Duluth tonight to spend the weekend with my grandpa, which I’m extremely excited about.  Because who wouldn’t be excited to spend the weekend with this adorable man?

9.  At 95 he’s mastered the art of living.  A cigar or two a day, red wine with a couple of ice cubes and family lined up for miles to keep him company, cook him dinner and hear for the thousandth time how he started WWII.  And it’s a great story each and every time.

10.  Song of the week.  Because it just makes you feel good.

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3 things – in bullet point formation!

  • I was straight kicking it on our living room floor Sunday afternoon when I spilled my beer.  I sat my beer upright and stood to get some paper towel when the beer started foaming and spilling out of the bottle.   “Put your mouth on it!” Roommate B yelled.  “It’s foaming!  I’m not trying to be a perv!”  I burst out laughing and spit beer in my hair.  Win.
  • The frat boys organized a live fantasy draft for March Madness on Sunday night and I had the pleasure in being the auctioneer.  An activity in which I get to drink beer and yell at people for 2 hours?  Pretty much my dream.  I will never turn down a social endeavor in which I get to speak at top volume without being shushed.
  • I’m going bipartisan speed dating tonight–we are not allow to talk about where we work or our political affiliations.  Which for some people in town scratches all of their conversation starters.  I plan to grill everyone on their favorite color.  Details tomorrow.

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How-to Guide

How-to:  Put out a toast oven fire

I’ve been obsessed with eating baked chickpeas lately.  It’s my new favorite snack and I’m fairly certain better for me than my second favorite snack– potato chips and french onion dip.  Or beef jerky depending on the day.

I turned on the toaster oven the other night and went about rinsing and seasoning the chickpeas.  When I opened the toaster oven to insert said chickpeas, I noticed that there was something in the toaster oven that was in flames.  What did I do?  I put down the baking sheet, walked into the living room and said to Roommate B, “Hey dude, the toaster oven is on fire.”

Problem solved!  Roommate B put out the fire, made fun of me, I baked my chickpeas and then enjoy my slightly smoky flavored snack on the front porch accompanied by Liza, Brynn and a glass of wine.

How-to:  Disappoint my super bad ass mother

Admit that I made Roommate B put out the toaster oven fire.  And Roommate A remove the dead mouse from my bedroom this winter.

How-to: Fail the GRE

Well, that’s obvious– not study.  It was brought to my attention, via T-Bone, that ALL of your GRE scores are reported when you apply to grad school.  Every single one.  Even that one terrible score you got in March of 2012 because you didn’t actually study.  As T-Bone so succinctly put it, “we can’t just the tip* the GREs to see how it feels.”

So we rescheduled until June.  We’re not sure if we’ll actually study more in the next couple of months, but at least we’re no longer resigning ourselves to failing and have allowed time for a GRE-related attitude adjustment.  Because if the practice test I took a couple weeks ago was any indication of my score, I would have been fast-tracked to Phoenix University online and lucky to be there.

How-to:  Have a progress dinner

Eat all foods when they are finished cooking while standing in the kitchen– green beans (fuck it, eat cold), turkey sausage (around 6:15PM), rice (6:50PM) , chickpeas (7PM) — right out of the pot, pan or baking sheet.  Put in tupperware.  Go to pilates.

*That is why we’re friends.  She used a metaphor about unprotected sex–you can’t just put the tip in to see how it feels– to discuss the graduate school examination.  T-Bone, you’re top notch.


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