My Gmail is offering a golden opportunity for "spaghetti ice cream...
...the ice cream you eat with a fork." End quote.
Uh, okay. Seriously? I can't even bring myself to eat the ice cream that is made up of little dots that look like a bowl of heads torn off my mama's straight pins. This is almost as bad as when The Iron Chef has some freaktastic gourmet putting boiled beef bone marrow in the ice cream machine.
Just...no.
In other news:
Seven percent of the nation's hospitals have policies in place that say they will refuse emergency contraception to rape or sexual assault victims even if the victim requests it. (Source: NPR) On the plus side: 78% keep it in stock and available. My state is considering legislation to require hospitals to keep it in stock and offer it to victims. Y'all might want to look into the policies of your local hospitals.
It's official. My dad is selling the house where I grew up. Sis is flying in to help me sort through it and pack it up exactly a month from today. Dread, angst and woe are no doubt in store. And much sneezing through dusty boxes. The only good thing is that she and I are the antithesis of greedy goods-snatchers, and aren't the type to fight over things. So, no worries there. We've already been phoning back and forth to foist things ON each other, rather than lay claim (Dad's got everything he wants, and is leaving us to it).
Me: Hey, I was thinking you should take the all the tools from Mom's wood shop...Don could use them. Or if he doesn't want them, you could sell them and put the money in the boys' college fund.
Her: Cool, thanks. By the way...you remember Mom's noodle bowl, that was grandma's? The hand-painted one with the chip on the side? You should take that, it would be great for your cookies and to raise bread dough in. Besides, you're the oldest, you should have it.
Me: Thanks. I was really wanting that, but I didn't want to say so.
Her: ::smiles audibly:: Yeah, I know. It was always your favorite bowl.
And so it goes.
Uh, okay. Seriously? I can't even bring myself to eat the ice cream that is made up of little dots that look like a bowl of heads torn off my mama's straight pins. This is almost as bad as when The Iron Chef has some freaktastic gourmet putting boiled beef bone marrow in the ice cream machine.
Just...no.
In other news:
Seven percent of the nation's hospitals have policies in place that say they will refuse emergency contraception to rape or sexual assault victims even if the victim requests it. (Source: NPR) On the plus side: 78% keep it in stock and available. My state is considering legislation to require hospitals to keep it in stock and offer it to victims. Y'all might want to look into the policies of your local hospitals.
It's official. My dad is selling the house where I grew up. Sis is flying in to help me sort through it and pack it up exactly a month from today. Dread, angst and woe are no doubt in store. And much sneezing through dusty boxes. The only good thing is that she and I are the antithesis of greedy goods-snatchers, and aren't the type to fight over things. So, no worries there. We've already been phoning back and forth to foist things ON each other, rather than lay claim (Dad's got everything he wants, and is leaving us to it).
Me: Hey, I was thinking you should take the all the tools from Mom's wood shop...Don could use them. Or if he doesn't want them, you could sell them and put the money in the boys' college fund.
Her: Cool, thanks. By the way...you remember Mom's noodle bowl, that was grandma's? The hand-painted one with the chip on the side? You should take that, it would be great for your cookies and to raise bread dough in. Besides, you're the oldest, you should have it.
Me: Thanks. I was really wanting that, but I didn't want to say so.
Her: ::smiles audibly:: Yeah, I know. It was always your favorite bowl.
And so it goes.